A strong smell of gin met them. A duck sat on the old woman’s lap and Henri, the Gamaches’ German shepherd, was curled at her feet. Gazing up adoringly at the duck.
“Don’t worry about greeting me at the door,” Armand said to Henri. “It’s fine. Really.”
He looked at the dog and shook his head. Love took all forms. This was, though, a step up from Henri’s previous crush, which was the arm of the sofa.
“The first hint of infestation was the smell of gin,” said Gabri. “Her race seems to run on it.”
“What’s for dinner?” their neighbor Ruth Zardo demanded, struggling out of the armchair.
“How long have you been there?” Reine-Marie asked.
“What day is it?”
“I thought you were out clubbing baby seals,” said Gabri, taking Ruth’s arm.
“That’s next week. Don’t you read my Facebook updates?”
“Hag.”
“Fag.”
Ruth limped into the living room. Rosa the duck goose-stepped behind her, followed by Henri.
“I was once head of homicide for the Sûreté du Québec,” said Gamache wistfully as they watched the parade.
“I don’t believe it,” said Reine-Marie.
“Bonjour, Ruth,” said Antoinette.
Ruth, who hadn’t noticed there was anyone else in the room, looked at Antoinette and Brian, then over to Myrna.
“What’re they doing here?”
“We were invited, unlike you, you demented old drunk,” said Myrna. “How can you be a poet and never notice anything and anyone around you?”
“Have we met?” Ruth asked, then turned to Reine-Marie.
“Where’s numbnuts?” she asked.
“He and Annie left for the city, along with Isabelle and the kids,” said Reine-Marie.
She knew she should have chastised Ruth for calling their son-in-law numbnuts, but the truth was, the old poet had called Jean-Guy that for so long the Gamaches barely noticed anymore. Even Jean-Guy answered to numbnuts. But only from Ruth.
“I saw the Lepage boy come flying out of the woods again,” said Ruth. “What was it this time? Zombies?”
“Actually, I believe he disturbed a nest of poets,” said Armand, taking the bottle of red wine around and refilling glasses, before helping himself to some of the salsa with honey-lime dressing. “Terrified him.”
“Poetry scares most people,” said Ruth. “I know mine does.”
“You scare them, Ruth, not your poems.”
“Oh, right. Even better. So what did the kid claim to see?”
“A giant gun with a monster on it.”
Ruth nodded, impressed.
“Imagination isn’t such a bad thing,” she said. “He reminds me of myself when I was that age and look how I turned out.”
“It’s not imagination,” said Gabri. “It’s outright lying. I’m not sure the kid knows the difference anymore himself.” He turned to Myrna. “What do you think? You’re the shrink.”
“I’m not a shrink,” said Myrna.
“You’re not kidding,” said Ruth with a snort.
“I’m a psychologist,” said Myrna.
“You’re a librarian,” said Ruth.
“For the last time, it’s not a library,” said Myrna. “It’s a bookstore. Stop just taking the books. Oh, never mind.” She waved at Ruth, who was smiling into her glass, and turned back to Gabri. “What were we talking about?”
“Laurent. Is he crazy? Though I realize the bar for sanity is pretty low here.” He watched as Ruth and Rosa muttered to each other.
“Hard to say, really. In my practice I saw a lot of people whose grip on reality had slipped. But they were adults. The line between real and imagined is blurred for kids, but it gets clearer as we grow up.”
“For better or worse,” said Reine-Marie.
“Well, I saw the worse,” said Myrna. “My clients’ delusions were often paranoid. They heard voices, they saw horrible things. Did horrible things. Laurent seems a happy kid. Well adjusted even.”
“You can’t be both happy and well adjusted,” said Ruth, laughing at the very thought.
“I don’t think he’s well adjusted,” said Antoinette. “Look, I’m all for imagination. The theater’s fueled by it. Depends on it. But I agree with Gabri. This is something else. Shouldn’t he be growing out of it by now? What’s the name for it when someone doesn’t understand, or care about, consequences?”
“Ruth Zardo?” said Brian.
There was surprised silence, followed by laughter. Including Ruth’s.
Brian Fitzpatrick didn’t say a great deal, but when he did it was often worth the wait.
“I don’t think Laurent’s psychotic, if that’s what you’re asking,” said Myrna. “No more than any kid. For some, their imagination’s so strong it overpowers reality. But, like I say, they grow out of it.” She looked at Ruth, stroking and singing to her duck. “Or at least, most do.”
“He once told us a classmate had been kidnapped,” said Brian. “Remember that?”
“He did?” Armand asked.
“Yes. Took about a minute to realize it wasn’t true, but what a long minute. The girl’s parents were in the bistro when he came running in with that news. I don’t think they’ll ever recover, or forgive him. He’s not the most popular kid in the area.”
“Why does he say things if they aren’t true?” asked Reine-Marie.
“Your children must’ve made things up,” said Myrna.
“Well, yes, but not anything so dramatic—”
“And so vivid,” said Antoinette. “He really sells it.”
“He probably just wants attention,” said Myrna.
“Oh God, don’t you hate people like that,” said Gabri.
He put a carrot on his nose and tried to balance it there.
“There’s a seal just asking to be clubbed,” said Myrna.
Ruth guffawed then looked at her. “Shouldn’t you be in the kitchen?”
“Shouldn’t you be cutting the eyes out of a sheet?” asked Myrna.
“Look, I like the kid,” said Ruth, “but let’s face it. He was doomed from the moment of conception.”
“What do you mean?” asked Reine-Marie.
“Well, look at his parents.”
“Al and Evelyn?” asked Armand. “I like them. That reminds me.” He walked to the door and picked up a canvas tote bag. “Al gave me this.”
“Oh, God,” said Antoinette. “Don’t tell me it’s—”
“Apples.” Armand held up the bag.
Gamache smiled. When he’d dropped off Laurent, his father Al had been on the porch, sorting beets for their organic produce baskets.
There was no mistaking Al Lepage. If a mountain came alive, it would look like Laurent’s father. Solid, craggy. He wore his long gray hair in a ponytail that might not have been undone since the seventies.
His beard was also gray and bushy and covered most of his chest, so that the plaid flannel shirt underneath was barely visible. Sometimes the beard was loose, sometimes it was braided and sometimes, like that afternoon, it was in its own ponytail so that Al’s head looked like something about to be tie-dyed.
Or, as Ruth once described him, a horse with two asses.
“Hi, cop,” Al had said when Armand parked and Laurent had jumped out of the car.
“Hello, hippie,” said Armand, going around to the back of the car.
“What’s he done now, Armand?” Al asked as they yanked the bike out of the station wagon.
“Nothing. He was just slightly disruptive in the bistro.”
“Zombies? Vampires? Monsters?” suggested Laurent’s father.
“Monster,” said Armand, closing the hatchback. “Only one.”
“You’re slipping,” Al said to his son.
“It was on a huge gun, Dad. Bigger than the house.”
“You need to clean up for dinner, you’re a mess. Quick now before your mother sees you.”