Still Life

Gamache was a patient man and he gave her a few minutes to absorb the room. Besides, he realised he had developed a kind of pride about the home, as though he had had something to do with its creation.



‘It’s genius, of course,’ said Elise. ‘I used to work as a curator at the Musée des Beaux Arts in Ottawa before retiring down here.’ Gamache again marveled at the people who chose to live in this area. Was Margaret Atwood a garbage collector perhaps? Or maybe Prime Minister Mulroney had picked up a second career delivering the mail. No one was who they seemed. Everyone was more. And one person in this room was very much more.



‘Who’d have thought the same woman who painted that dreadful Fair Day did all this?’ Elise continued. ‘I guess we all have bad days. Still, you’d have thought she’d have chosen a better one to submit.’



‘It was the only one she had,’ said Gamache, ‘or at least the only one not on construction material.’



‘That’s strange.’



‘To say the least,’ agreed Gamache. ‘Did you bring it?’ he repeated.



‘Sorry, yes, it’s in the mudroom.’



A minute later Gamache was setting Fair Day on to its easel in the center of the room. Now all of Jane’s art was together.



He stood very still and watched. The din increased as the guests drank more wine and recognised more people and events on the walls. The only one behaving at all oddly was Clara. Gamache watched as she wandered over to Fair Day then back to the wall. Then over to Fair Day and back to the same spot on the wall. Then back to the easel. But this time with more purpose. Then she practically ran to the wall. And stood there for a very long time. Then she very slowly came back to Fair Day as though lost in thought.



‘What is it?’ Gamache asked, coming to stand beside her.



‘This isn’t Yolande,’ Clara pointed to the blonde woman next to Peter.



‘How do you know?’



‘Over there,’ Clara pointed to the wall she’d been examining. ‘That’s Yolande as painted by Jane. There are similarities, but: not many.’



Gamache had to see for himself, though he knew Clara . would be right. Sure enough the only thing she’d been wrong about was saying there were similarities. There were none, as far as he could tell. The Yolande on the wall, even the child, was clearly Yolande. Physically, but also emotionally. She radiated contempt and greed and something else. Cunning. The woman on the wall was all those things. And just a little: needy. In the painting on the easel the woman in the stands was simply blonde.



‘Then who is she?’ he asked when he got back.



‘I don’t know. But I do know one thing. Have you noticed that Jane never made up a face? Everyone on these walls was someone she knew, someone from the village.’



‘Or a visitor,’ said Gamache.



‘Actually,’ said Ruth, joining their conversation, ‘there are no visitors. People who moved away and would come home to visit, yes, but they’re considered villagers. Everyone on the walls she knew.’



‘And everyone in Fair Day she knew, except her.’ Clara pointed a cashew at the blonde woman. ‘She’s a stranger. But there’s more. I’ve been wondering what’s wrong with Fair Day. It’s clearly Jane’s, but it’s not. If this was the first thing she’d done I’d say she just hadn’t found her style. But this was the last.’ Clara leaned into the work, ‘Everything in it is strong, confident, purposeful. But taken as a whole it doesn’t work.’



‘She’s right,’ said Elise. ‘It doesn’t.’



The circle around Fair Day was growing, the guests attracted by the mystery.



‘But it worked when we were judging it, right?’ Clara turned to Peter. ‘It’s her. Jane didn’t paint her.’ Clara pointed a ramrod straight ‘J’accuse’ finger at the blonde in the stands next to Peter. As though sucked down a drain, all heads leaned into the center of the circle, to peer at the face.



‘That’s why this picture doesn’t work,’ continued Clara. ‘It did before this face was changed. Whoever changed it changed the whole picture without realising it.’



‘How do you know Jane didn’t paint this face?’ Gamache asked, his voice becoming official. Across the room Beauvoir heard it and went over, taking out his notepad and pen as he arrived.



‘First of all, it’s the only face in here that doesn’t look alive.’ Gamache had to agree with that. ‘But that’s subjective. There’s actual proof if you want.’