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“Your father—” she began.

“What about him?” asked Anthony.

“Your mother was widowed, it says in the will.”

“Yes, he died thirty years ago.”

“Thirty-six,” said Hugo.

“Accident on the farm,” said Caroline. “He was run over by the combine while haying.”

Myrna winced, and while Armand’s professional face held, his mind conjured the image.

“Tony found him,” said Hugo. “Went out looking when he didn’t come in for lunch. He died right away. Probably didn’t feel a thing.”

“Probably not,” said Armand, and hoped his tone didn’t betray what he really thought.

“That’s when the Baroness went out to work,” said Caroline. “Had to support us.”

“I got a job bagging groceries at the IGA,” said Anthony. “And, Caroline, you went out babysitting.”

“Remember when that couple hired you to look after their goats?” asked Hugo with a laugh.

“Oh Jesus, yeah,” said Anthony, also laughing, as was Caroline. “You’d put up a notice in the church hall saying you loved kids and would like to look after them.”

“Hey, those kids were way better behaved than the human ones,” said Caroline. Relaxing back in her seat, her smile wide, her eyes gleaming.

“Except when they kicked,” said Hugo. “I remember going with you a few times to help.”

He rubbed his shins.

“They just didn’t like you.”

Armand listened as the brothers and their sister went over clearly familiar ground. Part of the family liturgy. The same stories, told over and over. They looked, for a moment, like the children in the photo.

For his part, Armand kept his eyes on Anthony Baumgartner.

He must have been all of sixteen when he found his father in the field.

That was a sight that could never be unseen. A memory that would take up more than its fair share of Anthony’s longhouse. Squeezing other, happy childhood memories into corners.

Armand’s own parents had died, in a car accident, when he was a child. And to this day he could remember every moment of when the police arrived at the door.

That day, that moment, had affected every moment of the rest of his life.

And he hadn’t found his parents. Had not seen their bodies. He remembered the scent of the peanut-butter cookies that had been baking, and to this day it made him nauseous.

This man remembered the mangled, bloody body of his father.

“I think we should try to save the place,” Hugo was saying.

“Why don’t you stay behind after everyone leaves,” said Anthony. “We can discuss it then.”

“As for the rest of her assets,” said Lucien, “we’ll do an inventory, and you can sign off.”

“Do you have any photographs of your mother?” Armand asked.

He followed Anthony to the fireplace, where there was a framed picture on the mantel.

“May I?” When Anthony nodded, he picked it up.

“That was taken last Christmas,” said Caroline, who’d joined them.

Armand recognized the hearth he was standing in front of. In the picture it was decorated with garlands of pine and bright red bows, and in the background stood a Christmas tree heavy with baubles and strings of popcorn and candy canes. Brightly wrapped gifts tumbled out from beneath the tree. But the focal point of the photo, the point of the photo, was the elderly woman in the large chair. Children were festooned over it and around her, and her own three stood behind the chair. Everyone was smiling. Some were laughing.

The Baroness wore a paper crown from a Christmas cracker and a beaming smile and looked not unlike Margaret Rutherford.

White hair. Jowls. Bright blue eyes sagging like a bloodhound’s. Huge bosom and trunk, made for wiping off flour-caked hands and hugging grandchildren.

Looking at it, Armand could almost smell the vanilla extract.

He found himself smiling, then handed it to Myrna.

“Grand Duchess Gloriana,” he suggested, and her smile grew all the broader as she nodded.

The Mouse on the Moon.” Then Myrna’s expression became wistful as she studied the photo that had pride of place in her son’s living room. “Or Harvey.”

* * *

“You’ll take them, right,” said Lucien a few minutes later, when they were about to leave.

It was a statement, not a question. “Them” being Myrna and Benedict. Like bags of salt. Only less useful.

“I have a few more things to go over with Anthony Baumgartner,” said the notary.

“Oui,” said Armand.

Caroline was leaving with them, but Hugo had stayed behind with Anthony, to talk about the future of the farmhouse.

A little while later, Myrna, Benedict, and Armand sat with Reine-Marie by the fire in the bistro. Clara, Ruth, and Gabri joined them, and drinks were ordered.

The power was back on, and the phones repaired.

“They can’t come until tomorrow afternoon,” Benedict reported, returning from the phone on the bistro bar.

“Who?” asked Clara.

“The garage,” said Benedict. “My pickup’s still at Madame Baumgartner’s farmhouse. It needs towing. And new tires.”

He shot a look at Armand, who nodded approval.

“I’ve called the township and strongly suggested they send inspectors to her home,” said Armand. “I think it needs to be condemned.”

“It might be savable,” said Benedict. “If the Baumgartners would like me to try.”

“Don’t even think about it,” said Armand. “Caroline was right. They should just tear it down and sell the land.”

The sun was setting, the sky a soft blue before fading to black.

“You’ll stay with us another night,” Reine-Marie said to Benedict.

“But I don’t have any clothes.”

“We’ll give you some,” said Gabri, assessing the young man. “I think you’re about Ruth’s size. Though she is a bit more masculine.”

Over drinks they told the others about the meeting with the Baroness’s family and the fact she seemed to think she was an actual baroness. Descended from the Rothschilds.

“Quite a descent,” said Ruth.

“But even if it is true,” said Reine-Marie, “that wouldn’t necessarily mean there was a title and money.”

“Or maybe it does,” said Clara. “How do you find out?”

“Lucien’s checking into it,” said Myrna.

“Sounds strange to hear her called ‘Madame Baumgartner,’” said Clara. “I know the Baroness, but this Bertha Baumgartner’s a stranger.”

“I liked what you said.” Myrna turned to Armand. “She did look like Margaret Rutherford.”

Ruth snorted scotch back into her glass and laughed. “Yes, that’s it. That’s who she reminded me of.”

“But still,” Armand said to Myrna, “I think you were closer to the heart of the matter. Not her looks but her personality.”

“How so?” asked Gabri.

“Harvey,” said Myrna. “The whole meeting with the family reminded me of that movie.”

Clara smiled. “Elwood P. Dowd.”

“That’s just stupid,” said Ruth. “The Baroness looked nothing like Jimmy Stewart.”

On seeing Benedict’s blank expression, Reine-Marie explained. “Harvey is an old movie. It’s about a man—”

“Elwood P. Dowd,” said Myrna.

“—whose best friend is a six-foot rabbit,” continued Reine-Marie.

“Harvey,” said Myrna.

“They go everywhere together,” continued Reine-Marie. “But no one else can see him.”

“Obviously,” said Ruth. “He’s a six-foot white rabbit.”

“They try to convince Elwood that Harvey doesn’t exist,” said Clara.

“They think he’s crazy,” said Ruth, stroking Rosa. “Try to have him committed.”

“It’s a reminder that if someone’s happy, maybe that’s the only reality that matters,” said Reine-Marie. “What harm is there in believing in a giant white rabbit?”

“Or a title,” said Clara, raising her glass. “The Baroness.”