A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15) - Louise Penny Page 0,121
strong coffee, and took a mug over to her kitchen window.
It was dawn. But barely light. Huge flakes only April could produce were falling. Plump with moisture, they hit the ground and melted. But not all. Some stayed behind.
A thin layer of white covered the grass, the road. It clung to the three huge pines. The cars and bench.
It should have been beautiful, except that by April most yearned to look out and see green. Not winter, clinging on.
Clara returned to her studio, but instead of going in, she snapped off the light and closed the door.
Then, needing fresh air, she took Leo for a walk. Their feet making dark tracks in the bright snow.
* * *
While Isabelle and Jean-Guy read over the files, Armand showered, shaved, and changed into slacks and shirt and tie. Quietly. So as not to awaken Reine-Marie.
Gray light and a cool breeze were now coming through the windows.
Before going downstairs, he looked in on Homer, to make sure he was all right and to see if Fred was hungry and eager to go out. Homer was asleep, and Fred just lifted his head, then lowered his gray muzzle to his paws.
Armand returned with food and water bowls, which he placed on the floor, then softly closed the door.
When he returned to the living room, he looked up the numbers for Agents Cameron and Cloutier in the Sûreté files. He reached for the phone, but that was as far as he got.
“When you’re ready, patron.”
Jean-Guy’s voice broke into Armand’s thoughts. Broke his concentration. His hand still resting on the phone, Armand looked over and saw Jean-Guy and Isabelle staring at him. Waiting for him.
“Alors,” said Jean-Guy, adjusting his glasses. “We went through Carl Tracey’s statements and cross-checked with those of others, including Pauline Vachon and Homer Godin.”
“And made a list of what it might mean if he was telling the truth,” said Isabelle.
Gamache nodded. Listening. He had his own notes beside him on the sofa.
“He said she was alive when he left her,” said Jean-Guy. “If that’s true, then someone else murdered her. If that’s the case, my money’s on Pauline Vachon. With or without Tracey’s knowledge.”
“But probably with,” said Isabelle.
By habit, they glanced at Gamache to gauge his reaction, but the Chief was noncommittal. Simply listening. Though it seemed to Jean-Guy that Gamache was struggling to remain focused.
“Is something wrong?”
“Non, non, go on. Pauline Vachon. I’m following.”
Jean-Guy glanced quickly at Isabelle, who’d also noticed the uncharacteristic distraction.
“I’ll get to that later,” said Jean-Guy, “but for now let’s go back to what Carl Tracey told you when you first visited his home. Before Vivienne was found. He said they’d both been drinking. That was later confirmed by the autopsy report on Vivienne’s blood-alcohol level.”
“Oui,” said Isabelle. “So that much was true. He said she was drunk. That was an exaggeration. They had an argument. She told him the baby wasn’t his.”
“This’s directly contradicted by Monsieur Godin,” Jean-Guy pointed out. “In his statement, he said Vivienne wanted to sneak away. That she was afraid of her husband. She’d never have provoked him like that.”
“So does that mean Homer was lying?” asked Isabelle.
“It could mean that Vivienne meant to sneak away,” said Jean-Guy, “as she told her father, but then had a drink. Maybe for courage. But it backfired. She had too many, and things got out of control.”
“So let’s say Vivienne had just enough alcohol to lower her defenses,” said Lacoste. “She said things she hadn’t planned to. What does Tracey do? He hits her. Then he said he left her, alive, and went into his studio to start a new piece but passed out instead. When he woke up, Vivienne was gone.”
It was the picture of a catastrophically unhappy home. Of a sick relationship. That could not possibly continue. And into which a baby was going to be born.
Unless something changed.
“Can that be true?” asked Jean-Guy. “Are we supposed to believe that Tracey left her alive?”
“For now,” said Gamache. “For argument’s sake. Yes.”
They sat quietly, trying to argue.
“So,” Jean-Guy finally said. “Who killed her if not Tracey?”
They looked at Gamache.
He had no definite answers, though he had spent the better part of the night looking into the dark corners of the case. Beyond the malice, to where some fact, some feral truth, might be waiting to be found.
“Pauline Vachon,” said Isabelle. “She had motive. She wants desperately to get out, to have a better life. And she’s brighter than Tracey.”