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“If I paid you to kill her,” Clara said to Haniya, “would that cost you the Peace Prize?”
“I doubt it. I’m up against a brutal dictator and a man who ordered that refugees be separated from their children and put into cages.”
“You’re kidding,” said Clara. “For the Nobel Peace Prize?”
“I think it’s not about how much good a person’s done, but how much worse they could have been.”
Clara, who knew who Haniya was talking about, muttered, “Not much worse.”
“No, wait,” said Ruth. “Rosa thinks it’s a Bundt cake. Are we getting close?”
“I think,” said Haniya, “it might even work in my favor.”
Clara smiled and turned away. “Tea?”
They walked back into the large country kitchen. “Why do you put up with her?”
“Ruth?” said Clara, putting on the kettle and opening a tin with butter tarts. “Maybe she’s my peace prize. It’s not about how good she is, but how much worse she could be.”
The truth was, Clara had put that especially horrible canvas up just for Ruth. It was a running joke between them. Each morning Clara would work on her actual painting. Then, just before stopping for the day, she’d put the other canvas up and slop paint on it, choosing colors and brushstrokes at random.
The real painting would be carefully placed against the wall of the studio, hidden under a sheet. Clara was very protective of her works, and even more so since those scathing reviews of her last exhibition had all but destroyed her career.
She heard the front door open and still, to this day, half expected it to be her husband, Peter. Instead a familiar voice called out, “Bonjour? Clara?”
“In the kitchen, Armand.”
He greeted the two of them, then looked around. “Where’s Ruth?”
“In my studio.”
“Do you mind?” he asked, cocking his head toward it.
“Not at all.”
He found Ruth staring at a canvas propped against the wall. She turned quickly, dropping the sheet so that it fell back over the painting.
“What do you want?”
“I’d like to talk.”
“About?”
“About Ewen Cameron.”
There was a pause, then Ruth said, “I smell blood and an era of prominent madmen.”
“So do I,” said Armand.
Jean-Guy Beauvoir hung up from the first call, made notes, then placed the second.
After a few questions, he thanked the head of the mathematics department and hit end call.
Sitting back in his chair in the basement Incident Room, he thought for a moment. Then, after placing a third call to British Columbia, he finished his notes and went upstairs to wait for the Chief Inspector.
He saw Vincent Gilbert sitting by the fire in the living room. Relaxed, cross-legged, reading a book. He wore gray flannels, a cashmere sweater with a crisp white shirt and tie. His white hair was trimmed and his glasses were round tortoiseshell.
A professor.
