poured herself another glass of wine and returned to the sofa.
She was at home now, having volunteered to help with the emergency measures but told she wasn’t needed.
She was both very annoyed and very relieved. Mostly she was very worried.
Lysette hadn’t been completely honest with Chief Inspector Gamache and Superintendent Lacoste about her relationship with Homer, such as it was. But also her relationship with Vivienne. Such as it was.
She wasn’t sure why, but it had seemed important not to tell them that she was Vivienne’s godmother. Perhaps because she was a god-awful godmother. Not having had one herself, Lysette had no idea what was expected. Except for her to take Vivienne, should anything happen to her parents, Kathy and Homer.
But beyond that?
The only other thing she could remember from the baptism was being told she needed to act as Viv’s guardian. To guard her. To keep the child safe.
“Well,” she mumbled. “Fucked that one up.”
After taking a long gulp, perhaps even a guzzle, of wine, she pulled her laptop onto her lap and logged in. Agent Cloutier had been told to find out everything she could about Carl Tracey. Might as well start.
She was prepared to have to do a fairly deep dive into government records but had decided, as a lark, to just put his name into a Google search.
She sat there, openmouthed, when up came a website.
“Can’t be.”
Clicking on it, she looked at the photo of the man. Definitely Tracey. Surrounded by his pottery.
“Shit,” she said, and clicked on more links. To exhibitions he’d had. To a buying link. To a brief bio that mentioned his wife, Vivienne, and their dog, Fred.
Like most of the stuff on the Web, it was bullshit. The life people wanted people to see. The neat front yard, not the squalor behind the front door.
She snapped the laptop closed in disgust and, putting it on the floor, she lay back and grabbed the TV remote. But then she looked down at the slender rectangle sitting on the floor below her. And she got to wondering.
How did a man without internet have a website?
* * *
Isabelle Lacoste ignored the phone call from Lysette Cloutier.
It was her strict policy to leave work behind, at least until the kids were fed and in bed. Unless the call was from Monsieur Gamache or Jean-Guy.
Besides, she was on leave.
It was only after the third attempt that Isabelle picked up.
“Oui, allô?”
“I’m so sorry to disturb you, patron.” The voice was just the tiniest bit off. Not slurred. If anything, the words were too well enunciated. Too precise.
“What can I do for you?”
“Carl Tracey has a web page.” And then came a sound between a laugh and a snort.
“Yes.”
“But he doesn’t have internet. He also has an Instagram account. That’s active. So how does he do it?”
Now Lacoste’s mind was engaged. How did he do it? There was only one answer—
“He has a webmaster,” said Cloutier. “Some woman named Pauline. She must manage it all for him. Post for him.”
“Okay,” said Lacoste, sitting at her own laptop and putting in Carl Tracey’s name.
“Dinner,” her husband called.
“Be right there.”
“You’re coming here?” asked Cloutier with alarm, looking at the almost empty wine bottle and empty bag of chips.
“No, I was speaking to my husband.” Putting her hand over the receiver, she called, “Start without me.” Then she returned to Cloutier. “Is there anything incriminating on the sites?”
“Not that I can see, but there might be a private Instagram account that they use, just the two of them.”
“That no one else can see? That’s possible?”
“Yup.”
“How would we know?”
“We wouldn’t, unless we asked and she told us.”
“And to get access to the private account?” asked Lacoste. By now she’d found the public Instagram account. It was pretty standard, clearly meant for marketing his pottery.
“Need to be invited.”
“Why would they have a private account?” Lacoste asked.
“Dunno.” Then Cloutier thought. “Private messages. That’s why.”
She sounded both triumphant and a little surprised she’d managed that answer.
“Things they don’t want public,” said Lacoste.
Cloutier sang, “Someone’s trying to hide their privates.” Then she definitely snorted.
Lacoste looked at the phone. She’d mentored the older woman since she’d been transferred, kicking and screaming, from accounting into homicide. Never once had the accountant snorted. Or even made a joke. She’d barely smiled.
She’s drunk, Lacoste knew. Now, why would Lysette Cloutier get drunk?
“Are you all right?”
“Just fine.” Now Cloutier sounded insulted. “I thought you’d be pleased about this.”
Now she sounded hurt and a little irritated.
“I am. Look, it’s been a long, difficult