“Not quite,” said Gabri, standing at the door to their study. “One got through Earth’s defenses.”

Armand and Reine-Marie looked into the small room off the living room where an elderly, angular woman with ladders up her stockings and patches on her sweater sat in an armchair reading.

“It’s the mother shit,” said Gabri.

A strong smell of gin met them. A duck sat on the old woman’s lap and Henri, the Gamaches’ German shepherd, was curled at her feet. Gazing up adoringly at the duck.

“Don’t worry about greeting me at the door,” Armand said to Henri. “It’s fine. Really.”

He looked at the dog and shook his head. Love took all forms. This was, though, a step up from Henri’s previous crush, which was the arm of the sofa.

“The first hint of infestation was the smell of gin,” said Gabri. “Her race seems to run on it.”

“What’s for dinner?” their neighbor Ruth Zardo demanded, struggling out of the armchair.

“How long have you been there?” Reine-Marie asked.

“What day is it?”

“I thought you were out clubbing baby seals,” said Gabri, taking Ruth’s arm.

“That’s next week. Don’t you read my Facebook updates?”

“Hag.”

“Fag.”

Ruth limped into the living room. Rosa the duck goose-stepped behind her, followed by Henri.

“I was once head of homicide for the Sûreté du Québec,” said Gamache wistfully as they watched the parade.

“I don’t believe it,” said Reine-Marie.

“Bonjour, Ruth,” said Antoinette.

Ruth, who hadn’t noticed there was anyone else in the room, looked at Antoinette and Brian, then over to Myrna.

“What’re they doing here?”

“We were invited, unlike you, you demented old drunk,” said Myrna. “How can you be a poet and never notice anything and anyone around you?”

“Have we met?” Ruth asked, then turned to Reine-Marie.

“Where’s numbnuts?” she asked.

“He and Annie left for the city, along with Isabelle and the kids,” said Reine-Marie.

She knew she should have chastised Ruth for calling their son-in-law numbnuts, but the truth was, the old poet had called Jean-Guy that for so long the Gamaches barely noticed anymore. Even Jean-Guy answered to numbnuts. But only from Ruth.

“I saw the Lepage boy come flying out of the woods again,” said Ruth. “What was it this time? Zombies?”

“Actually, I believe he disturbed a nest of poets,” said Armand, taking the bottle of red wine around and refilling glasses, before helping himself to some of the salsa with honey-lime dressing. “Terrified him.”

“Poetry scares most people,” said Ruth. “I know mine does.”

“You scare them, Ruth, not your poems.”

“Oh, right. Even better. So what did the kid claim to see?”

“A giant gun with a monster on it.”

Ruth nodded, impressed.

“Imagination isn’t such a bad thing,” she said. “He reminds me of myself when I was that age and look how I turned out.”