Strangely, Clara felt more comfortable with this Ruth than the momentarily generous one. It was the devil she knew.
'You said there were books you wanted to sell?' said Myrna, drifting into the living room, a red wine in one hand and a bunch of Allsorts in the other.
Clara followed, grateful to be away from Peter's eloquent back. 'The murder mysteries. I want to buy some more but I need to get rid of the old ones first.' The two women inched along the floor-to-ceiling bookcases across from the fireplace, Myrna every now and then selecting one. Clara had very specific tastes. Most of them were British and all were of the village cozy variety. Myrna could spend happy hours browsing bookcases. She felt if she could just get a good look at a person's bookcase and their grocery cart, she'd pretty much know who they were.
This was not the first time she'd stood in front of these books. Every few months the frugal couple would sell some off and replace them with others, also used and also from Myrna's shop. The titles drifted by. Spy novels, gardening, biography, literature, but mostly mysteries. The books were a jumble. Some order had been attempted at one stage, the art restoration books were alphabetical, though one had been replaced incorrectly. Without thinking, Myrna put it in its proper alphabetical home. Myrna could guess who had taken a stab at order but the rest had succumbed to everyday literary glee.
'There.' Myrna looked at her pile when they reached the end of the bookcase. From the kitchen came the promise of comfort food. Clara's mind followed her nose, and she again saw Peter, frozen in his anger. Why hadn't she told him about the blind and the trail right away?
'I'll give you a dollar each for them,' said Myrna.
'How about trading them for others?' It was a familiar and practiced dance. The two women engaged each other and emerged, both satisfied. Ruth had joined them and was reading the back of a Michael Innes.
'I'd make a good detective.' Into the stunned silence Ruth explained: 'Unlike you, Clara, I see people the way they really are. I see the darkness, the anger, the pettiness.'
'You create it, Ruth,' Clara clarified.
'It's true,' Ruth roared with laughter and unexpectedly hugged Clara in a grip that was disconcertingly strong. 'I'm obnoxious and disliked -'
'I hadn't heard,' said Myrna.
'It can't be denied. Those are my best qualities. The rest is window dressing. Actually, the real mystery is why more people don't commit murder. It must be terrible to be human. I heard in the Societe des Alcools that that great oaf Gamache had actually searched the Croft place. Ridiculous.'
They drifted back into the kitchen where dinner was on the table in steaming casseroles, ready for each to help themselves. Ben poured Clara a glass of red wine and sat down next to her. 'What have you been talking about?'
'I'm not really sure.' Clara smiled into Ben's kind face.
'Ruth said Gamache had searched the Croft place. Is that true?'
'He didn't tell you this afternoon?' Down the table, Peter snorted.
'Oh yeah, big to-do,' said Olivier, trying to ignore Peter slapping food on to his plate from the serving spoons. 'Turned the place upside down and apparently found something.'
'But they won't arrest Matthew, surely?' said Clara, her fork stopped halfway to her mouth.
'Could Matthew have killed Jane?' Ben asked, offering more chili con carne around. He meant the question for the whole group, but he naturally and instinctively turned to Peter.
'I can't believe it,' said Olivier when Peter failed to reply.
'Why not?' Ben turned again to Peter. 'Accidents happen.'
'That's true,' Peter conceded. 'Though I think he'd own up to it.'
'But, this was no ordinary mistake. I think it'd be only natural to run away.'
'Do you?' Myrna asked.
'I think so,' said Ben. 'I mean, I'm not sure how I'd react if I threw a rock, say, and it hit someone in the head and killed them, and no one saw. Can I say for sure I would admit to it? Don't get me wrong, I really hope I'd call for help and take what's coming. But can I stand here today and say for sure? No. Not till it happens.'
'I think you would,' said Peter, quietly. Ben could feel his throat constrict. Compliments always made him want to cry and left him deeply embarrassed.
'It goes back to what we were talking about Friday night. That quote of yours, Clara,' said Myrna. 'Conscience and cowardice are the same thing.'
'Oscar Wilde, actually. He was more cynical than me. I think that's true for some people, but fortunately not the majority. I think most people have a pretty good moral compass.' To her left she heard Ruth snort. 'Sometimes it just takes time to get your bearings, especially after a shock. When I try to see it from Gamache's point of view, it makes sense. Matthew's a skilled bow hunter. He knew there were deer in that area. He had the ability and the knowledge.'
'But why not admit to it?' Myrna wanted to know. 'Sure, I agree with you totally, Ben. At first it would be understandable for Matthew to run, but after a while wouldn't he admit to it? I couldn't live carrying that secret.'
'You just have to get better at keeping secrets,' said Gabri.
'I think it must have been a stranger,' said Ben. 'God knows, the woods are full of them right now. All those hunters from Toronto and Boston and Montreal, firing away like maniacs.'
'But,' Clara turned to him, 'how would a hunter from Toronto know where to stand?'
