A Great Reckoning by Louise Penny

increase its value?”
    â€œThe problem is, it’s both and it’s neither,” said Olivier. “But the main problem is that map collectors tend to like maps of a specific area, often their own, or ones of some historic significance. This is of a small corner of Québec. And not even a historic corner. Just villages and homes, and that silly snowman. It might seem charming to us because we live here. But to anyone else, it’s just a curiosity.”
    â€œI’ll give you fifty for it,” said Ruth.
    They turned to her in shock. Ruth had never, in their experience, offered to pay for anything.
    â€œFifty what?” asked Myrna and Olivier together.
    â€œDollars, you dickheads.”
    â€œLast time she bought something, it was with licorice pipes,” said Myrna.
    â€œStolen from the bistro,” said Olivier.
    â€œWhy do you want it?” asked Reine-Marie.
    â€œDoes no one get it?” demanded Ruth. “Don’t any of you see? Not even you, Clouseau?”
    â€œIt’s Miss Marple to you,” said Armand. “And see what? I see a beautiful map, but I also understand what Olivier’s saying. We’re probably the only ones who value it.”
    â€œAnd do you know why?” Ruth demanded.
    â€œWhy?” asked Myrna.
    â€œYou figure it out,” she said. Then she looked at Myrna closely. “Who are you? Have we met?”
    Ruth turned to Clara and whispered loudly, “Shouldn’t she be doing the dishes?”
    â€œBecause a black woman is always the maid?” asked Clara.
    â€œShhh,” said Ruth. “You don’t want to insult her.”
    â€œMe insult her?” said Clara. “And by the way, being a black woman isn’t an insult.”
    â€œAnd how would you know?” asked Ruth, before turning back to Myrna. “It’s all right, I’ll hire you if Mrs. Morrow lets you go. Do you like licorice?”
    â€œOh, for God’s sake, you demented old wreck,” said Myrna. “I’m your neighbor. We’ve known each other for years. You come into my bookstore every day. You take books and never pay.”
    â€œNow who’s demented?” said Ruth. “It’s not a bookstore, it’s a library. Says it right on the sign.” Ruth turned back to Clara and whispered again, “I don’t think she can read. Should you teach her or would that just be inviting trouble?”
    â€œIt says librairie ,” said Myrna, giving it the French pronunciation. “‘Bookstore’ in French. As you very well know. Your French is perfect.”
    â€œNo need to insult me.”
    â€œHow is calling your French perfect an insult?”
    â€œI think we’re going in circles here,” said Armand, getting up and starting to clear the table. Years ago, when he’d first heard exchanges like this, he’d been appalled. But as he got to know them all, he’d seen it for what it was. A sort of verbal pas de deux .
    This was how they showed affection.
    It still made him uncomfortable, but he suspected it was meant to. It was a form of guerrilla theater. Or maybe they just liked insulting each other.
    Reaching for more dishes to take to the sink, he looked down at the map. In the candlelight it seemed to have changed.
    This wasn’t just a doodle, made by some bored pioneer to while away the winter months. There was purpose to it.
    But there was another slight change he was noticing now. One he might even be imagining.
    The snowman, who appeared so jolly in daylight, seemed less joyous by candlelight. And more, what? Anxious? Was that it? Could a bonhomme be worried? And what would he be worried about?
    A lot, thought Gamache, as he ran hot water into the sink and squirted detergent. A man made of snow would worry about the very thing the rest of the world looked forward to. The inevitable spring.
    Yes, a snowman, however jolly, must have worry in his heart. As did the work