Page 9
Still, she hesitated.
“We have booze,” said Jean-Guy, in a singsong voice.
“You’d better be telling the truth, numbnuts.” She unlocked the door and shoved the duck into Armand’s arms. He and Rosa stared at each other.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” muttered the duck.
For once, the duck and the head of homicide for the Sûreté du Québec were of a mind.
Jean-Guy offered the elderly poet his arm and held the umbrella over her as they carefully made their way from her ramshackle cottage across the muddy village green to the bistro, through what was now driving rain.
He wondered, not for the first time, if she knew they used a special bottle for her, filled with tea, not scotch.
Jean-Guy suspected she did. He also suspected she, in fact, rarely drank. Ruth Zardo loved the illusion, the costume. The armor. She hid behind the role. The joke. Afraid they’d see who she really was. Best to let them dismiss her as an irascible old drunk. Though the irascible part was certainly true.
But over time, her own words had betrayed her. The lines of her poems had created cracks in the veneer that led deep, deeper, right into her heart. Into who she really was.
No one saw her more clearly than Jean-Guy, who didn’t like poetry. Never got it. Never read it. Except for Ruth’s.
Forget what?
Your sadness, your shadow
whatever it was that was done to you
the day of the garden party
when you came inside flushed with the sun
your mouth sulky with sugar
in your new dress with the ribbon
and the ice cream smear
and said to yourself in the bathroom
I am not the favorite child.
And now, whenever Jean-Guy met the poet, he imagined the ribbon on her dress. Even then, as they picked their careful way across the sodden grass, he saw it fluttering on her green garbage bag.
He held her firm and safe, protecting her through the driving rain. Hoping the frail, irascible old woman knew she was, in fact, a favorite.
Those watching from the comfort of the bistro were touched by the sight. Not realizing the younger officer was desperate not to have her fall. Break a hip. And end up in his care.
Though his young son, Honoré, would have been pleased. Ruth was his best friend.
It was worrisome.
“I’ll get you that list of visitors, Armand, as soon as I can go through my agenda,” said Clara when they arrived back at the bistro.
“Why in the world do you have an agenda?” asked Ruth. “All you ever do is go from your home to the bistro.”
“Sometimes the bookstore,” said Myrna.
“Nice defense,” said Clara. “Thank you.”
Armand, who’d handed Rosa over to Isabelle, one of the perks of command, had toweled off, rubbing his grey hair dry. It now stood on end, as though he’d been struck by lightning, or an especially good idea.
