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For some reason, this pleased Armand.
The light that was draining from the sky seemed to be absorbed into the homes and businesses around the village green. Amber light appeared in windows, spilling onto lawns and gardens. It was twilight. A near-magical time in Three Pines, the transition from day to night. As the torch was passed.
Myrna waved to them as she made her way over to Clara’s. She was carrying a book and a bottle.
The bistro was lit up and filling up.
Ruth and Rosa sat on this bench every day, at dawn and dusk, as though the very day depended on them seeing it safely in and out.
“What time do you need to be there?”
“Eight o’clock.” He paused, waiting for the protest, though he knew that Ruth, and therefore Rosa, rose early. With the light. But Ruth just waited, while Rosa nodded. Though ducks often did.
“Breakfast is at the Ritz,” he added. “Please, join us.”
That was a vital part of his half-baked plan.
“Too fucking right I will. Can Rosa come?”
He looked at the soignée duck. Why not. “Of course.”
He got up, and they followed him into the home, into the kitchen. Into the liquor cabinet.
Armand watched Ruth pour a vat of “scotch” from a bottle they kept specially for her. One that contained only tea. Which he suspected she knew.
Getting her to drive was a good idea, he repeated as he poured himself a stiff drink. This was the right decision. This was not crazy at all.
The elderly poet joining their breakfast would serve many purposes, including convincing anyone watching that this could not possibly be a serious meeting. Not with a duck in attendance.
It was social. Nothing more. And barely that …
Yes, he thought as he put an ice cube into his drink, it was the right decision.
Ruth tipped her glass, which they both knew was a vase, toward him and winked. Narrowing his eyes, Armand walked over to the sideboard and sniffed the bottle he and Reine-Marie had rigged. Then he gave a single snort of laughter.
There was indeed scotch in it. Ruth had switched it back.
He sniffed his drink. It was tea.
She caught his eye and raised her brows. She would have raised a finger, but she needed both hands to grip the vat.
Eight a.m. The Ritz. When he produced for the young journalist the older version of herself, he might even go up in Shona’s eyes.
God knew it was impossible to get lower.
“What else have you got in there, Ms. Poppins?” Isabelle asked.
After many years conducting investigations in the most remote parts of Québec, the senior Sûreté officer considered herself mighty adept at camping. But now Isabelle realized she was a rank amateur next to the biologist.
“A lamppost, of course,” said Vivienne, smiling. “And a golden retriever. A flat-screen TV and this.” She pulled out a collapsible pot and opened it with the same flick and flare Fred Astaire had used to open countless top hats.
Isabelle heard a “ta-da,” though no one spoke. Then, looking closer, she gasped and thought maybe she had a small crush on Vivienne LaPierre, who was now holding up a grill in one hand and a cold pack with a large filet of marinating salmon in the other.
This beat her dehydrated beef stew, which, by her own admission, looked like something the golden retriever might throw up.
A few minutes later the two women were sitting by the campfire, drinking fine red wine and eating grilled Atlantic salmon and tiny baby potatoes.
And studying the map on her laptop, annotated by a murder victim.
