She lifted her own bony finger and pointed it at Armand.
“I’m not saying it’s actually, literally Death,” he said. “But I do think whoever’s in that costume wants us to make the connection. He wants us to be afraid.”
“Guess what,” said Clara.
“Well, you’re all wrong,” said Ruth. “Death doesn’t look at all like that.”
“How would you know?” asked Clara.
“Because we’re old friends. He visits most nights. We sit in the kitchen and talk. His name’s Michael.”
“The archangel?” asked Reine-Marie.
“Yes. Everyone thinks Death is this horrible creature, but in the Bible it’s Michael who visits the dying and helps them in their last hour. He’s beautiful, with wings he folds tight to his back so he doesn’t knock over the furniture.”
“Let me get this straight. The Archangel Michael visits you?” asked Reine-Marie.
“Let me get this straight,” said Clara. “You read the Bible?”
“I read everything,” Ruth said to Clara, then turned to Reine-Marie. “And he does. But he doesn’t stay long. He’s very busy. But he pops in for a drink and gossips about the other angels. That Raphael is a piece of work, I tell you. Nasty, embittered old thing.”
A hmmm escaped one of them.
“And what do you say to him?” asked Armand.
“Armand,” said Reine-Marie, warning him not to goad the old woman. But that wasn’t his intention. He was genuinely curious.
“I tell him about all of you. Point out your homes and make some suggestions. Sometimes I read him a poem. From the public school to the private hell / of the family masquerade,” she quoted, tipping her face to the ceiling in an effort to remember, “Where could a boy on a bicycle go / when the straight road splayed?”
They stared for a moment, taking in the words that had taken their breaths away.
“One of yours?” asked Clara.
Ruth nodded and smiled. “I do know it’s a process. To be honest, Michael’s not very helpful. He prefers limericks.”
There was an involuntary guffaw from Armand.
“And then, before dawn, he leaves,” said Ruth.
“And leaves you behind?” asked Clara. “That doesn’t sound right.”
“Think about it,” murmured Reine-Marie.
“It’s not my time. Not even close. He likes my company because I’m not afraid.”
“We’re all afraid of something,” said Armand.
“I meant I’m not afraid of Death,” said Ruth.
“I wonder if Death’s afraid of her,” said Clara.
*
“I’ll take two of those, please,” said Katie Evans, pointing to the chocolate brownies. With melted marshmallows on top.
The sort she remembered from years ago.
“And you, madame?”
Jacqueline turned to the other woman. Lea Roux.
She recognized her, but then, most would. She was a member of the National Assembly, and in the news often. Interviewed on French and English talk shows, across the province, for her opinions on politics. She was articulate without being pompous. Funny without being sarcastic. Warm without being cloying. She was the new darling of the media.
And now here she was. In the bakery. Large as life.
In fact, both women were large. Really, more tall than big. But they certainly were a presence. Easily overshadowing the tiny baker. But while the women might have presence, Jacqueline had baked goods. And, she suspected, at that moment that made her the more powerful.
“I think,” said Lea, surveying the bank of patisserie behind the glass, “I’ll take a lemon tart and a mille-feuille.”
“Pretty strange,” said Katie, going up to Sarah, who owned the boulangerie and was restocking the shelves with biscotti.
There was no need to ask what Katie meant.
Sarah wiped her hands on her apron and nodded, glancing out the window.
“I wish it would go away,” said the baker.
“Anyone know what it is?” Lea asked, first Sarah, who shook her head, then Jacqueline, who shook her head and looked away.
“It’s very upsetting,” said Sarah. “I don’t know why someone doesn’t do something. Armand should do something.”
“I doubt there’s much that can be done. Even by Monsieur Gamache.”
Lea Roux had sat on the committee that had confirmed Gamache as head of the S?reté. She’d disclosed that she knew him, casually. They’d met a few times.
But then, almost everyone on the bipartisan committee knew Armand Gamache. He’d been a high-profile officer in the S?reté for years and was involved in uncovering all that corruption.
There had been very little discussion, and less debate.
And two months ago, Armand Gamache had been sworn in as Chief Superintendent of the most powerful police force in Québec. Perhaps the most powerful in Canada.
But even with all that power, Lea Roux knew there was absolutely nothing he could do about the creature on the village green.
“You know you can order those in the bistro,” said Sarah as they left, pointing to the small boxes in their hands. “We supply Olivier and Gabri.”
“Merci,” said Katie. “We’re taking these to the bookstore, to share with Myrna.”
“She does like brownies,” said Sarah. “They’ve been a big hit since Jacqueline arrived.”
She looked at the much younger woman, as a proud mother might a daughter.
Except for the baguette thing, Jacqueline’s arrival was pretty much the answer to Sarah’s prayers. She was in her late sixties now, and getting up at five every morning to make bread, then on her feet all day, was getting too much.
Closing the boulangerie wasn’t an option. And she didn’t want to retire completely. But she did want to hand over the day-to-day operations to someone.
And then Jacqueline had arrived three months ago.
If she could only just learn how to make baguette.
*
“Oh, that looks good,” said Myrna, as she poured the tea and Lea put out the pastries.
Then the three of them sat around the woodstove in Myrna’s bookstore, on the sofa and armchairs in the bay window. Where they could see the robed figure.
After discussing it for a few minutes and getting nowhere, they turned to Katie’s latest project. A glass house on the Magdalen Islands.
“Really?” said Myrna, though her surprise was muffled by the mouthful of brownie. “The Maggies?”
“Yes, there seems quite a bit of money there now. Lobster business must be good.”
Lea raised her brow but didn’t say anything.
There was a whole other commodity that was creating wealth where once there had been hardworking poverty.
“A glass house on the islands must be a challenge,” said Myrna.
And for the next half hour they discussed weather, geography, design, and homes. The issue of home, rather than house, fascinated Myrna and she listened with admiration to these younger women.
She was interested in Katie. Liked her. But it was Lea she felt a bond with, having been her babysitter all those years ago.