Page 100 of A Better Man

“What do you need money for, anyway?” asked Ruth. “We live in a tiny village. We buy clothes from the general store, barter turnips for milk, and the booze is free.”

“Not free,” said Olivier, pouring her another shot of what looked like scotch but was actually cold tea.

There was a suspicion Ruth knew about the substitution but played along. Because, as with so much else in her life, she didn’t really care.

As she watched Ruth, Clara remembered that in the past few hours someone had gone onto Twitter and defended her.

You ignorant turd. Clara’s works are genius. #MorrowGenius

If it wasn’t Ruth, it was someone doing a damn fine imitation of the foulmouthed poet.

Those tweets were trending. Not because, Clara realized, they were insightful defenses of her creations but because the tweets were in themselves a form of genius.

There was now a Twitter account from someone calling themselves @ignorantturd.

“You’re far too needy,” said Ruth, watching as Rosa dipped her beak into the glass of cold tea.

The duck raised her head and muttered, Fuck, fuck, fuck. Apparently realizing it wasn’t really scotch.

“And you,” said Clara, “are an ignorant turd.”

There was a hush as everyone else around the fireplace braced for impact. But Ruth, after a moment, just chuckled.

“I’ll do it,” said Beauvoir, putting out his hand.

“I think I should, sir,” said the young agent. “I’m trained.”

And once again Chief Inspector Beauvoir found himself facing what had become a familiar decision tree.

In fact, since becoming head of homicide, he’d faced a veritable forest of comments like that. Testing his authority and certainly questioning his competence.

Once again, he stood at the verbal crossroads.

Should he reply, “Give me the testing kit, you stupid shit. How do you think I got to be Chief Inspector? By sitting on my thumbs?”

Or should he say, with a patient smile, “That’s all right, I do know what I’m doing. But I appreciate your concern.”

As Gamache might have answered. Had indeed answered many times, sometimes in response to Agent Beauvoir’s own somewhat insulting comments.

When asked about it one night, years into their relationship, Armand had explained, with a laugh.

“After I’d said something especially patronizing to my first chief, he just looked at me and said, ‘Before speaking, Agent Gamache, you might want to ask yourself three questions.’”

“Not the ones that lead to wisdom,” said Beauvoir, who’d heard them before.

“Non. Those are statements, these are questions. Are you paying attention?”

“What?”

They’d been sitting on the front porch of the Gamaches’ home, in the height of summer. An iced tea beside Beauvoir, a beer beside Gamache.

As he spoke, the Chief Inspector raised a finger, counting the questions.

“Is it true? Is it kind? Does it need to be said?”

“You’re kidding, right?” said Jean-Guy, shifting in his seat to look at Armand. “That might work in our private lives, but with other cops? You’d be laughed out of the room.”

“You don’t necessarily say them out loud,” explained the Chief.