They’d found a home there. Made a home there. Among the pines, and perennials, the village shops, and villagers. Who had become friends, and then family.
So that when the dark thing appeared on the pretty, tranquil village green, displacing the playing children, it had felt like more than an oddity. More than an intruder. It was a violation.
Gamache knew his sense of unease had really begun the night before. When the black-robed creature first appeared at the annual Halloween party in the bistro.
Though real alarms didn’t go off until he’d looked out his bedroom window the next morning and seen him still there. Standing on the village green. Staring at the bistro.
Just staring.
Now, many months later, Armand Gamache looked at the Chief Crown. In his black robes. Then over to the defense table. In their black robes. And the judge, just above and beside him, in her black robes.
Staring. At him.
There seemed, thought Gamache, no escape from black-robed figures.
“It really began,” he amended his testimony, “the night before. At the Halloween party.”
“Everyone was dressed up?”
“Not everyone. It was optional.”
“And you?” asked the Crown.
Gamache glared at him. It was not a pertinent question. But it was one designed to slightly humiliate.
“We decided to go as each other.”
“You and your wife? You went in drag, Chief Superintendent?”
“Not exactly. We pulled names from a hat. I got Gabri Dubeau, who runs the local B&B with his partner, Olivier.”
Armand had, with Olivier’s help, borrowed Gabri’s signature bright pink fluffy slippers and a kimono. It was an easy, and extremely comfortable, costume.
Reine-Marie had gone as their neighbor, Clara Morrow. Clara was a hugely successful portrait artist, though it seemed she mostly painted herself.
Reine-Marie had teased her hair until it was almost on end, and put cookies and a peanut butter sandwich in it. Then she’d dabbed paint all over herself.
For her part, Clara had gone as her best friend, Myrna Landers. They were all slightly concerned she’d show up in blackface, though Myrna had said she wouldn’t take offense as long as Clara painted her entire body black.
Clara had not painted herself, for once. Instead, she wore a caftan made from the dust jackets of old books.
Myrna was a retired psychologist from Montréal, who now ran the shop right next to the bistro, Myrna’s New and Used Bookstore. Clara had a theory that villagers manufactured problems, just to go sit with Myrna.
“Manufacture them?” the old poet Ruth had said, glaring at Clara. “You have a whole warehouse full of them. You’ve cornered the market on problems.”
“I have not,” said Clara.
“Really? You’ve got a huge solo show coming up and all you’ve got is crap. If that’s not a problem, I don’t know what is.”
“It’s not crap.” Though none of her friends backed her up.
Gabri had gone to the Halloween party as Ruth. He’d put on a gray wig and made up his face until he looked like a fiend from a horror show. He’d worn a pilled, moth-eaten sweater and carried a stuffed duck.
All night long he’d swilled scotch and muttered poetry.
“With doors ajar the cottage stands
Deserted on the hill—
No welcome bark, no thudding hoof,
And the voice of the pig is still.”
“That’s not mine, you sack of shit,” said Ruth. She wore a pilled, moth-eaten sweater and carried a real duck.
“A little blade of grass I see,” said Gabri. “Its banner waving wild and free.”
“Stop it,” said Ruth, trying to cover her ears. “You’ll murder my muse.”
“And I wonder if in time to come,” Gabri pressed ahead. “’Twill be a great big onion.”
The last word he pronounced un-ee-yun.
Even Ruth had to laugh, while in her arms Rosa the duck muttered, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
“I worked all day on that,” said Gabri. “This poetry stuff isn’t so hard.”
“So this was October thirty-first of last year,” asked the Crown attorney.
“Non. It was November first. We all stayed home on the actual Halloween night, to give out candy to the trick or treaters. This party is always the next night.”
“November first. Who else was there besides the villagers?” asked the Crown.
“Matheo Bissonette and his wife, Lea Roux.”
“Madame Roux, the politician,” said the Crown. “A rising star in her party, I believe.”
Behind him, Monsieur Zalmanowitz heard the renewed tapping on the tablets. A siren song. Proof he’d make the news.
“Yes,” said Gamache.
“Friends of yours? Staying with you?”
Of course the Crown knew the answer to all these questions. This was for the sake of the judge and jury. And reporters.
“Non. I didn’t know them well. They were there with their friends