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“The ticket was left by the killer?” she repeated.
“Yes, I think so.”
“And Monsieur Godin didn’t notice?”
“No.”
“Does that strike you as odd? His wife died five weeks ago and he never noticed the poetry book lying around?”
“He didn’t strike me as the noticing kind.” Though even to his ears that sounded off. She had a good point. “Do you think it was left there more recently?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Where in Ruth’s book was the ticket to the exhibition left?”
“At the poem ‘Waiting.’”
She got up and found their worn copy of I’m F.I.N.E. Turning to the poem, she read, “And after all it is nothing new / It is only a memory, after all / a memory of a fear.” She closed the book. “That was meant for you, wasn’t it? Jean-Guy might know the book, but he’d never recognize that exact poem. Whoever killed that poor woman put it there as a message. For you.” She held his eyes. “I’ll go.”
He sighed. “Merci.”
“Come with me.”
Oh, how he wanted to, but he shook his head. “I’m needed here. I have Jean-Guy and others. I’ll be fine.”
She tried not to, but still her eyes drifted up to the deep scar at his temple.
“But I will send someone with you,” he said. “Someone discreet. To help.”
To protect, he knew, she knew, but didn’t say.
“Who? Isabelle?”
“Non. Lacoste is away with her family.” He pulled out his phone and made a call. “Agent Choquet? Do you have a passport?”
“Amelia?” Reine-Marie mouthed.
He nodded, then said into the phone, “Good. You and Madame Gamache are going to England. I’ll email you the details.”
He hung up and Reine-Marie began to laugh. “Who was that really? Isabelle?” When she saw his expression, her amusement stopped. “You’re serious? She’s the discreet investigator? You might as well send me with a marching band.”
“Well, no one will ever suspect she’s a cop.”
Reine-Marie nodded. That was certainly true.
They made the travel arrangements. Reine-Marie and Amelia Choquet would catch the seven p.m. Air Canada overnight flight to London.
When Jean-Guy arrived, the Gamaches were just finishing a quick lunch.
“Join us,” said Reine-Marie, getting up. “There’s plenty.”
He was sorely tempted. “Can’t. I already have a lunch date.”
Still, he stared at the chilled mint pea soup and the grilled gruyère and caramelized sweet onion sandwiches, and swallowed hard.
“What’ve you got?” asked Armand, getting up and guiding Beauvoir out of the room.
“The book and the ticket, patron.” He handed both to Gamache. “Forensics is finished with them.”
They were in the living room when Beauvoir stopped, turned, and lowered his voice. “What happened in the Incident Room? You sounded shaken.”
