A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15) - Louise Penny Page 0,116
river. The thing is, I looked it up, or tried, and couldn’t find it anywhere.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, does it exist?”
“Does it matter? Isn’t the power in the belief and not the proof?” She looked at him, hard. “Wouldn’t you want to believe, Armand? If it had been Annie?”
In the silence that followed, he met her eyes.
“Clare, Clare,” she said, her voice shaky and her eyes steady, “do not despair. Between the bridge and the water, I was there.”
* * *
“Does she always carry the duck around?” Dominica Oddly asked Reine-Marie as they left to walk home.
The cold April night air seeped past Dominica’s light coat and into her bones. She wrapped her arms around herself.
“Always,” said Reine-Marie. “Would you leave your child behind?”
“Child…?” Dominica began to dismiss the statement but then heard Rosa muttering and saw the resemblance between mother and duck.
They took a few steps in silence before Reine-Marie spoke again.
“You do know how much your review hurt Clara, don’t you?”
“It was brutal,” said Olivier.
“I was just telling the truth.”
“All truth with malice in it,” said Ruth.
“But it’s still the truth.”
“Maybe,” said Reine-Marie. “But you need to also own the malice.”
* * *
Jean-Guy dropped back to where Armand and Isabelle were walking, a few paces behind the others.
Isabelle was tired, and her limp was more pronounced.
“I asked her”—Jean-Guy indicated Dominica Oddly—“about Tracey’s pottery. She said it was quite good. Showed actual promise.”
“Jesus,” said Isabelle, “don’t tell Clara that. Her head’ll explode.”
“I was thinking that might be another motive,” said Jean-Guy. “To kill Vivienne.”
“How?” asked Isabelle.
“If Tracey knew he was about to be a success?” said Jean-Guy. “He sure wouldn’t want to share it with Vivienne.”
“But isn’t ‘success’ relative? Even successful ceramicists couldn’t make much money, could they?” asked Isabelle.
“They can make hundreds of thousands, even millions, if they become collectible,” said Jean-Guy, as though he knew that from experience.
“Does she think Tracey’s likely to be that successful?” asked Armand.
“Not sure. She said it’s possible. Takes a lot of luck, of course.”
“I wonder,” said Isabelle, then lapsed into silence.
“Wonder what?”
“If a scandal could be considered luck.”
“A scandal like being a murder suspect. Shit.” Beauvoir broke away and jogged up to Dominica Oddly. “I have a question for you.”
“Yes?”
“If an up-and-coming artist is accused of murder, then let go on a technicality, what would that do to his career?”
“Are you kidding?” she asked. Staring at him. “You’re not seriously thinking—”
“The question. Please answer it.”
They’d stopped, and now Armand and Isabelle joined them.
Dominica Oddly thought about it, but not for long. “He wouldn’t be the first artist to benefit from something like that. The cult of celebrity can be pretty perverse. Just look at—”
“Tracey,” Jean-Guy reminded her, before the lecture began. “Would getting away with murder help him?”
She nodded. “Probably. But how would he know he’d get away with it?”
“Maybe it didn’t matter,” said Isabelle.
“Would matter to him,” said Oddly. “His art might start selling for tens of thousands, or more, but what good would it do him if he’s executed?”
“We don’t actually kill prisoners in Canada,” said Lacoste.
“Are you sure?” asked Oddly.
“What’re you thinking?” Gamache asked Lacoste.
“Who would benefit,” she whispered to Gamache and Beauvoir, “if Vivienne was murdered and her suddenly famous artist husband was convicted?”
“Pauline Vachon,” said Beauvoir. “You think she’s that clever?”
“You met her, what do you think?”
* * *
Myrna and Billy helped Clara clean up, though most of it had already been done by the others.
“You okay?” Myrna asked her friend.
“Just fine.”
“Pour yourself a vat of wine, cut a huge slice of chocolate cake, sit by the fire, and know you’re loved. You and your art. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“I’ll walk you home,” said Billy as they put on their coats to leave.
“That’s all right. It’s not far.”
“I know. I’d like to.” He put on his gloves and hat and was glad Myrna couldn’t see his face.
“Billy—” Myrna began as they walked along the road.
“Don’t say it. Please.”
If only he hadn’t allowed himself to imagine their lives together. What might have been. The quiet nights. Reading. Cooking. Having friends over. Meals in the bistro. Together.
Growing old. Together.
He left her at her door, then got in his truck and drove home. Alone.
* * *
Clara took Myrna’s advice, as she almost always did.
It helps, she thought, as she cut herself a huge wedge of cake and carried it into the living room, to have a wise friend. Who can bake.
As she sat in front of the fireplace with Leo, Clara tried to clear her mind. But found it cluttered with Dominica Oddly. And that