“What’re you thinking?” Myrna asked, taking a seat on his right. She handed him a basket of warm baguettes. “Groups of threes.” “Really? Last time we were together you were thinking of Humpty Dumpty.” “Christ,” muttered Ruth, on his other side, “this murder’ll never be solved.” Gamache looked at the old poet. “Guess what I’m thinking now.” She stared back at him, her cold blue eyes narrowing, her face flint. Then she laughed. “Quite right too,” she said, grabbing some bread. “I’m all that, and more.” The platter, with the whole poached salmon, was being passed in one direction, while spring
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