Glass Houses (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #13)(21)

“Or your mother.”

The two men grimaced.

“We change roles, but what stays the same is the love,” said Myrna. “That is absolute and infinite.”

“Fucking nuts,” said Ruth, stroking Rosa.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, agreed the duck.

There was a growing resemblance between Ruth and Rosa. Both had scrawny necks. Their heads white. Their eyes beady. They waddled when they walked. They shared a vocabulary.

If it wasn’t for Ruth’s cane they’d be almost indistinguishable.

Armand had looked across at Reine-Marie, her face glowing in the light from the log fire. She was listening, smiling. Taking it in.

If what Myrna said was true, then he’d known all these people before. It would explain his almost immediate attraction to them, and the village. The trust and comfort he felt in their company. Even mad old Ruth. With her doppelg?nger. The duck who might have been her child, in a past life.

Or the other way around.

But Reine-Marie. His daughter, or mother, or brother?

Non.

She had always been his wife. He’d known that the first moment he’d seen her. He knew her, that first moment.

Through the ages. Through the lifetimes. Every other relationship might change, flow, morph into another guise, but his relationship with Reine-Marie was absolute and eternal.

She was his wife. And he was her husband. Forever.

Now, Jean-Guy was another matter. Armand had long felt there was something ancient there too. A very old camaraderie. A tie that didn’t bind, but strengthened. And Reine-Marie could see it as well. Which is why she’d put only one proviso on his becoming the top cop in Québec.

Jean-Guy Beauvoir must join him. As he had through time.

And now Armand, reflecting on that, waited for a response from Jean-Guy and looked out his window at something that seemed to have also stepped from time.

And he wondered, if love followed them through lifetimes, did hate also follow?

*

“Anton?”

There was no reply.

“Anton!”

Olivier turned off the water. Suds had cascaded out of the deep sink onto the floor.

“People are ordering the soup special,” said Olivier. “And we need more pans. You okay?”

“Désolé, patron. I was just thinking.”

He wondered if Olivier, or anyone, understood what had appeared on their pretty village green.

“Please,” said Olivier, and circled his hand in the signal to hurry up. “And when you’ve finished that, can you take a couple bowls out to table three?”

“Oui.”

The pans were washed, quickly dried, handed to the chef. Anton ladled out two bowls of celeriac and quince soup, topping them with crème fra?che and dill, and took them out to table three.

“Merci,” said the woman.

“Un plaisir, madam,” said Anton, glancing at her politely before shifting his eyes out the window.

He had the vague impression he knew this woman. Had seen her before. Not a villager. A visitor. But his attention was now totally focused on the green.

As he watched, the thing moved. Very, very slightly. Perhaps just an inch. A millimeter.

Toward him.

*

“Did it just move?” Reine-Marie asked.

She’d come into the study to find a book, and now stood behind Armand’s chair, looking out the window.

“It was slight,” said Armand. “But I think so. Might’ve been just the breeze ruffling his robes.”

But they both knew the dark thing had indeed moved. Just a little. It was almost imperceptible, except to someone who happened to be looking, and who had been watching it for a while.

The thing had turned, slightly. Toward the bistro.

*

“Did you know then,” the Crown asked, “who it was looking at?”

“Non. It could have been any one of a dozen people. Or more.”

“But most likely someone at a table in the window, non?”

“Objection, leading the witness.”

“Sustained.”

“What happened then?” asked the Crown.





CHAPTER 6

“Who else have you told about your cobrador theory?” Armand asked Matheo.

It was early afternoon and the visitors had invited some of the villagers to the B&B for tea. Gamache had taken the journalist into a corner where they could have a quiet word.

“No one. I wanted to run it by you first.”

“Bon. Please keep it that way.”

“Why?”

“No real reason. I just like to confirm things before rumors get out of control.”

“It is confirmed,” said Matheo, getting slightly annoyed. “I told you.”

“Unfortunately, monsieur, your word alone, like mine alone, still needs to be verified.”

“And how do you do that?”

“One of my agents is looking into what you told us. I scanned the photograph to him. We’ll have the confirmation soon. Then we can talk about it.”

“Fine.”

“Merci.”

“Hurry up,” called Ruth from the sofa. “I’m dry.”

“You haven’t been dry since 1968,” said Gabri, who was pouring her scotch into a fine bone china teacup.