All the Devils Are Here(70)

CHAPTER 23




A hostess gift?” Reine-Marie asked, eyeing the familiar hospital box Claude Dussault held. “Too kind.”

“Yes, Madame, but I need it back,” said Dussault.

“That’s the gift part,” said Monique Dussault, who was standing just behind her husband.

Armand took the box from Claude as Reine-Marie laughed.

She kissed Monique, who was carefully holding a much smaller box. This one had the familiar logo of Patisserie Pierre Hermé.

“Is it … ?” she began.

“An Ispahan? Oui.”

Both women sighed.

“You’d have thought George Clooney was in the box,” said Claude.

“Better,” said Monique. “Oh, something smells delicious.”

The Gamaches’ small apartment, with its wooden beams, fresh white walls, and large windows, was already welcoming, but the scent of garlic and basil made it even more so.

“Just a simple pasta dinner,” said Reine-Marie. “As I said, en famille.”

“I also brought these, Madame.” The Prefect of Police pulled two wine bottles wrapped in brown paper out of his deep pockets.

“Ahhh,” said Reine-Marie. In a regal voice she pronounced, “You may stay.”

Claude laughed, then turned to his wife. “Just wait until she realizes the pastry box is empty. Sauve qui peut.”

Now it was Reine-Marie’s turn to smile. They didn’t see the Dussaults socially all that often, and now she wondered why not. She liked them. A lot. And so did Armand.

But when she leaned in to kiss Claude on both cheeks, it all came flooding back. And she remembered why they were actually there. Not as friends, but—

His scent washed over her and brought with it, on the tide, Alexander Plessner’s body.

The uninvited guest lay sprawled in front of her, as real at that moment as any of the living ones.

She struggled to keep her smile as she and Armand walked their guests into the living room.

They sat in front of the gentle fire in the grate, lit more for comfort than heat, and over drinks and dinner they talked about children and grandchildren. About books and plays. About newly discovered restaurants.

About anything other than Stephen and Monsieur Plessner, who sat at the table with them. Staring at her. Waiting for her to ask the question.

But it wasn’t time yet.

Now the conversation turned to retirement plans.

Reine-Marie, having stepped down as head of the Bibliothèque et Archives nationales du Québec, told them of her new passion.

“I’m a freelance researcher.”

“What does that mean?” asked Monique as she dabbed a piece of baguette into the last of her pasta sauce.

“People hire me to track down information on items, documents, photographs.”

“Like genealogy?” asked Claude. “Non, others can do that,” she said. “Suppose a relative dies, and in sorting through their things you find something strange, unexpected. I can find out more about it.”

“And you, Monique?” asked Armand. “Any plans?”

If they’d noticed he’d changed the subject, they didn’t show it.

Monique, it turned out, was considering cutting back her hours in the clinic.

“We’ve just bought a place in Saint-Paul-deVence,” she said. “Our daughter is close by, and there’s an airport in Nice for Claude.”

“You’d commute?” asked Armand, pouring more wine, then bringing out the cheeses he’d picked up on rue Geoffroy l’Angevin on his way home.

“Non, non. At least, not to my current job,” said Claude, spreading creamy Pont l’évêque onto a water biscuit. “This’s after I retire. Like Reine-Marie, I might pick up the odd private commission. Always a market for certain skills, right, Armand?”

“Are you talking about the saxophone?”

Monique laughed. As did Reine-Marie, but Armand kept his eyes on Claude. He knew exactly what skills he was talking about.

When the cheese course was finished, Reine-Marie suggested they take a break. The others rose as she got up.

“We can have coffee and dessert in the living room.” She spoke as though it was a whole separate room, where, in fact, the round dining table shared space with the comfortable sofa and armchairs in front of the muttering fire.

They helped clear the table. Then Reine-Marie ushered the men out. “Go. Have your cigars and plan the storming of the Bastille.”

“We will do as we’re told,” said Claude, “though it’s possible, Madame, you have spent a little too much time in archives. Now, Armand,” they heard him say as the men took their drinks and left the kitchen. “Which side of the barricades would you be on, if we were at the storming of the Bastille?”

“Need you ask?” said Armand.

While Claude’s tone was light, his eyes were sharp, searching. It seemed more than just a silly question.

And Armand had the uncomfortable impression the two old friends would, in fact, find themselves on opposite sides. Not a problem when it was simply a political disagreement. It became a big problem when it meant trying to kill each other.

Once back in the living room, he refreshed Claude’s glass, but left his as it was. He’d had enough and needed to remain as clearheaded as his weary brain would allow.