A Trick of the Light by Louise Penny Page A

inconvenience us. We were planning to stay a few days anyway.”
    We, thought Beauvoir and looked over at François Marois. The men would be about the same age, Beauvoir guessed. Castonguay’s hair was thick and white. Marois was balding, gray and trimmed. Both men were well groomed and well dressed.
    “Here’s my card, Chief Inspector.” Castonguay handed Gamache a business card.
    “Do you specialize in modern art?” Gamache asked, crossing his legs as though settling in for a nice chat.
    Beauvoir, who knew Gamache better than most, watched with interest and some amusement. Castonguay was being wooed. And it was working. He clearly regarded Chief Inspector Gamache as one step up from the beasts. An evolved creature who walked upright but didn’t have much of a frontal lobe. Beauvoir could guess what Castonguay thought of him. The missing link, if that.
    He longed to say something intelligent, something clever and knowledgeable. Or, failing that, something so shockingly, violently rude this smug man would no longer believe he was in charge of anything.
    But Beauvoir, with an effort, kept his mouth shut. Mostly because he couldn’t think of anything intelligent to say about art.
    Castonguay and the Chief Inspector were now discussing trends in modern art, with Castonguay lecturing and Gamache listening as though rapt.
    And François Marois?
    Jean Guy Beauvoir had all but forgotten him. He was so quiet. But now the Inspector shifted his eyes to Marois. And discovered the quiet, older man was also staring. But not at Castonguay.
    François Marois was staring at Chief Inspector Gamache. Examining him. Closely. Then he shifted his gaze to Beauvoir. It wasn’t a cold look. But it was clear and sharp.
    It froze Beauvoir’s blood.
    The conversation between the Chief Inspector and Castonguay had segued back to the murder.
    “Terrible,” said Castonguay, as though voicing a unique and insightful sentiment.
    “Terrible,” agreed Gamache, sitting forward. “We have a couple of photographs of the murdered woman. I wonder if you’d mind looking at them?”
    Beauvoir handed the photos to François Marois first. He looked at them then passed them on to André Castonguay.
    “I’m afraid I don’t know her,” said Castonguay. To give him grudging credit, Beauvoir thought the man looked pained to see the woman dead. “Who was she?”
    “Monsieur Marois?” Gamache turned to the other man.
    “No, I’m afraid she doesn’t look familiar to me either. She was at the party?”
    “That’s what we’re trying to find out. Did either of you see her there? As you can see in one of the pictures, she was wearing quite a remarkable red dress.”
    The men glanced at each other, but shook their heads.
    “Désolé,” said Castonguay. “But I spent the evening speaking to friends I don’t often see. She could’ve been there and I just didn’t notice. Who was she?” he asked again.
    The photos were handed back to Beauvoir.
    “Her name was Lillian Dyson.”
    There was no reaction to the name.
    “Was she an artist?” Castonguay asked.
    “What makes you ask?” said Gamache.
    “Wearing red. Flamboyant. Artists are either complete bums, hardly wash, drunk and filthy most of the time, or they’re well, that.” He waved toward the pictures in Beauvoir’s hand. “Over-the-top. Loud. ‘Look at me’ types. Both are very tiring.”
    “You don’t seem to like artists,” said Gamache.
    “I don’t. I like the product, not the person. Artists are needy, crazy people who take up a lot of space and time. Exhausting. Like babies.”
    “And yet, you were an artist once, I believe,” said François Marois.
    The Sûreté agents looked over at the quiet man by the fireplace. Was there a satisfied look on his face?
    “I was. Too sane to be a success.”
    Marois laughed, and Castonguay looked annoyed. It wasn’t meant as a joke.
    “You were at the vernissage at the Musée yesterday, Monsieur Castonguay?” Gamache asked.
    “Yes.