“Eventually. Maybe.”
“Dad,” said Annie.
“Okay, but we will read a book, right?” he asked the boy. “And I’ll recite ‘The Wreck of the Hesperus’: ‘It was the schooner Hesperus, / That sailed the wintry sea—’”
“Dear God,” said Jean-Guy. “Flee. Sauve qui peut.”
“What about Honoré?” asked Annie in mock terror.
“We can make more. Run, woman, run.”
Armand rolled his eyes as Reine-Marie laughed and wondered what would happen if anyone ever called Armand’s bluff and realized that all he knew of the dreadful poem were the opening lines.
“Work?” She nodded toward the computer.
“A bit.”
“Want me to stay?” Jean-Guy asked.
“And miss coq au vin?”
“Ruth will be there. Sorta evens out.”
“Myrna’s made her whipped potatoes,” said Reine-Marie.
“You’re on your own,” Jean-Guy said to Armand just as a rush of cold air hit them.
Annie, Reine-Marie, and Jean-Guy turned and shouted, “Close the door.”
It was a chorus more familiar than the national anthem.
“Man, it’s cold out there,” they heard, along with foot stomping. “And this one,” Armand could hear Benedict saying, “takes her sweet time doing her business.”
Armand smiled. Benedict couldn’t bring himself to say “poop” or even “pee.” He knew the young man was referring to Gracie, and he sympathized. He’d spent many a cold night begging the little creature to do something, other than chase Henri.
Benedict had taken it upon himself, in exchange for room and board while he waited for his truck to return, to walk the dogs.
Armand felt this left them owing Benedict.
“I’ll bring you back something,” said Reine-Marie, kissing the top of Honoré’s head before putting her hands on the side of Armand’s face and kissing him on the lips and whispering, “Meyn tayer.”
He smiled.
“Is that German?” she asked, glancing at the screen.
“It is. Taking me a while to read it.”
“Your eyes still sore?” she asked, looking into them and seeing the bloodshot.
“My German is a little rusty,” he said.
“Rusty. Is that German for ‘nonexistent’?”
He laughed. “Just about.”
She looked at the screen again. “It’s long. Who’s it from?”
“A police officer in Vienna.”
She tied the scarf at her neck. “See you soon.”
“Have fun.”
He returned to his computer, leaning over Ray-Ray and smelling his fragrance as he read about a family ripping itself apart.
Jean-Guy looked at the tender pieces of chicken along with mushrooms and rich, fragrant gravy, next to the mountain of potatoes.
Whipped, Myrna insisted. Not just mashed.
He was so hungry he thought he might weep.
“So it’s true, then,” said Ruth. “The Baroness’s son was murdered.”
Jean-Guy had told Clara and Myrna as soon as they’d arrived for dinner, taking them aside quietly. And word had spread, of course, as others arrived at Clara’s home.
“I thought you were lying,” said Ruth to Myrna.
“Why would I lie about that?”
“Why do you say your library is a bookstore?” asked Ruth. “Lying is just natural to you.”
“It is a bookstore,” said Myrna, exasperated. “Don’t think I don’t see you taking books out under your coat.”
“Oh, there’s a lot you don’t see,” said Ruth.
“Like what?”
“Like Billy Williams.”
“I see him. He shovels my walk and brushes off my car.”
“Doesn’t brush off my car,” mumbled Clara, and catching Olivier’s eye, they both grinned.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Myrna. “He’s a nice man, that’s all.”
“Then why isn’t he here?” asked Ruth.
“Here?” said Myrna, looking around. “Why would he be here? Does something need fixing?” she asked Clara.
“I’d have to say yes,” said Ruth, and Rosa beside her nodded.
“Let’s change the subject,” said Reine-Marie.
“Well, if murder’s out,” said Ruth, “and the librarian here being prejudiced is something we’re not allowed to talk about—”
“Prejudiced? I’m not—”
“I saw one of your paintings today,” Jean-Guy leaped in, spouting the first thing that came into his head.
“You are prejudiced, you know,” said Ruth. “You only see the surface and then pass judgment. Billy Williams is just a handyman.”
“One of my paintings? Really?” asked Clara. “Where?”
“A print, actually,” said Jean-Guy. “One of the numbered prints.”
“And who’s calling the kettle black?” demanded Myrna. “Did you see the Baroness as anything other than a cleaning woman? Did you even know her name?”
“Isn’t it about time you proposed to Gabri?” Annie asked Olivier, jumping onto the conversational pile. “We’re all waiting.”
“You’re waiting?” said Gabri. “If he waits much longer, I won’t be able to fit into my going-away outfit.”
“And there’s your answer,” said Olivier.
“You don’t have to know someone’s name to care about them,” said Ruth.
“And you cared?” said Myrna. “Did you even know she’d died?”
“I saw your painting at Anthony Baumgartner’s place,” said Jean-Guy, raising his voice.
“The dead man?” asked Clara.
“Hey, I thought we weren’t allowed to talk about murder,” said Ruth. “That’s not fair.”
“We’re not talking about murder,” said Jean-Guy. “I’m talking about art.”
“You?” Annie, Gabri, Olivier, Clara, Myrna, Ruth, and even Reine-Marie said. As one.
Rosa looked startled. But then ducks often did. And often for good reason.
“What?” said Jean-Guy. “I’m cultured.”
“With a capital K,” said Annie, patting his hand.
“That’s right,” he said. “Merci.”
They laughed, then Myrna turned to Ruth.
“I’m sorry I snapped at you about the Baroness. But that’s a terrible thing to say about someone. That they’re prejudiced.”
“Not ‘they,’” said Ruth. “You. Just because you’re a pot, that doesn’t mean you can’t—”
“I’m a what?”
“Which painting did he have?” asked Reine-Marie.
“The one of—” Jean-Guy jerked his head toward Ruth. “Not the original, of course.”
“No, we have the good fortune of having the original here,” said Reine-Marie.
“I meant not the original painting,” said Jean-Guy.
“Did you?” said Reine-Marie, and she smiled.
“Oh that’s right,” said Clara. “I gave that print to the Baroness. I’d forgotten.”
“Annie’s not wrong, you know,” said Gabri to Olivier. “You’d better pop the question soon if you want a dewy husband. I’m not going to be thirty-seven forever.”
“Well, you have been thirty-seven for quite a while now,” said Olivier.
“I guess she gave it to her son,” said Clara. “It’s just tragic. Do you have any idea who killed him? Oh, sorry, not dinner-table conversation.”
Though it wouldn’t be the first time a murder had been discussed around that table, by those people, in the flickering candlelight.
“Well, Ray-Ray,” Armand murmured as he took his reading glasses off and wiped his hand over his weary eyes. “What do you make of that?”
They’d had dinner and a bath, and now they were on the sofa in the living room in front of the fireplace. Armand reading his rough translation of the Kontrollinspektor’s email. Honoré, in his favorite bear pajamas, was lying in the crook of his grandfather’s arm, with Henri on the sofa on one side and Gracie on the other.
Honoré knew exactly what to make of that. While not understanding the words that were spoken, he understood the deep, warm resonance coming from his grandfather’s body. Each word radiating into him.
So that they were in tune.
And it was a nice tune.
He gripped the large hand holding him securely and felt a soft pat. And a kiss planted on his head.
And he smelled the familiar scent. Of Papa.
While Papa read about a reason for murder.