“What?” asked Reine-Marie.
They were in Clara’s studio, surrounded by canvases and brushes in old tin cans and the smell of oil and turpentine and coffee and banana peels. In the corner was a dog bed where Lucy, Clara’s golden, used to sleep as Clara painted, often into the night. Henri had followed them into the studio and was now fast asleep in the bed.
But what held Reine-Marie’s attention, what would grab and hold anyone’s, was the canvas on the easel. Close up it was a riot of color, of bold slashes in purple and red and green and blue. All the tiny dots on Clara’s hands were splashed there, large.
But take a step back and what appeared from the confusion was a woman’s face. Clearly Clara.
“I wouldn’t recommend doing a self-portrait,” said the woman herself, sitting comfortably on the stool in front of the easel.
“Why not?” Reine-Marie asked, though she seemed to be speaking to Canvas Clara.
“Because it means staring at yourself for hours on end. Have you ever seen a self-portrait where the person didn’t look just a little insane? Now I know why. You might start off smiling, or looking intelligent or thoughtful. But the longer you stare, the more you see. All the emotions and thoughts and memories. All the stuff we hide. A portrait reveals the inner life, the secret life of the person. That’s what painters try to capture. But it’s one thing to hunt it down in someone else, and a whole other thing to turn the gun on ourselves.”
Only then did Reine-Marie notice the mirror leaning against the armchair. And Clara reflected in it.
“You start seeing things,” said Clara. “Strange things.”
“You sound like Ruth,” said Reine-Marie, trying to lighten the mood. “She seems to see something in that map that no one else can.”
She’d sat down on the sofa, feeling the springs where no spring should be. The portrait, which had appeared stern when she’d first seen it, now seemed to have an expression of curiosity.
It was an odd effect. How the mood of the portrait appeared to mirror the mood of the actual woman. Clara too was looking curious. And amused.
“She saw W. B. Yeats at one of her poetry readings last year,” Clara remembered. “And this past Christmas she saw the face of Christ in the turkey. That was at your place.”
Reine-Marie remembered it well. The fuss Ruth had made, trying to get them to not carve the bird. Not because she believed the Butterball was divine, but because it could be auctioned on eBay.
“I think ‘strange’ and Ruth are fused,” said Clara.
Reine-Marie took her point. The woman, after all, had a duck.
Now the portrait’s expression changed again.
“What’re you worried about?” Reine-Marie asked.
“I’m worried that what I see might actually exist.” She gestured at the mirror.
“The portrait’s brilliant, Clara.”
“You don’t have to say that.” Clara smiled. “I was just joking.”
“I’m not. It really is. It’s far different than anything else you’ve done. The other portraits are inspired, but this?”
Reine-Marie looked again at the canvas, and the strong, vulnerable, amused, afraid middle-aged woman there.
“This is genius.”
“Merci. And you?”
“Moi?”
Clara laughed, imitating her. “Moi? Oui, madame. Toi. What’re you worried about?”
“The usual things. I worry about Annie and the baby, and how Daniel and the grandchildren are doing in Paris. I’m worried about what Armand is doing,” Reine-Marie admitted.
“As head of the S?reté Academy?” asked Clara. “After what he’s been through, it’ll be a breeze. He’s facing spitballs and paper cuts, that’s all. He’ll be fine.”
But of course Reine-Marie saw more than Clara. She’d seen the visit to the Gaspé. And she’d seen the expression on Armand’s face.
*
While they’d been at dinner, the front had moved in, bringing thick flurries. Not a blizzard, but constant heavy flakes that would need shoveling in the morning.
At the door, after putting on all his outerwear, Olivier shoved the map into his jacket and zipped up.
After saying good night to Clara, the friends walked through the large flakes, along one of the paths dug across the village green, their feet sinking into the new snow. Gabri walked beside Ruth and held Rosa, cradling the duck to his chest.
“You’d make a good eiderdown, wouldn’t you?” he whispered into what he assumed were her ears. “She’s getting heavy. No wonder ducks waddle.”
Trailing behind, Myrna whispered to Reine-Marie, “I’ve always liked a man with a big duck.”
A puff of laughter came out of Reine-Marie and then she bumped into Armand, who’d stopped at the intersection of paths, where Myrna veered off to her loft above the bookstore.
They said their good nights, but Armand stayed where he’d stopped, looking up at the pine trees, the Christmas lights jiggling in the slight breeze. Henri stood looking up at him, his shepherd’s tail wagging, waiting for a snowball to be tossed.
Reine-Marie obliged, and the dog sailed into a snowbank, headfirst.
“Come on,” said Reine-Marie, linking her arm in Armand’s. “It’s late and cold and you’re beginning to look like a snowman. You can stare at the trees from our living room.”
At the path to their home, they parted ways with the others, but once again Armand stopped.
“Olivier,” he called into the darkness and jogged over to him. “Can I borrow the map?”
“Sure, why?”
“I just want to check something.”
Olivier brought it out from under his jacket.
“Merci,” said Armand. “Bonne nuit.”
Reine-Marie and Henri were waiting for him, and farther ahead Gabri was slowly walking Ruth and Rosa home. At her own path, Ruth turned and stared at Armand. In the light of her porch, she looked amused.
“You asked why the map was made,” she called. “Isn’t the better question, why was it walled up?”
*
The next morning, Armand phoned Jean-Guy and asked if he would be his second-in-command at the academy.
“I’ve already sharpened my pencil, patron,” said Jean-Guy. “And I have new notebooks and fresh bullets for my gun.”
“You have no idea how that makes me feel,” said Gamache. “I’ve spoken to Chief Inspector Lacoste about this. Isabelle will put you on leave for a term. That’s all we have.”
“Right,” said Jean-Guy, all humor gone from his voice. “I’ll come down to Three Pines this afternoon and we can discuss your plans.”
When Jean-Guy arrived, shaking the snow from his hat and coat, he found Gamache in his study. After pouring himself a coffee, Beauvoir joined his father-in-law. Instead of studying the curriculum or staff CVs, or the list of the new cadets, Gamache was bent over an old map.
“Why did it take you so long to ask me to be your second-in-command?”
Gamache took off his reading glasses and studied the younger man. “Because I knew you’d agree, and I’m not sure I’ll be doing you any favors. The academy is a mess, Jean-Guy. You have your own career. I don’t think being my second-in-command at the academy will advance it.”
“And you think I’m that interested in advancement, patron?” There was an edge of anger in his voice. “Do you know me so little?”
“I care for you that much.”
Beauvoir inhaled and breathed out his annoyance. “Then why ask me now?”
“Because I need help. I need you. I can’t do this alone. I need someone there I can trust completely. And besides, if I fail I need someone to blame.”
Jean-Guy laughed. “Always glad to help.” He looked down at the map on the desk. “What’ve you got there? Is it a treasure map?”
“No, but there is a mystery about it.” He handed it to Jean-Guy. “See if you can figure out what’s strange about it.”
“I’m assuming you know the answer. Is this a test? If I solve it, the job’s mine?”
“The job is hardly a prize,” Gamache pointed out, and left Jean-Guy to study the worn and torn and dirty old thing. “And it’s yours now, like it or not.”