Suzanne didn’t seem surprised.
Armand Gamache decided not to join that conversation.
Just then Peter called, “Dinner!” and the guests filed into the kitchen.
Clara had lit candles around the large room, and vases of flowers had been placed along the center of the long pine table.
As Gamache took his seat he noticed that while the three art dealers seemed to travel together, so did the three AA members. Suzanne, Thierry and Brian.
“What’re you thinking?” Myrna asked, taking a seat on his right. She handed him a basket of warm baguettes.
“Groups of threes.”
“Really? Last time we were together you were thinking of Humpty Dumpty.”
“Christ,” muttered Ruth, on his other side, “this murder’ll never be solved.”
Gamache looked at the old poet. “Guess what I’m thinking now.”
She stared back at him, her cold blue eyes narrowing, her face flint. Then she laughed. “Quite right too,” she said, grabbing some bread. “I’m all that, and more.”
The platter, with the whole poached salmon, was being passed in one direction, while spring vegetables and salad were going in the other. Everyone helped themselves.
“So, groups of threes,” Ruth nodded to the art dealers. “Like Curly, Larry and Moe over there?”
François Marois laughed but André Castonguay looked bleary and peeved.
“There’s a long tradition of groups of threes,” said Myrna. “Everyone thinks in terms of couples, but actually threes are very common. Mystical even. The holy trinity.”
“Three Graces,” said Gabri, helping himself to vegetables. “Like in your painting, Clara.”
“The Three Fates,” said Paulette.
“There’s ‘three on a match,’” said Denis Fortin. “Ready. Aim.” He looked at Marois. “Fire. But we’re not the only ones to move in threes,” said Fortin.
Gamache looked at him inquiringly.
“You do too,” said Fortin, looking from Gamache, to Beauvoir to Lacoste.
Gamache laughed. “I hadn’t thought of that, but it’s true.”
“Three blind mice,” said Ruth.
“Three pines,” said Clara. “Maybe you’re the three pines. Keeping us safe.”
“Sure made a balls-up of that,” said Ruth.
“Stupid conversation,” muttered Castonguay, and knocked his fork to the floor. He glared at it, a stupid look on his face. The room grew quiet.
“Never mind,” said Clara cheerfully. “We have plenty.”
She got up but Castonguay reached out to grab her as she passed.
“I’m not hungry,” he said, his voice loud and querulous.
Missing Clara, his hand hit Agent Lacoste beside him. “Sorry,” he mumbled.
Peter, Gabri and Paulette began speaking at once. Loudly, cheerfully.
“Don’t want any,” snapped Castonguay as Brian offered him the salmon. Then the gallery owner seemed to focus on the young man. “Jeez, who invited you?”
“The same person who invited you,” said Brian.
Peter, Gabri and Paulette spoke even more loudly. More cheerfully.
“What’re you?” slurred Castonguay, trying to focus on Brian. “Christ, don’t tell me you’re an artist too. You look fucked up enough to be one.”
“I am,” said Brian. “I’m a tattoo artist.”
“What?” demanded Castonguay.
“It’s all right, André,” said François Marois, in a soothing voice, and it seemed to work. Castonguay swayed a bit in his chair and stared down at his plate, mesmerized.
“Who wants seconds?” asked Peter, brightly.
No one put their hand up.
TWENTY-SIX
“So,” said Denis Fortin, as they stood on the covered porch with their coffees and cognacs. “Have you two had a chance to talk?”
“About what?” asked Peter, turning from surveying the wet village to surveying the gallery owner. It was still raining, a fine drizzle.
Fortin looked at Clara. “You haven’t discussed it with him?”
“Not yet,” said Clara, feeling guilty. “But I will.”
“What?” asked Peter again.
“I came by today to see if you and Clara might be interested in being represented by me. I know I screwed up the first time, and I really am sorry. I’m just…” he paused to collect his thoughts, then looked from Peter back to Clara. “I’m asking for another chance. Please let me prove that I’m sincere. I really think we’d make a great team, the three of us.”
