“Professor Leduc did. He told us all about Gamache.”
“Really? And what did he say?”
“That he was caught up in the corruption scandal. That he resigned one step ahead of being fired. That Gamache is a coward. He ran away from the mess he made and now he’s trashing the academy.”
“Enough.”
Behind them, the old poet and the bookstore owner had risen to their feet. But it wasn’t Ruth Zardo who’d spoken. It was Myrna.
“It’s all right, dear,” said Ruth. “They don’t know what they’re saying.”
Beside her, Myrna was so angry she was actually shaking. Her face so filled with rage, she was almost unrecognizable.
Jacques stood abruptly and faced her.
“You’d defend him? Do you know how many agents died while he was Chief Inspector? Do you know he murdered his own superior? You think we don’t know that he killed Professor Leduc? Of course he did. A shot to the head of an unarmed man. It has coward written all over it. It has Gamache written all over it.”
“You stupid, stupid man,” was all Myrna could get out, while Ruth’s hand held her arm. The human contact, if not her strength, restraining Myrna from going further.
“You—” said Jacques. Huifen had gotten to her feet and put her own hand on his arm, stopping him from saying what everyone in the room heard anyway. It throbbed out of him. What he was thinking. What he was seeing.
A big, fat black. Not a woman. Not a person. Just a black. Though he was clearly longing to shoot another word at her.
And now Myrna did step forward, and Ruth went with her.
Jacques Laurin glared and dared them to go further.
Myrna Landers had seen that look many times. When stopped for traffic tickets. While walking in civil rights marches through Montréal. She’d seen it in reports of riots and police shootings. She’d seen it in color and in black and white. In recent news reports and in old newsreels. And archival photographs. Of the Deep South. And the enlightened North.
And now it was here. In Three Pines.
He didn’t just loathe her. He dismissed her, as subhuman.
And in just a few months, Myrna knew, he’d have a gun and a billy club and permission to use them. On anyone he wanted.
“Well,” said Olivier. “That little contretemps makes this even more difficult.”
“What?”
“Monsieur Gamache has handed out billeting assignments.”
“Aren’t we staying in the B and B?” asked Huifen.
“All of you at our place?” said Olivier. “I don’t think so.”
“Then where’re we staying?”
Amelia looked over at Ruth Zardo.
Please, let me stay with her.
Ruth sneezed and wiped her nose on Myrna’s caftan.
Please let me stay anywhere else.
“Cadet Huifen Cloutier will be billeted with us in the B and B.”
Huifen smiled and looked at her fellow cadets, who didn’t even pretend to be happy for her.
“Cadet Amelia Choquet—”
Ruth. Not Ruth. Please, please, not Ruth. Please, Ruth.
“—with Clara Morrow.”
Amelia looked at Ruth. Did the old poet seem surprised? Maybe even a little disappointed?
Ruth scowled at her and gave her the finger.
Perhaps not.
“Cadet Nathaniel Smythe will be staying with Ruth Zardo.”
“Oh, shit,” they both said at once.
“Now, Cadet Laurin.” Olivier turned to Jacques. “Can you use your superior skills to work out where Commander Gamache has billeted you?”
Jacques looked at him. In the background, Myrna was staring wide-eyed at Olivier.
“He didn’t,” she said, and saw Olivier nod.
“Cadet Laurin will be staying with Myrna Landers.”
“I won’t do it,” said Jacques.
“It’s either that, or that.” Olivier gestured toward the bench on the village green, glistening with melting snow.
“Or I could leave. We don’t have to stay.”
“Absolutely,” said Olivier. “I can’t imagine anyone here trying to stop you. But it’s a long walk back to Saint-Alphonse.”
“Now who’s the coward?” asked Myrna. Her horror had turned to a certain satisfaction.
He squared his shoulders. “I’m not afraid.” Then he turned to Huifen and whispered, “Can we trade?”
Huifen shook her head.
“Nice,” said Myrna.
“Yeah, like you wouldn’t trade me in an instant.”
“Trading isn’t what I have in mind for you.”
“Why do I get him?” Ruth demanded. “He’s like a hole in the room.”
She pointed a gnarled finger at Nathaniel.
“Hey,” said Nathaniel. “I’m a great guest.”
“Right, if I want to play an endless game of hide and seek. Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Nathaniel demanded.
“Oh, go fffff—”
Now it was Myrna’s turn to lay a hand on her arm.
“Who’s Clara Morrow?” asked Amelia.
“The artist,” said Huifen, and gestured toward her head, mimicking abandoned hair. “She drove us down. Seems nice.”
Olivier, somewhat more helpful, gestured out the window to where Clara was walking her new puppy, though it looked from a distance like she was dragging an empty leash through the thin layer of snow on the village green.
Amelia sighed. Nice. In her world, it was code for dim-witted.
*
Armand Gamache waved at Clara, who picked up the puppy and walked over.
“Who’s that?” asked Gélinas. “She looks familiar.”
“Yes, it’s hard to mistake Clara Morrow for anyone else.”
“Clara Morrow, the artist? The one who does portraits? She did the old and forgotten Virgin Mary. An incredible work. I could barely look at it and I could barely look away. Though I think my favorite is The Three Graces. I saw her solo show at the Musée d’art contemporain.”
“She lives over there.” Gamache pointed to a small house across the green.
They walked forward, meeting Clara halfway. After putting the puppy down, she was introduced to Paul Gélinas, who seemed more than a little starstruck.
“Have you met Leo?” Clara asked Armand.
“Non. Bonjour, Leo,” said Armand, kneeling down.
Leo was, he had to admit, just about the most adorable puppy he’d ever seen. He had light brown fur, almost yellow, and rounded ears that seemed made of felt. They were perked forward. His tail wagged and he stood with his legs firm and straight. Eager and bright-eyed.
Like a very, very small lion.
Was it possible Clara got a lion and they got a weasel?
But no, Leo was definitely a dog. Of unknown breed, but a dog.
“How’s Gracie?” Clara asked, and Armand searched her face for any hint of a smile.
It was not an exhaustive search. There was more than a little amusement.
He got to his feet as Gélinas squatted down and played with Leo.
“She’s wonderful,” said Armand.
“Really?”
“Well, she’s peeing everywhere. But then, so did Daniel and Annie when we first brought them home. Granted, we were pretty sure they were human. It’s not totally clear what Gracie is.”
“Does it matter?” asked Clara.
“Obviously not to you,” said Armand. “Are they really litter mates?”
He looked down at the very handsome Leo.
“Well, they were all found in the same bin. I guess it’s possible a little raccoon cub crawled in there with them. Or maybe a skunk.”
“Right,” said Armand. “How did we end up with Gracie? Was she the only one left?”
“Not at all. Reine-Marie was given the pick of the litter. I think Billy Williams is a little sweet on her. She chose Gracie.”
Of course she did, thought Armand. The runt. He’d have done the same thing.
“How’s Henri adjusting?” Clara asked.
“He looks at her as though she’s an hors d’oeuvre we dropped on the floor.”
Clara grimaced, then turned to leave. “Well, good luck.”
“Good luck to you.”
Something in his voice made her turn around. “What have you done, Armand?”
“Oh, you’ll see.”
Clara scowled at him.
Behind her, in the bistro window, Gamache could see the four young people also scowling at him.
A litter of cadets. But who was the lion? Who was the runt?
*
Gamache drove back to the academy while Gélinas read the Commander’s private file on Serge Leduc.
They’d discussed the broad strokes of the dead man’s career, what was publicly known. What wasn’t.