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“Absolutely. I can do quick ones now.” As she pulled a charcoal pencil from above her ear, a piece of Lucky Charms fell to the table. She ate it, then reached for a paper napkin.

“Let’s start with Brian Fillmore. Your list says he’s a second cousin,” said Isabelle. “How well do you know him?”

“Not at all,” said Clara, as she worked on the drawing.

“Then why did you invite him down?” asked Jean-Guy.

“Exactly! Thank you,” said Gabri. “We all wondered that.”

“My gallery owner vouched for him.”

“Then have him for lunch,” said Olivier. “Not to stay the night.”

“We worried this might be a scam,” said Myrna. “Or worse.”

“To what end?” Clara looked up from her sketch. “I’m not exactly rich. Wouldn’t scammers go after someone who has something they want? I have a studio that smells of overripe bananas and a tiny home in a little lost village.”

“You have a wealth of friends,” said Olivier.

“I’m not sure we’re worth much. Even for organs.” Myrna watched as Ruth picked up an egg salad sandwich, explored its contents, then replaced it.

“What did he want?” Jean-Guy asked.

“Nothing. He didn’t ask for anything. There.”

She handed Armand the sketch of Fillmore, then began on one of Jeanette Bouchard.

“I see what you mean,” Armand said. “This isn’t the same man you showed us on the Réunion site.”

“No, sir.” Agent Ferdinand could barely believe he was there. He glanced at the drawing. Then, despite himself, his eyes were drawn back to the croissant sandwiches on the platter, the ones stuffed with ham, Brie, and was that sliced apples? He didn’t dare take one.

“Brian looks…” Reine-Marie considered the sketch. “Nice.”

She knew “nice” had become a pejorative. Almost an insult. But not here. Not in Three Pines. Even the lunatic duck seemed to agree that nice was good. Though it was entirely possible Rosa didn’t know what “nice” meant.

“He was nice,” admitted Ruth. “I sat next to him at dinner at your place.”

For a moment, Reine-Marie thought she meant their place. That maybe their neighbors entered their home while she and Armand were away and had dinner. And slept in their beds. And sat in their chairs. And turned the place into a nursery rhyme.

She and Armand knew that Ruth pretty much moved in but didn’t realize the others might too. Though it didn’t really matter. In fact, she kind of liked the idea.

But no. Ruth meant Clara’s place.

“He was interesting.” Something Ruth rarely said about most people. “I think he works in pharmaceuticals.”

Ahhh, thought the others. It made sense that anyone who dealt in drugs would interest the old poet.

“I thought he might be a chef,” said Clara. “He suggested I put rosemary into the stew.”

“But you didn’t ask what he did?” said Armand.

“No.” Now that she looked back on Brian’s visit, Clara realized there was a lot she hadn’t asked. Had living in Three Pines really made her that trusting? Naïve?

Foolish?

But then she remembered all that had happened in the village and was pleased she’d managed to retain her trust, her faith in others. Even some naïveté.

Those were not, she thought, such bad qualities.