Page 148

“Worse, I’ve been listening to her. Why didn’t this Mountweazel just send the letter to Billy herself, why get the museum to send it to the Godins?”

“One more degree of separation. Fleming wants us to know he’s pulling the strings, but he doesn’t want us too close.”

As Armand walked across the village green to his car, Ruth and Clara waved him over.

“There’s news,” said Ruth. “Did Robert tell you?”

“I haven’t spoken to him.” He could guess, though, remembering the minister’s slow gait, his lowered head, as though his thoughts were far too heavy to support.

“Sylvie died last night,” said Clara. “In her sleep. When Robert woke up, he found her.”

“He’s in shock,” said Ruth.

“So am I,” said Clara. “She was with us last night. She was weak but seemed okay.”

Myrna came out of her bookstore, looked around, saw them, and headed over.

“Have you seen Harriet?”

“No. Why?” asked Clara.

“I haven’t seen her since we had the fight.”

“Let me guess. About that young man?” said Ruth.

“Yes.” She seemed to notice their moods. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

“Sylvie Mongeau died last night,” said Clara.

“That can’t be. I was on my way over. She invited me last night when they left. She said she’d like to talk to me.”

“You?” said Ruth. “Why?”

“Besides the fact I’m good company?” said Myrna. “I actually don’t know. But I’m pretty sure she didn’t think it might be her last conversation.”

“Maybe as a therapist,” said Clara. “She was obviously getting close…”

“But not that close,” said Myrna.

“Taking the book with you?” Armand motioned to the thick volume in Myrna’s hand.

Myrna looked at it, almost surprised to see it there. “Yes.”

“Did she ask for it specifically?” he asked.

Myrna was a little surprised by Armand’s interest in a book when clearly the headline was the death of the woman who’d asked for it.

“Yes. She saw it on your shelf, Clara, and asked if I could bring a copy with me. Said she’d always wanted to read it.”

“She could’ve borrowed mine,” said Clara.

Armand left them then and walked slowly up the hill to the small church. His thoughts going to Robert. And to Sylvie. And to her request to read The Mists of Avalon.

A great book, he knew. A retelling of the Arthur legend from the point of view of the women. In the traditional story, told by a man, they’re witches. In the retelling, told by a woman, they’re sages.

But it wasn’t the plot of the book that struck him so much as the fact that a very sick woman would ask for a very long book. One she expected to have time to read.

Sylvie Mongeau had absolutely no inkling that she would be dead within hours. But then, he wondered, would he? Would anyone?