Glass Houses (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #13)(9)

Ruth turned to Gamache to back her up, but he didn’t respond.

“Someone puts on a Halloween costume as a joke,” she continued. “In broad daylight, and you get all scared. Puh. You’d have done well in Salem.”

“You got closer than any of us,” Reine-Marie said to her husband. “What do you think it is?”

He looked down at the dogs, intertwined on the floor, sprawled against Henri, who snored and muttered. More than once Armand had envied Henri. Until Henri’s kibble was lowered next to his water bowl. There the envy ended.

“It doesn’t matter what I think,” he said. “I’m sure he’ll be gone soon.”

“Don’t patronize us,” said Clara, her smile only slightly softening the annoyance in her tone. “I showed you mine”—she pointed toward her studio—“now you show me yours.”

“It’s just an impression,” he said. “Meaningless. I have no real idea who or what he is.”

“Armand,” Clara warned.

And he relented.

“Death,” he said, and looked over at Reine-Marie. “That’s what I thought.”

“The Grim Reaper?” asked Ruth with a hoot. “Did he point a crooked finger?”

She lifted her own bony finger and pointed it at Armand.

“I’m not saying it’s actually, literally Death,” he said. “But I do think whoever’s in that costume wants us to make the connection. He wants us to be afraid.”

“Guess what,” said Clara.

“Well, you’re all wrong,” said Ruth. “Death doesn’t look at all like that.”

“How would you know?” asked Clara.

“Because we’re old friends. He visits most nights. We sit in the kitchen and talk. His name’s Michael.”

“The archangel?” asked Reine-Marie.

“Yes. Everyone thinks Death is this horrible creature, but in the Bible it’s Michael who visits the dying and helps them in their last hour. He’s beautiful, with wings he folds tight to his back so he doesn’t knock over the furniture.”

“Let me get this straight. The Archangel Michael visits you?” asked Reine-Marie.

“Let me get this straight,” said Clara. “You read the Bible?”

“I read everything,” Ruth said to Clara, then turned to Reine-Marie. “And he does. But he doesn’t stay long. He’s very busy. But he pops in for a drink and gossips about the other angels. That Raphael is a piece of work, I tell you. Nasty, embittered old thing.”

A hmmm escaped one of them.

“And what do you say to him?” asked Armand.

“Armand,” said Reine-Marie, warning him not to goad the old woman. But that wasn’t his intention. He was genuinely curious.

“I tell him about all of you. Point out your homes and make some suggestions. Sometimes I read him a poem. From the public school to the private hell / of the family masquerade,” she quoted, tipping her face to the ceiling in an effort to remember, “Where could a boy on a bicycle go / when the straight road splayed?”

They stared for a moment, taking in the words that had taken their breaths away.

“One of yours?” asked Clara.

Ruth nodded and smiled. “I do know it’s a process. To be honest, Michael’s not very helpful. He prefers limericks.”

There was an involuntary guffaw from Armand.

“And then, before dawn, he leaves,” said Ruth.

“And leaves you behind?” asked Clara. “That doesn’t sound right.”

“Think about it,” murmured Reine-Marie.

“It’s not my time. Not even close. He likes my company because I’m not afraid.”

“We’re all afraid of something,” said Armand.

“I meant I’m not afraid of Death,” said Ruth.

“I wonder if Death’s afraid of her,” said Clara.

*

“I’ll take two of those, please,” said Katie Evans, pointing to the chocolate brownies. With melted marshmallows on top.

The sort she remembered from years ago.

“And you, madame?”

Jacqueline turned to the other woman. Lea Roux.

She recognized her, but then, most would. She was a member of the National Assembly, and in the news often. Interviewed on French and English talk shows, across the province, for her opinions on politics. She was articulate without being pompous. Funny without being sarcastic. Warm without being cloying. She was the new darling of the media.

And now here she was. In the bakery. Large as life.

In fact, both women were large. Really, more tall than big. But they certainly were a presence. Easily overshadowing the tiny baker. But while the women might have presence, Jacqueline had baked goods. And, she suspected, at that moment that made her the more powerful.

“I think,” said Lea, surveying the bank of patisserie behind the glass, “I’ll take a lemon tart and a mille-feuille.”

“Pretty strange,” said Katie, going up to Sarah, who owned the boulangerie and was restocking the shelves with biscotti.

There was no need to ask what Katie meant.

Sarah wiped her hands on her apron and nodded, glancing out the window.

“I wish it would go away,” said the baker.