“He found her,” said Lacoste. “This morning.”

“I’ll call him,” said Gabri, getting up and going to the phone. “See if he wants to come stay with us for a few days.”

“Is her death connected to the gun?”

That question was asked by Professor Rosenblatt, who up to now had sat quietly.

“We don’t know,” said Lacoste.

“But how could it be?” asked Myrna. “Antoinette had nothing to do with it, did she?”

“Not that we know of,” said Lacoste.

“It was the play,” Ruth repeated. “It was John Fleming.”

“Someone might’ve killed Antoinette because they were angry about the play,” conceded Lacoste. “And then made it look like robbery. It seems the most likely motive. But it wasn’t John Fleming. He’s in prison. Has been for years.”

“Has he?”

“What’re you saying, Ruth?” Clara asked.

“You of all people should know.” The old poet turned to her. “Creations are creatures, and they have lives of their own. That play is Fleming and Fleming is a murderer.”

“And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,” said Rosenblatt, looking down at Ruth’s notebook, “Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?”

Ruth glared at him and closed her notebook with such a snap they all jumped.

*   *   *

After breaking the news to Reine-Marie about Antoinette, and talking about it until there seemed little more to say, Armand went into the study and started searching the files for information on Highwater.

It seemed an innocuous little village. Like many communities, it was settled along the border with Vermont and had once thrived with lumber mills and a train station. But, like many small communities, it had shrunk once the railway had closed the station. And now it was almost invisible.

He spent a couple of hours but found absolutely nothing remarkable about Highwater. Absolutely no reason two intelligence agents should spend the day there.

But something was there. Something, or someone, had drawn Mary Fraser and Sean Delorme to Highwater.

He wandered out of the study and his eyes fell on his own copy of the Fleming play. He grabbed a day-old copy of La Presse and settled in. Then he got up to see if Reine-Marie was all right. She was in the kitchen, making dinner.

“Can I help?” he asked, though he knew the answer.

When upset, Reine-Marie liked to chop, to measure, to stir. To follow a recipe. Everything in order. No guessing, no surprises.

It was creative and calming and the outcome was both comforting and predictable.

“No, I’m fine. And yes, I mean that sort of FINE,” said Reine-Marie, making reference to the title of one of Ruth’s poetry books, where FINE stood for Fucked up, Insecure, Neurotic, and Egotistical.

He laughed, kissed her and returned to the living room, picking up a New Yorker. But his eyes were drawn to the play on the table by the door.