Page 58 of The Grey Wolf
He followed Olivier down the stairs of the bed and breakfast. On the outside, the building looked like what it was. A centuries-old former coaching inn. A brief rest stop on the road between New York and Montréal. Many stopped, few stayed.
But the inside had been redone by the two men when they’d bought it more than a decade ago. Far from the overstuffed chintz furniture and lace curtains one might have expected, the walls were a soothing blue grey. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases, painted white, were in practically every room, overflowing with volumes actually read, jigsaw puzzles, board games. A fireplace in the living room faced the original leaded glass windows that looked out over the wide veranda and the village green beyond. From there, the men could see their bistro.
The flooring was worn wide plank, with oriental carpets scattered about.
It was comfortable and comforting. A relaxed marriage of the traditional and contemporary. Much like Olivier and Gabri themselves.
Going downstairs, Olivier, fully awake now, asked how Armand was, without mentioning the hit-and-run.
“I’m fine.”
“‘Fine’ as in Fucked-up. Insecure. Neurotic. And Egotistical?”
“Exactly. I have a question.”
“That couldn’t wait.”
“Non.”
As they passed the front door, Olivier said, “We have to remember to lock it. We do when there’re guests, but not when it’s just us. We never thought anyone would be rude enough to come right into our bedroom.” He gave Armand the stink eye. “Ruth sometimes comes in at night and takes booze and food. We thought it was a mouse at first, but then a bottle of scotch disappeared. We now leave dinner out on the counter.”
“Like Santa Claus.”
“If he was a lunatic, yes. But even she hasn’t gotten as far as the bedroom.”
“Though if that was where you kept the alcohol…”
Armand followed Olivier into the large country kitchen, where he was waved onto a stool. He watched while Olivier made them cappuccinos and put warmed almond croissants on plates for them both.
“What do you want, Armand?”
“You made a cocktail yesterday afternoon.”
Olivier’s brows shot up. “Don’t tell me you woke me up in the middle of the night because you want one. I wouldn’t advise it.”
“Non,” Armand said with a smile. “What was it called?”
“Called? You’re kidding, right?” When Armand just waited, Olivier paused to think. “The Last Word. Yes, that was it.”
Armand was quiet for a moment. “Where did you get the recipe?”
“From our guest.”
“I take it he’s no longer here?”
“No. Stayed one night. Left yesterday afternoon.”
Armand thought of the older man he and Reine-Marie had passed two days earlier. Both men had turned and caught each other’s eye. It was just an instant, before the contact was broken, though enough for Armand to feel the man looked vaguely familiar.
“What was his name?”
“Monsieur Gilbert. Can’t remember his first name, but it’ll be in our reservations.”
Armand felt a vague stirring. As though someone had just ruffled the air around him. It was not an alarming feeling. In fact, it was somehow comforting. Like the hint of a scent from a pleasant experience.
“Was the recipe he had from a newspaper clipping?” Armand had his phone out. He’d already looked up the photo.
“Yes. And he’d brought the bottle that was the main ingredient. Not many places carry it anymore. It was a gift, he said.”
