A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15)(57)

“Sorry. I lost track of time.”

Myrna sat on the low sofa, her considerable derriere hitting the concrete floor, as it always did. She groaned, more in annoyance than pain. Would she never learn?

From her vantage point, essentially on the floor, Myrna could see that Clara was staring at a series of miniatures on her easel.

“I’ve been sitting here trying to decide if the tweeters are right,” Clara explained. “If these’re shit.”

“I believe we call those people twats, and no, they’re not right. And you think that’s bad, you should see what they’re saying about Armand’s return to the S?reté. Madman with a gun. At least you only have a paintbrush. How much damage can you do?”

“You’d be surprised, apparently.”

Myrna brought out her phone. “Listen to this.”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“Strange, intense, feverish,” Myrna read.

“Is that about me or Armand?”

“It’s about van Gogh. Here’s another. The museum could have saved a good chunk by getting the plan and having the thing run off by the janitors with rollers. That was a review of an early Barnett Newman. I looked it up. One of his paintings just sold for eighty-four million.”

“Dollars?”

“Dog biscuits.”

At that, Leo got to his feet, tail wagging. Myrna dug into her pocket and brought one out before returning to her phone. “He’s a madman, desperate for conquest.”

“Picasso?”

“Gamache.”

Clara made a retching sound. “Just shit. Lies.”

“So if you know the tweets are wrong about Armand, why don’t you know they’re wrong about you and your art?”

“Because one’s objective and one’s subjective,” said Clara. “The record proves that Armand didn’t do any of what he’s accused of. And what he did do was to save greater pain. He’s been investigated, exhaustively, and cleared. But what I do”—Clara returned her gaze to the easel—“is open to interpretation. I had an email from my gallery in Montréal. A few collectors are asking about returning the paintings they bought, some from years ago. They’re concerned that the value has fallen through. That I’m not a real artist at all but … what did one tweet call me? A poseur.”

Actually, thought Myrna, that was one of the more polite descriptions she’d seen.

“Those are just mean people.”

“Just because it’s mean doesn’t make it wrong,” said Clara, tilting her head this way and that. Examining her works on the easel.

“All truth with malice in it,” said Myrna.

“What did you say?”

“Just a quote, from Moby-Dick,” said Myrna. “Something Armand said yesterday.”

“You think there’s truth in those tweets?”

“No, no, I didn’t mean that.” Myrna’s arms were pinwheeling as she tried to back up the conversation. “There’s no truth in them. Believe me. Just malice.”

But Clara was shaking her head. Her confidence shaken.

“Come on over for lunch later,” said Myrna, lugging herself off the sofa with a groan. “You need to get out of the studio. And out of your own head.”

“Or someplace lower?” asked Clara.

“All truth…” said Myrna, and heard her friend laugh. “You know, Moby-Dick was also savaged when it first came out. Now it’s considered one of the great novels of all time.”

Clara didn’t answer. She’d gone back to staring at the miniatures on her easel.

Myrna almost pointed out that what had happened to Vivienne Godin, what her father was living, was a tragedy. What Clara was going through was a setback. Nothing more.

But she didn’t. Myrna understood how damaging it was to compare pain. To dismiss hurt just because it wasn’t the worst.

As she walked back across the bright village green, her feet squelching in the soft turf, Myrna thought about those miniatures Clara had painted.

Perhaps, she admitted to herself privately as she walked past the wall of sandbags, not Clara’s best work.





CHAPTER TWENTY


@CarlTracey: Cannot meet you now @NouveauGalerie. What exactly do you want?

Agent Cloutier smiled. Had she been an angler, she’d have recognized a nibble on the bait.

She was also amused, and reassured, by the cautious, even terse, response.

But mostly it was the speed of the response that grabbed her attention.

This was Carl Tracey’s Instagram account, but it was not Carl Tracey she was communicating with. He had no cell phone. And no cell phone coverage.

“Best not to discuss business publicly,” she typed, having already composed this response in her head. “Do you have a private account?”

Her phone was ringing the Bonanza theme, and she answered it but continued to stare at the screen. Trying not to see the amused looks of the other S?reté agents in the open room.

“Cloutier,” she said.

“It’s Beauvoir. The search warrant’s come through. Meet us at the Tracey place.”

“On my way, patron.”

But still she stared at the screen, and then, just as she was about to shut it down, a single word appeared.