‘That was close,’ said Ruth, dabbing gently at the duckling’s face with her sleeve. Sharon Harris wondered if she should say something. Surely Ruth had noticed how frail Lilium was?
‘Storm’s almost here.’ Dr Harris looked to the sky. ‘I really don’t want to be on the road in that. But I have one more piece of information you need.’
‘What is it?’ Gamache accompanied her to her car as Ruth walked home, Rosa quacking behind and Lilium in the palm of her hand.
‘I don’t think this contributed to her death, not directly anyway, but it is puzzling. Madeleine Favreau’s breast cancer had returned. And badly. There were lesions on her liver. Not large, but I’d say she wouldn’t have seen Christmas.’
Gamache paused to digest this information.
‘Would she have known?’
‘I don’t know. It’s possible she didn’t, but honestly? The women I know who’ve had breast cancer get so in tune with their bodies, it’s almost psychic. It’s a powerful connection. Descartes was wrong, you know. There is no division between mind and body. These women know. Not the initial diagnosis, but if it comes back? They know.’
Sharon Harris got in her car and drove off just as the first huge drops of rain fell and the winds picked up and the sky over the tiny village grew purple and impenetrable. Armand Gamache made it to the bistro before the heavens opened. Settling into a wing chair he ordered a Scotch and a licorice pipe and gazing out the window as the storm closed in around Three Pines he wondered who would want to kill a dying woman.
THIRTY-ONE
‘ Good book?’
Myrna leaned over Gamache’ s shoulder. He’ d been so absorbed in his book he hadn’ t even seen her coming.
‘ I don’ t know,’ he admitted, and handed it to her. He’ d emptied his pockets of the books he’ d gathered. He felt like a mobile library. Where other investigators gathered fingerprints and evidence, he gathered books. Not everyone would agree it was a move in the right direction.
‘ Terrible storm.’ Myrna flopped into the large chair opposite and ordered a red wine. ‘ Thank heaven I don’ t have to go outside. In fact, if I wanted I’ d never have to go outside again. Everything I need is here.’
She opened her arms happily, her colorful caftan draping over the arms of her chair.
‘ Food from Sarah and Monsieur Béliveau, company and coffee here—’
‘ Your red wine, your highness,’ said Gabri, lowering the bulbous glass to the dark wood table.
‘ You may go now.’ Myrna inclined her head in a surprisingly regal gesture. ‘ I have wine and Scotch and all the books I could want to read.’
She lifted her glass and Gamache lifted his.
‘ Santé.’ They smiled at each other, sipped, and stared at the torrential rain streaming down the leaded glass windows.
‘ Now, what have we here?’ Myrna put on her reading glasses and examined the small leather volume Gamache had given her. ‘ Where’ d you find this?’ she finally asked, letting her glasses drop on their rope to land on the plateau of her bosom.
‘The room where Madeleine died. It was in the bookcase.’
Myrna immediately put the book down, as though wickedness was communicable. It sat between them, its cover simple and striking. A small hand outlined in red. It looked like blood, but Gamache had satisfied himself it was ink.
‘It’s a book on magic,’ said Myrna. ‘Couldn’t see a publisher or ISBN number. Probably vanity printed in small numbers.’
‘Any idea how old it is?’
Myrna leaned over, but didn’t touch it again.
‘Leather’s cracking a bit at the spine and some pages look loose. Glue must have dried. I’d say it was made before the First World War. Is there an inscription?’
Gamache shook his head.
‘Ever seen anything like it in your store?’ he asked.
Myrna pretended to think but knew the answer. She’d remember something that macabre. She loved books. All books. She had some on the occult and some on magic. But if anything came in like the one sitting between them she’d give it away quick. To someone she didn’t like.
‘Nope, never.’
‘How about this one?’ Gamache reached into his inside pocket and brought out the book he’d recently read from cover to cover, and was loath to give up.
He’d expected a polite, curious look. Perhaps even amusement and recognition. He hadn’t expected horror.
‘Where’d you find that?’ She grabbed it out of his hand and shoved it down the side of the chair.
