And all the while on the gallery the Chief Inspector pulled out books, examining them one at a time. Finally, just after noon he took his seat across from Mr. Blake. They exchanged pleasantries before both men subsided into their reading.
At one o’clock Armand Gamache rose, nodded to Mr. Blake then left, taking two books hidden in his satchel with him.
TWENTY–TWO
Myrna handed Clara a book.
“I think you’ll like it. It’s one of my favorites.”
Clara turned it over. Mordecai Richler, Solomon Gursky Was Here.
“Is it good?”
“No, it’s crap. I only sell crap here, and recommend it of course.”
“So Ruth was right,” said Clara. She tipped the book toward Myrna. “Thank you.”
“Okay,” said Myrna, sitting across from her friend. “Spill.”
The woodstove was heating the bookstore and keeping the perpetual pot of tea warmed. Clara sipped from her favorite mug and read the back of the book as though she hadn’t heard her friend.
“What’s going on?” Myrna persisted.
Clara raised innocent eyes. “With what?”
Myrna gave her a withering look. “Something’s up. I know you, what was all that at Dominique’s yesterday after exercise class?”
“Sparkling conversation.”
“It wasn’t that.” Myrna watched Clara. She’d been wanting to ask for several days, but the episode at the inn and spa convinced her.
Clara was up to something.
“Was it obvious?” Clara put the book down and looked at Myrna, her eyes worried.
“Not at all. I doubt anyone noticed.”
“You did.”
“True, but I’m very smart.” Her smile faded and she leaned forward. “Don’t worry, I’m sure no one else found it strange. But you were asking some unusual questions. Why were you talking about Jean-Guy and Olivier and all that?”
Clara hesitated. She hadn’t expected to be asked and had no lie prepared. Foolish, really. What were her regular lies?
I’m busy that night. The art world’s just too conservative to appreciate my work. The dog did it or, as a variation, it’s Ruth’s fault. That covered everything from smells, to missing food, to dirt through the house. To, sometimes, her art.
It didn’t, however, seem to cover this.
“I think having the Inspector here just reminded me of Olivier, that’s all.”
“Bullshit.”
Clara sighed. She’d really messed up. The one promise she’d made to Beauvoir she was about to break. “You can’t tell anyone.”
“I won’t.”
And Clara believed Myrna but then, Beauvoir had believed her. Oh well, his mistake.
“Inspector Beauvoir’s not here to recover from his injuries. He came down to unofficially reopen Olivier’s case.”
Myrna smiled. “I’d hoped that might be it. The only other explanation was that you’d lost your mind.”
“And you weren’t sure which it was?”
“It’s so hard to tell.” Myrna’s eyes were bright. “This is the best news. So they think maybe Olivier didn’t kill the Hermit? But then, who did?”
“That’s the question. Seems it comes down to Roar, Havoc, Marc, Vincent or Old Mundin. And I have to say, what The Wife said about killing was pretty strange.”
“That’s true,” said Myrna. “But—”
“But if she or Old were really involved she’d never have talked about killing. She’d have kept quiet.”
“There you are.”
The two women looked up with a guilty start. Inspector Beauvoir was standing in the doorway that connected the bookstore to the bistro.
“I was looking for you.” He gave them a mighty frown. “What’re you talking about?”
Unlike Gamache, who could make an interrogation sound like a pleasant conversation, Beauvoir managed to make niceties sound like accusations.
Though, both women knew, he had good reason.
“Tea?” Myrna offered and busied herself pouring another cup and putting more hot water and another bag into the Brown Betty on the woodstove. This left Clara trying not to catch Beauvoir’s eye. He sat beside Clara and glared at her.
The dog did it, the dog did it.
“I told Myrna everything.” Clara paused. “It’s Ruth’s fault.”
“Everything?” Beauvoir lowered his voice.
“So, I hear we still have a murderer among us,” said Myrna, handing the mug to Beauvoir and taking her seat.
