Glass Houses (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #13)(4)

Reine-Marie had teased her hair until it was almost on end, and put cookies and a peanut butter sandwich in it. Then she’d dabbed paint all over herself.

For her part, Clara had gone as her best friend, Myrna Landers. They were all slightly concerned she’d show up in blackface, though Myrna had said she wouldn’t take offense as long as Clara painted her entire body black.

Clara had not painted herself, for once. Instead, she wore a caftan made from the dust jackets of old books.

Myrna was a retired psychologist from Montréal, who now ran the shop right next to the bistro, Myrna’s New and Used Bookstore. Clara had a theory that villagers manufactured problems, just to go sit with Myrna.

“Manufacture them?” the old poet Ruth had said, glaring at Clara. “You have a whole warehouse full of them. You’ve cornered the market on problems.”

“I have not,” said Clara.

“Really? You’ve got a huge solo show coming up and all you’ve got is crap. If that’s not a problem, I don’t know what is.”

“It’s not crap.” Though none of her friends backed her up.

Gabri had gone to the Halloween party as Ruth. He’d put on a gray wig and made up his face until he looked like a fiend from a horror show. He’d worn a pilled, moth-eaten sweater and carried a stuffed duck.

All night long he’d swilled scotch and muttered poetry.

“With doors ajar the cottage stands

Deserted on the hill—

No welcome bark, no thudding hoof,

And the voice of the pig is still.”

“That’s not mine, you sack of shit,” said Ruth. She wore a pilled, moth-eaten sweater and carried a real duck.

“A little blade of grass I see,” said Gabri. “Its banner waving wild and free.”

“Stop it,” said Ruth, trying to cover her ears. “You’ll murder my muse.”

“And I wonder if in time to come,” Gabri pressed ahead. “’Twill be a great big onion.”

The last word he pronounced un-ee-yun.

Even Ruth had to laugh, while in her arms Rosa the duck muttered, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“I worked all day on that,” said Gabri. “This poetry stuff isn’t so hard.”

“So this was October thirty-first of last year,” asked the Crown attorney.

“Non. It was November first. We all stayed home on the actual Halloween night, to give out candy to the trick or treaters. This party is always the next night.”

“November first. Who else was there besides the villagers?” asked the Crown.

“Matheo Bissonette and his wife, Lea Roux.”

“Madame Roux, the politician,” said the Crown. “A rising star in her party, I believe.”

Behind him, Monsieur Zalmanowitz heard the renewed tapping on the tablets. A siren song. Proof he’d make the news.

“Yes,” said Gamache.

“Friends of yours? Staying with you?”

Of course the Crown knew the answer to all these questions. This was for the sake of the judge and jury. And reporters.

“Non. I didn’t know them well. They were there with their friends Katie and Patrick Evans.”

“Ahh, yes. The Evanses.” The Crown looked over at the defense table, then back at Gamache. “The contractor and his architect wife. They built glass houses, I believe. Also friends of yours?”

“Also acquaintances,” Gamache corrected, his voice firm. He did not like the insinuation.

“Of course,” said Zalmanowitz. “And why were they in the village?”

“It was an annual reunion. They’re school friends. They were in the same class at the Université de Montréal.”

“They’re all in their early thirties now?”

“Oui.”

“How long have they been coming to Three Pines?”

“Four years. Always the same week in late summer.”

“Except this year, they came in late October.”

“Oui.”

“Strange time to visit. No fall colors left and no snow yet for skiing. It’s pretty dreary, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps they got a better rate at the B&B,” said Gamache, with an expression of trying to be helpful. “It’s a very nice place.”

When he’d left Three Pines early that morning to drive into Montréal, Gabri, the owner of the bed and breakfast, had run over with a brown paper bag and a travel mug.

“If you have to mention the B&B, can you say something like ‘the beautiful B&B’? Or you could call it lovely.”

He had gestured behind him. It wouldn’t be a lie. The old stagecoach inn across from the village green, with its wide verandah and gables, was lovely. Especially in summer. Like the rest of the village, the B&B had a front garden of old perennials. Roses and lavender, and spires of digitalis and fragrant phlox.

“Just don’t say ‘stunning,’” Gabri advised. “Sounds forced.”

“And we wouldn’t want that,” said Gamache. “You do know this is a murder trial.”

“I do,” said Gabri, serious as he handed over the coffee and croissants.

And now Gamache sat in the trial and listened to the Chief Crown.