“When André joined our group he met a lot of people,” said Pineault. “Including Lillian. And she, of course, met him. And knew who he was right away. She told him about her art, and even showed him her portfolio. He told me about it, and I advised him not to pursue it. That men needed to stick with men, and besides, this wasn’t a networking opportunity.”
“Was talking about her art against the rules?” asked Gamache.
“There aren’t any rules,” said Thierry. “It’s just not a great idea. It’s hard enough getting sober without mixing in business.”
“But Lillian did,” said Gamache.
“I didn’t know about this,” said Suzanne. “If she’d told me I’d have told her to stop. Probably why she never told me.”
“Then André quit AA,” said Gamache, and Pineault nodded. “But there was a problem.”
“As you said, André had one big client,” said Thierry. “Kelley Foods. He lived in terror someone was going to tell them about his drinking.”
“But he couldn’t keep it secret for long,” said Myrna. “If his time here is anything to go by, he was drunk more than he was sober.”
“True,” said Thierry. “It was just a matter of time before André lost everything.”
“As soon as you saw him here you realized what might have happened,” said Gamache. “You listen to trials all the time, often murder trials. You put things together.”
Pineault seemed to be considering what to say next. Everyone naturally leaned forward, toward the Chief Justice. Drawn to the silence, and the promise of a story.
“I was afraid that Lillian had come to the party to confront him. That she’d met him in Clara’s garden and threatened to tell the Kelley people about his drinking unless André represented her,” said Pineault. “You saw him tonight. There’s no control left, of his drinking or his anger.”
When Pineault was silent for a few moments Gamache gently prodded.
“Go on.”
Still they waited. Their eyes wide, their breathing shallow.
“I was afraid Lillian had pushed him over the edge. Threatening blackmail.”
Pineault stopped again, and again, after an excruciating pause, Gamache prodded.
“Go on.”
“I was afraid he killed her. In a blackout probably. Probably couldn’t even remember doing it.”
Gamache wondered if a jury, or a judge, would believe that. And whether it would matter. He also wondered if anyone else had caught what he had.
The Chief Inspector waited.
“But,” said Clara, perplexed. “Didn’t Monsieur Castonguay just accuse you of stealing Lillian from him?”
She turned to François Marois. The elderly art dealer was silent. Clara’s brows were drawn together in concentration. As she tried to figure it out. Her gaze shifted to Gamache.
“Have you seen Lillian’s art?”
He nodded.
“Was it that good? Worth fighting over?”
He nodded again.
Clara looked surprised, but accepted Gamache’s judgment. “So she wouldn’t have had to blackmail Castonguay. In fact, it sounds like Castonguay was desperate to sign Lillian. There’d be no need for her to confront him. He was sold, he wanted her art. Unless,” said Clara, making the connections, “that’s what pushed him over the edge.”
She looked at Gamache, but his face told her nothing. He was listening, attentive, but nothing more.
“Castonguay knew he’d lose Kelley,” said Clara, walking carefully through the facts. “Once he quit AA that was inevitable. His only hope was to find something to replace Kelley Foods. An artist. But not just anyone. They had to be brilliant. They’d save his gallery. His career. But it had to be someone no one else knew about. His own find.”
Around her there was silence. Even the rain had stopped, perhaps to better listen.
“Lillian and her art would save him,” Clara continued. “But Lillian did something Castonguay never expected. She did what she always did. She looked after herself. She spoke to Castonguay, but she also approached Monsieur Marois, the more powerful dealer.” Clara turned to Marois. “And you took her on.”
François Marois’s face had slid from a benign, kindly smile to a sneer.
“Lillian Dyson was a grown woman. She wasn’t indentured to André,” said Marois. “She was free to choose whoever she wanted.”
“Castonguay saw her at the party here,” Clara continued, trying not to be intimidated by Marois’s glare. “He probably wanted a quiet word with her. He must have led her into our garden for privacy.”