A Great Reckoning (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #12) - Louise Penny Page 0,15

meant it.

Though Ruth’s idea of strange might not be anyone’s. She thought water was strange. And vegetables. And paying bills.

His brow furrowed as he noticed the celebrating snowman seemed to be pointing. There. He bent closer. There.

“There’s a pyramid.” Armand’s finger hovered over the image.

“Yes, yes,” said Ruth impatiently, as though there were pyramids everywhere. “But do you notice anything strange?”

“It’s not signed,” he said, trying again.

“When was the last time you saw a map that was?” she demanded. “Try harder, moron.”

On hearing Ruth’s querulous voice, Reine-Marie looked over, caught Armand’s eye, and smiled in commiseration before going back to her own conversation.

She and Olivier were discussing the blanket-box finds that day. A layer of Vogues from the early 1900s.

“Fascinating reading,” she said.

“I noticed.”

Reine-Marie had long marveled at how much you could tell about a person by what was on their walls. The art, the books, the decor. But until now she had no idea you could also tell so much by what was in their walls.

“A woman who loved fashion obviously lived there,” she said.

“Either that,” said Olivier, “or a gay man.”

He looked into the kitchen where Gabri was gesturing with a ladle as though dancing. Voguing, in fact.

“Gabri’s great-grandfather, you think?” asked Reine-Marie.

“If it’s possible to come from a long line of gay men, Gabri’s done it,” said Olivier, and Reine-Marie laughed.

“Now,” she said, “what about the real find?”

They looked over to where Armand and Ruth were huddled.

“The map,” said Olivier. “Some marks on it. Maybe water damage. And dirt, but that’s to be expected. But being in the wall also preserved it. No exposure to sunlight. The colors are still vivid. It must be the same vintage as all the other stuff. A hundred years old or so. Is it worth anything, do you think?”

“I’m just an archivist. You’re the antiques dealer.”

He shook his head. “I can’t see selling it for more than a few dollars. It’s fun and the art is good, but basically it’s a novelty. Someone’s idea of a joke. And too local to be of interest to anyone but us.”

Reine-Marie agreed. It certainly had a beauty to it, but part of that was its silliness. A cow? A pyramid, for God’s sake. And the three spirited pines.

Dinner was announced, if Gabri shouting, “Hurry up, I’m starving,” could be considered an announcement. It certainly was not news.

Over the scallops and shrimp and chunks of broth-infused salmon, they discussed the Montréal Canadiens and their winning season, they discussed international politics and the litter of unplanned puppies Madame Legault’s golden retriever had had.

“I’m thinking of getting one,” said Clara, dipping a slice of toasted baguette, spread with saffron aioli, into the bouillabaisse. “I miss Lucy. It would be nice to have another heartbeat in the home.”

She looked over at Henri, curled in a corner. Rosa, forgetting her enmity for the dog in favor of warmth, was nesting in the curve of his belly.

“How’s the portrait coming?” Reine-Marie asked.

Clara had managed to scrape the oil paint off her face, though her hands were tattooed with a near-permanent palette of colorful dots. Clara seemed to be morphing into a pointillist painting.

“You’re welcome to take a look,” she said. “But I want you all to repeat after me, ‘It’s brilliant, Clara.’”

They laughed, but when she continued to look at them they all, in unison, said, “It’s brilliant, Clara.”

Except Ruth, who muttered, “Fucked up, insecure, neurotic and egotistical.”

“Good enough,” laughed Clara. “If not brilliant, I’ll settle for FINE. But I have to admit, my focus is being undermined by that damned blanket box. I actually dream about it at night.”

“But have you found anything valuable?” asked Gabri. “Daddy needs a new car and I’m hoping to turn that old pine box into a Porsche.”

“A Porsche?” asked Myrna. “You might get into it, but you’d never get out. You’d look like Fred Flintstone.”

“Fred Flintstone,” said Armand. “That’s who you—”

But on seeing the look of warning on Olivier’s face, he stopped.

“Baguette?” Armand offered the basket to Gabri.

“That map?” asked Gabri. “You all seemed interested in it. It’s got to be worth something. Let me get it.”

He hopped up and returned, smoothing it on the pine table.

“This’s the first time I’ve looked at it,” he said. “It’s quite something.”

But what, was the question.

“It’s both a map and a work of art,” said Clara. “Wouldn’t that increase its value?”

“The problem is, it’s both and it’s neither,” said Olivier. “But the main problem is that map collectors tend to like maps of a specific area,