by Louise Penny
* * *
Gamache’s expression changed. He was still watchful, vigilant. Prepared. His hand on the door. But now there was a very small smile. Of surprise and recognition.
Still, he remained prepared to act.
* * *
Watching Tracey laughing, Beauvoir felt himself almost overcome with rage.
But still he stood. Still.
“Come on,” Tracey shouted, holding his beer by the neck and swaying slightly. “You’re not joining in the celebrations.”
But the men behind Tracey were growing uneasy in the face of this relentlessly still man at the door.
A couple continued to shout encouragement, but their voices were thinning. Their enthusiasm waning.
Carl Tracey was right up against Beauvoir now. But Beauvoir didn’t react.
“Why’re you here?” shouted Tracey. “I’m going to file a complaint. This’s harassment.”
Beauvoir’s silence. His blank stare. Were driving Carl Tracey mad. And his friends away.
* * *
Gamache’s smile had disappeared, and he prepared to enter the bar. Enough was enough.
* * *
Tracey staggered back.
His drinking buddies moved away and watched as he tripped and fell to the floor. Spilling his beer.
As silently as he’d entered, Chief Inspector Beauvoir left. Leaving behind four drunks staring down at the man wallowing on the floor. Tracey’s eyes lifted, and for a split second Beauvoir thought he saw sadness there. Sorrow.
And then Carl Tracey threw up.
Once outside, Jean-Guy closed his eyes and, turning his face to the sky, took a long, long breath of the fresh, pine-scented air.
When he opened them, he saw Armand Gamache standing right in front of him. Staring.
Then Gamache’s eyes crinkled at the corners. Wordlessly, because there was nothing to say, Gamache walked him back to his car, pausing for Beauvoir to speak to the agent.
“I’m going to get another officer here. I want one of you to stay in the vehicle and the other to stand outside the bar. Look through the window at Carl Tracey. So that he can see you. Whatever happens, don’t engage him. If he comes to you, don’t react. Only if he physically attacks you.”
“So you want me to just stare at him, patron?”
“Yes. And when he leaves, follow him. Always keeping a distance. But I want him to see you. Understand? If he goes into a shop, stand outside and stare. If he meets someone, stop and—”
“Continue to stare?”
“Oui.”
“Why?”
Beauvoir bristled slightly. Not liking being questioned. But he knew his orders were unconventional in the extreme.
“This’s a man who understand threats and violence. But this?”
“But what is ‘this’?” the young agent persisted.
“A conscience.”
“Huh?”
Chief Inspector Beauvoir recognized the expression on the agent’s face. It was exactly the same look he’d given Gamache. For years. When the Chief Inspector had said, or ordered, something unconventional. Or downright odd.
That blank stare, colored slightly by concern that the senior officer had lost his mind.
Beauvoir now smiled. In the same way Gamache had smiled at him. For years.
While he could have simply left it at that, he wanted the agent to understand. And to never be afraid to question the orders of a superior.
As Gamache had patiently explained things to Beauvoir. For years.
“Your job is to protect the man, but you will also act as a sort of external conscience for a man who obviously doesn’t have one.”
He could see it dawning on her. And she, too, smiled. “Got it. I’ll be the ghost of his dead wife.”
“Oui. That’s a good way of looking at it.”
For a brief moment the agent considered asking if she could take a selfie with Chief Inspector Beauvoir and Chief Inspector Gamache.
But wisely decided against it.
As they walked to their cars, Armand Gamache placed a hand on Jean-Guy’s back.
“Well done.”
“It was close,” said Jean-Guy, leaning toward him and lowering his voice. “You have no idea how much I wanted to—”
“I know.”
Jean-Guy grunted. “Yes. You do.” He looked behind him. “It won’t change anything. This…” He waved toward the agent now standing outside the bar. Staring. “… won’t make him confess. Not to murder.”
“No. But it might make that young agent realize there’re other weapons at our disposal besides our guns.”
Gamache tapped his temple.
“Honestly? I suspect she thinks it’s more…” Beauvoir raised his finger to his own temple and twirled it in a circle. “Thank God I told her I’m Chief Inspector Gamache.”
Now Armand did laugh. “I am going to miss you, old son.”
“And I’m going to miss you, too, sir. But I won’t miss this.”
He gazed at the fresh young agent standing straight and tall, twenty feet away from the cruddy bar.
Staring.
At a man Chief Inspector Beauvoir, as lead investigator, had let get away with murder.
Jean-Guy did not need anyone staring at him to know that it would be a long time, if ever, before his own conscience was clear.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
They spent the balance of the day in the incident room going back over all the evidence. Over and over.
Starting with what little was still admissible, then moving on to what they knew to be true but couldn’t use.
Homer Godin returned to Three Pines, and according to Reine-Marie, after quietly walking Fred around the village green and being offered and declining food, he went into his room and closed the door.
Agent Cloutier stayed in the house, checking on him every now and then, to make sure.…
As Armand talked to Reine-Marie on the phone, he looked through what had once been the ticket window. He could see the bridge over the Rivière Bella Bella, the sandbags still in place. And beyond that, his home on the far side of the village green.
Between him and his home was a stranger, sitting on the bench.
“Who’s that?” he asked Reine-Marie.
“Dominica Oddly.”
Reine-Marie explained who she was and why she was there.
Gamache grimaced. Seemed Clara was having a day to rival his own. Both thanks, in no small part, to Ruth.
He turned and looked up at the photo of the old poet, glaring down at him.
When he hung up, Armand rubbed his eyes. Then, putting his reading glasses back on, he returned to the statements. Trying to find something.
Anything.
Isabelle Lacoste arrived. She barely had her coat off when Jean-Guy handed her a bunch of files.
“Here. You take these.”
They divvied up the evidence, the interviews. Going over one another’s work. Fresh eyes on old evidence. Looking for something overlooked.
“I’d like to speak to Monsieur Bertrand,” said Gamache, getting up.
It still struck Gamache as unlikely that Vivienne would call this man again and again on the day she died, and its being a wrong number.
Surely she knew him. Surely he’s lying.
“So do I,” said Beauvoir, putting on his coat.
* * *
Gerald Bertrand was cordial. Young. Attractive. Holding his baby niece in his arms. He was apparently eager to help, but with nothing helpful to add.
Gamache tried. This way. That. He prodded, looking for holes. For chinks. For hairline fractures in Bertrand’s story. In his demeanor. But found nothing.
They came away just as convinced as Lacoste. Bertrand was telling the truth. He did not know Vivienne. Or Tracey.
“Tracey lied, of course,” said Beauvoir. “Vivienne didn’t have a lover.”
“At least,” said Gamache, “not this lover.”
Still, Vivienne Godin had spen
Reaching out to one person.
But who was it? Who did a desperate, terrified woman call for help?
Not her father—he was too far away, thought Gamache. Was she trying Cameron?
But there was someone else in the picture. Someone who’d been in Vivienne’s life, all her life. Her godmother. Who was, after all, a woman and a cop.
On the way back, they stopped at Pauline Vachon’s place. Her signed statement had implicated Carl Tracey, but not herself. Now the investigators wanted the whole truth.
“Did I want her gone?” Pauline said. “Yes, for sure.”
“Why?”
“So I could have Carl.”
“You don’t seem to even like him,” said Beauvoir.
“I did at first. I like older men.” She leered at Gamache.
“And after that?”
“Well, there’d be money, right? If she divorced him, he’d lose money, probably lose the house. But if she died…”
“Yes?”
“Well, there’d be an inheritance. There’s always money when someone dies.”
“Not always,” said Beauvoir.
Jesus, he thought. Vivienne was killed for money she didn’t have?
“Why didn’t you tell the other investigators this?” he asked.
“What? That there might be a reason I’d want her dead? Let’s guess.…”
“Then why tell us now?” asked Beauvoir.
“Well, it doesn’t matter now. My lawyer says you can’t touch me. Besides, Carl did it, not me.”
Gamache considered her so closely she began to fidget.
“I’m not going to confess, you know,” she said. “So you might as well leave.”
She got up, and they followed her to the front door. As she held it open, Gamache tried one more time.
“Tell us what happened that day, Pauline. For her father’s sake. For yours. Get it off your chest.”
“Oh, you’re interested in my chest, are you?” she said, in a way that was so artless it made her seem very young. “And as for her father…” She made a rude, dismissive noise. “Have you asked yourself why she’d marry a shithead like Carl Tracey?”
“You were going to marry him.”
“I was going to live with him.”
“Until the money ran out?” asked Beauvoir.
“Fuck you. This’s none of your business. Now, get out.”
“He lied to you. And he killed his wife,” said Gamache. “We saw the photos. Those bruises on your arms.”
“I like it rough.” Again she leered at Gamache, who just stared back. In a way that made her uncomfortable. Not because it was sexual but because it was a look she couldn’t remember ever seeing before. It took her a moment to put a word to it.
Concerned. This man was concerned for her.
But she knew it was a lie. An act. No one had cared before. Why would this stranger?
“No happy person,” he said quietly, “no healthy person, seeks out pain. Be careful.”
“Yeah, well, what the fuck do you care?”
And the door slammed shut in his face.
“Well, that was a waste of time,” said Beauvoir. “But had to be done.”
As they walked to the car, Gamache thought about the look on Pauline Vachon’s face. That leer. Meant to be seductive, but there was, at its core, something cruel. Definitely something calculating. Though, just for a moment … And then it was gone.
* * *
“Homer?”
The voice of the elderly woman penetrated the closed door as Homer lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Working out how … Fortunately, there was no thought of trying to get away with it. No need.
He didn’t answer.
“It’s Ruth Zardo. We met at Clara’s home the other night. I know you’re there and can hear me. There’s something I want to say to you.”
What he heard then was a very soft murmur. It sounded like fuck, fuck.
He sat up in bed but didn’t open the door. He had no desire for company.
Undaunted, Ruth said her piece, then left.
* * *
“There,” said Isabelle Lacoste, dropping a pair of boots at Beauvoir’s feet with a thud.
“Been shoe shopping?” he asked, picking them up.
He’d left Gamache at his home and returned to the incident room. Now he held the boots at arm’s length, examining them.
They were olive green. Rubber. Lined with felt. And came up to the knees.
“A going-away gift for Paris?” he asked. “Too kind, my little cabbage.”
“More of that and you’ll find them up your ass.”
“Should the new head of organized crime be talking like that?” He smiled at her. “Congratulations. I’ve heard from other senior officers that you accepted the job.”
“Not quite yet,” she said. “Have to talk to my family. And you do know I won’t actually be heading up a crime family, right?”
“Merde, I thought we’d be getting free appliances for life.”
“Silly man. Free cheese, maybe.” She took a seat at her desk. “About the boots, I got them from Monsieur Béliveau’s general store. The Chief was right. According to Monsieur Béliveau, those’re the most common boot he sells. Everyone has a pair.”
“And why wouldn’t they? Very stylish.” Beauvoir dropped them to the floor. “Same ones as Tracey has, right?”
“Right. Same boots that made the print under Vivienne’s car. Same size. Ten. Even Chief Inspector Gamache has a pair.”
“Are you suggesting he’s a suspect?”
“Yes, yes I am,” she said with a patient smile. “You know what I’m saying.”
Jean-Guy did know. He picked up the boots again and examined them.
She was right, of course.
They were exactly like the ones that had made the boot prints under Vivienne’s car. Like the ones they’d found in Tracey’s home and used for evidence. Evidence now deemed poisonous fruit.
And, apparently, like the footwear everyone in rural Québec owned.
“I put them on,” Lacoste said, “and walked around in the snow and mud. Took pictures of the prints I made. The strange thing is, while those’re size-ten men’s, my feet are size seven.”
“Women’s.”
“Thank you. Yes. But because the rubber sole is so thick and the treads so deeply stamped, my boot prints look exactly like the ones under the car.”
“Exactly?” He turned the boots over. The treads were made from tough rubber, designed to insulate and grip. And not to wear down. So that the tread of a five-year-old boot would not be much different, if at all, from that of a brand-new one.
“I sent the pictures to the lab, and they’ll analyze them, but I couldn’t see a difference.”
“So—”
“So anyone could’ve made those boot prints under her car. A man, a woman—a child, even, I suppose.”
“This isn’t getting us closer to Tracey,” he said. “In fact, you’re making the defense’s case, if a case was still needed.”
“I know,” she said.
It didn’t have to have been a large man on that bridge. It could have been a smaller woman. And now that Beauvoir thought about it, the coroner had said that those handprints on Vivienne’s chest, bruises made in a shove, probably were made by a large man.
But—
The coroner also pointed out that bruises bleed. Spread internally. Dr. Harris had left the possibility open that they, too, could have been made by a smaller woman.
“Pauline Vachon?” he asked.
Lacoste nodded.
* * *
Lysette Cloutier got to her feet when Chief Inspector Gamache entered the kitchen.
Homer and Reine-Marie sat in front of the woodstove, a pot of tea and some shortbread cookies on a tray on the hassock between them.
Fred lay on the rug at Homer’s feet, barely raising his head to look at the man who’d just come in.
Henri and Gracie had run to the door to greet him and now chased each other into the kitchen, getting between Armand’s legs, almost tripping him up. But he was used to it.
Homer stared down at his large hands, which gripped each other tightly.
Then he got up slowly and turned to Armand. There was a bandage on the left side of his head, above his temple, where he’d hit the floor of the courtroom, knocking himself out. He had a black eye and bruising into his hairline.
His face, as he faced Armand, was impassive. A mask.
He just stood. And stared. And stared.
And then, silently, he moved. Brushing past Armand.
“Homer?” said Armand.
But the man had left the warm kitchen. There was a whistle from the living room. Fred lifted his head, struggled to his feet, and followed the sound.
“Please stay here,” said Armand to the others.
Homer was on the front porch with the old dog.
It was five in the afternoon, and the shadows were long. The temperature was dropping with the sun.
Woodsmoke rose from the homes, slightly scenting the chilly early-evening air.
Armand held the door open, and, at a nod, out shot Henri, followed by Gracie, who was looking, and behaving, more and more like a chipmunk every day.
They caught up with Homer and Fred, who were walking with a measured pace along the edge of the village green. Neither in nor out of the circle.
Lights were on in homes around Three Pines, and Armand could see the glow from the old railway station across the still-swollen river and knew that Jean-Guy and Isabelle were in there, working to solve a crime that seemed to be getting away from them.
Then he turned to the grizzled man, walking through the twilight.
“I’m sorry,” he said as he fell in beside Homer, keeping slow pace with him.
But Homer didn’t reply. Just stared ahead, at the hills and forests growing darker and darker around them.
At the path into the woods, which followed the Rivière Bella Bella and went to the place where Vivienne was found, Homer stopped. It was now little more than a slightly darker opening in a dark forest.
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