But she looked worried. As well she should be, thought Armand as they walked into the quiet village and parted ways. He was beginning to think Mary Fraser was not someone you wanted on the other side. The question was, which side was she on?

Chapter 25

CHAPTER 25

Clara Morrow sank onto the chair in the bistro. She’d been having drinks with a few friends, including Myrna, when Isabelle Lacoste had come in.

They could tell by her face that she had news that would not be good. But neither Clara nor anyone else in the bistro thought it could be quite that bad.

Antoinette was dead. Murdered.

Like everyone else in the room, Clara had gotten to her feet on hearing the news. Then she’d sunk back down, staring at Myrna, who’d also dropped to her seat.

“What’s happening here?” asked Clara.

“It’s the goddamned play,” said Ruth, a few tables over. “She should never have decided to produce it.”

They fell silent again, thinking of the play and its author.

It felt as though a long, elongated shadow had slipped between the bars of Fleming’s cell, stretching toward them. Like a finger. Thin and grotesque.

And last night, it had arrived.

Clara and Myrna went over to join the old poet, who was scribbling in her notebook. Lines of poetry, Clara saw, but couldn’t read the words. Gabri and Olivier were already at the table.

Professor Rosenblatt sat at a corner table, watching them from the outer edge of their universe. Clara motioned to him and he got up and joined them. There seemed safety in numbers, though they all knew safety was comforting but an illusion.

Chief Inspector Lacoste pulled a chair over to their table.

“What happened?” Olivier asked.

She told them what she could.

“Do you have any idea who did this to Antoinette?” Myrna asked.

They spoke in hushed tones.

“Not yet.”

“Or why?” asked Clara.

Again, Lacoste shook her head. “When Antoinette called last night and said she wasn’t coming for dinner, did she say anything else?”

Clara thought about that. “She said she was tired and thought she’d have a quiet evening to herself.”

“What impression did you get?” Lacoste asked.

Clara shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I got no impression at all beyond what she said. She wanted an evening to herself, with Brian away and all.”

“How did you know he was gone for the night?”

“She told me when I called to invite them that afternoon.”

“Did anyone else know he’d be away?” Lacoste looked around the gathering. Everyone was shaking their heads. “Did you know Brian had regular meetings in Montréal?”

“We knew he had to go in every now and then,” said Olivier. “And that they have a small apartment in the city, but I don’t think we knew when he went.”

“Oh, my God, poor Brian,” said Gabri. “Does he know?”