How the Light Gets In (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #9)

How the Light Gets In (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #9) Page 104

Myrna nodded.

“So, as far as she knew, when she first came down, she wasn’t coming back,” said Gamache, and they looked at him strangely. The point had already been made, why pound it home?

“Right,” said Myrna.

Gamache stood up. “Can you come with me?”

He meant Myrna, but they all followed him through the door connecting the bistro to the bookstore. Ruth was already there, putting books into her oversized purse, whose bottom had long since taken on the shape of a Scotch bottle. Rosa stood beside Ruth, and looked at them as they arrived.

Henri stopped dead and lay down. Then he rolled over.

“Get up, you wretched thing,” said Gamache, but Henri only looked at him upside down and swished his tail.

“God,” Gabri stage-whispered. “Imagine their children. Big ears and big feet.”

“What do you want?” Ruth demanded.

“It’s my store,” said Myrna.

“It’s not a store, it’s a library.” She snapped her bag shut.

“Idiot,” they both muttered.

Gamache walked over to the large Christmas tree.

“Can you look at them, please?” He pointed to the presents under the tree.

“But I know what’s there. I wrapped them myself. They’re for everyone here, and Constance.”

And Constance, thought Gamache. Still that, even in death.

“Just look anyway, please.”

Myrna got on her knees and sifted through the wrapped gifts.

“Now there’s a full moon,” said Gabri with admiration.

Myrna sat back on her heels. In her hand was a gift wrapped in bright red paper, with candy canes.

“Can you read the card?” Gamache asked.

Myrna struggled to her feet and opened the small flap. “For Myrna,” she read. “The key to my home. Love, Constance.”

“What does that mean?” Gabri asked, looking from face to face and settling on Gamache’s.

But the Chief only had eyes for the package.

“Open it, please,” he said.

TWENTY-NINE

Myrna took the Christmas present to a seat by the window of her bookshop.

Everyone leaned forward as she peeled off the tape, except Ruth, who remained where she was and looked out the window at the endless snow.

“What did she give you?” Olivier craned his neck. “Let me see.”

“More mitts,” said Clara.

“No, I think it’s a hat,” said Gabri. “A tuque.”

Myrna lifted it up. It was light blue and it was indeed a tuque. And on it was a design.

“What’s the pattern?” asked Clara. It looked like bats to her, but that probably didn’t make sense.

“They’re angels,” said Olivier.

They leaned closer.

“Isn’t that beautiful,” said Gabri, stepping back. “You were her guardian angel.”

“It’s wonderful.” Myrna held up the hat, admiring it and trying to hide her disappointment. Myrna had let herself believe that the package would magically reveal Constance. Her most private life. That the gift would finally let Myrna enter Constance’s home.

It was a lovely gesture, but it was hardly a key to anything.

“How’d you know it was there?” Clara asked Gamache.

“I didn’t,” he conceded, “but it seemed unlikely she’d give you a gift and not bring one for Myrna. Then I realized if she had brought one for Myrna it would have been on her first visit, since she didn’t expect to return.”

“Well, mystery solved,” said Gabri. “I’m heading back to the bistro. You coming, Maigret?”

“Right behind you, Miss Marple,” said Olivier.

Ruth got up with a grunt. She stared at the package, then at Gamache. He nodded to her, and she to him. Only then did she and Rosa leave.

“You two seem to have developed telepathy.” Clara watched the old poet walk carefully down the snowy path, the duck in her arms. “Not sure I’d want her in my head.”

“She’s not in my head,” he assured her. “But Ruth is often on my mind. Did you know that her poem ‘Alas’ was written for Virginie Ouellet, after she died?”

“No,” admitted Myrna, her hand resting on the tuque, watching Ruth pause and give the hockey players instructions, or hell. “It made Ruth famous, didn’t it?”

Gamache nodded. “I don’t think she’s ever recovered from that.”

“The fame?” asked Clara.

“The guilt,” said Gamache. “Of profiting from someone else’s sorrow.”