The Nature of the Beast (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #11) - Louise Penny Page 0,68

seeing. The back of her little boy as he ran out into the sunshine. Never to return.

“We looked in his room but didn’t find anything,” said Beauvoir. “Has anything changed in there? Is there anything new?”

“Like what?” Evie asked.

Like the firing mechanism to a weapon of mass destruction, thought Beauvoir. Or plans for Armageddon.

“Just anything,” he said. “Did he bring anything home recently?”

“Not that I noticed.”

Isabelle Lacoste reached into her pocket, brought out an evidence bag, and placed it on the table between them. And waited for a reaction.

Al picked it up and his brows came together. “Where did you find this?”

“Is it yours?”

“I think so.”

Evie took the cassette out of his hand and read the label.

“Pete Seeger. It’s ours.”

“How can you be sure?” asked Beauvoir.

“Who else would have this?” she asked, holding it up. “Besides, the label’s torn where it got stuck in the cassette player in the truck.”

“One of Laurent’s favorites?” asked Lacoste.

Evie smiled slightly. “No. He hated it. It took a couple of months for Al to pry it out of the machine, so it was all we played when we were driving.”

“He liked it at first,” said Al.

“Yes, but even I grew to hate it. Where did you find it?” Evie asked.

“On the ground by the gun,” said Lacoste. “Did you notice it missing?”

Both Al and Evie shook their heads.

“Why would Laurent take it there?” Evie asked.

“Well, either he did or his killer did,” said Beauvoir.

It took a moment for the implication to penetrate, but when it did Al Lepage stood and faced Beauvoir.

“Are you accusing us? Me?”

“I’m stating what must be obvious,” said Beauvoir, also getting to his feet. “Why would Laurent have a cassette with music he hated?”

“To hide it?” asked Evie, standing beside her husband. Holding his hand not for comfort but to stop him from doing something they’d all regret.

Here was a man who might hate violence, Beauvoir knew, but who was capable of it.

“We’ve heard the rumors,” said Al. “They think I killed my own child. Some are even saying Laurent wasn’t mine. That Evie…” He was overcome and couldn’t go on. The massive man stood within six inches of Beauvoir, staring at him. Not angry anymore, but desperate. If Al Lepage was a mountain, they were witnessing a landslide.

“Al,” said Evie, pulling him away. “It doesn’t matter what people say. We have to help the police find out who did this to Laurent. That’s all that matters.” She turned from her husband to Lacoste. “You have to believe it wasn’t us. Please.”

The other Sûreté agents came up from the basement and shook their heads. Nothing.

Chief Inspector Lacoste picked up the cassette. “Thank you for your time.”

“May I take this with me?” asked Beauvoir, holding up Al Lepage’s record. “I’ll be careful with it.”

Al waved at him, dismissing the man, the record, the question.

Clara walked with Lacoste and Beauvoir to the cars.

“You don’t really think Al or Evie had anything to do with Laurent’s death, do you?” she asked.

“I think people can do terrible things,” said Beauvoir. “Lash out. Hurt or even kill someone they love. That man is coming apart.”

“From grief,” said Clara.

“From something,” said Beauvoir.

Once in the car, Beauvoir turned to Lacoste. “Did you notice anything strange about the Lepages?”

Lacoste had been quiet, thinking. Now she nodded.

“Neither of them asked about the gun,” she said.

Beauvoir nodded. “Exactly.”

* * *

They spent the balance of the afternoon following up on the interviews and checking facts and details.

Isabelle saw Gamache leave his home with Henri, first glancing in the direction of the old train station, then turning away and walking out of sight.

A few minutes later she found him on the bench above the village, Henri sitting by his side.

“You aren’t avoiding me, are you?” she asked, joining Gamache on the bench. “Because this isn’t a very good hiding place.”

He smiled. His face creasing with amusement.

“Perhaps I am,” he admitted. “It’s not personal.”

“It’s professional,” she said, and nodded. “It must be strange not to be in charge of the investigation.”

“It is, a little,” he admitted. “It’s hard not to slip back into the old roles. Especially since—” He spread his large hands, and she understood the enormity of his struggle. “Laurent.”

She nodded. This murder had hit home.

“You need your space, Isabelle. It’s your investigation. I have no desire to return, but—”

“But it’s in the blood.”

She glanced down at his hands. Those expressive hands. That she’d held, as he lay dying. As he’d sputtered to her what they both knew would be the