Gamache chose not to point out that that wasn’t the only leap of logic.

“They always seemed so happy, so carefree,” Ruth went on.

Her voice became distant and her face took on an expression Gamache had never seen before. Dreamy.

*   *   *

Thérèse Brunel followed Clara from the bright kitchen into her studio.

They passed a ghostly portrait on an easel. A work-in-progress. Thérèse thought it might be a man’s face, but she wasn’t sure.

Clara stopped in front of another canvas.

“I’ve just started this one,” she said.

Thérèse was eager to see it. She was a fan of Clara’s work.

The two women stood side-by-side. One disheveled, in flannel and a sweatshirt, the other beautifully turned out in slacks, a silk blouse, a Chanel sweater and thin leather belt. They both held steaming mugs of tisane and stared at the canvas.

“What is it?” Thérèse finally asked, after tilting her head this way and that.

Clara snorted. “Who is it, you mean? It’s the first time I’ve done a portrait from memory.”

Thérèse wondered how good Clara’s memory could be.

“It’s Constance Ouellet,” Clara said.

“Ah, oui?” Again Thérèse tilted her head, but no amount of twisting could make this look like one of the famous Quints. Or any other human. “She never finished sitting for you.”

“Or started. Constance refused,” said Clara.

“Really? Why?”

“She didn’t say, but I think she didn’t want me to see too much, or reveal too much.”

“Why did you want to paint her? Because she was a Quint?”

“No, I didn’t know it then. I just thought she had an interesting face.”

“What interested you? What did you see there?”

“Nothing.”

Now the Superintendent turned from her study of the canvas to study her companion.

“Pardon?”

“Oh, Constance was wonderful. Fun and warm and kind. A great dinner guest. She came here a couple of times.”

“But?” Thérèse prompted.

“But I never felt I got to know her better. There was a veneer over her, a sort of lacquer. It was as though she was already a portrait. Something created, but not real.”

They stared at the blotch of paint on the canvas for a while.

“I wonder if you could suggest someone to put up a satellite dish,” Thérèse asked, remembering her mission.

“I can, but it won’t help.”

“What do you mean?”

“Satellite dishes don’t work here. You can try rabbit ears, but the TV signal’s still pretty blurry. Most of us get our news from radio. If there’s a big event we go up to the inn and spa and watch their TV. I can lend you a good book though.”

“Merci,” said Thérèse with a smile, “but if you could find the satellite person anyway that would be great.”

“I’ll make some calls.” Clara left Thérèse alone in the studio contemplating the canvas, and the woman who’d been not quite real and now was dead.

*   *   *

Ruth held the volume of poetry in her thin hands, pressing it closed.

“Constance came to me the first afternoon she was here. She said she liked my poetry.”

Gamache grimaced. There were two things you never, ever, said to Ruth Zardo. We’re out of alcohol, and I like your poetry.

“And what did you say to her?” he was almost afraid to ask.

“What do you think I said?”

“I’m sure you were gracious and invited her in.”

“Well, I invited her to do something.”

“And did she?”

“No.” Ruth sounded surprised still. “She stood at my front door and just said, ‘Thank you.’”

“What did you do?”

“Well, what could I do after that? I slammed the door in her face. Can’t say she didn’t ask for it.”

“You were provoked beyond reason,” he said, and she gave him a keen, assessing look. “Did you know who she was?”

“Do you think she said, ‘Hi, I’m a Quint. Can I come in?’ Of course I didn’t know who she was. I just thought she was some old fart who wanted something from me. So I got rid of her.”

“And what did she do?”

“She came back. Brought a bottle of Glenlivet. Apparently she’d had a word with Gabri over at Chez Gay. He told her the only way into my home was through a bottle of Scotch.”