Kingdom of the Blind (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #14) - Louise Penny Page 0,3
eyes. But it did not actually reach those brown eyes. They remained sharp, wary. Watchful. Though the warmth was still there.
“Fine,” he’d said, and despite her disquiet she smiled.
They both understood that code. It was a reference to their neighbor in the village of Three Pines. Ruth Zardo. A gifted poet. One of the most distinguished in the nation. But that gift had come wrapped in more than a dollop of crazy. The name Ruth Zardo was uttered with equal parts admiration and dread. Like conjuring a magical creature that was both creative and destructive.
Ruth’s last book of poetry was called I’m FINE. Which sounded good until you realized, often too late, that “F.I.N.E.” stood for “Fucked-Up, Insecure, Neurotic, and Egotistical.”
Yes, Ruth Zardo was many things. Fortunately for them, one of the things she was not was there.
Armand stooped and picked up the mitts that had fallen off Myrna’s substantial lap, into the snow. He whacked them against his parka before handing them back to her. Then, realizing he was also missing his own, he went to his car and found them almost buried in the new snow.
* * *
The man watched all this from the questionable protection of the house.
He’d never met the woman who’d just arrived, but already he didn’t like her. She was large and black and a “she.” None of those things he found attractive. But worse still, Myrna Landers had arrived five minutes late, and instead of hurrying inside, spouting apologies, she was standing around chatting. As though he weren’t waiting for them. As though he hadn’t been clear about the time of the appointment.
Which he had.
Though his annoyance was slightly mitigated by relief that she’d shown up at all.
He watched the two of them closely. It was a game he played. Watching. Trying to guess what people might do next.
He was almost always wrong.
* * *
Both Myrna and Armand pulled the letters from their pockets.
They compared them. Exactly the same.
“This is”—she looked around—“a bit odd, don’t you think?”
He nodded and followed her eyes to the ramshackle house.
“Do you know these people?” he asked.
“What people?”
“Well, whoever lives here. Lived here.”
“No. You?”
“Non. I haven’t a clue who they are or why we’re here.”
“I called the number,” said Myrna. “But there was no answer. No way to get in touch with this Laurence Mercier. He’s a notary. Do you know him?”
“Non. But I do know one thing.”
“What?” Myrna could tell that something unpleasant was about to come her way.
“He died six months ago. Cancer.”
“Then what—”
She had no idea how to continue, and so stopped. She looked over at the house, then turned to Armand. She was almost his height, and while her parka made her look heavy, in her case it was no illusion.
“You knew that the guy who sent you the letter died months ago, and still you came,” she said. “Why?”
“Curiosity,” he said. “You?”
“Well, I didn’t know he was dead.”
“But you did know it was strange. So why did you come?”
“Same. Curiosity. What’s the worst that could happen?”
It was, even Myrna recognized, a fairly stupid thing to say.
“If we start hearing organ music, Armand, we run. Right?”
He laughed. He, of course, knew the worst that could happen. He’d knelt beside it hundreds of times.
Myrna tipped her head back to stare at the roof, sagging under the weight of months of snow. She saw the cracked and missing windows and blinked as snowflakes, large and gentle and relentless, landed on her face and fell into her eyes.
“It’s not really dangerous, is it?” she asked.
“I doubt it.”
“Doubt?” Her eyes widened slightly. “There is a chance?”
“I think the only danger will come from the building itself,” he nodded to the slumping roof and sloping walls, “and not from whoever is inside.”
They’d walked over, and now he put his foot on the first step and it broke. He raised his brows at her, and she smiled.
“I think that’s more the amount of croissants than the amount of wood rot,” she said, and he laughed.
“I agree.”
He paused for a moment, looking at the steps, then the house.
“You’re not sure if it’s dangerous, are you?” she said. “Either the house or whoever’s inside.”
“Non,” he admitted. “I’m not sure. Would you prefer to wait out here?”
Yes, she thought.
“No,” she said, and followed him in.
* * *
“Maître Mercier.” The man introduced himself, walking forward, his hand extended.
“Bonjour,” said Gamache, who’d gone in first. “Armand Gamache.”
He swiftly took in his surroundings, beginning with the man.