FOUR
“You didn’t recognize him?” asked Clara as she sliced some fresh bread from Sarah’s Boulangerie.
There was only one “him” Myrna’s friend could be talking about. Myrna shook her head and sliced tomatoes into the salad, then turned to the shallots, all freshly picked from Peter and Clara’s vegetable garden.
“And Olivier and Gabri didn’t know him?” asked Peter. He was carving a barbecued chicken.
“Strange, isn’t it?” Myrna paused and looked at her friends. Peter—tall, graying, elegant and precise. And beside him his wife Clara. Short, plump, hair dark and wild, bread crust scattered into it like sparkles. Her eyes were blue and usually filled with humor. But not today.
Clara was shaking her head, perplexed. A couple of crumbs fell to the counter. She picked them up absently, and ate them. Now that the initial shock of discovery was receding, Myrna was pretty sure they were all thinking the same thing.
This was murder. The dead man was a stranger. But was the killer?
And they probably all came to the same conclusion. Unlikely.
She’d tried not to think about it, but it kept creeping into her head. She picked up a slice of baguette and chewed on it. The bread was warm, soft and fragrant. The outer crust was crispy.
“For God’s sake,” said Clara, waving the knife at the half-eaten bread in Myrna’s hand.
“Want some?” Myrna offered her a piece.
The two women stood at the counter eating fresh warm bread. They’d normally be at the bistro for Sunday lunch but that didn’t seem likely today, what with the body and all. So Clara, Peter and Myrna had gone next door to Myrna’s loft apartment. Downstairs the door to her shop was armed with an alarm, should anyone enter. It wasn’t really so much an alarm as a small bell that tinkled when the door opened. Sometimes Myrna went down, sometimes not. Almost all her customers were local, and they all knew how much to leave by the cash register. Besides, thought Myrna, if anyone needed a used book so badly they had to steal it then they were welcome to it.
Myrna felt a chill. She looked across the room to see if a window was open and cool, damp air pouring in. She saw the exposed brick walls, the sturdy beams and the series of large industrial windows. She walked over to check, but all of them were closed, except for one open a sliver to let in some fresh air.
Walking back across the wide pine floors, she paused by the black pot-bellied woodstove in the center of the large room. It was crackling away. She lifted a round lid and slipped another piece of wood in.
“It must have been horrible for you,” said Clara, going to stand by Myrna.
“It was. That poor man, just lying there. I didn’t see the wound at first.”
Clara sat with Myrna on the sofa facing the woodstove. Peter brought over two Scotches then quietly retired to the kitchen area. From there he could see them, could hear their conversation, but wouldn’t be in the way.
He watched as the two women leaned close, sipping their drinks, talking softly. Intimately. He envied them that. Peter turned away and stirred the Cheddar and apple soup.
“What does Gamache think?” asked Clara.
“He seems as puzzled as the rest of us. I mean really,” Myrna turned to face Clara, “why was a strange man in the bistro? Dead?”
“Murdered,” said Clara and the two thought about that for a moment.
Clara finally spoke. “Did Olivier say anything?”
“Nothing. He seemed just stunned.”
Clara nodded. She knew the feeling.
The police were at the door. Soon they’d be in their homes, in their kitchens and bedrooms. In their heads.
“Can’t imagine what Gamache thinks of us,” said Myrna. “Every time he shows up there’s a body.”
“Every Quebec village has a vocation,” said Clara. “Some make cheese, some wine, some pots. We produce bodies.”
“Monasteries have vocations, not villages,” said Peter with a laugh. He placed bowls of rich-scented soup on Myrna’s long refectory table. “And we don’t make bodies.”
But he wasn’t really so sure.
“Gamache is the head of homicide for the S?reté,” said Myrna. “It must happen to him all the time. In fact, he’d probably be quite surprised if there wasn’t a body.”
Myrna and Clara joined Peter at the table and as the women talked Peter thought of the man in charge of the investigation. He was dangerous, Peter knew. Dangerous to whoever had killed that man next door. He wondered whether the murderer knew what sort of man was after him. But Peter was afraid the murderer knew all too well.