“Me?” asked Clara, dumbfounded. “Why? Who?”

She looked around the room, searching for someone who could hate her so much. And her eyes came to rest on one person.

TWENTY-NINE

All eyes turned to look.

The murderer smiled tentatively, then his eyes darted around the room, resting finally on Jean Guy Beauvoir, standing in the doorway to the kitchen. The only way out. Blocked.

“You?” said Clara, barely above a whisper. “You killed Lillian?”

Denis Fortin turned to face Clara.

“Lillian Dyson deserved what she got. The only surprise is that someone hadn’t wrung her neck sooner.”

Olivier, Gabri and Suzanne moved away from him, getting over to the other side of the room. The gallery owner stood up, and looked at them, across a great divide.

Only Gamache seemed at ease. Unlike the rest, he hadn’t scrambled to safety, but remained seated across from Fortin.

“Lillian had gone to apologize to you, hadn’t she,” said the Chief Inspector, as though having a friendly chat with an excitable guest.

Fortin stared at him and finally nodded, then sat back down.

“She didn’t even make an appointment. Just showed up at the gallery. Said she was sorry she’d been so horrible in her review.”

Fortin had to pause, to gather himself.

“‘I’m sorry,’” he said, lifting a finger for each word, “‘I was cruel in my review of your art.’”

He looked at his fingers. “Eleven words, and she thinks that makes us even. Have you seen the review?”

Gamache nodded. “I have it here. But I won’t read it.”

Fortin met his eyes. “Well, thank you for that, at least. I can’t even remember the exact wording, but I know it was as though she’d strapped a bomb to my chest and set it off. All the worse because at my show she was gushing. Couldn’t have been friendlier. Said how much she loved the works. Convinced me I could expect a glowing review in La Presse that Saturday. I waited all week, barely able to sleep. I told all my family and friends.”

Fortin stopped to gather himself again. The lights flickered, staying off longer. Peter and Clara got candles from the sideboard and placed them around the room, ready in case they lost power.

Outside lightning flashed and forked behind the mountains. Closing in on Three Pines.

Rain pelted against the windowpanes.

“And then the review appeared. It wasn’t just bad, it was a catastrophe. Malicious. Mocking. She made fun of what I’d created. My paintings may not have been brilliant, but I was just starting, doing my best. And she dug her heels into them and ground. It was more than just humiliating. I might’ve recovered from that, it was that she convinced even me that I had no talent. She killed the best part of me.”

Denis Fortin stopped trembling. He stopped moving. He seemed to stop breathing. He just ground to a halt. Staring blankly ahead.

A giant flash lit up the village green followed immediately by a bang so loud it shook the little house. Everyone leapt, including Gamache. The rain now pounded against the windows, demanding to be let in. Outside they could hear the wild wind in the trees. Twisting them, shaking them. In the next flash of lightning they could see young leaves torn from maples and poplars and whipping across the village green. They could hear the aspens, quaking.

And in the center of the village they could see the three great pines, twirling at their tops. Catching the whirlwind.

The guests looked at each other, wide eyed. Waiting. Listening. Expecting a rending, a tearing, a crashing.

“I stopped painting,” said Fortin, raising his voice above the din. The only one who seemed not to care or notice the storm.

“But you made a career for yourself as a gallery owner,” said Clara, trying to ignore what was happening outside. “You were a huge success.”

“And you ruined that,” said Fortin.

The storm was now directly overhead. Peter lit the candles and the oil lamps as the lights flickered on and off. On and off.

Clara, though, was frozen in her chair. Staring at Denis Fortin.

“I’d told everyone I’d dropped you because you were crap, and they believed me. Until the Musée decided to give you a solo show. A solo show, for chrissake. It made me look like a fool. I lost all credibility. I have nothing except my reputation, and you took that away.”

“Is that why you killed Lillian here?” asked Clara. “In our garden?”

“When people remember your show,” he said, staring at her, “I want them to remember a corpse in your garden. I want you to remember that. To think of your solo show, and to see Lillian, dead.”