The phone rang and Clara left to answer it.
“Don’t mind Ruth,” said Olivier, taking Delorme’s arm with one hand and Mary Fraser’s with the other and steering them to the drinks table. “She’s one sneeze away from the asylum.”
“We’re already there,” shouted Ruth.
Armand turned his attention to the old poet.
Ruth had said “Armageddon.” Not “catastrophe,” not “disaster,” but the one word associated with the gun. With the etching. With the Whore of Babylon, marching toward the end of the world.
But no one had been told about the etching. Was it a coincidence, or did she know something? It was the sort of word she’d use, and certainly the sort of event she evoked.
“Speaking of asylum,” Beauvoir said to Ruth. “Do you have a record player at home?”
“Is that a non sequitur?”
“No. I have Al Lepage’s record and I’d like to hear it, but it’s only on LP.”
“Come over if you must after dinner,” she said. “I have a record player somewhere.”
It was as gracious an invitation as he’d had from Ruth.
Myrna excused herself to see if she could help in the kitchen, and Armand and Reine-Marie took her place beside Professor Rosenblatt.
Gamache hadn’t spoken with him since that morning when the elderly physicist had left the breakfast table with Armand’s question ringing in his head.
Did Gerald Bull create the Supergun, or was he just the salesman, and someone else the actual designer? Did Dr. Bull have a silent partner, who’d survived assassination because Bull had taken all the credit? And all the bullets.
Gamache hadn’t tried very hard to track down Rosenblatt and continue that conversation. He knew, from years of investigation, that sometimes a difficult question was best left to burrow into a person. And sit there, barbed.
He suspected Professor Rosenblatt had been avoiding him, and that was fine with Gamache. Let the question fester. For now.
“Professor,” said Gamache, with a cordial nod. “I’m not sure you’ve met my wife, Reine-Marie.”
“Madame,” said the professor.
“We’ve been discussing taking courses at either McGill or the Université de Montréal,” said Armand. “I know Reine-Marie has been anxious to talk with you about that.”
“Oh, really?” Rosenblatt turned to her.
Taking her cue, Reine-Marie started chatting with Rosenblatt about McGill, while Armand walked over to Jean-Guy.
“Interesting group,” said Jean-Guy, surveying the gathering. “Was it your idea to invite everyone?”
“Not at all,” said Armand. “I’m as surprised as you.”
“That’s too bad,” said Clara, returning from the phone call.
“What is?” asked Jean-Guy.
“I invited Antoinette and Brian, but Brian’s in Montréal at a meeting of the Geological Survey and she just called to ask for a rain check. I think she wants a quiet evening to herself. Les Filles de Caleb is on, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” said Armand. “We’re taping it. For Reine-Marie, of course.”
“Of course,” said Clara. “I’m taping it too.”
It was a repeat of the old Québécois drama that had gripped the nation years ago, and was even more of a hit now. Few strayed far from the television on nights it was on.
“It’s been a difficult time for Antoinette,” said Armand. “Is she still getting grief from members of her play group?”
“I don’t think they call it a play group,” said Clara, laughing. “But the answer is yes. They’re still pissed at her for choosing the Fleming play without telling them. A lot of bad blood there now, I’m afraid.”
John Fleming, Gamache knew, had a habit of creating blood, most of it very bad.
“A shame she didn’t come tonight. This is nice,” he said, looking around the gathering. “Been a while.”
“I haven’t been in the mood for entertaining,” said Clara.
“So what brought this on?” asked Jean-Guy.
“Seeing the Lepages this afternoon,” said Clara. “They were so sad, and so alone. It made me miss this.”
She looked around her living room. The hubbub of conversation had increased, as guests mingled and chatted. Isabelle Lacoste had arrived and was offering around a platter of cheeses. But instead of crackers the cheese sat on top of thin slices of apple. It was actually, Clara had to admit, inspired and delicious.
