He let that sink in, making eye contact with many of the people there.

“Reine-Marie and I are proud to be your neighbors. And your friends. We could’ve lived anywhere, but we chose here. Because of you.”

He took her hand and together they walked further into the silent bistro.

“May we?” he asked Clara and Myrna.

“Please,” said Clara, indicating the empty seats.

Slowly a murmur of conversation grew around them, the voices a moderate level as reason was restored. For now.

Across from her, Clara saw Armand close his eyes briefly, and take a deep breath.

“Bet you thought you left all the talk of murder behind when Armand retired from the Sûreté,” said Myrna.

“Well, we did move to Three Pines,” said Reine-Marie. “We had our doubts.”

“Patron,” said Olivier, bending down to speak into Gamache’s ear. “Isabelle called from the old railway station. She’d like to speak to you.”

“Do you mind?” he asked Reine-Marie.

As he left, he heard Clara ask his wife, “So, did he tell you what they found?”

*   *   *

Ruth opened her worn and dog-eared notebook to the page she’d been reading before Monsieur Béliveau arrived.

He’d gone now, back to the bistro. She’d promised to join him there later. To put on a show of normalcy, if such a thing existed for Ruth. For Three Pines. For anyone.

She smoothed the page, thought for a moment, then read.

Well, all children are sad

but some get over it.

Count your blessings. Better than that,

buy a hat. Buy a coat or pet.

Ruth looked over at Rosa, snoring in her flannel nest. It sounded like merdemerdemerde. Ruth smiled.

Take up dancing to forget.

Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

The Sûreté Incident Room had once again been set up in what had been the railway station, before it was abandoned and put to other use. The long, low brick building across the Rivière Bella Bella from the village was the home of the Three Pines Volunteer Fire Brigade, of which Ruth Zardo was the chief, being familiar, everyone figured, with hellfire.

And now it was being put to an even more dire use.

The old railway station was alive with activity as technicians and agents set up the equipment necessary to investigate a modern murder. Desks, computers, printers, scanners. Telephone lines. Lots of those. Since the village was so deep in the valley, no high-speed Internet, or even satellite signal, reached it. They had to resort to dial-up.

It was infuriating, frustrating, grindingly slow. But it was better than nothing.

Armand Gamache had just arrived and was standing in the disarray. In his late fifties now, he’d started at the Sûreté when there weren’t even faxes, just teletype machines.