The Brutal Telling

“No. Ruth,” said Gabri and was rewarded with their stunned looks. He’d have thought someone had drawn a gun on the two large Sûreté officers. Chief Inspector Gamache looked surprised but Beauvoir looked afraid.



“You might want to put on your athletic protector,” Gabri whispered to Beauvoir, as they passed on the veranda steps.



“Well, I’m sure as hell not going. You?” asked Beauvoir when they went inside.



“Are you kidding? Pass up a chance to see Ruth in her natural habitat? Wouldn’t miss it.”



Twenty minutes later the Chief Inspector had showered, called Reine-Marie and changed into slacks, blue shirt and tie and a camel-hair cardigan. He found Beauvoir in the living room with a beer and potato chips.



“Sure you won’t change your mind, patron?”



It was tempting, Gamache had to admit. But he shook his head.



“I’ll keep a candle in the window,” said Beauvoir, watching the Chief leave.



Ruth’s clapboard home was a couple of houses away and faced the green. It was tiny, with a porch in front and two gables on the second floor. Gamache had been in it before, but always with his notebook out, asking questions. Never as a guest. As he entered all eyes turned and as one they made for him, Myrna reaching him first.



“For pity’s sake, did you bring your gun?”



“I don’t have one.”



“What d’you mean, you don’t have one?”



“They’re dangerous. Why do you want it?”



“So you can shoot her. She’s trying to kill us.” Myrna grabbed Gamache’s sleeve and pointed to Ruth who was circulating among her guests wearing a frilly apron and carrying a bright orange plastic tray.



“Actually,” said Gabri, “she’s trying to kidnap us and take us back to 1950.”



“Probably the last time she entertained,” said Myrna.



“Hors d’oeuvre, old fruit?” Ruth spotted her new guest and bore down upon him.



Gabri and Olivier turned to each other. “She means you.”



Incredibly, she actually meant Gamache.



“Lord love a duck,” said Ruth, in a very bad British accent. Behind Ruth waddled Rosa.



“She started speaking like that as soon as we arrived,” said Myrna, backing away from the tray and knocking over a stack of Times Literary Supplements. Gamache could see saltine crackers sliding around on the orange tray, smeared with brown stuff he hoped was peanut butter. “I remember reading something about this,” Myrna continued. “People speaking in accents after a brain injury.”



“Is being possessed by the devil considered a brain injury?” asked Gabri. “She’s speaking in tongues.”



“Cor blimey,” said Ruth.



But the most striking feature of the room wasn’t the hoop lamps, the teak furniture, genteel British Ruth with her dubious offering, nor was it the sofas covered in books and newspapers and magazines, as was the green shag carpet. It was the duck.



Rosa was wearing a dress.



“Duck and cover,” said Gabri. “Literally.”



“Our Rosa.” Ruth had put down the peanut-buttered crackers and was now offering celery sticks stuffed with Velveeta.



Gamache watched and wondered if he’d have to make a couple of calls. One to the Humane Society, the other to the psych ward. But neither Rosa nor Ruth seemed upset. Unlike their guests.



“Would you like one?” Clara offered him a ball covered with what looked like seeds.



“What is it?” he asked.



“We think it’s suet, for the birds,” said Peter.



“And you’re offering it to me?” Gamache asked.



“Well, someone should eat it so it doesn’t hurt her feelings.” Clara nodded to Ruth, just disappearing into the kitchen. “And we’re too afraid.”



“Non, merci,” he smiled and went in search of Olivier. As he passed the kitchen he looked in and saw Ruth opening a can. Rosa was standing on the table watching her.



“Now, we’ll just open this,” she mumbled. “Maybe we should smell it? What do you think?”



The duck didn’t seem to be thinking anything. Ruth smelled the open can anyway. “Good enough.”



The old poet wiped her hands on a towel then reached out and lifted the edge of Rosa’s dress to replace a ruffled feather, smoothing it down.



“May I help?” Gamache asked from the door.



“Well, aren’t you a love.”



Gamache winced, expecting her to throw a cleaver after that. But she just smiled and handed him a plate of olives, each stuffed with a section of canned mandarin orange. He took it and returned to the party. Not surprisingly he was greeted as though he’d joined the dark side. He was very grateful Beauvoir wasn’t there to see Ruth, nuttier and more Anglo than usual, Rosa wearing a dress and himself offering food that would almost certainly kill or cripple anyone foolish enough to eat it.