How the Light Gets In (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, #9)

by Louise Penny

She’d arrived a self-sufficient city woman, and now she was covered in snow, sitting on a bench beside a crazy person, and she had a duck on her lap.

Four days. And she had two gay sons, a large black mother, a demented poet for a friend and was considering getting a duck.

Henri stopped his scurrying and looked at her, his satellite ears turning toward her voice, having picked up his favorite channel. The treat channel.

Henri, while a handsome dog, would never get into Harvard.

Anyone listening would have heard the implied “dumbass” tacked to the end of that sentence.

“Well, no one suspects a fetus,” said Gamache. “That’s their great advantage.”

Ruth was either trying to light the candles or set the house on fire.

He saw Ruth bent over a white plastic table. Writing. Rosa sat on the table, watching. Maybe even dictating.

Nichol came clomping down the stairs, not really disheveled since she was rarely “sheveled.”