The small bell above the door tinkled as Gamache entered the bookstore. He knocked his boots against the doorjamb, hoping to get some of the snow off.
It’d been snowing slightly in Montréal when they’d left, just flurries, but the snow had intensified as they’d climbed higher into the mountains south of the city. He heard a muffled thumping as Isabelle Lacoste knocked her boots and followed him inside.
Had the Chief Inspector been blindfolded he could have described the familiar shop. The walls were lined with bookcases filled with hardcovers and paperbacks. With fiction and biography, science and science fiction. Mysteries and religion. Poetry and cookbooks. It was a room filled with thoughts and feeling and creation and desires. New and used.
Threadbare Oriental rugs were scattered on the wood floor, giving it the feel of a well-used library in an old country home.
A cheerful wreath was tacked on the door into Myrna’s New and Used Bookstore, and a Christmas tree stood in a corner. Gifts were piled underneath and there was the slight sweet scent of balsam.
A black cast-iron woodstove sat in the center of the room, with a kettle simmering on top of it and an armchair on either side.
It hadn’t changed since the day Gamache had first entered Myrna’s bookstore years before. Right down to the unfashionable floral slipcovers on the sofa and easy chairs in the bay window. Books were piled next to one of the sagging seats and back copies of The New Yorker and National Geographic were scattered on the coffee table.
It was, Gamache felt, how a sigh might look.
“Bonjour?” he called and waited. Nothing.
Stairs led from the back of the bookstore into Myrna’s apartment above. He was about to call up when Lacoste noticed a scribbled note by the cash register.
Back in ten minutes. Leave money if you buy anything. (Ruth, this means you.) It wasn’t signed. No need. But there was a time written at the top. 11:55.
Lacoste checked her watch while Gamache turned to the large clock behind the desk. Noon almost exactly.
They wandered for a few minutes, up and down the aisles. There were equal parts French and English books. Some new, but most used. Gamache became absorbed in the titles, finally selecting a frayed book on the history of cats. He took off his heavy coat and poured himself and Lacoste mugs of tea.
“Milk, sugar?” he asked.
“A bit of both, s’il vous pla?t,” came her reply from across the room.
He sat down by the woodstove and opened his book. Lacoste joined him in the other easy chair, sipping her tea.
“Thinking of getting one?”
“A cat?” He glanced at the cover of the book. “Non. Florence and Zora want a pet, especially after the last visit. They fell for Henri’s charms and now want a German shepherd of their own.”
“In Paris?” asked Lacoste, with some amusement.
“Yes. I don’t think they quite realize they live in Paris,” laughed Gamache, thinking of his young granddaughters. “Reine-Marie told me last night that Daniel and Roslyn are considering getting a cat.”
“Madame Gamache is in Paris?”
“For Christmas. I’ll be joining them next week.”
“Bet you can hardly wait.”
“Oui,” he said, and went back to his book. Hiding, she thought, the magnitude of his longing. And how much he was missing his wife.
The sound of a door opening brought Gamache out of the surprisingly riveting history of the tabby. He looked up to see Myrna coming through the door connecting her bookstore to the bistro.
She carried a bowl of soup and a sandwich, but stopped as soon as she saw them. Then her face broke into a smile as bright as her sweater.
“Armand, I didn’t expect you to actually come down.”
Gamache was on his feet, as was Lacoste. Myrna put the dishes on her desk and hugged them both.
“We’re interrupting your lunch,” he said apologetically.
“Oh, I only nipped out quickly to get it, in case you called back.” Then she stopped herself and her keen eyes searched his face. “Why’re you here? Has something happened?”
It was a source of some sadness for Gamache that his presence was almost always greeted with anxiety.
“Not at all. You left a message and this is our answer.”
Myrna laughed. “What service. Did you not think to phone?”
Gamache turned to Lacoste. “Phone. Why didn’t we think of that?”
“I don’t trust phones,” said Lacoste. “They’re the devil’s work.”
“Actually, I believe that’s email,” said Gamache, returning to Myrna. “You gave us an excuse to get out of the city for a few hours. And I’m always happy to come here.”
“Where’s Inspector Beauvoir?” Myrna asked, looking around. “Parking the car?”
“He’s on another assignment,” said the Chief.
“I see,” said Myrna, and in the slight pause Armand Gamache wondered what she saw.