by Louise Penny
“What?” asked Jean-Guy, not liking the sound of that either.
“Suppose Carl Tracey and Pauline Vachon were telling the truth.”
“Oh, come on,” said Jean-Guy. “You’re kidding.”
“You think I’m joking?” Gamache stared hard at Jean-Guy. “Just suppose that this exchange”—Gamache held up the page and shook it—“is about Tracey’s pottery. He was out of clay and went to the art-supply store. The Instagram post originated from there. We know that. And we found a new bag of clay, unopened, in his studio. Stuff’s in the bag. Everything’s ready. Will be done tonight. He might’ve been referring to new works.”
They stared at him in disbelief. Did Gamache really think that was possible?
“So you’re saying Tracey didn’t pack Vivienne’s bag?” asked Jean-Guy. “That Vivienne did, and she tossed in those abortion pills even though she was well along in her pregnancy? The clothes she packed were for summer, even though it was minus five degrees that night. Why’d she do that?”
Gamache turned to Isabelle. “You answered that yesterday.”
“I did?”
“Oui. And so did Madame Fleury, when we talked with her about the shelters.”
Gamache looked at Jean-Guy, though try as he might, Jean-Guy couldn’t come up with anything.
But Isabelle did. “You mean my overnight bag. I keep it in the car, in case.”
“Exactement,” said Gamache. “In case. Simone Fleury said many abused women pack a bag and keep it hidden. Sometimes for months—years, even. Ready to grab when the moment is right.”
A knot was forming between Jean-Guy’s brows.
Was it possible?
And suddenly Vivienne came into stark relief. A shattered, frightened young woman. Her bag packed. Waiting for her chance. Waiting. Enduring the loneliness, the humiliations. The beatings.
And when she was pregnant, deciding she really did need to leave. For her baby.
This one she’d save. This one she’d protect from Carl Tracey.
It would explain the timing. And it would explain the clothing.
“She packed in the summer,” he said. “And the bag sat in her car since then.”
“Until Saturday,” said Isabelle.
“I think so, but there’s a problem with that, too,” said Gamache. “How did it get into the river? Would Carl Tracey or whoever killed her know it was in her car? Presumably he didn’t realize before, so why would he look for a bag after he killed her?”
“She must’ve taken it out of the car with her,” said Isabelle.
“But why?” asked Jean-Guy, imagining that cold night. On the bridge.
“Maybe she was getting into another car,” said Isabelle. “Her lover’s?”
“But wasn’t she going to drive to her father?” asked Jean-Guy.
“She might’ve changed her mind,” said Isabelle. “Tracey also said she told him she was going to ‘the’ father, not ‘her’ father.”
“But how would the lover know she’d be there?” asked Jean-Guy. “Vivienne only called those two numbers. And one of them was a wrong number.”
“It might’ve been prearranged,” said Isabelle. “Every Saturday night. Tracey would either be in the local bar or passed out drunk at home. They’d meet on the bridge. Maybe that’s why she told her father not to meet her. Her plan was to talk to her lover, tell him about the baby, and with luck he’d take her away. She’d call her father later and change the plans.”
“So she goes there,” said Jean-Guy, “meets her lover at their normal place, takes the bag from her car to put in his, and he kills her. Why?”
“The baby,” said Isabelle. “Vivienne might’ve really believed it was his. He didn’t want the complication in his life, the burden. He might’ve pushed her away, too hard, and she fell through the railing.”
It fit. Some loose ends still. Like Fred. But the rest fit.
“Shouldn’t Cloutier and Cameron be here by now?” asked Beauvoir, looking at the clock. “You called them more than an hour ago. Cameron for sure should’ve arrived.”
“I didn’t call them,” said Gamache.
“Why not?”
Gamache paused to corral his thoughts. This was delicate but needed to be said.
“We talked about jealousy. Agent Cloutier said it turned Vivienne’s mother against her own daughter. That bond between Homer and Vivienne was so strong, no one else could get in. The only way to break it was to get rid of Vivienne.”
“But Mom’s dead,” said Jean-Guy. “She didn’t kill her daughter out of jealousy.”
“Non, I don’t mean her. I mean someone else who wanted a relationship with Homer. But who might’ve also run up against that unbreakable bond. Someone who might also need to get rid of Vivienne.”
“Lysette Cloutier?” asked Isabelle. “You think she killed Vivienne?”
Clearly, Isabelle did not.
“I don’t know,” said Gamache. “I doubt it, but since we’re looking at other possibilities, that one comes to mind. How many murders have we investigated where a relationship was at the center? Where jealousy had turned to hatred. To murder.”
“We need to speak with her,” said Jean-Guy.
“Let me do it,” said Isabelle.
“There’s something else.” Gamache handed Jean-Guy his notebook.
As Jean-Guy read, his eyes opened and his brows shot up. Then he handed it over to Isabelle, who looked at it, then over to Gamache.
They knew then why Chief Inspector Gamache had seemed distracted. And why he’d been so insistent they consider other options.
“I think we should call them now,” said Jean-Guy. “Don’t you?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
While they waited for the two Sûreté agents to arrive, Lacoste went back over the forensic evidence. Beauvoir read the reports on Vivienne’s finances.
And Gamache went for a walk. To think.
He strolled once around the village green. His hands clasped behind his back, he watched Henri and Gracie playing in the mud.
Reine-Marie might not thank him for this, he thought.
“Come along,” he called to them, and together they walked up the road out of town. Stopping on the crest of the hill, he turned to admire the view, which stretched past Québec and well into the Green Mountains of Vermont.
The snow was heading off somewhere else but had left a centimeter behind. It was, he knew, almost certainly the last snowfall. The end of a season. And the beginning of another.
He brushed off the bench that he and Reine-Marie had placed there for all to rest on.
As he did, familiar words were uncovered, etched deep into the wood.
Surprised by Joy
And below that:
A Brave Man in a Brave Country
Marilynne Robinson’s words always made him think of his father and mother.
“I’ll pray that you grow up a brave man in a brave country,” he whispered. “I will pray you find a way to be useful.”
Would their prayers for him have been answered?
But mostly he thought of his grandchildren. Florence, Zora, Honoré.
And soon, a new granddaughter.
He closed his eyes. Briefly. And tried not to think that the country they’ll grow up in won’t be his own.
Then, opening his eyes, he looked at the white world and thought of the white whale. That devoured reason.
All that most maddens and torments; all that stirs up the lees of things; all truth with malice in it.
That was where the quote ended, for him. He didn’t know the rest. But in the small hours, in front of the fireplace, while Reine-Marie and Homer slept, while Henri snored at his feet and Gracie ran free in her dreams, he’d looked up that quote and read the rest.
All that cracks the sinews and cakes the brain; all the subtle demonisms of life and thought; all evil …
It was difficult, in this peaceful place, looking out over the quiet little village just waking up, to ima
But it existed. He met it every day. The subtle demons of life and thought.
That turned something horrific into something acceptable. That turned a crime into a punishment. That somehow made it okay to push a young, pregnant woman off a bridge to her death.
That twisted reality, until malice and truth were intertwined and indistinguishable.
Had the demons caught up with Lysette Cloutier, in love with Homer? Had they caught up with Cameron? With Pauline Vachon? Carl Tracey?
He was honest enough to recognize that it wasn’t just murderers who harbored those demons. Cops did, too. He did, too.
His prejudices. And preconceptions. His blinders. And blunders. And outright mistakes.
He heard a car approach. Then slow down. And stop. He heard Henri’s and Gracie’s collars clink as they raised their heads and looked.
The car idled by the side of the road.
Then silence.
Gamache did not look behind him but continued to stare off into the distance, into the wilderness.
He felt the presence first, then saw it out of the corner of his eye.
“Clare, Clare, do not despair.” Gamache spoke the words slowly, deliberately, sending them out over the peaceful village below. “Between the bridge and the water, I was there.”
Then he turned and faced the person standing beside the bench.
“And so were you.”
* * *
Clara stared at the closed door to her studio. Then went in.
Turning on the lights, she stood directly in front of her easel. Arms at her sides. Shoulders back. Almost at attention. A coward caught. Called out. And facing what was coming.
She lifted her chin in defiance and stared at her works. Daring them to do their worst.
And they did.
As she watched with growing dismay, the tiny paintings shifted before her eyes and went from something brilliant to something less than brilliant. And another shift.
My God, Clara thought. They were right.
The critics.
The gallery owners.
Dominica Oddly.
The assholes on social media. So filled with bile they were easily dismissed. One described her as a painter whose art began with an f. That juvenile comment got hundreds of retweets. Someone else said she was an artist who painted only in brown.
And she saw now that it was true.
The miniatures were shit.
It wasn’t that she’d tried to be bold and failed, it was that she hadn’t tried. Exactly as Oddly had said. She’d whipped them off without thought. Without feeling. Without caring. Fooling herself into believing that because it was a new medium, new territory for her, it was a brave experiment.
It was not.
She had betrayed the gift. Cheapened it.
Sitting down on the stool, she felt the lump forming in her throat.
When she was able to move, she took the miniatures off the easel, got out a hammer. And went to work.
Then she placed a clean canvas in front of her. And stared at it. White. White. It grew larger and larger. Huge. It was taunting her, daring her to approach.
* * *
“You’d better sit down,” said Gamache.
And Bob Cameron did.
He felt the holster on his belt push into him. As though reminding him it was there.
There’d been something in Chief Inspector Beauvoir’s tone when he’d called and invited him to the Gamache home. Not the incident room, as he’d expected. And it was put in the form of an invitation. As though he weren’t an agent to be ordered but a civilian to be invited.
He’d suspected then, but now, looking at Chief Inspector Gamache, Cameron knew. That they knew.
“Does your wife know?” Gamache asked.
“Non. How did you…?”
“The phone number. Your personal cell phone. Not your home number, not your work number. But you have another cell phone. When I looked up your file this morning, to call you, there it was. It’s a single number off the one Vivienne was calling over and over on the day she died. She was calling you. You must’ve known we’d find out.”
“Why would you? You were so focused on Carl Tracey, I thought you wouldn’t get there.”
What Cameron said was true. With, Gamache recognized, a touch of malice.
“Yes,” said Gamache. “That was a mistake. Being corrected now.” He put out his hand. “Your weapon, please.”
“You know I didn’t kill Vivienne, don’t you?”
“I know you lied. I know you were her lover. I know you were on that bridge.”
“But not that night.”
Still, Gamache’s gloved hand was held out. Steady. It would not move until Cameron’s weapon was placed in it.
“Are you afraid I’ll use it, patron?” asked Cameron.
“Give it to me,” said Gamache.
“I didn’t kill her.”
“Give it to me.”
And finally Cameron reached behind him and brought out the gun. And placed it in the Chief Inspector’s hand.
“Merci.” Gamache put it in his coat pocket. “Before we get to how it ended, tell me how it began.”
* * *
Superintendent Lacoste pointed to a chair at the kitchen table.
They’d moved from the living room into the kitchen, where Homer, still in his bedroom, couldn’t hear what they were saying.
“Sit down, please.”
Agent Cloutier raised her brows but did as she was told.
Her mentor stared at her for what seemed an eternity. Chief Inspector Beauvoir was also there. Looking at her. His face stern. His eyes watchful.
She knew that look.
It was the one he gave suspects. She didn’t have to wait long to have it confirmed.
“As you know, Agent Cloutier, when we investigate a murder, we look for motive. You have a motive.”
“Pardon?”
“Homer Godin.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Of course you do. You understand too well. I can see it in your eyes.”
Agent Cloutier was silent.
“Tell me about your relationship with Homer Godin,” said Lacoste.
“There is no—”
“Enough. It’s time for the truth. You clearly care for him. His wife’s been gone for five years now. He’s free. You’re free. Have you told him how you feel? Or is something, or someone, stopping you?”
But still Cloutier remained mute. Partly out of fear of saying too much. But also, now, she found herself incapable of describing feelings that had run so deep, for so long. That had been the undercurrent of her life, for so long. And with each passing day, week, year, getting stronger.
She could feel herself growing fonder and fonder of her best friend’s husband. Even while Kathy was alive. And yes, part of it was the tenderness Homer showed his infant daughter. His patience. His gentleness with her, so in contrast to Kathy’s abruptness. Her efficient care. Her rules and rigid structure for the day.
Kathy couldn’t help it. It was who she was. And Homer was who he was. And Lysette was who she was.
She never acted on her feelings, but she did visit when she could. To see Kathy. To see her goddaughter. To see him.
And then, after Kathy died, that heady mixture of guilt and excitement. Of hope and longing.
Allowing herself to imagine what life might be like. If—
And then, that first time she’d caught him looking at her with tenderness. That first small smile.
“What happened, Lysette?” Lacoste asked.
Even though she knew it was a trap, Lysette was too tired to avoid it. And she realized she wanted to talk. About Homer. About Vivienne. About what happened.
* * *
“You know how it started,” said Cameron.
“And you know you need to tell me yourself,” said Gamache.
Cameron, more used to action than talk, put up his hands in an instinctive defensive maneuver, then lowered them. He searched his vocabulary for unaccustomed words. Some way to describe feelings. Overwhelming. Unexpected. Unwanted.
From the moment she’d opened the door and he’d looked into Vivienne’s eyes, he’d been branded. The emotions painful and permanent.
Gamache looked into that broken face and felt his pain. It was, Gamache knew, a hurt that went far back. Deep into Bob Cameron’s earliest memories.
Here was a man born into chaos. Into abuse. Forged by it. Molded and shaped, literally, by it.
Some with similar upbringings grew up to be abusive themselves.
But some found the space between the bridge and the water.
Gamache had seen this man play football. Had seen his almost maniacal need to protect his quarterback. Even taking penalty after penalty to hold off those who’d hurt his teammate.
It had cost him his job.
But Bob Cameron couldn’t help it, Gamache suspected. It was ingrained, as surely as those scars and smashed bones.
The need to protect. First his mother and siblings. Then his teammates.
And now he was a Sûreté officer. Protecting the population.
And Vivienne Godin?
“How did it start?” Gamache asked again.
“The moment she opened the door that first time,” said Cameron. “She was polite. Dignified, even. She thanked me for coming but asked me not to arrest her husband. That it would only make things worse.”
He paused, to remember. It seemed so long ago. And he was getting confused now, with images of his sister’s face. His mother’s. His own, in the mirror. Damage that could never, ever be repaired.
Gamache waited, giving the man the space he needed.
“She smiled then. And her lip split open, where he’d hit her.” Cameron raised his finger to his own lip and touched it. “It bled. It caused her pain, but she still smiled. At me. I knew then.”
“What did you know?”
“That I loved her.”
“But you didn’t know her.”
“I knew enough.”
Gamache paused. And believed him. “What did you do?”
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