Glass Houses (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #13)(117)

“We just ate,” said the young man. “Amazing. We’ll definitely be back.”

“I hope so,” said Gamache. “Thanks for the chairs.”

Chief Superintendent Gamache nodded to them, picked up the chairs and plunked one down for Beauvoir, then placed the other beside Reine-Marie.

“They seem nice,” said Jean-Guy, glaring at Gamache as he sat.

“Americans. Always nice.”

Armand took off his jacket and folded it carefully over the back of his chair. Showing, for anyone interested, that he had no weapon. The Chief Superintendent was unarmed, and unaware, apparently, of who he’d just given a dinner suggestion to. And what was about to happen.

Another dab for the portrait.

“What would you like, patron?” asked Olivier. “A scotch?”

“Oh, too hot, mon vieux.” He loosened his tie. “I’ll have a beer. Whatever’s on tap.”

“We have some freshly made lemonade,” Olivier said to Jean-Guy.

“Perfect, merci.”

“So, how’s the trial going?” asked Ruth. “Have you lied yet?”

“Every word,” said Gamache.

The problem with Ruth, he remembered too late, was the inability to control her. Fortunately, most people thought she was either kidding or demented.

It was like playing with a jack-in-the-box. It looked like a normal box, until the crazy person popped out.

Behind Ruth, out the window, he noticed that the children had stopped their dancing and were falling to the ground. Laughing and rolling.

Ashes. Ashes.

The fight for the ball was over. One boy was bouncing it on his knee, while the other, tears staining his dirty cheeks, grabbed his bike and peddled off.

Where could a boy on a bicycle go

When the straight road splayed?

In the reflection of the window, he saw the Americans. The younger man’s ghostly image superimposed on the wobbly boy. Like before and after pictures.

This was where the boy on a bicycle went, Gamache knew.

Then he refocused on the children. Go away, he begged them. Go home.

But the children continued to play, and the boy on the bike continued to pump his thin legs until he’d disappeared. Leaving the ghostly man behind.

Gamache leaned back in his chair and gave a long, contented sigh. A show sigh, though he tried not to overdo it. He was careful not to scan the forest ringing the village for a mob soldier.

Even his eyes could betray him, Gamache knew. Every gesture of his was being closely watched, he suspected. Every word monitored and evaluated by the visitors. They were confident, but they’d also be vigilant.

He could not afford a misstep.

“Should we have dinner here?” he asked. “I’m starving.”

“Well, it’s time for Honoré to eat, and then bath time,” said Annie, getting up.

“And I should be getting back to the city,” said Lacoste. “Not looking forward to tomorrow.”

“Oh, haven’t had a chance to tell you, but the judge has called an early start. Eight.”

“In the morning?” asked Isabelle, and Myrna and Clara laughed at her tone.

“Sorry,” he said. “She wants to get in as much as possible before the day heats up.”

“Then I really do need to get going. Are you staying the night?”

“Probably. Haven’t decided yet,” said Gamache.

“Do you want me to help?” Jean-Guy rose with Annie.

“I’ll go,” said Reine-Marie. “You two stay here. Enjoy your drinks. Dinner in about forty-five minutes. Salmon on the grill. Would you like to come over?” she asked Myrna and Clara.

“That sounds good,” said Myrna. “Unless you’d like to get into your studio and finish those paintings.”

“Har-dee-har-har,” said Clara, though it was obvious this needling was getting old. “Dinner sounds great. We’ll help.”

As they left, Armand hugged Reine-Marie. Not too tight, he hoped. Closing his eyes for a moment, he took in her scent of old garden roses. And Honoré.

Jean-Guy kissed Annie and Ray-Ray.

It was all he could do to not whisper to Annie to take Honoré and go back to Montréal. But he knew if he did that, and the heads of the cartels suspected, it would be the spark that could leave them all dead.

Only Ruth and Rosa remained at their table, the old woman swilling scotch. Rosa got up and waddled across the table to Beauvoir. He grunted as the duck hopped off the table, onto his lap. And settled down.

As he took a long pull at his beer, Armand noticed Lacoste drive away. Reine-Marie, along with Annie, Myrna and Clara, who was holding Honoré, walked the last few steps through the golden evening. Reine-Marie stopped, stooped, and picked a weed out of their front garden.

She showed it to Myrna, who clapped. It had become their running joke, from their early days in the village, when Reine-Marie and Armand had “weeded” the spring garden, only to discover they’d left the weeds and taken out most of the perennials.

Myrna had become their gardening guru.

Armand smiled as he watched them.

“I see that politician woman and her husband are back,” said Ruth. “She came by my place earlier this afternoon.”

“Really?” said Jean-Guy. “Why?”