Page 85
Will that be fries with your burger?
Dr. Lagacé was still talking, going through a litany of complaints about James Clybourne.
A misogynist. A bully. A faux intellectual.
“He fooled everyone,” the botanist was saying. “And you know how?”
Force of personality? Lacoste forced her thoughts back to the matter at hand.
“Force of personality. And that face. A cross between Walter Cronkite and a shepherd’s pie.”
Isabelle, who’d seen the photo, smiled. It was a perfect description of the man on the Réunion page.
“Who wouldn’t believe him?” the botanist continued. “No, the man was a menace. You know why?”
Isabelle was beginning to realize that Dr. Lagacé’s was not the Socratic method.
“Because he was thick. As my grandmother used to say, if mud was stupid, he’d be the Mississippi.”
A movement out the window caught Isabelle’s attention, and she turned to see Jean-Guy walking up the path to the front door of the B&B. Ahead of him was Gaston Comeau.
If her feelings of revulsion were this strong, she wondered how Beauvoir was feeling. And, most of all, how Chief Inspector Gamache was dealing with the sudden appearance of this man. This menace.
Gaston Comeau had, after all, been the Chief’s student. His responsibility. His protégé. His mistake.
“I still can’t believe they elected Clybourne president of the Horticultural Society—”
Ahhh, yes. That’s what they’d been talking about. The cross between a trusted newsreader and a comfort pie. Whose grandfather had escaped the sinking of the Empress of Ireland.
She watched as the two men entered the B&B, and was surprised to find that while most of her anger was directed at Gaston Comeau, a tiny, infinitesimal shard was aimed at Armand Gamache.
CHAPTER 31
Jean-Guy had installed Gaston Comeau in Gabri and Olivier’s bed-and-breakfast, across from the bistro. Just off the Old Stage Road.
The villagers were pretty sure Gabri and Olivier had bought and renovated the rambling former stagecoach stop many years earlier for its location. Not because it was on the village green, which it was. Or because it was close to the bistro they’d opened, which it was. But because it allowed Gabri to tell their friends that he was now “on the stage.”
Which he was. Kinda.
Gaston Comeau was their only guest. While officially a B&B, Gabri didn’t advertise the fact, preferring to not have people actually stay over. It meant getting up early, out of the first B, bed, to serve strangers the second B, breakfast.
He did not take to it.
But he made exceptions for family and friends. Though this man was neither. That much was obvious by the way Jean-Guy looked at him. He’d also asked that this new arrival be put in the smallest, cheapest room in the place.
“A closet would be fine.”
“Actually, having lived in one for so long, I make sure our closets are kind of magnificent. Olivier and I sometimes go back in. Together.”
Jean-Guy was never totally sure when Gabri was joking.
“His name?” Gabri was at the laptop to register their unexpected guest.
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Monsieur Doesn’t Matter.” He tapped away. “Always nice to welcome a return guest.”
This was far from the first time Armand, Jean-Guy, or Isabelle had brought a Monsieur or Madame “Doesn’t Matter” to this tiny village. It was the perfect place to hide since Three Pines itself was hidden. Deep in a valley in Québec’s Eastern Townships, it was not on any map. Even the most sophisticated GPS insisted there was nothing there. Just wilderness.
