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the body of her bookstore. He wondered if she’d heard the question.
    “Myrna?”
    She returned her gaze to him, but her mouth remained shut. Tight.
    “Her name?”
    Myrna still hesitated and Gamache tilted his head slightly, surprised.
    Isabelle Lacoste returned and, sitting down, she smiled at Myrna reassuringly. “No serious car accidents on the highway between here and Montréal yesterday.”
    Myrna was relieved, but it was short-lived. She returned her attention to Chief Inspector Gamache, and his unanswered question.
    “You’ll have to tell me,” he said, watching her with increased curiosity.
    “I know.”
    “I don’t understand, Myrna,” he said. “Why don’t you want to tell me?”
    “She might still turn up, and I don’t want to cause her embarrassment.”
    Gamache, who knew Myrna well, knew she wasn’t telling the truth. He stared at her for a moment, then decided to try another tack.
    “Can you describe her for us?”
    Myrna nodded. As she spoke Myrna saw Constance sitting exactly where Armand Gamache was now. Reading and occasionally lowering her book to gaze out the window. Talking to Myrna. Listening. Helping to make dinner upstairs, or sharing a Scotch with Ruth in front of the bistro fireplace.
    She saw Constance getting into her car and waving. Then driving up the hill out of Three Pines.
    And then she was gone.
    Caucasian. Francophone. Approx. five foot four. Slightly overweight, white hair, blue eyes. 77 years of age.
    That’s what Lacoste had written. That’s what Constance came down to.
    “And her name?” Gamache asked. His voice, now, was firm. He held Myrna’s eyes and she held his.
    “Constance Pineault,” she said at last.
    “Merci,” said Gamache quietly.
    “Is that her nom de naissance ?” asked Lacoste.
    When Myrna didn’t answer Lacoste clarified, in case the French phrase had been lost on the Anglophone woman. “The name she was born with or her married name?”
    But Gamache could tell that Myrna understood the question perfectly well. It was the answer that confused her.
    He’d seen this woman afraid, filled with sorrow, joyful, annoyed. Perplexed.
    But he’d never seen her confused. And it was clear by her reaction that it was a foreign state for her too.
    “Neither,” she finally said. “Oh, God, she’d kill me if I told anyone.”
    “We’re not ‘anyone,’” said Gamache. The words, while carrying a mild reproach, were said softly, with care.
    “Maybe I should wait some more.”
    “Maybe,” said Gamache.
    He got up and fed two pieces of wood into the stove in the center of the room, then brought back a mug of tea for Myrna.
    “Merci,” she said, and held it between her hands. Her lunch, partly eaten, would not now be finished.
    “Inspector, would you mind trying the home number once more?”
    “Absolument.” Lacoste got up and Myrna scribbled the number on a piece of paper.
    They heard the beep, beep, beeps from across the room as she punched in the numbers. Gamache watched for a moment, then turned to Myrna, lowering his voice.
    “Who is she if not Constance Pineault?”
    Myrna held his eyes. But they both knew she’d tell him. That it was inevitable.
    “Pineault’s the name I know her by,” she said quietly. “The name she uses. It was her mother’s maiden name. Her real name, her nom de naissance, is Constance Ouellet.”
    Myrna watched him, expecting a reaction, but Armand Gamache couldn’t oblige.
    Across the room, Isabelle Lacoste was listening on the phone. Not talking. The phone rang and rang and rang, in an empty home.
    The home of Constance Ouellet. Constance Ouellet.
    Myrna was studying him closely.
    He could have asked. Was tempted to ask. And he certainly would, if he had to. But Gamache wanted to get there on his own. He was curious to see if the missing woman lurked in his memory and, if she did, what his memory said about her.
    The name did sound familiar. But it was vague, ill-defined. If Madame Ouellet lived in his