A Better Man
Page 32
Then he turned and looked in the opposite direction. Upriver. Where Vivienne had first gone into the water. Where she’d last been alive.
His breath came out in warm, soft puffs. Joining, mingling with Armand’s.
“What do you want from me, Armand?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s not true. I can see it in your eyes.” He turned to face him. “What is it? Forgiveness? You want me to say it’s okay that you messed up? That I now have to do what you couldn’t? Get justice for my little girl.”
Armand was quiet. And he thought maybe Homer was right.
He wanted to be absolved of his guilt.
Vivienne’s father was quiet for a long time, his eyes returning to the river. Before he finally spoke.
“Is it possible some things can’t be forgiven? They’re just too terrible? Abuse? Murder?” He looked at Armand. “Could you?”
“Forgive murder?” asked Armand. He thought about it. He was being asked to consider the murder not of a stranger but of his wife. His child. His grandchild. Could he forgive? Sincerely. “It would take years and a huge amount of work. And help. And still…”
“Yes?”
“I hope I’d get there—”
“But?”
“But I think it would take a better person than I am,” admitted Armand.
Homer deserved the truth. And there it was. Could he forgive? In his heart, in his soul? Armand was far from sure.
“Would it help if whoever did it was genuinely sorry?” asked Homer. He searched Armand’s eyes.
“Yeeesss, I think it would.”
Homer nodded. “I wonder if Vivienne believed it.”
“You think Tracey said he was sorry?”
Armand doubted that Tracey would ever have apologized, but maybe he had. Abusers often did. They begged forgiveness. Declared their love. They brought flowers and gifts, and through a flood of tears they promised to never, ever do it again.
And maybe they were even sincere. Until the next time.
“You don’t have to forgive him,” said Armand. “You don’t have to forgive me. But for your own sake, for your own sanity, you do need to give up this obsession with revenge.”
“Have you given up?”
“Trying to get Tracey? Non.”
“Then why should I? Does your badge give you more of a duty to Vivienne than I have, as her father?” He let that sit there for a moment before going on. “That old woman came to your house to see me this afternoon. I didn’t let her into my room. Didn’t want to see anyone. But she said something anyway, through the door.”
“What old lady?”
“I think she’s a poet.”
Armand tensed. Had Ruth done to Homer what she’d done to Clara? To himself? In trying to help, had she made things worse?
“What did she say?” Armand braced.
“Something from St. Francis. Something he said to a woman who’d lost her child in a river.” Homer closed his eyes. “Clare, Clare, do not despair. Between the bridge and the water, I was there.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
“Non, nothing new,” Jean-Guy reported over the phone to Gamache, who was calling from his study at home. “The warrant we applied for a couple days ago to look into Vivienne’s bank accounts should come through soon. We’ll see if Pauline Vachon was dreaming or if there really is something there.”
“That number Vivienne was calling is still bothering me,” said Gamache. “If it wasn’t Bertrand’s, then whose? Is there anyone related to the case with a number close to it?”
“I’ve checked that,” said Beauvoir. “Nothing.”
Gamache smiled. He should have known Beauvoir would be on top of that.
“You must be hungry,” he said. “Clara’s invited us over for an easy dinner. Let’s take a break.”
Beauvoir sighed and looked over at Lacoste.
She’d taken her regular room at the B&B but hadn’t yet dropped her bag there.
“Dinner at Clara’s?” he called across the room.
“Sounds great.” But she didn’t look up.
They were chasing their tails, and they knew it. A break would do them good.
“We’ll meet you there,” he said into the phone. “Another half hour.”
Jean-Guy picked up the statements again. And started reading. Again.
* * *
Gamache hung up and turned to Agent Cloutier.
They were alone in his study.
Homer was in the kitchen with Fred, as Reine-Marie prepared a squash, pear, and blue cheese soup to take to Clara’s. Homer seemed to find her company restful.
Cloutier, on the other hand, clearly did not feel the same way about Monsieur Gamache’s company.
“Tell me about Vivienne.”
“Vivienne?”
“Yes. You must’ve known her well.”
“I suppose so. To be honest, I wasn’t the best godmother. I never had one, so I had no idea what was expected, except that if anything happened to Kathy and Homer, I was to take her.”
“What was she like?”
Lysette thought about it. “Shy. A little hard to get to know. Bit of a homebody. She was a beautiful girl. You can see that in the pictures.”
Gamache nodded. “Was she nice?”
“I suppose.”
But there was reservation there.
“Go on.”
“No, it’s just that Kath found her difficult at times. I guess most mothers and daughters fight sometimes.”
“Do you mean fight? Or argue?” Gamache asked.
“Argue,” said Cloutier. “You don’t think Kathy actually hit her?”
Gamache raised his hands. “I have no idea what happened in that home. That’s why I’m asking you.”
“They argued. Quite a lot. But just words, nothing more. Like I said, that’s natural, isn’t it? Between mother and daughter. I sure did with my mother.”
Gamache nodded, remembering the foot stomping and dramatics from Annie and Reine-Marie’s narrowed eyes and tightly clamped jaw. Trying not to say something mean that she didn’t really mean.
Though Annie had no such qualms or restraint.
But now Annie and her mother were very close. Annie was a mother herself. He suspected that helped. With another child on the way. A girl.
Like Vivienne—
He brought his mind back to the job at hand.
“In what way did she find Vivienne difficult?”
“I actually don’t think it was Vivienne’s fault.” Lysette dropped her voice. “I think Kath was a little jealous of her.”
“Why?”
“Vivienne and her father were always close. From the moment she was born. Homer adored both his girls, as he called them. But there was a bond between him and Viv. Fathers and daughters, I suppose.”
“Yes,” said Gamache. Annie. Annie. Healthy and happy. And alive. And leaving …
“It was hard on Kathy. She didn’t help herself, though. The more jealous she got, the angrier and more demanding she got. It just pushed Vivienne even further away.”
“And toward her father.”
“Oui.”
A self-fulfilling prophecy, thought Gamache. How often we made our worst fears come true, by behaving as though they already were.
“He took her to soccer practice,” said Cloutier. “Coached her hockey team. When she was a child, he’d read to her at bedtime. Babar. Tintin. I’ve never seen a daughter more loved by a father, or a father more adored. I felt bad for Kathy. To be honest, I was never sure if she was jealous of Vivienne or Homer. But I do know that Vivienne left home as soon as she could.”
“Pushed out by her mother?”
Lysette nodded. “And then Kathy died. It makes this even worse for Homer. Not having Kathy here to turn to.”
“Was it a happy marriage?”
Lysette thought. Finally nodding. “It got better once Vivienne was out of the house.”
“When we visited Pauline Vachon th
“Vivienne? I don’t think so.”
“Did her mother leave her anything in her will?”
“No. She left some jewelry and a comforter that came from her grandmother, but no money. I was a liquidator. She didn’t have much, and what she had, she left to Homer. Do you mind my asking why you want to know all this? We know who killed her—we just have to get him.”
“We have to regroup,” Gamache explained. “And part of that is getting to know Vivienne better. Is it likely she was having an affair?”
“I know what Tracey said, but I can’t see that happening. She always seemed more a loner, really.”
“Did you like her?”
Cloutier frowned. “What little I saw, yes. I guess.”
It was not exactly a ringing endorsement. But then, Gamache suspected that Cloutier’s opinions were affected, perhaps even infected, by what her friend Kathy had said. It was all too easy, Gamache knew, to believe the worst of others.
He thought for a moment. “Why do you think she married Carl Tracey?”
Cloutier considered. “Small community. Not much choice. She probably thought he was the best she could do. Maybe he wasn’t so bad at first. I don’t really know.”
Gamache nodded.
Could there have been love there once? Or was Vivienne punishing her parents? Look what you made me do. Or was it a childish attempt to make her father jealous?
Everyone made mistakes. Gamache had made his fair share, especially when young. Annie had married and divorced before finding Jean-Guy. As had Jean-Guy, before finding Annie.
Vivienne’s mistake just happened to be far worse than she could have planned or imagined.
They’d come to the end of what Agent Cloutier could tell him about Vivienne. Though there was one more thing.
“Did she like dogs?”
“Pardon?”
“Dogs. Did she like them?”
“Well, yeah. Loved them. Look at Fred. She rescued him as a puppy. Found him hurt on the road. He’s been with her a lot longer than Carl.”
“Merci,” he said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
“Chief Inspector and Madame Gamache, this,” said Clara, with a slightly manic flourish, as though producing the dinner guest out of thin air, “is the famous art critic Dominica Oddly.”
Ta-da.
Then poof, Clara disappeared.
“Madame Oddly,” said Armand, shaking her hand.
“Chief Inspector?” said the critic.
“Armand.”
“Of the Sûreté? Sounds like some old Nelson Eddy/Jeanette MacDonald movie. Gamache of the Sûreté.”
Armand smiled. “That was the Mounties. No horse, I’m afraid.”
“And yet quite a lot of horseshit,” said Ruth, joining them.
Dominica’s eyes flickered to the duck in Ruth’s arms, then back up to the elderly woman’s face. Choosing to ignore the fowl, she said, “I didn’t mention before that I like your poetry.”
“Thank you. Her name’s Rosa.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck, said Rosa.
“Poetry,” Reine-Marie whispered in Ruth’s ear. “Not poultry.”
“Oh.” She turned back to Dominica, looking her up and down. “Are you related to the maid?”
Reine-Marie dropped her eyes, and Armand gazed around as though he’d never met the old woman before.
“Maid?” asked Dominica.
When Ruth began to point toward Myrna, who was talking with Clara by the fireplace, Reine-Marie jumped in. “How could you possibly know about Nelson Eddy?”
“I love classic cinema,” explained Dominica. “When the art form was just beginning.”
“And you’d consider Rose-Marie a classic?” asked Ruth. “I suspected you had no taste. That’s why I thought you’d like Clara’s art.”
Dominica laughed. “But I like your poetry. And your poultry.”
“An aberration. The exception that proves the rule.”
“Not a rule,” the critic pointed out. “An opinion.”
Dominica Oddly hadn’t yet decided if the people who chose to live in this small Canadian hamlet were wonderful and creative or simply inbred.
“Beer?” asked Gabri, bringing a bottle over to Dominica. She’d left the group and was looking around.
“Thank you. Is the duck okay? She looks strange.”
“Oh, the duck’s okay. It’s the fuck who’s strange.”
Dominica laughed. “But a great poet.”
“And Clara’s a great artist.”
To that, Dominica just raised her bottle. “Thanks for the beer.”
Across the room, Clara was trying to keep the smile on her face and the bile down as she watched the young woman, who’d just destroyed her career and was now drinking her beer and eating her food. She wouldn’t be surprised if she found this young woman sleeping in her bed.
The wolf, not at her door but in her home. In her life. And tearing it apart. With a smile.
* * *
Jean-Guy and Isabelle joined them in time for dinner.
Jean-Guy had spied Ruth and began walking toward her when Armand headed him off.
“Don’t.”
“But she needs to be told,” said Jean-Guy, watching the old poet swig scotch and talk with the critic, who seemed fascinated by her.
“Told what?”
“That the video she posted has hurt people. You. The families.” He paused. “Me. That she had no business doing that.”
“She did it out of kindness. She thought she was protecting me.”
“That doesn’t change anything. She should never have done it.”
“I agree. But it’s done now. Let it go, Jean-Guy.”
Still, as Jean-Guy passed Ruth, he whispered, “Dumb-ass.”
“Numbnuts,” she replied with a laugh. Clearly not understanding his message.
* * *
Armand was tired and wouldn’t normally have accepted Clara’s invitation. But he knew that Homer didn’t want to see him. Didn’t even want to know he was in the same house. And he’d promised the man time alone. This was one promise he could keep.
So they’d come here and left Homer and Lysette to have dinner by themselves.
Everyone at Clara’s had heard what had happened in court that day, though only Ruth had asked about it. If asking how they’d managed to make a clown-car disaster out of a sure thing was a sincere query.
Beauvoir seethed. Gamache remained quiet. Only Isabelle responded. She reached out and held the old woman’s veined hand and whispered, “Shut the fuck up.”
It delighted Ruth, who laughed. And, for once, did as she was told.
* * *
After dinner, while Armand and Reine-Marie cleared the table and Gabri made coffee, Jean-Guy took Dominica aside for a quiet word.
“Pottery?” Dominica asked when she and Beauvoir were far enough away from the others. She was clearly surprised this cop wanted to talk about ceramics of all things.
She launched into a discourse on the history of ceramic artworks, some of which survived beyond the peoples and cultures that made them. Some of which he even found interesting.
“What about in modern art?” asked Jean-Guy.
“What about it?”
“Can a person make a living from doing pottery stuff?”
She studied the man in front of her. Having grown up in the Bronx to an activist mother, Dominica found that she was wary, even privately afraid, of cops. She’d seen her brothers, her friends, her lovers harassed too often to see cops as anything other than threats.
She’d had very little respect for them and almost no contact with them socially. They lived on different continents and came from different tribes.
Gabri had told her about the murder of the young woman and what had happened in court that morning.
This officer had been involved. In charge. And now they were making small talk about pottery, over after-dinner drinks.
Though watching this cop, his intensity, Dominica Oddly began to suspect this was not actually small talk.
“Are you thinking of making a career change?” she asked, and was relieved to see him smile.
“Not to the art world. Way too dangerous.”
“Yes. I’ve heard the critics can be brutal.”
“It’s the artists who scare me.” Then his smile faded. “Ceramics,” he reminded her. “Pottery. Much of a market?”
“For art pottery? Not the kind we eat off of?”
“Oui.”
She considered. “There’s always a market at the high end. But you have to be very, very good. And very, very lucky. Lucie Rie, for instance. Highly collectible. Modern, but inspired by ancient Roman pottery. Grayson Perry in the UK is huge. Won the Turner Prize for his ceramics. Elisabeth Kley is a New York artist. Festive yet—”
“How about this?”
He brought out his phone and clicked on Photos.
Dominica Oddly felt a spike of annoyance. She wasn’t used to being interrupted. Most people were in awe of her and hung on every word.
But she realized they were not, in all probability, actually talking about pottery. They were discussing murder.
She leaned in.
Up came a picture of a vase. Then a bowl. Then another piece. One after another appeared. She asked him to stop scrolling as she examined a few. Enlarging them.
“Huh,” she finally said, looking up. “Whose is it?”
“A fellow named Carl Tracey. Ever heard of him?”
“No.” She stepped back and examined his face. “Is he the one who killed the girl?”
“We think so, yes. What do you think?”
* * *
“What do you think?” Clara asked.
She’d taken some of her friends into her studio, to show them copies of the miniatures that had been savaged by the critics. Including, and especially, the critic in her living room.
“Not bad at all,” said Gabri.
Clara felt her heart squeeze and a sort of panic wash over her. She was expecting an immediate and passionate, “They’re brilliant! She’s wrong!”
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