“What’s the difference between a commune and a cult?” asked Beauvoir.
“Both have a sort of guiding philosophy,” said Myrna. “But a commune is open—members can come and go. A cult is closed. Rigid. Demands conformity and absolute loyalty to the leader and the beliefs. It shuts people off from the greater society.”
“Interesting then that No Man invited Marcel in to lecture,” said Clara. “That doesn’t seem the act of a cult leader.”
“No,” said Myrna. She looked at Chartrand, then looked away.
Gamache, watching closely, thought he knew what she was thinking.
Maybe Chartrand wasn’t invited in. Maybe he was already there.
Gamache had suspected for a while that Marcel Chartrand might’ve been a member of No Man’s community. Not because he knew so much about it, but because he pretended not to.
Chartrand looked up and smiled at Gamache. It was friendly, disarming. A comradely look. And Gamache wanted to believe they were indeed on the same side.
But instead of resolving, his doubts were growing.
“Did they show you any of their works?” Clara asked. She, alone among them, seemed to have no suspicions of Chartrand.
“No, and I didn’t ask to see them.”
Now Myrna did look up, then over at Clara. Willing her to see what was so odd. Here was an art gallery owner who seemed completely disinterested in any art.
Most gallery owners had a specialty, but were at least curious about art in general. Indeed, most were passionate and quite obnoxious about it.
Clara, who was putting garlic butter on the rounds of sliced baguette, didn’t seem to register anything peculiar.
“Did No Man ever show you his works?” Gamache asked.
“No.”
“Let me guess,” said Beauvoir. “You didn’t ask.”
Chartrand found that amusing. “When you find what you love, there’s no need to look further.”
“It’s a shame Luc Vachon has taken off,” said Clara. “He could’ve told us more about the colony.”
“Yes,” said Gamache. “It is.”
“You’d think he’d tell someone where he went,” said Beauvoir. “The server said ‘down the coast,’ but that could be anywhere.”
His knife that had been cutting tomatoes for the salad paused.
“You know, I asked her where he went, but I’m not sure—”
As he thought, the knife slowly descended until it was resting on the cutting board. He was staring ahead, replaying the conversations in the brasserie.
“Merde,” he said at last, dropping the knife altogether. “Where’s your phone?”
Chartrand pointed into the living room. “Why?”
“I asked the server where Vachon went and she didn’t know. Then I asked the guy at the bar when he’d be back and if I could contact him. But I didn’t ask him where Vachon goes. The young server didn’t know, but he might. Tabarnac.”
He reached into his pocket, brought out his notebook, and found the phone number for La Muse.
They could hear him in the living room, punching in the numbers.
Myrna and Gamache were standing together at the sink.
“What’re you thinking, Armand?” she asked quietly.
“I’m thinking that No Man disappears, then Peter disappears, and now Luc Vachon, the only member of the art colony still around, disappears.”
“And now we’ve disappeared,” Myrna whispered.
“True.”
“Come on, Armand, out with it. What’re you really thinking?”
“I’m thinking”—Gamache dried his hands on the towel and turned to face her—“that No Man lived here quietly for a number of years, and then word spread that he was a cult leader, and he was driven out.”
“That’s not thinking,” said Myrna. “That’s recapping. You can do better than that.”
“I’m thinking,” said Gamache, giving her a censorious look, “that I need to make a phone call.”
“Give Reine-Marie my love,” she called after him.
Gamache nodded and, stepping outside, brought out his cell phone. He didn’t tell Myrna that this call wasn’t to his wife. It was to someone else in Three Pines.
“What the hell do you want?”
It was Ruth’s version of “Hello.”
“I want to talk to you about your visit to the art college today.”
“Didn’t you talk to your wife about that? Why bother me?”