Had the dealer said he wanted to turn green and fly to the moon Peter wouldn’t have been more astonished. See Clara’s works? What? His mind seized up and he’d stared at Fortin.
‘Why?’ he’d stammered. Then it was Fortin’s turn to stare.
‘She is Clara Morrow? The artist? A friend showed me her portfolio. Is this it?’
Fortin had taken a folio of works from his case and sure enough, there was Clara’s weeping tree. Weeping words. What tree wept words? Peter had wondered when Clara had first shown him the work. And now Denis Fortin, the most prominent gallery owner in Quebec, was saying it was an impressive work of art.
‘That’s mine,’ said Clara, trying to get between the two men.
Amazed, as though in a dream, she’d shown Fortin around her studio. And she’d described her latest work, hidden under its canvas caul. Fortin had stared at the canvas, but hadn’t reached out for it, hadn’t even asked for it to be removed.
‘When will it be finished?’
‘A few days,’ said Clara, wondering where that came from.
‘Shall we say the first week in May?’ He’d smiled and shaken her hand with great warmth. ‘I’ll bring my curators so we can all decide.’
Decide?
The great Denis Fortin was coming in little over a week to see Clara’s latest work. And if he liked it her career would be decided.
Now Peter stood staring at the piece.
He suddenly felt something grab him. From behind. It reached forward and right into him and took hold. Peter gasped at the pain, the searing, scalding pain of it. Tears came to his eyes as he was overcome by this wraith that had threatened all his life. That he’d hidden from as a child, that he’d run from and buried and denied. It had stalked him and finally found him. Here, in his beloved wife’s studio. Standing in front of this creation of hers the terrible monster had found him.
And devoured him.
FIVE
‘So what did Ruth want?’ Olivier asked, as he placed single malt Scotches in front of Myrna and Gabri. Odile and Gilles had gone home but everyone else was in the bistro. Clara waved to Peter, who was shrugging out of his coat and hanging it on a peg by the door. She’d called him as soon as the séance had ended and invited him to the post-mortem.