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Neither had happened.

“Okay,” said Jean-Guy, as Ruth took her seat by the fire. “What do you know about Lost Nation?”

“Un moment.” Armand turned to Isabelle, who was just off the phone with the National Chief of the Assembly of First Nations, who’d wanted to know at one point why the Sûreté officer was muttering, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I’m not. I have a duck on my lap.”

“I see.” There was a long sigh down the line. He was clearly thinking the First Nations had arranged for their own policing just in time.

“He’s never heard of Lost Nation,” she reported, handing Rosa back to Ruth. “But he’ll write to other chiefs and elders to find out if anyone has heard of it.”

“What’s all this about Lost Nation?” demanded Ruth. “You dragged me here, through the rain, just to talk about that. Numbnuts here clung to me to keep from falling down.”

“No need for name-calling, you old hag,” said Jean-Guy.

“Okay, children, enough,” said Armand.

“Clouseau is right.” Ruth’s veined hands wrapped around her mug of “Irish coffee.”

“So you know it?” said Reine-Marie.

“Know what?”

“Lost Nation,” growled Clara.

“Never heard of it.”

“But you said—” Jean-Guy began.

“I never said I knew it. I came because you dangled booze in front of me. What’s a girl to do?”

Jean-Guy opened his mouth to protest, then closed it again. She was right.

Ruth turned to Armand. “You’re worried. Something’s happened. Tell me.”

When he’d finished Ruth thought for a moment. “I can’t help, but have you tried Peter and Normand at Buzz?”

“The bistro in Knowlton?” said Olivier. “You’ve gone there? You cheated on us?”

“And had my way with a delicious omelet, yes.”

“Why them?” Armand sat forward. He was aware of the passage of time. That with each moment, each drop of rain, more evidence was being washed away from what was probably a crime scene. One they couldn’t find.

“Peter loves exploring the area. He takes their dogs Bow and Gabri—”

“Wait, there’s a dog named Gabri?” asked Gabri.

“Yes, very handsome,” said Ruth. For some reason, Gabri took this as a compliment. “But not very bright.”

That he chose to ignore.

“He’s from Hungary,” said Ruth.

“Why would that matter?” asked Clara, but saw Armand smiling.

“Because, contrary to popular belief, no one’s more proud of their country than those who’ve chosen it,” he said, getting to his feet.

“And few know the history and geography of an area better than immigrants,” said Isabelle.