The Nature of the Beast (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #11) - Louise Penny Page 0,77
the next morning. It was from the local detachment of the Sûreté.
“Since you’re already here, Chief Inspector, I thought you’d want to know.”
“Know what?”
“A body was found this morning.”
Lacoste grabbed a pen and motioned to Beauvoir, who came over.
“Who?”
She wrote the name on her notepad, and next to it the word murdered. And heard Jean-Guy whisper, “Merde.”
“Where?” Lacoste wrote an address. “Is there a team there?”
“The first response just reported in. I’ve told them not to touch anything.”
Inspector Beauvoir had moved over to his desk and she could hear him calling for a Scene of Crime unit from Montréal.
“Bludgeoned to death at home,” the local agent said. “The place has been ransacked. Looks like robbery. I’ve dispatched an ambulance, of course, but it’s too late.”
“Call the coroner,” said Lacoste.
“Already done. She’ll meet you there.”
“Good.”
She hung up and looked down at her notepad, where a name was written and circled.
Ten minutes later they were kneeling beside the body of Antoinette Lemaitre.
CHAPTER 23
“I recognize her,” said Sharon Harris, the coroner. “She runs the Knowlton Playhouse, doesn’t she?”
Dr. Harris and Isabelle Lacoste were kneeling beside Antoinette, who was lying on her back, staring at the ceiling. Surprised. Jean-Guy Beauvoir was crouched on the other side of the body.
“Oui,” said Chief Inspector Lacoste. “The Estrie Players.”
“They were doing the Fleming play,” said Dr. Harris, her gloved hands swiftly checking the body. “Community’s in a bit of an uproar about it.”
The coroner grimaced as she spoke Fleming’s name, as though she’d put a rotten trout into her mouth. Here was a woman who worked with corpses in all states of decay and what disgusted her? The very mention of John Fleming.
The grimace was, Lacoste knew, involuntary. Like being tapped on the kneecap. Flinching at the mention of Fleming was a healthy human reaction.
“Not much damage that I can see,” said the coroner. “I don’t want to move her until your forensics people have arrived, but from what I see she’s been dead less than twelve hours, but more than six.”
“Between nine thirty last night and two thirty this morning,” said Beauvoir. “And cause of death?”
“At a guess, I’d say that.” The coroner leaned close to Antoinette’s head and pointed to the back of her skull where her purple hair was clotted and matted a deep red.
“It looks like a single catastrophic blow. Crushed the skull. She probably didn’t know what hit her.”
“And what did?” asked Lacoste.
They looked around and quickly found blood staining the corner of the hearth.
Beauvoir leaned closer. “Looks like it.”
He stood and stepped aside so that the coroner and Lacoste could get a better look. They stared at the stone corner, then back to Antoinette, glassy-eyed and shocked.
“She was either pushed or fell backward, hitting her head,” said Lacoste, and both Dr. Harris and Inspector Beauvoir nodded agreement.
“Murder,” said the coroner. “But perhaps not intentional. Looks like she might’ve surprised someone robbing her home.”
“There doesn’t seem to have been forced entry,” said Lacoste. “But that could mean nothing.”
As often as she’d been to this area of Québec, it still amazed her that people didn’t lock their doors. Perhaps when they went to bed, but beyond that anyone could walk in and out. Sometimes people survived. Sometimes they did not.
But the fact that the door was unlocked did suggest Antoinette Lemaitre hadn’t yet gone to bed. And she was still in her street clothes, not pajamas.
“She was supposed to go to Clara Morrow’s for dinner last night,” said Beauvoir. “But she called to cancel.”
Sharon Harris looked up. “How do you know?”
“We were there,” said Lacoste.
“You know her?” Dr. Harris motioned to the body.
“Not well,” said Lacoste. “But yes. What time did Antoinette call Clara?”
Beauvoir thought. “Not sure exactly, but it was before dinner and we ate at seven thirty.”
“Did Clara say why Antoinette canceled?” asked Lacoste.
“No, she just said she thought Antoinette wanted a quiet night to herself after all the stress of the Fleming play. Brian, her partner,” Beauvoir explained to Dr. Harris, “had a meeting in Montréal. Something to do with his job. So Antoinette had the place to herself.”
“I believe he’s the man in the kitchen,” said Dr. Harris. “He found her.”
Beauvoir turned to the local agent guarding the scene. “Is that true?”
“Yessir. When we arrived he was next door, but we brought him over. He’s pretty shaken up. He was her conjoint.”
“What did he tell you?” asked Lacoste.
“Not much,” said the agent. “It was all we could do to keep him upright.”