Gamache pulled up a chair, grabbed a baguette filled with thick sliced maple cured ham, brie and arugula and took a beer.
“I’m just over at Augustin Reunaud’s home.” He hesitated. “You wouldn’t want to come, would you? It’s not far from where you are.”
“I’d love to see it.”
“Bring your reading glasses and a sandwich. And a couple of beers.”
[…]… pausing to check the address he’d been given, unconvinced he had it right.But no. there it was. 9 ¾ rue Ste-Ursule. He shook his head. 9 ¾.
It would figure that Augustin Renaud would live there. He lived a marginal life, why not in a fractional home?
He’d been in homes of every description in his thirty years of investigating crime. Hovels, glass and marble trophy homes, caves even. He’d seen hideous conditions, and uncovered hideous things and yet he was constantly surprised by how people lived.But Augustin Renaud’s home was exactly as Armand Gamache had imagined it would be. Small, cluttered, papers, journals, books piled everywhere. It was certainly a fire hazard, and yet the Chief had to admit he felt more at home here than in the glass and marble wonders.