SEVEN
Olivier and Gabri strolled across the village green. It was seven in the evening and lights were beginning to glow in windows, except at the bistro, which was dark and empty.
“Christ,” came a growl through the dusk. “The fairies are out.”
“Merde,” said Gabri. “The village idiot’s escaped from her attic.”
Ruth Zardo limped toward them followed by Rosa.
“I hear you finally killed someone with your rapier wit,” said Ruth to Gabri, falling into step.
“Actually, I hear he read one of your poems and his head exploded,” said Gabri.
“Would that that were true,” said Ruth, slipping her bony arms into each of theirs, so that they walked across to Peter and Clara’s arm in arm. “How are you?” she asked quietly.
“Okay,” said Olivier, not glancing at the darkened bistro as they passed.
The bistro had been his baby, his creation. All that was good about him, he put in there. All his best antiques, his finest recipes, great wines. Some evenings he’d stand behind the bar, pretending to polish glasses, but really just listening to the laughter and looking at the people, who’d come to his bistro. And were happy to be there. They belonged, and so did he.
Until this.
Who’d want to come to a place where there’d been a murder?
And what if people found out he actually knew the Hermit? What if they found out what he’d done? No. Best to say nothing and see what happened. It was bad enough as it was.
They paused on the walk just outside Peter and Clara’s house. Inside they saw Myrna putting her effusive flower arrangement on the kitchen table, already set for supper. Clara was exclaiming at its beauty and artistry. They couldn’t hear the words, but her delight was obvious. In the living room Peter tossed another log on the fire.
Ruth turned from the comforting domestic scene to the man beside her. The old poet leaned in to whisper in his ear, so that not even Gabri could hear. “Give it time. It’ll be all right, you know that, don’t you?”
She turned to glance again through the glow at Clara hugging Myrna and Peter walking into the kitchen and exclaiming over the flowers as well. Olivier bent and kissed the old, cold cheek and thanked her. But he knew she was wrong. She didn’t know what he knew.
Chaos had found Three Pines. It was bearing down upon them and all that was safe and warm and kind was about to be taken away.
Peter had poured them all drinks, except Ruth who’d helped herself and was now sipping from a vase filled with Scotch and sitting in the middle of the sofa facing the fire. Rosa was waddling around the room, barely noticed by anyone anymore. Even Lucy, Peter and Clara’s golden retriever, barely looked at Rosa. The first time the poet had shown up with Rosa they’d insisted she stay outside, but Rosa set up such a quacking they were forced to let her in, just to shut the duck up.
“Bonjour.”
A deep, familiar voice was heard from the mudroom.
“God, you didn’t invite Clouseau, did you?” asked Ruth, to the empty room. Empty except for Rosa, who raced to stand beside her.
“It’s lovely,” said Isabelle Lacoste as they walked from the mudroom into the airy kitchen. The long wooden table was set for dinner with baskets of sliced baguette, butter, jugs of water and bottles of wine. It smelled of garlic and rosemary and basil, all fresh from the garden.
And in the center of the table was a stunning arrangement of hollyhocks and climbing white roses, clematis and sweet pea and fragrant pink phlox.
More drinks were poured and the guests wandered into the living room and milled around nibbling soft runny Brie or orange and pistachio caribou paté on baguette.
Across the room Ruth was interrogating the Chief Inspector.
“Don’t suppose you know who the dead man was.”
“Afraid not,” said Gamache evenly. “Not yet.”
“And do you know what killed him?”
“Non.”
“Any idea who did it?”
Gamache shook his head.
“Any idea why it happened in the bistro?”
“None,” admitted Gamache.
Ruth glared at him. “Just wanted to make sure you’re as incompetent as ever. Good to know some things can be relied upon.”
“I’m glad you approve,” said Gamache, bowing slightly before wandering off toward the fireplace. He picked up the poker, and examined it.
“It’s a fireplace poker,” said Clara, appearing at his elbow. “You use it to poke the fire.”
She was smiling and watching him. He realized he must have looked a little odd, holding the long piece of metal to his face as though he’d never seen one before. He put it down. No blood on it. He was relieved.
“I hear your solo show is coming up in a few months.” He turned to her, smiling. “It must be thrilling.”
“If putting a dentist’s drill up your nose is thrilling. Yes.”
“That bad?”
“Oh, well, you know. It’s only torture.”
“Have you finished all the paintings?”
“They’re all done, at least. They’re crap, of course, but at least they’re finished. Denis Fortin is coming down himself to discuss how they’ll be hung. I have a specific order in mind. And if he disagrees I have a plan. I’ll cry.”
Gamache laughed. “That’s how I got to be Chief Inspector.”
“I told you so,” Ruth hissed at Rosa.
“Your art is brilliant, Clara. You know that,” said Gamache, leading her away from the crowd.
“How’d you know? You’ve only seen one piece. Maybe the others suck. I wonder if I made a mistake going with the paint by numbers.”
Gamache made a face.
“Would you like to see them?” Clara asked.
“Love to.”