‘Really? That’s interesting,’ though she didn’t look interested.
‘It was actually. There was no school.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘No Gareth James High in Montreal.’
‘But that’s impossible. I went to it.’ She seemed agitated, just the way Beauvoir wanted his suspects. He didn’t like this woman, this witch.
‘The school burned down twenty years ago. Convenient, don’t you think?’ He got up before she could respond.
‘Where’s my drink?’ Ruth limped over to the piano. ‘Wanted to get here earlier before you drank it all,’ she said to Gamache. Olivier was deeply grateful someone more maladroit than Gabri was finally in the room.
‘I’ve hidden bottles all over the house and if you’re nice to me, Madame Zardo,’ said Gamache, bowing slightly, ‘I might tell you where some are.’
Ruth considered then seemed to conclude it was too much trouble. She grabbed what was a tumbler for water and handed it to Peter.
‘Scotch.’
‘How can you be a poet?’ Peter asked.
‘I’ll tell you how, I don’t waste good words on the likes of you.’ She took the tumbler and swallowed a gulp.
‘So why do you drink?’ she asked Gamache.
‘
‘What newspaper article?’ asked Ruth. ‘And what’s that?’ She pointed to the Scotch in Gamache’s hand.
‘I drink to relax,’ said Gamache. ‘Why do you?’
Ruth stared at him but what she saw were the two baby birds, tucked into their little beds in her oven, snug in warmed towels and water bottles she’d bought at Canadian Tire. She’d fed Rosa and tried to feed Lilium, but she hadn’t taken very much.
Ruth had kissed them softly on their little fluffy heads, getting a slight film of dander on her thin, old lips. It’d been a while since she’d kissed anything. They smelled fresh and felt warm. Lilium had bent down and pecked at her hand slightly, as though kissing back. Ruth had meant to leave for Peter and Clara’s earlier, but had waited until Rosa and Lilium were asleep. She grabbed her kitchen timer and put two and a half hours on it, then slipped it into her moth-eaten cardigan.
She took a deep sip of her Scotch, and thought about it. Why did she drink?
‘I drink so I don’t get mad,’ she said finally.
‘Get mad or go mad?’ mumbled Myrna. ‘Either way, it isn’t working.’
Over at the sofa Gabri had corralled Jeanne again. ‘So what do witches do?’
‘Gabri, shouldn’t you be passing this round?’ Olivier tried to hand him the pate again, but Gabri just took a scoop himself and left Olivier holding it.
‘We heal people.’
‘I thought you did, well, the opposite. Aren’t there wicked witches?’
‘Please dear Lord don’t let him welcome us to munchkin land,’ Olivier murmured to Peter. Both men moved away.
‘Some, but not as many as you might think,’ Jeanne smiled. ‘Witches are simply people with heightened intuition.’
‘So it’s not magic,’ said Beauvoir, listening despite himself.
‘We’re not conjuring anything that isn’t already there. We just see things others don’t.’
‘Like dead people?’ asked Gabri.
‘Oh, that’s nothing,’ said Ruth, shoving Myrna aside as she squeezed onto the sofa, bony elbows out. ‘I see them all the time.’
‘You do?’ asked Myrna.
‘I see them now,’ said Ruth and the room grew silent. Even Peter and Olivier drifted back.
‘Here?’ asked Clara. ‘In our house?’
‘Especially here,’ said Ruth.
‘Now?’
‘Right there,’ said Ruth and she raised one certain finger and pointed. At Gamache.
There was an intake of breath and Gamache looked over at Beauvoir.
‘Dead? He’s dead?’ whispered Clara.
‘Dead? I thought you said dull. Never mind,’ said Ruth.
‘How can she be a poet?’ Peter asked Olivier and the two walked away again to examine Peter’s latest jigsaw puzzle.
