“Where can I drive you?” Denis Fortin asked.
Where? Clara didn’t know where Gamache would be but she had his cell-phone number. “I’ll find my own way, thanks.”
They shook hands.
“This show’s going to be huge, for both of us. I’m very happy for you,” he said, warmly.
“There is one other thing. Gabri. He’s a friend of mine.”
She felt his hand release hers. But still, he smiled at her.
“I just need to say that he’s not queer and he’s not a fag.”
“He isn’t? He sure seems gay.”
“Well, yes, he’s gay.” She could feel herself growing confused.
“What’re you saying, Clara?”
“You called him queer, and a fag.”
“Yes?”
“It just didn’t seem very nice.”
Now she felt like a schoolgirl. Words like “nice” weren’t used very often in the art world. Unless it was as an insult.
“You’re not trying to censor me, are you?”
His voice had become like treacle. Clara could feel his words sticking to her. And his eyes, once thoughtful, were now hard. With warning.
“No, I’m just saying that I was surprised and I didn’t like hearing my friend called names.”
“But he is queer and a fag. You admitted it yourself.”
“I said he’s gay.” She could feel her cheeks sizzling and knew she must be beet red.
“Oh,” he sighed and shook his head. “I understand.” He looked at her with sadness now, as one might look at a sick pet. “It’s the small-town girl after all. You’ve been in that tiny village too long, Clara. It’s made you small-minded. You censor yourself and now you’re trying to stifle my voice. That’s very dangerous. Political correctness, Clara. An artist needs to break down boundaries, push, challenge, shock. You’re not willing to do that, are you?”
She stood staring, unable to grasp what he was saying.
“No, I didn’t think so,” he said. “I tell the truth, and I say it in a way that might shock, but is at least real. You’d prefer something just pretty. And nice.”
“You insulted a lovely man, behind his back,” she said. But she could feel the tears now. Of rage, but she knew how it must look. It must look like weakness.
“I’m going to have to reconsider the show,” he said. “I’m very disappointed. I thought you were the real deal, but obviously you were just pretending. Superficial. Trite. I can’t risk my gallery’s reputation on someone not willing to take artistic risks.”
There was a rare break in traffic and Denis Fortin darted across Saint-Urbain. On the other side he looked back and shook his head again. Then he walked briskly to his car.
Inspector Jean Guy Beauvoir and Agent Morin approached the Parra home. Beauvoir had expected something traditional. Something a Czech woodsman might live in. A Swiss chalet perhaps. To Beauvoir there was Québécois and then “other.” Foreign. The Chinese were all alike, as were Africans. The South Americans, if he thought of them at all, looked the same, ate the same foods and lived in exactly the same homes. A place somewhat less attractive than his own. The English he knew to be all the same. Nuts.
Swiss, Czech, German, Norwegian, Swedish all blended nicely together. They were tall, blond, good athletes if slightly thick and lived in A-frame homes with lots of paneling and milk.
He slowed the car and it meandered to a stop in front of the Parra place. All he saw was glass, some gleaming in the sun, some reflecting the sky and clouds and birds and woods, the mountains beyond and a small white steeple. The church at Three Pines, in the distance, brought forward by this beautiful house that was a reflection of all life around it.
“You just caught me. I was heading back to work,” said Roar, opening the door.
He led Beauvoir and Morin into the house. It was filled with light. The floors were polished concrete. Firm, solid. It made the house feel very secure while allowing it to soar. And soar it did.
“Merde,” Beauvoir whispered, walking into the great room. The combination kitchen, dining area and living room. With walls of glass on three sides it felt as though there was no division between this world and the next. Between in and out. Between forest and home.
Where else would a Czech woodsman live but in the woods. In a home made of light.
Hanna Parra was at the sink, drying her hands, and Havoc was just putting away the lunch dishes. The place smelled of soup.
“Not working at the bistro?” Beauvoir asked Havoc.
“Split shift today. Olivier asked if I’d mind.”
“And do you?”
“Mind?” They walked over to the long dining table and sat. “No. I think he’s pretty stressed.”
“What’s he like to work for?” Beauvoir noticed Morin take out his notebook and a pen. He’d told the young agent to do that when they arrived. It rattled suspects and Beauvoir liked them rattled.
“He’s great, but I only have my dad to compare him to.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” asked Roar. Beauvoir studied the small, powerful man for signs of aggression, but it seemed a running joke in the family.
“At least Olivier doesn’t make me work with saws and axes and machetes.”
“Olivier’s chocolate torte and ice cream are far more dangerous. At least you know to be careful with an axe.”
Beauvoir realized he’d cut to the quick of the case. What appeared threatening wasn’t. And what appeared wonderful, wasn’t.
“I’d like to show you a picture of the dead man.”
“We’ve already seen it. Agent Lacoste showed it to us,” said Hanna.
“I’d like you to look again.”
“What’s this about, Inspector?” asked Hanna.
“You’re Czech.”
“What of it?”
“Been here for a while, I know,” Beauvoir continued, ignoring her. “Lots came after the Russian invasion.”
“There’s a healthy Czech community here,” Hanna agreed.
“In fact, it’s so big there’s even a Czech Association. You meet once a month and have pot-luck dinners.”
All this and more he’d learned from Agent Morin’s research.
“That’s right,” said Roar, watching Beauvoir carefully, wondering where this was leading.
“And you’ve been the president of the association a few times,” Beauvoir said to Roar, then turned to Hanna. “You both have.”
“That’s not much of an honor, Inspector,” smiled Hanna. “We take turns. It’s on a rotation basis.”
“Is it fair to say you know everyone in the local Czech community?”
They looked at each other, guarded now, and nodded.
“So you should know our victim. He was Czech.” Beauvoir took the photograph out of his pocket and placed it on the table. But they didn’t look. All three were staring at him. Surprised. That he knew? Or that the man was Czech?
Beauvoir had to admit it could have been either.
Then Roar picked up the photo and stared at it. Shaking his head he handed it to his wife. “We’ve already seen it, and told Agent Lacoste the same thing. We don’t know him. If he was Czech he didn’t come to any dinners. He made no contact with us at all. You’ll have to ask the others, of course.”
“We are.” Beauvoir tucked the picture into his pocket. “Agents are talking to other members of your community right now.”
“Is that profiling?” asked Hanna Parra. She wasn’t smiling.
“No, it’s investigating. If the victim was Czech it’s reasonable to ask around that community, don’t you think?”
The phone rang. Hanna went to it and looked down. “It’s Eva.” She picked it up and spoke in French, saying a Sûreté officer was with her now, and no she didn’t recognize the photograph either. And yes, she was also surprised the man had been Czech.
Clever, thought Beauvoir. Hanna put down the receiver and it immediately rang again.
“It’s
Yanna,” she said, this time leaving it. The phone, they realized, would ring all afternoon. As the agents arrived, interviewed and left. And the Czech community called each other.
It seemed vaguely sinister, until Beauvoir reluctantly admitted to himself he’d do the same thing.
“Do you know Bohuslav Martinù?”
“Who?”
Beauvoir repeated it, then showed them the printout.
“Oh, Bohuslav Martinù,” Roar said, pronouncing it in a way that was unintelligible to Beauvoir. “He’s a Czech composer. Don’t tell me you suspect him?”
Roar laughed, but Hanna didn’t and neither did Havoc.
“Does anyone here have ties to him?”
“No, no one,” said Hanna, with certainty.
Morin’s research of the Parras had turned up very little. Their relations in the Czech Republic seemed limited to an aunt and a few cousins. They’d escaped in their early twenties and claimed refugee status in Canada, which had been granted. They were now citizens.
Nothing remarkable. No ties to Martinù. No ties to anyone famous or infamous. No woo, no Charlotte, no treasure. Nothing.
And yet Beauvoir was convinced they knew more than they were telling. More than Morin had managed to find.
As they drove away, their retreating reflection in the glass house, Beauvoir wondered if the Parras were quite as transparent as their home.
I have a question for you,” said Gamache as they wandered back into the Brunel living room. Jerome looked up briefly then went back to trying to tease some sense from the cryptic letters.
“Ask away.”
“Denis Fortin—”
“Of the Galerie Fortin?” the Superintendent interrupted.
Gamache nodded. “He was visiting Three Pines yesterday and saw one of the carvings. He said it wasn’t worth anything.”
Thérèse Brunel paused. “I’m not surprised. He’s a respected art dealer. Quite remarkable at spotting new talent. But his specialty isn’t sculpture, though he handles some very prominent sculptors.”
“But even I could see the carvings are remarkable. Why couldn’t he?”
“What’re you suggesting, Armand? That he lied?”
“Is it possible?”
Thérèse considered. “I suppose. I always find it slightly amusing, and sometimes useful, the general perception of the art world. People on the outside seem to think it’s made up of arrogant, crazed artists, numbskull buyers and gallery owners who bring the two together. In fact it’s a business, and anyone who doesn’t understand that and appreciate it gets buried. In some cases hundreds of millions of dollars are at stake. But even bigger than the piles of cash are the egos. Put immense wealth and even larger egos together and you have a volatile mix. It’s a brutal, often ugly, often violent world.”
Gamache thought about Clara and wondered if she realized that. Wondered if she knew what was waiting for her, beyond the pale.
“But not everyone’s like that, surely,” he said.
“No. But at that level,” she nodded to the carvings on the table by her husband, “they are. One man’s dead. It’s possible as we look closer others have been killed.”
“Over these carvings?” Gamache picked up the ship.
“Over the money.”
Gamache peered at the sculpture. He knew that not everyone was motivated solely by money. There were other currencies. Jealousy, rage, revenge. He looked not at the passengers sailing into a happy future, but at the one looking back. To where they’d been. With terror.
“I do have some good news for you, Armand.”
Gamache lowered the ship and looked at the Superintendent.
“I’ve found your ‘woo.’ ”
THIRTY
“There it is.” Thérèse Brunel pointed.
They’d driven into downtown Montreal and now the Superintendent was pointing at a building. Gamache slowed the car and immediately provoked honking. In Quebec it was almost a capital crime to slow down. He didn’t speed up, ignored the honking, and tried to see what she was pointing at. It was an art gallery. Heffel’s. And outside was a bronze sculpture. But the car had drifted past before he got a good look. He spent the next twenty minutes trying to find a parking spot.
“Can’t you just double-park?” asked Superintendent Brunel.
“If we want to be slaughtered, yes.”
She harrumphed, but didn’t disagree. Finally they parked and walked back along Sherbrooke Street until they were in front of Heffel’s Art Gallery, staring at a bronze sculpture Gamache had seen before but never stopped to look at.
His cell phone vibrated. “Pardon,” he said to the Superintendent, and answered it.
“It’s Clara. I’m wondering when you might be ready.”
“In just a few minutes. Are you all right?” She’d sounded shaky, upset.
“I’m just fine. Where can I meet you?”
“I’m on Sherbrooke, just outside Heffel’s Gallery.”
“I know it. I can be there in a few minutes. Is that okay?” She sounded keen, even anxious, to leave.
“Perfect. I’ll be here.”
He put the phone away and went back to the sculpture. Silently he walked around it while Thérèse Brunel watched, a look of some amusement on her face.
What he saw was an almost life-sized bronze of a frumpy middle-aged woman standing beside a horse, a dog at her side and a monkey on the horse’s back. When he arrived back at Superintendent Brunel he stopped.
“This is ‘woo’?”
“No, this is Emily Carr. It’s by Joe Fafard and is called Emily and Friends.”
Gamache smiled then and shook his head. Of course it was. Now he could see it. The woman, matronly, squat, ugly, had been one of Canada’s most remarkable artists. Gifted and visionary, she’d painted mostly in the early 1900s and was now long dead. But her art only grew in significance and influence.
He looked more closely at the bronze woman. She was younger here than the images he’d seen of her in grainy old black-and-white photos. They almost always showed a masculine woman, alone. In a forest. And not smiling, not happy.
This woman was happy. Perhaps it was the conceit of the sculptor.
“It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” Superintendent Brunel said. “Normally Emily Carr looks gruesome. I think it’s brilliant to show her happy, as she apparently only was around her animals. It was people she hated.”
“You said you’d found ‘woo.’ Where?”
He was disappointed and far from convinced Superintendent Brunel was right. How could a long dead painter from across the continent have anything to do with the case?
Thérèse Brunel walked up to the sculpture and placed one manicured hand on the monkey.
“This is Woo. Emily Carr’s constant companion.”
“Woo’s a monkey?”
“She adored all animals, but Woo above all.”
Gamache crossed his arms over his chest and stared. “It’s an interesting theory, but the ‘woo’ in the Hermit’s cabin could mean anything. What makes you think it’s Emily Carr’s monkey?”
“Because of this.”
She opened her handbag and handed him a glossy brochure. It was for a retrospective of the works of Emily Carr, at the Vancouver Art Gallery. Gamache looked at the photographs of Carr’s unmistakable paintings of the West Coast wilderness almost a century ago.
Her work was extraordinary. Rich greens and browns swirled together so that the forest seemed both frenzied and tranquil. It was a forest long gone. Logged, clear-cut, ruined. But still alive, thanks to the brush and brilliance of Emily Carr.
But that wasn’t what had made her famous.
Gamache flipped through the brochure until he found them. Her signature series. Depicting what haunted any Canadian soul who saw them.
The totem poles.
Sitting on the shores of a remote Haida fishing village in northern British Columbia. She’d painted them where the Haida had put them.
And then a si
ngle perfect finger pointed to three small words.
Queen Charlotte Islands.
That’s where they were.
Charlotte.
Gamache felt a thrill. Could they really have found Woo?
“The Hermit’s sculptures were carved from red cedar,” said Thérèse Brunel. “So was the word Woo. Red cedar grows in a few places, but not here. Not Quebec. One of the places it grows is in British Columbia.”
“On the Queen Charlotte Islands,” whispered Gamache, mesmerized by the paintings of the totem poles. Straight, tall, magnificent. Not yet felled as heathen, not yet yanked down by missionaries and the government.
Emily Carr’s paintings were the only images of the totems as the Haida meant them to be. She never painted people, but she painted what they created. Long houses. And towering totem poles.
Gamache stared, losing himself in the wild beauty, and the approaching disaster.
Then he looked again at the inscription. Haida village. Queen Charlottes.
And he knew Thérèse was right. Woo pointed to Emily Carr, and Carr pointed to the Queen Charlotte Islands. This must be why there were so many references to Charlotte in the Hermit’s cabin. Charlotte’s Web, Charlotte Brontë. Charlotte Martinù, who’d given her husband the violin. The Amber Room had been made for a Charlotte. All leading him here. To the Queen Charlotte Islands.
“You can keep that.” Superintendent Brunel pointed to the brochure. “It has a lot of biographical information on Emily Carr. It might be helpful.”
“Merci.” Gamache closed the catalog and stared at the sculpture of Carr, the woman who had captured Canada’s shame, not by painting the displaced, broken people, but by painting their glory.
Clara stared at the gray waters of the St. Lawrence as they drove over the Champlain Bridge.
“How was your lunch?” Gamache asked when they were on the autoroute heading to Three Pines.
“Well, it could have been better.”
Clara’s mood was swinging wildly from fury to guilt to regret. One moment she felt she should have told Denis Fortin more clearly what a piece of merde he was, the next she was dying to get home so she could call and apologize.