Page 29

“And why would I do that?” the young woman said, perfectly composed now and smiling.

But there was a sharp glint in her eye, which Myrna the psychologist and Clara the artist both recognized. It wasn’t amusement, it was malice.

Armand and Jean-Guy had taken off their coats and were making their way across the bistro, with its wooden beams and wide-plank floor. Huge fieldstone fireplaces on either end were lit and throwing warmth.

Neither man acknowledged their friends and neighbors. They kept their eyes forward and kept walking.

A hush had descended. Everyone in the bistro knew what had happened at the University that afternoon. Ruth gave them her usual greeting, but they ignored the raised finger.

Jean-Guy in particular looked grim.

Armand passed any number of places before choosing a small round table far from everyone else.

He pointed, indicating Jean-Guy should sit at the far seat. The one in the corner. Jean-Guy wondered if that was on purpose. Like a naughty child.

Very little of what the Chief Inspector did was without purpose.

As he squeezed in, Jean-Guy glanced at the group by the fireplace. How he wished they were headed there. To sit by the fire and talk about a day that had been uneventful. To hear how many books Ruth had stolen from Myrna, claiming to believe her bookstore was a library. To hear about Clara’s latest painting and watch crumbs drop from her hair as she moved her expressive hands through it.

To exchange insults with the crazy old poet, and pretend not to hear the mutterings of that odd duck. To be joined by Olivier and Gabri, at the end of their day running the bistro, and pretend not to be interested in gossip about who’d be at the New Year’s Eve party the next night, up at the big house on the hill.

As they’d walked over to their table, he’d noticed there was someone else sitting by the fire. Someone he didn’t recognize. An older woman in a hijab.

And it came to Jean-Guy who this must be. Myrna had said she’d be picking her up in Montréal that evening. There was much excitement in the village about the arrival of Haniya Daoud. A woman who’d endured so much. Survived so much. Spoken at the UN. Led a movement for social justice. Led so many others to freedom. Was nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize.

Myrna Landers, with the support of others in Three Pines, had been among the first to answer Haniya Daoud’s call for help. A human rights campaign was launched, in a corner of the world few seemed to know about and fewer still seemed to care about.

Madame Daoud was in Canada to thank Myrna and others for their support.

Now Jean-Guy wondered, in passing, if she’d be at the New Year’s Eve party. Did people like that go to parties, or was it too frivolous?

He also wondered if he’d be going, or still be stuck in the corner.

All this flashed through his mind as he sucked in his stomach, whose size was beginning to surprise him, and maneuvered into the seat.

“What will you have?” Armand asked.

“I’ll get it,” said Jean-Guy, struggling to stand up again.

“Sit. I will. What do you want?”

As Armand spoke, Olivier was making his way across the room to their table.

The bistro owner was smiling. Not fully, but warmly. Like everyone else, he’d heard what had happened. Seen the reports on the internet and television.

“Armand,” he said, and put a hand on his arm. “All right?”

Armand smiled thinly and nodded. “Fine.”

“I believe it. You?” he asked Jean-Guy.

“Okay.”

Olivier studied them for a moment, and while wanting to say something that would help, he could see that whatever was wrong, it was beyond his ability to fashion comfort into words.

So he offered what he could. “We have some lemon meringue pie going begging.”

“Just a sparkling water for me, patron,” said Armand. “Merci.”