by Louise Penny
“No. To stay with us. Just for a few days. You shouldn’t be alone.”
“No. I want to go home. I need to be with…” He made a vague gesture. “Alone.”
Armand knew he’d feel the same way, if Annie … If Reine-Marie … If Daniel …
It was instinctive. A badly wounded animal, crawling off alone. To lick wounds. Or, if they proved too deep, to die.
Gamache had seen it more than once. People died from grief.
Carl Tracey had killed the daughter. Gamache was damned if he’d let him kill the father, too.
“You don’t have to be social, but you shouldn’t be alone.” Armand leaned forward and touched Homer’s hand, lightly, and whispered, “Please.”
He saw Agent Cloutier bristle a bit. Perhaps annoyed that it was not she who was comforting Homer.
But that’s why Gamache had asked her to drive Homer down to Three Pines, so that Homer would have the company of someone he knew and trusted. Someone he felt comfortable with. It might even be the bonding experience they both needed.
“I can leave your place whenever I want?” Homer asked. “And go home?”
“Yes, of course,” said Armand. “Lysette will stay with you until I get there.”
That served several purposes. It kept Homer company, kept him there, and kept Reine-Marie safe. Armand doubted Homer would lash out again, but he wasn’t going to take that chance.
“You’re going to arrest him?”
It was the third time Homer had asked and the third time Armand had said yes. And he was happy to say it all day and into the night.
Yes. Yes. Carl Tracey would face a judge and jury for what he did to Vivienne. Carl Tracey would spend the rest of his life in prison.
“And he’ll be convicted. You promise?”
Gamache hesitated for a moment. “There’s one more piece of evidence that will seal it. Someone’s testimony.”
Godin’s eyes widened in surprise. “Someone was there? They saw what happened?”
“No. There’re no actual witnesses. Though there rarely are. A case is built from evidence. And we have plenty. But this last piece would guarantee a conviction.”
“You promise?”
Annie’s father stood up and put out his hand to Vivienne’s father. “I promise.”
Homer took it, then leaned forward very slowly. As did Armand. Until their foreheads touched.
They stayed there for the briefest of moments, eyes closed.
Then Homer pulled back and caught his breath, wiping his face with his sleeve.
“Sorry. Out of Kleenex.”
“Here,” said Lysette, offering a box she’d plucked from a nearby desk.
Homer took it without really noticing who was attached to the offering. “Merci.”
“Ready?” asked Armand.
Homer blew his nose, then stooped to pick up all the balled-up tissues he’d dropped on the floor.
“Leave them,” said Armand.
But the large man would not, could not, leave a mess for someone else to clean up.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Jean-Guy Beauvoir sat behind the wheel of the unmarked car.
By tradition, the senior officer rode in the passenger seat. But Beauvoir could not bring himself to do that while Gamache was in the vehicle. Except that once, when he was too exhausted to drive.
Now they sat side by side. As they had for years. Watching the home of a murder suspect. Waiting for word from Lacoste. Waiting to give the word to go.
* * *
“What do you mean you’re staying the night?” demanded Clara.
“Sorry, but my flight from Burlington to New York was canceled,” Dominica Oddly said.
What she didn’t say was that she herself had canceled it. And spoken to the big gay guy about a room at their bed-and-breakfast. Or, as he insisted on calling it, bed-and-brunch.
If their B&B looked like their bistro and tasted like the bakery, she really might never leave. She did not tell Clara that. The woman already looked like her hair was on fire.
“Can’t you stay over in Burlington?” asked Clara, her voice rising. “Close to the airport?”
“Too late,” said Gabri, dropping a key into Dominica’s hand. “She’s booked in. The Basquiat Suite.”
“Since when do you name your rooms?” Clara all but hissed at him.
“Since she showed up,” said Gabri, unapologetically. “And if you’re not careful, we’ll call the public bathroom the Toilette Clara Morrow.”
“You know what she’s just posted online about my works,” said Clara, watching as Ruth and Myrna joined the critic at the bistro fireplace.
Reine-Marie had gone home, feeling the need for a long shower after watching those vile videos.
Gabri turned to face Clara, his expression no longer a little goofy. “I do. And now you have twenty-four hours you didn’t have before to change her mind.”
“She won’t change her mind.”
They walked over to the bar, and while Clara helped herself to a licorice pipe from the jar, Gabri poured her a red wine.
“You don’t know that.” He smiled and touched her hand. “People do change. Minds change. I know you know that.”
Clara turned and glared at Dominica Oddly, now laughing and chatting with her best friend and her mentor. In her seat. By the fireplace.
She felt the bile grow. Felt the subtle demonisms of thought take hold.
* * *
Lysette had tried to engage Homer in casual conversation. But, understandably, the only thing he was interested in hearing about was their investigation.
Lysette wasn’t really sure how much to tell him but suspected he would not pass any of it along. And it would be public knowledge anyway, as soon as Tracey was arraigned.
Besides, she was desperate to connect with him. To let him know the important role she’d played in having Tracey arrested.
To let him know she wasn’t just on his side but by his side.
In the twenty-minute drive from Cowansville to Three Pines, she’d been debating how much to reveal. Not just about the case against Tracey but about herself.
About her feelings.
It was just dumb luck that Chief Inspector Gamache had given her this time alone with Homer. He couldn’t possibly know what it meant to her. But now she needed to actually use it.
They were getting closer and closer to Three Pines.
Now was the time.
But what should she say? She couldn’t just blurt out, “I love you.”
Or could she? Maybe he needed to hear it. Especially now. To know someone loved him. Deeply.
Just before cresting the hill that would take them down into Three Pines, she reached over and placed her hand on top of his.
He didn’t pull away.
As they arrived at the Gamache home, just before putting the car in park, she squeezed.
And he, she was pretty sure, squeezed back.
* * *
Jean-Guy checked his phone again. It was instinctive.
There were, as he already knew from the last time he checked, no bars. No reception. Which was why he’d chosen a car with a radio connecting them to the station.
Now he stared at the handset. While beside him, Gamache stared out the window. Into the twilight. Through the trees to the lonely home and the single light at a single window.
Jean-Guy checked his phone again.
* * *
“That’s not true.”
“It is. The coroner just confirmed it. That baby was Carl’s.” Lacoste leaned forward. “A little girl. His daughter. Kinda makes you wonder, doesn’t it, Pauline?”
Pauline was silent, but Lacoste could see her mind whirring.
Superintendent Lacoste had another question for Pauline Vachon.
“Where were you on Saturday afternoon and evening?”
* * *
Homer knelt and put his face against the smelly old dog, rubbing him, mumbling to him, before standing back up.
“Armand called to say you were coming,” said Reine-Marie, standing at the door as Henri and Gracie ran out to greet the new arrivals. “I’m glad.”
She was freshly showered and had put on slacks and a soft sweater. She turned to Agent Cloutier. “I have soup and sandwiches in the kitchen. You must be hungry.”
She was. “Yes, please. Merci.”
As they entered the home, Homer stepped closer to Reine-Marie, looking at her face. Then he shook his head.
“I did that,” he said, pointing to the bruise. “I can’t believe it. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”
“I do,” she said. “And I think you showed amazing restraint. I shouldn’t have tried to stop you. I’d have ripped the head off anyone who tried to stop me.”
If it had been Annie dragged from the river. Or Daniel. Or Armand. She’d have done far worse to anyone standing between her and them.
“Your room is waiting for you. Would you like to freshen up, then meet us in the kitchen?”
He nodded, and the two women watched as he slowly climbed the stairs. Followed, slowly, by Fred.
“Homer?” said Lysette, not sure what to do.
“I’ll be fine, Lysette.”
Even something as small as hearing him say her name thrilled her.
* * *
“Chief Inspector, this is Cameron.”
Beauvoir snatched the mouthpiece off its cradle and pressed the button. “Oui.”
Gamache turned to watch, holding Beauvoir’s eyes.
“We have the warrant for Tracey’s arrest.”
Beauvoir exhaled. They had it.
But he wanted more.
“Is Superintendent Lacoste still in the interview room?”
“Yes.”
“Tell her to call as soon as she comes out.” He went to replace the handset, but Gamache stopped him.
“I have an idea.”
“Hold on, Cameron,” said Beauvoir, and clicked the handset off while Gamache explained.
Beauvoir nodded approval, then clicked the handset back on. “Still there, Cameron?”
“Oui, patron.”
“This is what I want you to do.”
* * *
Agent Cameron knocked on the door, then entered.
Lacoste glanced at him with some annoyance. It was unusual to be interrupted in the middle of what was proving a difficult interrogation.
Pauline Vachon was holding unexpectedly firm.
She would not admit that Tracey planned to kill his wife and that that’s what the posts were about.
Cameron bent down and whispered in her ear, then left.
Lacoste smiled and turned back to Vachon, who was watching her with feigned boredom. But after a few seconds of silence, Vachon’s brows lowered.
“What?” she demanded.
“I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but an arrest warrant has just been issued for Carl Tracey. For the murder of Vivienne Godin. Chief Inspector Beauvoir is bringing him in. He’ll be here in half an hour.”
Lacoste got up and, collecting the papers, closed the file.
“Can I go now?”
“Not quite yet. I want to hear what Monsieur Tracey has to say. Then you can go.”
She walked to the door. And stopped when she heard that one word. That beautiful word.
“Wait.”
* * *
The radio crackled, and Jean-Guy reached for it so quickly it bobbled out of his hand.
He juggled it for a moment before finally grasping it.
“Beauvoir.”
“We have him,” said Isabelle Lacoste. “Pauline Vachon just admitted they’d discussed killing Vivienne. That Tracey planned to do it.”
“She’ll sign the statement? Testify against him?”
“Yes.”
* * *
They knocked on the door.
By now it was dark. Not even the porch light was on. Though there was still the one light on. Upstairs.
They knocked again. Still no answer.
Beauvoir turned to the two uniformed Sûreté agents and signaled them to go around back. Then he and Gamache exchanged glances.
Beauvoir turned the handle of the front door. It was unlocked. He swung it open.
“Tracey? Carl Tracey?” Beauvoir called. “Sûreté. We have a warrant for your arrest.”
He walked in, slowly, carefully, with Gamache right beside him. Both seasoned officers scanned the room. Looking for a killer.
They found him passed out, drunk, on the bed. In a puddle of his own vomit.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The arraignment was held the next morning, in Superior Court at the Palais de justice in Montréal.
Once he’d sobered up, Carl Tracey had been given a shower and a change of clothes. He spent the night at the Cowansville detachment, where he’d been booked for murder.
From there, early in the morning, he’d been driven to a cell in the Montréal courthouse.
Chief Inspectors Beauvoir and Gamache met there first thing and interviewed him, with his court-appointed lawyer present. Predictably, his lawyer told him not to say anything. Equally predictably, Tracey couldn’t help but talk.
After Tracey claimed he had nothing to do with Vivienne’s death, Beauvoir presented him with Pauline Vachon’s statement.
“She says you talked about killing your wife—”
Tracey snorted. “Who doesn’t say that every now and then?”
“I don’t,” said Chief Inspector Beauvoir.
“You will.”
Beauvoir knew he shouldn’t let this man get up his nose, but Tracey was firmly lodged there. That smug, weaselly look. From a man who’d just killed his wife and unborn child.
“You know nothing—” Beauvoir began.
“Chief Inspector,” said Gamache, a warning in his voice.
Carl Tracey turned to Gamache. “I wouldn’t kill my own wife. Too obvious. But someone else’s … That was your wife in that village, right? Looks like you and I have something in common. That bruise on her face?”
Gamache grew very still, very quiet. Then he turned back to Beauvoir, who was staring, dumbfounded by what Tracey just said.
The lawyer ended the session there.
Beauvoir and Gamache walked down the hallway. Finally Gamache spoke.
“He’ll confess.”
“You think?”
“Oui. He’s a foolish, weak man. If he doesn’t actually mean to confess, he’ll incriminate himself with his bravado. He’ll hang himself.”
“If only.”
Gamache glanced at Beauvoir but said nothing.
* * *
They stood as the judge took her seat.
The prosecutor, with Chief Inspector Beauvoir beside him, was on one side of the courtroom. Tracey and his lawyer on the other.
Gamache and Agent Cloutier sat immediately behind the prosecution desk, with Homer Godin between them. Behind them sat Simone Fleury with at least twenty other women.
Young. Middle-aged. Elderly. Stony-faced.
Valkyries. Warrior Fates. Magnificent and terrifying.
Gamache caught Madame Fleury’s eye. She nodded.
The seats behind Tracey were empty.
Barry Zalmanowitz, a prosecutor they knew well, had been given the case. He was feeling confident enough to kid Gamache when the Sûreté officers showed up at his office.
“I see you’re trending, Armand. Of course, I knew the video was faked. You’re not that good a shot.”
He smiled. Obviously trying, with a spectacular lack of success, to lighten the mood.
Seeing the grim look on Chief Inspector Gamache’s face and the anger on Beauvoir’s, the prosecutor dropped his voice and added, “I also saw the real thing. I can’t believe it was posted again. I’m sorry. I hope they find out who did that. Someone calling themselves ‘dumbass.’”
“We have an idea,” said Beauvoir.
He’d stayed away from Three Pines, not wanting to see Ruth. Not wanting to say things that could never be taken back. He knew that the elderly woman actually meant well. But in true Ruth fashion, she’d managed to inflict a wound.
And this one went deep.
Before the proceedings started, Beauvoir had pulled Vivienne’s father aside and said, “This won’t take long. The judge will ask Tracey how he pleads—”
“What will he say?”
“We think his plea will be not guilty.”
Beauvoir waited for the outburst, but there was none. Monsieur Godin, in the past twelve hours, had managed to harness his emotions. Though Beauvoir could see it was a struggle.
Gamache had prepared the man the night before, as much as possible, for what would happen.
Carl Tracey would be led in. He’d sit at a distance from them, but Godin would certainly see him.
“Will you be able to control yourself?” Gamache had asked.
“I think so.”
Gamache had paused before speaking again. “If you don’t think you can, then you shouldn’t go. If there’s an outburst, you’ll be thrown out, or even arrested. You’ll do yourself and the case no favors.”
Homer had glanced into the fire, mesmerized by the liquid flames. It was just the two of them now, and Fred the dog.
They’d had dinner in the kitchen with Reine-Marie and Lysette Cloutier. It was a simple meal of lentil soup and thick-cut fresh bread, warm from the oven, and cheese.
Homer managed a few spoonsful and finished off one piece of bread, with melted butter.
Now they sat alone in the restful room, with coffee and a plate of untouched chocolate chip cookies. Reine-Marie had gone to bed. Henri and Gracie trailing along behind her. Agent Cloutier had driven back to Montréal.
“I’ll control myself,” said Homer.
Gamache studied the man. And nodded. He wasn’t completely convinced Godin would do it, or that it was even possible. But he also knew there was no way to prevent Vivienne’s father from being there when Carl Tracey was arraigned for Vivienne’s murder.
Homer had to face his daughter’s killer.
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