A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15)(80)

Dominica smiled and gave a single grunt of either laughter or recognition.

“I saw your latest exhibition,” said Dominica. “In the cooperative collection of miniatures at the Brooklyn Art Space. Very generous of you, by the way, to agree to show with unknowns.”

Clara closed her eyes briefly. This was it. Finally. She had what she wanted. Needed. Dominica Oddly would tell the art world, all the naysayers and trolls and shits who’d turned on her, that they were wrong. Clara Morrow was a force within the art community.

Clara Morrow would get her revenge.

“Thank you,” she said. “You must know how important this is to me. You’ve seen all the horrible things people have said on social media. My own home gallery is threatening to drop me. People are saying I’m a … what did you just call it…?”

“A poseur. A fraud.”

“Yes. A fake. But a good review from you would change all that. Would stop all the attacks.”

“I’ve seen what they’re writing, yes.”

Then a thought occurred to Clara. Dominica was, for all her confidence, still young. Maybe she’s afraid that if she voices a dissenting opinion, she’ll lose credibility.

“I have no problem telling it like it is,” Oddly said, as though reading her thoughts. “Going against popular opinion. It’s one of my favorite things to do.”

“Then why haven’t you posted? Why wait to defend me? Damage is being done.”

“Because I don’t disagree.”

“Pardon?”

“Your miniatures are appalling, Clara. Trite. Predictable. A blunder.” She turned back to the Warrior Uteruses. “I admire an artist for trying something different,” and then she looked at Clara again. “But your miniatures show not just a shocking lack of technique but an almost insulting lack of depth, of effort. They’re cowardly.”

Clara stood stock-still in her studio.

“I was about to publish the review when Ruth Zardo’s invitation arrived. I decided to wait until I saw you. Until I had a chance to look you in the eye. And thank you personally for your previous work, and tell you how I feel about your latest. I think all those people posting are right. You’re insulting those who once loved your work, who once supported you. You’re insulting the art world. And, worst of all, you’ve squandered, cheapened your talent. Betrayed the gift you were given. And that’s a travesty. No real artist would do that, could do that.”

She brought a piece of paper out of her pocket. “Here.”

As she held it out to Clara, she caught, again, that elusive scent. Below the oils, below the turpentine, the wet dog, the old bananas.

It was lemon. Not the sour smell but the fresh, sweet scent of lemon meringue pie.

Clara reached for the paper, even as she felt the thrashing and heard the crunch of bones.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX


Catch this video. Sick. #GamacheSux

Heard Odd about to post review of Morrow stinkers. Finally. #ClaraMorrowSucks

@CarlTracey: Carl, trying to reach you. What’s happening? Call me.

Information was coming in quickly now.

Sitting in his car on rue Principale in Cowansville, Jean-Guy Beauvoir scanned the messages from his agents.

Smiling, he clicked the phone closed and got out to join Gamache, who’d sent him the address and had just arrived himself outside the pizza joint.

“The boot prints match Tracey’s,” said Beauvoir without preamble.

“Bon,” said Gamache. “It’s all coming together.”

“They’re in there,” said Cameron, coming around the corner to join them.

He pointed to an old low-rise apartment building.

“Used to be a crack house, run by the mother of one of the kids. We busted her, but the kid now runs his own operation out of there. Not crack but black-market shit.”

“Kid?” asked Gamache.

“Minor. Fifteen. Name’s Toby.”

There was a character in a book Beauvoir read to his son every night named Toby. A mischievous boy with a pet balloon.

Honoré found the adventures of Toby and his balloon hilarious. Jean-Guy found them strangely moving, as the boy struggled mightily to protect his vulnerable friend. And no matter what happened, to never let go.

“He runs a gang of kids dealing mostly prescription meds, painkillers. But other stuff, too. We catch them, but they’re on the street again in no time. Don’t be fooled by their age.”

“We aren’t,” said Beauvoir.

They followed Cameron into the building.

The place reeked of damp and mold and rot. The chipped concrete stairs were sticky.

They climbed up one flight, but just as Cameron stepped onto the landing, there was a sharp whistle and the sound of footsteps racing on the floor above.

“Shit,” said Cameron, and ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time, followed by Gamache.

Beauvoir, though, seeing where this was going, ran downstairs, out the front door, and into the side alley, scanning for the back door.

There was a loud bang as a door flew open, and kids piled out of the basement.



* * *



Gamache and Cameron split up, chasing different kids down the hallways. Cameron cornered one in the stairwell leading to the roof.