How the Light Gets In (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #9) - Louise Penny Page 0,15

head, then stood on tiptoes and looked in a window. As he watched, she turned on her flashlight and shone it in.

Then she turned to him.

She’d found something.

Wordlessly, Lacoste handed the flashlight to Gamache. He shone it through the window and saw a bed. A closet. An open suitcase. And an elderly woman lying on the floor. Far beyond repair.

* * *

Armand Gamache and Isabelle Lacoste waited in the small front room of Constance Ouellet’s home. Like the exterior, the interior was neat, though not antiseptic. There were books and magazines. A pair of old slippers sat by the sofa. This was no showroom reserved for special guests. Constance clearly used it. A television, the old box variety, was in a corner, and a sofa and two armchairs were turned to face it. Like everything else in the room, the chairs were well-made, once expensive but now worn. It was a comfortable, welcoming room. What his grandmother would have called a genteel room.

After they saw the body through the window, Gamache had called Marc Brault, then the two Sûreté officers had waited in their car for the Montréal force to arrive and take over. And when they did, the familiar routine started, only without the help of Chief Inspector Gamache and Inspector Lacoste. They were relegated to the front room, guests at the investigation. It felt odd, as though they were playing hookey. He and Lacoste filled the time by wandering around the modest room, noting the décor, the personal items. But touching nothing. Not even sitting.

Gamache noticed that three of the seats looked as though transparent people were still sitting in them. Like Myrna’s armchair in the bookstore, they held the shape of the people who’d used them, every day, for years and years.

There was no Christmas tree. No decorations inside the home, but why would there be? thought Gamache. She was planning to go to Three Pines for the holidays.

Through the drawn curtains, Gamache saw a glow of headlights and heard a car stop, then a door slam and the measured crunch of boots on snow.

Marc Brault let himself into the home and found Gamache and Lacoste in the front room.

“I didn’t expect to see you, Marc,” said Gamache, shaking the hand of the head of the Montréal homicide squad.

“Well, I was about to head home, but since you called in the report I thought I should come along, in case someone needed to arrest you.”

“How kind, mon ami,” smiled Gamache.

Brault turned to Lacoste. “We’re shorthanded. The holidays. Would you like to help my team?”

Lacoste knew when she was being politely dismissed. She left them and Brault turned his intelligent eyes on Gamache.

“Now, tell me about this body you found.”

“Her name’s Constance Ouellet,” said Gamache.

“Is she the woman you were worried about this afternoon? The one you thought might be the suicide?”

“Oui. She was expected yesterday for lunch. My friend waited a day, hoping she’d show up, then she called me.”

“Did you know the dead woman?”

It was an odd experience, Gamache realized, to be interrogated. For that’s what this was. Gentle. Friendly. But an interrogation.

“Not personally, no.”

Marc Brault opened his mouth to ask another question, then hesitated. He studied Gamache for a moment.

“Not personally, you say. But did you know her any other way? By reputation?”

Gamache could see Brault’s sharp mind working, listening, analyzing.

“Yes. And so did you, I think.” He waited a moment. “She’s Constance Ouellet, Marc.” He repeated the name. He’d tell Brault who she was, if necessary, but he wanted his colleague to come to it himself, if he could.

He saw his friend scan his memory, just as Gamache had done. And he saw Brault’s eyes widen.

He’d found Constance Ouellet. Brault turned and stared out the door, then he left, walking rapidly down the hall. To the bedroom and the body.

* * *

Myrna hadn’t heard anything from Gamache, but she didn’t expect to so soon. No news was good news, she told herself. Over and over.

She called Clara and asked her around for a drink.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” said Myrna, once they had their glasses of Scotch and were sitting by Myrna’s fireplace in her loft.

“What?” asked Clara, leaning toward her friend. She knew Constance was missing, and like Myrna, she was worried.

“It’s about Constance.”

“What?” She steeled herself for bad news.

“About who she really is.”

“What?” asked Clara. Her panic evaporated, replaced by confusion.

“She went by the name of Constance Pineault, but that was her mother’s maiden name. Her real name was Constance