A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15) - Louise Penny Page 0,57
didn’t tell him,” said Lacoste. “We only have Tracey’s word for that.”
Beauvoir was considering. “Then why would he say it? He gave us a motive. He’s clever enough to know that.”
“He told the Chief that they were drunk,” said Lacoste. “Maybe she didn’t mean to tell him but it just came out. Maybe it wasn’t even true.”
Beauvoir nodded. He, more than most, understood the corrosive effect of booze. How it stole judgment and inhibitions until things were said and done that could never be unsaid. Undone. Alcohol stole dignity and friends and family and livelihoods before finally taking the life.
Alcohol was a thief. And often a murderer.
“She wanted to hurt him before she left,” said Lacoste.
“She couldn’t match him physically, but she could hurt him with words.”
The aimed word … like a soft bullet, thought Beauvoir, glancing up at the photo of Ruth scrutinizing them.
“Sober Vivienne probably knew better, but drunk…?” said Beauvoir. “The toxicology report will tell us more.”
“There’s something else,” said Lacoste. “The clothes she packed don’t make sense.”
“Why not?”
“Where’re the sweaters? The heavy shirts? The socks?”
“There’re shirts and jeans.”
“Summer weight. It’s freezing out. Why take those?”
“Maybe she planned to go south. Florida.”
“Maybe,” said Lacoste.
“Or…?”
“Or maybe she packed in a hurry. Just grabbing things. Or—”
“Maybe she didn’t pack the bag,” said Beauvoir. “Maybe he did.”
Lacoste nodded. “To make it look like she’d gone away. No woman in her right mind would take those clothes in early April.”
“The problem we’re going to have,” he said, “is proving that Tracey packed the bag. Even if we find his DNA and fingerprints on the items, his defense would argue they were there because they lived together.”
“Oui,” said Lacoste. “But if his prints are on that”—she pointed to the pill bottle—“we might have something. I think he tossed it in not knowing what it was.”
“Not exactly a smoking gun,” said Beauvoir, but he could feel hope rising, if not faith and charity. This might be the first nail.
* * *
Lysette Cloutier sat in the Sûreté detachment. She’d chosen a desk with direct line of sight into the cells. Where she could watch Homer.
The sandwiches and coffee she’d taken in were untouched.
Lysette had stayed with him for a while, but he seemed lost in his own world. Oblivious to her presence. Even, she felt, a little annoyed by it.
He clearly wanted just to be left alone.
If she couldn’t comfort him, there was one thing she could do.
Glancing around, making sure she wasn’t being watched, she went online. Found Carl Tracey’s Instagram feed. And typed.
Reviewing it, going over each word. Changing one, adjusting another. Until it was just right.
Then she hit send and tapped the pen on the desk, waiting for a reply.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
NouveauGalerie: Hello CarlTracey Love your ceramic pieces. Am a gallery owner looking for exciting new talent. Can we meet?
The phone woke Armand with a start. He was instantly alert and grabbed it before it could wake up Reine-Marie.
“Oui, allô?”
“Sorry to disturb you,” said Beauvoir.
“Not at all,” said Armand, rubbing his hand across his face and feeling the stubble. “You have news?”
“The search warrant has come through.”
“Excellent. I’ll meet you at the car in…” He checked the bedside clock. It was 9:40 in the morning. He’d been asleep for just over an hour, but felt refreshed. “Twenty minutes.”
Armand quickly and quietly showered and shaved, not wanting to wake up Reine-Marie, though he did check and make sure she was okay.
The bruise now spread across the left side of her face, but there was little swelling. Still, it hurt him to see it.
She roused and opened her eyes, giving a start on seeing his face so close to hers.
“Everything all right?” she mumbled, still half asleep.
“I’m just going out. You okay? That must hurt.”
He reached out but didn’t touch it. Not wanting to add to the pain he knew she must be feeling.
“Well, I now have a much better idea, mon coeur, what you’ve gone through.”
“Me? Oh, no,” he said with a smile. “Anytime a fist comes even close, I drop to the ground and play dead. Let Jean-Guy sort it out.”
“Belly up, feet and hands to the ceiling, like a bug. Yes, I’ve seen that. You also do it when Ruth enters a room.”
“I’ll get you a Tylenol,” he said, smiling, and returned a minute later with a couple of pills and a glass of water. She was sitting up in bed now, and he sat beside her.
They talked about Annie and Jean-Guy’s news. A brother or sister for Honoré. Another grandchild