The question came from Jean-Guy Beauvoir, without a hint of sarcasm.
Marcel Chartrand took a deep breath and thought about that.
“I think if there was a muse for art, then Clarence Gagnon had found her. Here, in Baie-Saint-Paul. There’re lots of beautiful places in Québec, but this one is like a magnet for artists. I think No Man suspected Clarence Gagnon had found the tenth muse here. And that’s why he came. To find her.”
They looked around the empty, abandoned field. At the lumps and bumps that had once been homes and now looked like burial mounds. And Armand Gamache wondered what he’d see if he returned at night. Probably no human. No Man. But would he see the muses, dancing?
Nine of them?
Or just one. Twirling like a dervish. Alone, powerful. Expelled. As No Man had been.
Driven mad. Driven here.
TWENTY-NINE
It was getting late by the time they returned to Baie-Saint-Paul.
Chartrand parked at the gallery, and Beauvoir, after a glance at Gamache, excused himself and walked down the cobblestone street.
“Where’s he going?” Myrna asked.
“To get an iced tea,” said Gamache.
“I wouldn’t mind one myself,” she said. But by the time she turned around, Beauvoir had disappeared. She turned back to Gamache. “What’re you up to, Armand?”
He smiled. “If you were a member of No Man’s colony, and the place fell apart, what would you do?”
“Go home.”
“Suppose this was home?”
“I’d—” She thought about it. “Find work, I guess.”
“Or maybe start your own business,” said Gamache.
“I might. An art gallery, for instance?” She studied him, then dropped her voice. “You don’t believe Chartrand, do you?”
“I don’t believe anyone. Not even you.”
She laughed. “Nor should you. I lied just now. I’m not interested in an iced tea, I just wanted to know where Jean-Guy raced off to.”
“Can you guess?” asked Gamache.
Myrna thought about it, then a smile spread across her face. “You sneak. He’s gone to the brasserie. La Muse.”
Armand smiled. “Worth a try.”
“And you think she’ll be there? This tenth muse?” Myrna asked.
“Do you?”
* * *
Jean-Guy grabbed a table inside. All the ones on the terrasse were already taken, but he wanted to be inside anyway. Where he could watch the servers.
He picked up the menu and looked at the image laminated on the cover. It was a simple line drawing of a woman. Dancing.
“What can I get you?” the server asked. Her voice was crisp, business-like, but her eyes had scanned him. Taking in the lean body, the dark hair and eyes. His ease.
Beauvoir was used to this, and used to returning the look. But now he found, while he absorbed the fact of her presence, it meant nothing to him. Far from feeling he’d lost something, he once again was reminded of all he’d found. In Annie.
“A ginger beer, s’il te plaît. Nonalcoholic.”
She brought him the drink.
“How long have you worked here?” He gave her a five-dollar bill, telling her to keep the change.
“Couple of years.”
“You an artist?”
“No. I’m studying architecture. I work here in the summers.”
“Is the owner around?”
“Why? Is something wrong?” She looked concerned.
“No, I just wanted to meet him.” Beauvoir held up the menu. “Interesting design.”
“He did it himself. He’s an artist.”
Beauvoir tried not to show his interest. “And is he here? I’d like to compliment him.”
She looked like she neither believed him, nor cared. “He’s away.”
“Oh. When will he be back?”
“A week, maybe two.”
“Do you know how I can find him?”
She shook her head. “He goes off somewhere down the coast painting every year.”
“In the busy season here?” Beauvoir asked. “Can’t he do it in winter?”
“Would you?”
She had a point.
* * *
They strolled through the cobblestone streets of Baie-Saint-Paul, Clara and Chartrand ahead, Myrna and Gamache a few paces behind.
“They’re quite friendly,” said Gamache, gesturing toward the two ahead.
“Yes,” said Myrna. She watched as Chartrand lowered his head so that he could better hear Clara. Clara was gesturing with Peter’s rolled-up paintings.
