Clara laughed. “Not poached like that. Poached as in cooked.”
“Frankly, either way would’ve been fine,” admitted Gamache.
“Great. It’ll be very relaxed.
Gamache smiled at the French phrase. It was one Reine-Marie often used. It meant “come as you are,” but it meant more than that. She didn’t use it for every relaxed occasion and with every guest. It was reserved for special guests, who were considered family. It was a particular position, a compliment. An intimacy offered.
“I accept,” he said. “And I’m sure the other two will be delighted as well.
* * *
Armand Gamache called Reine-Marie then showered and looked longingly at his bed.
The room, like all the others in Gabri and Olivier’s B and B, was surprisingly simple. But not Spartan. It was elegant and luxurious, in its way. With crisp white bed linen, and a duvet filled with goose down. Hand-stitched Oriental carpets were thrown onto wide plank pine floors, which were original from when the B and B had been a coaching inn. Gamache wondered how many fellow travelers had rested in that very room. A pause in their difficult and dangerous journey. He wondered, briefly, where they’d come from and where they were going.
And if they made it.
The B and B was far less magnificent than the inn and spa on the hill. And he supposed he could have stayed there. But as he got older he yearned for less and less. Family, friends. Books. Walks with Reine-Marie and Henri, their dog.
And a full night’s sleep in a simple bedroom.
Now, as he sat on the edge of the bed and put his socks on, he longed to just flop back, to feel his body hit the soft duvet, and sink in. To close his heavy lids, and let go.
Sleep.
But there was still a distance to go in his journey.
* * *
The Surete officers walked through mist and drizzle across the village green and arrived at Clara and Peter’s home.
“Come on in,” said Peter with a smile. “No keep your shoes on. Ruth’s here and I think she walked through every mud puddle on her way over.”
They looked at the floor and sure enough, there were muddy shoe prints.
Beauvoir was shaking his head. “I expected to see a cloven hoof.”
“Perhaps that’s why she keeps her shoes on,” said Peter. The Surete officers rubbed their shoes as clean as they could on the welcome mat.
The home smelled of salmon and fresh bread, with slight hints of lemon and dill.
“Dinner won’t be long,” said their host as he led them through the kitchen and into the living room.
Within minutes Beauvoir and Lacoste had glasses of wine. Gamache, already tired, asked for water. Lacoste wandered over to the two artists, Normand and Paulette. Beauvoir chatted with Myrna and Gabri. Mostly, Gamache suspected, because they were as far from Ruth as possible.
Gamache’s eyes swept the room. It was habit now. Noticing where everyone was, and what they were doing.
Olivier was by the bookcases, his back to the room. Apparently fascinated by the books, but Gamache suspected he’d seen those shelves many times.
Francois Marois and Denis Fortin were standing together, though not talking. Gamache wondered where the other one was. Andre Castonguay.
And then he found him. In a corner of the room, talking with Chief Justice Pineault while a few steps away young Brian was watching.
What was the look on Brian’s face, Gamache wondered. It took an effort to dig below the tattoos, the swastika, the raised finger, the “fuck you.” And see other expressions. Brian was certainly alert, watchful. Not the detached youth of the evening before.
“You must be kidding,” said Castonguay, his voice raised. “You can’t tell me you like it.”
Gamache wandered a little closer, while everyone else glanced over, then wandered a little further away. Except Brian. He stood his ground.
“I don’t just like it, I think it’s amazing,” Pineault was saying.
“Waste of time,” said the art dealer, his voice thick. He clutched an almost empty glass of red wine.
Gamache maneuvered closer and noticed the two men were standing in front of one of Clara’s paintings. A study, really, of hands. Some clutching, some fists, some just opening, or closing, depending on your perception.
“It’s all just bullshit,” said Castonguay, and Pineault made a subtle gesture to try to get the art dealer to lower his voice. “Everyone says it’s so great, but you know what?”
Castonguay leaned toward Pineault, and Gamache focused on Castonguay’s lips, hoping to make out what the art dealer was about to whisper.
“People who think that are idiots. Morons. Wet brains.”
Gamache needn’t have worried about hearing. Everyone heard. Castonguay shouted his opinion.
