But instead of resolving, his doubts were growing.

“Did they show you any of their works?” Clara asked. She, alone among them, seemed to have no suspicions of Chartrand.

“No, and I didn’t ask to see them.”

Now Myrna did look up, then over at Clara. Willing her to see what was so odd. Here was an art gallery owner who seemed completely disinterested in any art.

Most gallery owners had a specialty, but were at least curious about art in general. Indeed, most were passionate and quite obnoxious about it.

Clara, who was putting garlic butter on the rounds of sliced baguette, didn’t seem to register anything peculiar.

“Did No Man ever show you his works?” Gamache asked.

“No.”

“Let me guess,” said Beauvoir. “You didn’t ask.”

Chartrand found that amusing. “When you find what you love, there’s no need to look further.”

“It’s a shame Luc Vachon has taken off,” said Clara. “He could’ve told us more about the colony.”

“Yes,” said Gamache. “It is.”

“You’d think he’d tell someone where he went,” said Beauvoir. “The server said ‘down the coast,’ but that could be anywhere.”

His knife that had been cutting tomatoes for the salad paused.

“You know, I asked her where he went, but I’m not sure—”

As he thought, the knife slowly descended until it was resting on the cutting board. He was staring ahead, replaying the conversations in the brasserie.

“Merde,” he said at last, dropping the knife altogether. “Where’s your phone?”

Chartrand pointed into the living room. “Why?”

“I asked the server where Vachon went and she didn’t know. Then I asked the guy at the bar when he’d be back and if I could contact him. But I didn’t ask him where Vachon goes. The young server didn’t know, but he might. Tabarnac.”

He reached into his pocket, brought out his notebook, and found the phone number for La Muse.

They could hear him in the living room, punching in the numbers.

Myrna and Gamache were standing together at the sink.

“What’re you thinking, Armand?” she asked quietly.

“I’m thinking that No Man disappears, then Peter disappears, and now Luc Vachon, the only member of the art colony still around, disappears.”

“And now we’ve disappeared,” Myrna whispered.

“True.”

“Come on, Armand, out with it. What’re you really thinking?”

“I’m thinking”—Gamache dried his hands on the towel and turned to face her—“that No Man lived here quietly for a number of years, and then word spread that he was a cult leader, and he was driven out.”

“That’s not thinking,” said Myrna. “That’s recapping. You can do better than that.”

“I’m thinking,” said Gamache, giving her a censorious look, “that I need to make a phone call.”

“Give Reine-Marie my love,” she called after him.