“Why?”

Myrna paused the image and turned to her guest. “Why?” She thought about that. “When Constance told me she was one of the Ouellet Quints, she might as well have said she was a Greek goddess. A myth. I was making a joke, that’s all.”

“I understand,” said Thérèse. “But why Hera?”

“Why not?” Myrna was clearly confused. “I don’t know what you’re asking.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“What’re you thinking?” asked Gamache.

“It’s probably ridiculous,” said Thérèse. “When I was head curator at the Musée des beaux-arts, I saw a lot of classical art. Much of it based in mythology. Victorian artists in particular liked to paint Greek goddesses. An excuse, I always suspected, to paint naked women, often battling serpents. An acceptable form of pornography.”

“But you digress,” suggested Gamache, and Thérèse smiled.

“I got to know the various gods and goddesses. But two goddesses in particular seemed to fascinate artists of that era.”

“Let me guess,” said Myrna. “Aphrodite?”

Superintendent Brunel nodded. “The goddess of love—and prostitutes, wouldn’t you know. Conveniently, she didn’t seem to own many clothes.”

“And the other?” asked Myrna, though they all knew the answer.

“Hera.”

“Also naked?” asked Myrna.

“No, the Victorian painters liked her because of her dramatic potential, and she suited their cautionary view of strong women. She was malicious and jealous.”

They turned to the screen. The film was paused on the praying face of little Constance.

Myrna looked at Thérèse. “You think she was malicious and jealous?”

“I’m not the one who called her Hera.”

“It’s just a name, the only goddess who came to mind. I could have just as easily called her Aphrodite or Athena.” Myrna was sounding testy, defensive.

“But you didn’t.”

Superintendent Brunel didn’t back down. The two women held each other’s eyes.

“I knew Constance,” said Myrna. “First as a client, then as a friend. She never struck me that way.”

“But you say she was closed off,” said Gamache. “Do you really know what she kept hidden?”

“Are you putting the victim on trial?” asked Myrna.

“No,” said Gamache. “This isn’t judgmental. But the better we know Constance, the easier it might be to find out who needed her dead. And why.”

Myrna thought about that. “I’m sorry. Constance was so private, I feel a need to protect her.”

She pressed the play button and they watched little Constance pray, then rise, then playfully jostle with her sisters in line, to have their father put on their skates.

But now each of them wondered how playful that really was.

They saw the look of joy on Constance’s face as her father kneeled at her feet, and her sisters, in pairs, stood behind. Watching.

Myrna’s phone rang and Gamache tensed so forcefully both women looked at him.

Myrna answered it, then held it out for him.

“It’s Isabelle Lacoste.”

“Merci,” he said, crossing the distance and taking the phone. It felt warm to the touch.

He turned away from Superintendent Brunel and Myrna, and spoke into the receiver.

“Bonjour.” His voice steady, his back straight. His head up.

From behind, the women watched as he listened. And they saw the broad shoulders sag a little, though the head remained high.

“Merci,” he said, and slowly replaced the receiver. Then Gamache turned around.

And smiled with relief.

“Good news,” he said. “Nothing to do with this case, though.”

He rejoined them. Both women looked away and didn’t say a word about the sheen in his eye.

TWENTY-SIX

“We have to go.”

Gamache stood up abruptly, and both Myrna and Thérèse looked at him. A moment earlier he’d been relieved, almost ecstatic, then something had shifted and his joy had turned to anger.

Myrna paused the recording. Five happy girls stared at them, apparently mesmerized by what was happening in Myrna’s loft.

“What is it?” Thérèse asked, as they put on their coats and walked down to the bookstore. “Who was on the phone?”

“Merci, Myrna.” Gamache paused at the door and strained to produce a smile.