And now here she was. In the bakery. Large as life.
In fact, both women were large. Really, more tall than big. But they certainly were a presence. Easily overshadowing the tiny baker. But while the women might have presence, Jacqueline had baked goods. And, she suspected, at that moment that made her the more powerful.
“I think,” said Lea, surveying the bank of patisserie behind the glass, “I’ll take a lemon tart and a mille-feuille.”
“Pretty strange,” said Katie, going up to Sarah, who owned the boulangerie and was restocking the shelves with biscotti.
There was no need to ask what Katie meant.
Sarah wiped her hands on her apron and nodded, glancing out the window.
“I wish it would go away,” said the baker.
“Anyone know what it is?” Lea asked, first Sarah, who shook her head, then Jacqueline, who shook her head and looked away.
“It’s very upsetting,” said Sarah. “I don’t know why someone doesn’t do something. Armand should do something.”
“I doubt there’s much that can be done. Even by Monsieur Gamache.”
Lea Roux had sat on the committee that had confirmed Gamache as head of the Sûreté. She’d disclosed that she knew him, casually. They’d met a few times.
But then, almost everyone on the bipartisan committee knew Armand Gamache. He’d been a high-profile officer in the Sûreté for years and was involved in uncovering all that corruption.
There had been very little discussion, and less debate.
And two months ago, Armand Gamache had been sworn in as Chief Superintendent of the most powerful police force in Québec. Perhaps the most powerful in Canada.
But even with all that power, Lea Roux knew there was absolutely nothing he could do about the creature on the village green.
“You know you can order those in the bistro,” said Sarah as they left, pointing to the small boxes in their hands. “We supply Olivier and Gabri.”
“Merci,” said Katie. “We’re taking these to the bookstore, to share with Myrna.”
“She does like brownies,” said Sarah. “They’ve been a big hit since Jacqueline arrived.”
She looked at the much younger woman, as a proud mother might a daughter.
Except for the baguette thing, Jacqueline’s arrival was pretty much the answer to Sarah’s prayers. She was in her late sixties now, and getting up at five every morning to make bread, then on her feet all day, was getting too much.
Closing the boulangerie wasn’t an option. And she didn’t want to retire completely. But she did want to hand over the day-to-day operations to someone.
And then Jacqueline had arrived three months ago.
If she could only just learn how to make baguette.
“Oh, that looks good,” said Myrna, as she poured the tea and Lea put out the pastries.
Then the three of them sat around the woodstove in Myrna’s bookstore, on the sofa and armchairs in the bay window. Where they could see the robed figure.
After discussing it for a few minutes and getting nowhere, they turned to Katie’s latest project. A glass house on the Magdalen Islands.
“Really?” said Myrna, though her surprise was muffled by the mouthful of brownie. “The Maggies?”
“Yes, there seems quite a bit of money there now. Lobster business must be good.”
Lea raised her brow but didn’t say anything.
There was a whole other commodity that was creating wealth where once there had been hardworking poverty.
“A glass house on the islands must be a challenge,” said Myrna.
And for the next half hour they discussed weather, geography, design, and homes. The issue of home, rather than house, fascinated Myrna and she listened with admiration to these younger women.
She was interested in Katie. Liked her. But it was Lea she felt a bond with, having been her babysitter all those years ago.
Myrna had been twenty-six, just finishing her degree and scraping together whatever money she could to pay off student debt. Lea had been six. Tiny, like a gerbil. Her parents were divorcing, and Lea, an only child, had become almost housebound with terror. Uncertainty.
Myrna had become her big sister, her mother, her friend. Her protector and mentor. And Lea had become her little sister, daughter, friend.
“You should meet Anton,” said Myrna, watching with pleasure as Lea gobbled the pastries.
“Anton?”
“He’s Olivier’s new dishwasher.”
“He names his dishwashers?” said Katie with a smile. “I call mine Bosch.”
“Really?” said Lea. “Mine’s Gustav. He’s a dirty, dirty boy.”
“Har har,” said Myrna. “Anton’s a person, as you know very well. Wants to be a chef. He’s particularly interested in developing a cuisine based solely on things native to this area.”
“Trees,” said Katie. “Grass.”
“Anglos,” said Lea. “Yum. I’d like to meet him. I think there’re some programs that might be able to help.”
“I’m sorry,” said Myrna. “You must be asked that all the time.”
“I like to help,” said Lea. “And if it means a free meal, even better.”
“Great. How about tonight?”
“I can’t tonight. We’re going in to Knowlton for dinner. But we’ll work something out before we leave.”
“When’s that?”
“Couple of days,” said Katie.
It was, thought Myrna, oddly vague for people who surely had rigid schedules.
When the bakery was finally empty, and the cookies were in the oven, Jacqueline set the timer.
“Do you mind if I—”
“No, go,” said Sarah.
Jacqueline didn’t have to say where she was going. Sarah knew. And wished her well. If she and the dishwasher got married, and he became the chef, then Jacqueline would also stay.
Sarah wasn’t proud of these selfish thoughts, but at least she wasn’t wishing Jacqueline harm. There would be far worse things, Sarah knew, than marrying Anton.
If only Anton felt the same way about Jacqueline. Maybe if she could bake baguettes, thought Sarah, scrubbing down the counters. Yes. That might do it.
In Sarah’s world, a good baguette was a magic wand that solved all problems.
Jacqueline scooted next door to the bistro kitchen. It was midafternoon. They’d be preparing for the dinner service, but it was a fairly quiet time of day for a dishwasher.
“I was just going to come over to see you,” said Anton. “Did you see it?”
“Hard to miss.”
She kissed him on both cheeks, and he returned the kiss, but the way he might kiss Sarah.
“Should we say something?” Jacqueline asked.
“Say what?” he said, trying to keep his voice down. “To who?”
“To Monsieur Gamache, of course,” she said.
“No,” said Anton firmly. “Promise me you won’t. We don’t know what it is—”
“We have a pretty good idea,” she said.
“But we don’t know.” He lowered his voice when the chef looked over. “It’ll probably go away.”
Jacqueline had her own reasons to worry, but for the moment she was focused on Anton’s reaction to the thing.
Armand sat in the bistro, reading.
He could feel eyes on him. All with the same message.
Do something about that thing on the village green.
Make it go away.
What good was it to have the head of the entire Sûreté as a neighbor, if he couldn’t protect them?
He crossed his legs, and heard the mutter of the open fire. He felt the warmth, smelled the maple wood smoke, and sensed the eyes of his neighbors drilling into him.