A Great Reckoning (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #12)(14)

“I’m just an archivist. You’re the antiques dealer.”

He shook his head. “I can’t see selling it for more than a few dollars. It’s fun and the art is good, but basically it’s a novelty. Someone’s idea of a joke. And too local to be of interest to anyone but us.”

Reine-Marie agreed. It certainly had a beauty to it, but part of that was its silliness. A cow? A pyramid, for God’s sake. And the three spirited pines.

Dinner was announced, if Gabri shouting, “Hurry up, I’m starving,” could be considered an announcement. It certainly was not news.

Over the scallops and shrimp and chunks of broth-infused salmon, they discussed the Montréal Canadiens and their winning season, they discussed international politics and the litter of unplanned puppies Madame Legault’s golden retriever had had.

“I’m thinking of getting one,” said Clara, dipping a slice of toasted baguette, spread with saffron aioli, into the bouillabaisse. “I miss Lucy. It would be nice to have another heartbeat in the home.”

She looked over at Henri, curled in a corner. Rosa, forgetting her enmity for the dog in favor of warmth, was nesting in the curve of his belly.

“How’s the portrait coming?” Reine-Marie asked.

Clara had managed to scrape the oil paint off her face, though her hands were tattooed with a near-permanent palette of colorful dots. Clara seemed to be morphing into a pointillist painting.

“You’re welcome to take a look,” she said. “But I want you all to repeat after me, ‘It’s brilliant, Clara.’”

They laughed, but when she continued to look at them they all, in unison, said, “It’s brilliant, Clara.”

Except Ruth, who muttered, “Fucked up, insecure, neurotic and egotistical.”

“Good enough,” laughed Clara. “If not brilliant, I’ll settle for FINE. But I have to admit, my focus is being undermined by that damned blanket box. I actually dream about it at night.”

“But have you found anything valuable?” asked Gabri. “Daddy needs a new car and I’m hoping to turn that old pine box into a Porsche.”

“A Porsche?” asked Myrna. “You might get into it, but you’d never get out. You’d look like Fred Flintstone.”

“Fred Flintstone,” said Armand. “That’s who you—”

But on seeing the look of warning on Olivier’s face, he stopped.

“Baguette?” Armand offered the basket to Gabri.

“That map?” asked Gabri. “You all seemed interested in it. It’s got to be worth something. Let me get it.”

He hopped up and returned, smoothing it on the pine table.

“This’s the first time I’ve looked at it,” he said. “It’s quite something.”

But what, was the question.

“It’s both a map and a work of art,” said Clara. “Wouldn’t that increase its value?”

“The problem is, it’s both and it’s neither,” said Olivier. “But the main problem is that map collectors tend to like maps of a specific area, often their own, or ones of some historic significance. This is of a small corner of Québec. And not even a historic corner. Just villages and homes, and that silly snowman. It might seem charming to us because we live here. But to anyone else, it’s just a curiosity.”

“I’ll give you fifty for it,” said Ruth.

They turned to her in shock. Ruth had never, in their experience, offered to pay for anything.

“Fifty what?” asked Myrna and Olivier together.

“Dollars, you dickheads.”

“Last time she bought something, it was with licorice pipes,” said Myrna.

“Stolen from the bistro,” said Olivier.

“Why do you want it?” asked Reine-Marie.

“Does no one get it?” demanded Ruth. “Don’t any of you see? Not even you, Clouseau?”

“It’s Miss Marple to you,” said Armand. “And see what? I see a beautiful map, but I also understand what Olivier’s saying. We’re probably the only ones who value it.”

“And do you know why?” Ruth demanded.

“Why?” asked Myrna.

“You figure it out,” she said. Then she looked at Myrna closely. “Who are you? Have we met?”

Ruth turned to Clara and whispered loudly, “Shouldn’t she be doing the dishes?”

“Because a black woman is always the maid?” asked Clara.

“Shhh,” said Ruth. “You don’t want to insult her.”

“Me insult her?” said Clara. “And by the way, being a black woman isn’t an insult.”

“And how would you know?” asked Ruth, before turning back to Myrna. “It’s all right, I’ll hire you if Mrs. Morrow lets you go. Do you like licorice?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, you demented old wreck,” said Myrna. “I’m your neighbor. We’ve known each other for years. You come into my bookstore every day. You take books and never pay.”

“Now who’s demented?” said Ruth. “It’s not a bookstore, it’s a library. Says it right on the sign.” Ruth turned back to Clara and whispered again, “I don’t think she can read. Should you teach her or would that just be inviting trouble?”