Armand Gamache stared down at the short, wizened woman with her hand on her husband. Then he stared out to the gleaming lake. Down the lawn there was movement and he noticed Irene Finney walking slowly across it, Bert by her side. And behind her walked Thomas, Marianna and finally Peter.
“Charles Morrow was a wonderful pianist, you know,” said Madame Dubois. “Not just a technician, but he played with great spirit. We’d sit for hours on a rainy afternoon and listen to him. He always said Irene was like a major chord, and his children were the harmonics.”
Gamache watched them fan out behind their mother. He wondered whether the mother chord was maybe a little off, and the harmonics only magnified that.
Then another figure appeared briefly and disappeared into the forest. A huge, hulking thing in overalls, gloves, boots and a hood. It looked like Frankenstein’s monster, flat-headed and hulking.
“Speak of the devil,” said Madame Dubois, and Gamache felt goosebumps spring up on his arms.
“Pardon?”
“Over there, that thing disappearing into the woods.”
“The devil?”
Madame Dubois seemed to find this extremely amusing. “I like that, but no. Quite the opposite, really. That was Chef Véronique.”
“Hell of a sunscreen.”
“Bee screen. She’s our bee-keeper. Off to get honey for tea.”
“And beeswax for the furniture,” said Gamache with a smile.
That was why the Manoir Bellechasse smelled of decades of old books and woodsmoke, and honeysuckle.
TWENTY-FIVE
Marianna Morrow plunked at the piano keys in the Great Room, glad of the peace.
Rich, she was going to be rich one day. As long as Mommy didn’t leave everything to that Finney, and he didn’t leave everything to some cats’ home. Well, she’d done the best she could. She at least had produced a child. She looked over at Bean.
She regretted naming the child Bean, now. What had she been thinking? River would have been better. Or Salmon. Or Salmon River. No, too normal.
Bean had definitely been a mistake. Marianna’s mother had been appalled at first, her only grandchild named after a vegetable. The only reason Marianna had had Bean baptized was to force her mother to listen to the minister declare, in front of the entire congregation, not to mention God, the name of Bean Morrow.
A glorious moment.
But her mother had proved more resilient than Marianna had thought, like a new strain of superbug. She’d become immune to the name.
Aorta, maybe. Aorta Morrow. Or Burp.
Damn, that would’ve been perfect.
“And now, in the presence of this congregation, and before God, I give you Burp Morrow.”
Another opportunity missed. Perhaps it wasn’t too late.
“Bean, dear, come to Mommy.”
Marianna patted the piano bench and the child walked over and leaned against it. Marianna thumped the bench with more force, but Bean didn’t budge.
“Come on, Bean. Up you get. Sit beside Mommy.”
Bean ignored the thumping, glancing down at the ever-present book instead.
“Mommy, have you ever seen a flying horse?”
“Only once, dear. In Morocco after a particularly good party. I’ve also seen a few fairies.”
“You mean Uncle Scott and Uncle Derek?”
“I do. They fly sometimes, you know, but I don’t think either could be called a stud.”
Bean nodded.
“Bean, do you like your name? I mean, wouldn’t you like Mommy to change it for you?” She looked at the serious child. “Why don’t you jump?”
Bean, used to Mommy’s verbal veers, followed easily. “Why should I?”
“Well, people do. That’s why we have knees, and arches on our feet. And ankles. Ankles are little wings, you know.”
She made fluttering actions with her fingers, but Bean looked skeptical.
“They don’t look like wings, they look like bones.”
“Well, yours have probably fallen off. Disuse. It happens.”
“I think you jump enough for both of us. I like it here. On the ground.”
“You know what would make Mommy happy? If I could change your name. What do you think about that?”
Bean shrugged. “Suppose. But you won’t make it stranger than Bean, will you?”
The little eyes narrowed.
Chlamydia Morrow.
Very pretty. Too pretty, perhaps. Not quite right. Soon everyone would know if Bean was a boy or a girl and that little secret would be blown. The best way to infuriate Mother would be to give her only grandchild a really ridiculous name.