“Perhaps not,” he admitted. “But is there any difference between these”—he pointed to the ones on the table—“and those?” He gestured toward the floor. “Do you see an improvement? An evolution?”

Clara shook her head. “They look like an exercise in art school. You see here?”

She pointed to a checkerboard pattern in one of the paintings on the table. They leaned in and nodded.

“Every high school art student does something like that, to learn about perspective.”

Gamache’s brows came together in consideration. Why would one of the most successful artists in Canada paint these? And include an exercise kids are taught in school?

“Is this even art?” Jean-Guy asked.

It was another good question.

When Beauvoir had first met these people, and this village, he knew little about art and what he knew was more than he found useful. But after many years of exposure to the art world, he’d become interested. Sort of.

What mostly interested him wasn’t the art, but the environment. The infighting. The casual cruelty. The hypocrisy. The ugly business of selling beautiful creations.

And how that ugliness sometimes grew into crime. And how the crime sometimes festered into murder. Sometimes.

Jean-Guy liked Peter Morrow. A part of him understood Peter Morrow. The part Beauvoir admitted to very few.

The fearful part. The empty part. The selfish part. The insecure part.

The cowardly part of Jean-Guy Beauvoir understood Peter Morrow.

But while Beauvoir had fought hard to face that part of himself, Peter had simply run from it. Increasing the chasm, the tear.

Fear didn’t make the hole bigger, Beauvoir had learned. But cowardice did.

Still, Jean-Guy Beauvoir liked Peter Morrow, and was worried that something horrible had happened to the man. But at least no one would kill for these pictures. Except perhaps Peter. He might kill to suppress them.

But he hadn’t, had he? In fact, far from suppressing them, he’d actually taken pains to make sure they were safe.

“Why did he keep these?” Jean-Guy asked. “And why give them to Bean?”

Instead of answering any questions, the paintings had created even more.

*   *   *

Ruth left. Bored and more than a little revolted.

“They’re revolting,” she’d said, in case anyone had missed how she felt. “I’m off to clean out Rosa’s litter box. Anyone want to help?”

It was tempting, and shortly after Ruth left, Gabri made his excuses.

“I think I should dig the hair out of the bathroom drains,” he said as he made for the door.

Peter’s works seemed to remind people of disgusting chores. If he’d set out into the world to find a way to be useful, this probably wasn’t what he had in mind.

Armand, Reine-Marie, Clara, Myrna, and Jean-Guy were left standing uncertainly around the paintings.