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“It’s wonderful, very powerful. Though there is an error in the second paragraph. Our funding was dropped by the provincial government, not the federal. We never did get money from the feds.”

“Damn, I’m sorry. A stupid mistake. I knew that. Merci. I’ll make the change, Margaux.”

Back at her desk she checked the reply.

8 a.m. The Ritz.

Outside the filthy windows she could see the streetlights had come on. Another day was ending.

Armand sat on the bench on the village green and stared at the message he’d just received and replied to.

The Ritz.

That was amusing, but what was making him smile was Shona’s profile shot. Most people had their face, or that of their child, or pet, or a pretty scene. But not this young journalist. Hers was a raised middle finger.

“You’re in my place.”

Ruth began to sit, and had Armand not moved, she and Rosa would have ended up on his lap.

Ruth pulled her moth-eaten sweater tight around her, while Rosa was magnificent in her cashmere coat, probably meant for spoiled cats or dogs. Shockingly few clothes were designed for ducks. Though ducks did end up in quite a few garments.

“I just heard that Honoré and Idola are heading back to the city after dinner. What did you do to drive them away?”

Though she was absolutely right, he had no intention of telling her about the guests coming for Sunday lunch, and the need for Annie and the children not to be there.

He’d told Reine-Marie about their guests, of course. She already knew about Evelyn Tardiff, but Evelyn was a friend. The man convicted of plotting mass murder was not.

“Are you mad?” had been her reply. “Marcus Lauzon?” she repeated, just to make sure she’d heard right. When he braced and nodded, she added, “I’ll set an extra place in case you run into Satan and invite him too.”

Though he’d pretty much already done that.

Armand had then gone over to Monsieur Béliveau’s General Store to pick up the chicken and vegetables they always ordered for Sunday lunch. On the way back he paused to sit on the bench and ponder. A few minutes later he was joined by the mad poet and her equally mad, though more stylish, duck.

Instead of answering her question about what he’d done to drive away his daughter and grandchildren, he stared at Ruth. For so long she grew uncomfortable.

“Are you having a stroke? For God’s sake, don’t fall on me.”

Still, she looked concerned, so intense were his eyes, so unyielding his stare.

“Armand?”

The phrase “drive away” had reminded him of the inconvenient fact that he was barred from driving, even short distances, until his hearing returned. He opened his mouth, but before committing himself, he looked once more at his phone, and the text that had come in from Shona Dorion. Not the words, but the image. The raised finger. Then he committed himself.

“I need to get into Montréal tomorrow morning, for a breakfast meeting.”

“So?”

“Will you drive me?”

Now it was her turn to stare. “Are you mad?”

It was not the first time that day he’d been asked that question. Or even the third. And perhaps not the last. And, as with the other times, it was a legitimate question. So legitimate, Armand wondered if perhaps he had lost his mind.

Maybe the cicadas had finally drilled so deep into his brain his marbles had rolled out.

“Mad?” He looked into her wizened face. “Maybe.”

“Then yes, absolutely. Sane people bore me. You normally bore me, but I find you suddenly interesting.”