They stared at each other. Repeating the same thing, almost.

Finally Chartrand wrote it down and Gamache nodded. He understood, though his puzzlement increased.

No Man?

*   *   *

Clara and Myrna came down a few minutes later, followed by Jean-Guy.

“No Man?” asked Myrna.

They’d left the gallery and were walking down a narrow street toward a local café, for breakfast.

“No Man,” Chartrand confirmed.

“How odd,” said Clara.

Beauvoir didn’t know why she was surprised. Most artists he’d met shot way past odd. Odd for them was conservative. Clara, with her wild food-infested hair and Warrior Uteruses, was one of the more sane artists.

Peter Morrow, with his button-down shirts and calm personality, was almost certainly the craziest of them all.

“Peter wasn’t looking for No Man. He was trying to find a guy named Norman,” said Chartrand.

“And did he?” asked Clara.

“Not that I know of.”

They’d arrived at the small restaurant and sat at a table inside. At Gamache’s request, Chartrand had taken them to the local diner where Peter sometimes ate.

“Oui, I knew him,” said their server when shown the photograph of Peter. “Eggs on brown toast. No bacon. Black coffee.”

She seemed to approve of this spartan breakfast.

“Did he ever eat with other people?” Clara asked.

“No, always alone,” she said. “What do you want?”

Jean-Guy ordered the Voyageur Special. Two eggs and every meat they could find and fry.

Chartrand ordered scrambled eggs.

The rest had blueberry crêpes and bacon.

When the server came back with their food, Gamache asked if she knew of a Norman.

“First or last name?” she asked, pouring more coffee.

“We don’t know.”

“Non,” she said, and left.

“Did Peter say where he knew this Norman from?” Jean-Guy asked.

Chartrand shook his head. “I didn’t ask.”

“Can you think of a Norman in Peter’s life?” Gamache asked Clara. “A friend maybe? An artist he admired?”

“I’ve been trying to think,” she said. “But the name means nothing.”

“Where does No Man come in?” Jean-Guy asked.

“He doesn’t really,” Chartrand admitted. “Just some guy who set up an artist colony around here. It failed, and he moved on. Happens a lot. Artists need to make money and they think teaching or doing retreats will help make ends meet. It almost never does.” He smiled at Clara. “The retreat was abandoned long before Peter came here. Besides, Peter didn’t seem the joining sort.”

“He travels the fastest who travels alone,” said Gamache.

“I’ve always wondered if that’s true,” said Myrna. “We might go faster, but it’s not as much fun. And when we arrive, what do we find? No one.”

No man, thought Gamache.

“Clara? You’re quiet,” said Myrna.

Clara was leaning back in her chair, apparently admiring the view. But her eyes had a glazed, faraway look.