Armand Gamache pressed on his device, and there, glowing on the table, was the photograph of a portrait of a madman.

No Man.

“That is,” he said.

*   *   *

The menu landed on the table the same instant Jean-Guy Beauvoir landed in a chair.

“La Muse,” he said. “The owner’s name is Luc Vachon and he was a member of No Man’s community. He drew that.” Beauvoir tapped the menu.

“What did he say about No Man and the colony?” Gamache asked, picking up the menu and looking at the picture.

“Nothing. He wasn’t at the brasserie. He takes off painting every year.”

“At this time?” asked Myrna. “He runs a brasserie and he leaves at the height of the tourist season?”

“Can you imagine a business owner doing that?” Clara stared at Myrna until the other woman laughed.

“Touché, little one,” said Myrna, and wondered briefly how her bookstore was doing under the management of Ruth and Rosa.

“When will this Vachon be back?” Clara asked.

“Couple of weeks,” said Beauvoir. “And no way to reach him. The fellow I spoke with said Vachon didn’t like talking about his time in the colony. He did admit that Vachon and No Man must’ve been fairly close, since No Man entrusted him with sending his paintings to a gallery down south.”

“South like Florida?” asked Myrna.

“No, south like Montréal. No Man apparently had a gallery there, or a representative. He sent art off and got canvases and art supplies in return. The guy didn’t know the name of the gallery, but Vachon would probably know.”

Gamache had put on his reading glasses and was studying the signature on the drawing.

“I looked,” said Beauvoir. “It’s signed Vachon. Not No Man.”

Gamache nodded and gave the menu to Clara. “It’s a nice drawing.”

“Pretty,” said Clara, her voice neutral.

It wasn’t, they all felt, the muse. It was Vachon’s idea of a muse. Someone he clearly had not personally met. Yet.

But it was a lone figure, not the classic nine sisters. La Muse. Not Les Muses.

“The community fell apart when No Man suddenly took off. Didn’t tell anyone. He just left.”

Gamache shifted in his seat, but said nothing. He glanced down at the dancing figure on the menu, but in his mind he was seeing the clearing. The bracken, the wildflowers, the bumps and lumps where homes had once been.

That looked so much like burial mounds.

He looked at his watch. It was past six in the evening.

“I’m afraid we might have to impose on you another night,” he said to Chartrand, who smiled.

“I consider you friends now. You’re welcome for as long as you’d like.”

“Merci.”

“What now?” Clara asked. “I think we’ve spoken to everyone in Baie-Saint-Paul.”

“There is one place we could try,” said Gamache.

*   *   *