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That seemed to give Madame Bouchard pause. “I think she wasn’t allowed to moonlight. She said if anyone from work called, I was to say she was on assignment.”

“And did they?”

“No. Well, not until you did a few days ago. Before…” There would now always be a “before” and “after.” Her calendar had realigned. No longer the Gregorian. Time measured by this terrible event.

Though, watching her, Armand knew it would not be for long.

He turned to Gaston. “Did Jeanette tell you what she was working on?”

When he hesitated, Madame Bouchard patted his hand. “It’s okay. You need to tell him what you know.”

Gaston gave one curt nod. “I knew she was looking into something different. But when I asked, we fought.”

“Different how?”

Comeau tried not to show, in the presence of Madame Bouchard, his exasperation. But it was obvious.

“Look, she normally told me everything about her assignments. She’d stay late. I’d bring up beer and sandwiches. We’d sit in her office, feet up on the desk, and toss around ideas. She never treated me like a janitor. But this time, she told me it was none of my business. I was there to clean, nothing else. She said she’d never recommend her boss hire me as an investigator. She said I was a loser. She told me to fuck off.” He looked at her mother. “Sorry.”

Janice smiled. “She does have a vocabulary.”

She was fluctuating between past and present. On the razor’s edge as reality slowly cut into her.

“So that’s why you only came over when she wasn’t here,” said Madame Bouchard. “It wasn’t just you, you know. She’d bark at me too. But then apologize. Said everything would be okay soon.”

“What did she mean by that?” asked Armand.

“I did ask, but I can’t remember what she said.” She shoved her hand over her forehead and up into her thin hair. It came away with strands of grey, which she tried to hide. “Is it important?”

“No, no,” Armand reassured her, though he knew it probably was. “You’ve done well to remember this much.”

But it was frustrating. He felt so close to the answers, and yet the questions were piling up.

What had Jeanette been hired to do? Was she working for, or against, Brian Fillmore? What were they looking for? Was it Miss Wolcott’s research or something else entirely?

Did she kill Fillmore? If not, did she know who did?

And what did her “friend” Gaston Comeau really know?

Through the closed door came the muted hubbub of friends and neighbors arriving with food and whispers. There was the slight clatter of dishes.

A kitten Armand hadn’t noticed before unfolded itself and stretched, then went over to Madame Bouchard, who picked it up and softly stroked it.

“I didn’t understand the joke at first. When she said LaPlante, I thought she meant real plants. I didn’t realize it was someone’s name.”

“I think she did mean plants,” said Armand. “She said ‘LaPlante’ as a kind of code.”

But Madame Bouchard wasn’t listening. Her mind had found brief refuge in a memory. She gave an unexpected laugh.

“I made it worse by saying plants can be dangerous. Lilies and aloe vera can kill the kitten.” She closed her eyes and heaved a sigh.

Grief was bearing down on her. Shoving her frail body further down the razor. Madame Bouchard’s voice was weak now, soft. Almost inaudible.

“Jeanette only laughed and hugged me. She always hugs me when I say something slightly foolish. She’s taller than me, so she kisses the top of my head.” Her thin hand went to the crown of her head. “As though I was the child.”

Then Jeanette’s mother turned suddenly clear eyes on Gamache. “Periwinkle.”

“Pardon? Did you say periwinkle?”