A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15)(109)

“Was it a happy marriage?”

Lysette thought. Finally nodding. “It got better once Vivienne was out of the house.”

“When we visited Pauline Vachon this afternoon, she said if Vivienne died, Carl would come into money. We’re checking out accounts and insurance, of course, but do you know if Vivienne had any money of her own?”

“Vivienne? I don’t think so.”

“Did her mother leave her anything in her will?”

“No. She left some jewelry and a comforter that came from her grandmother, but no money. I was a liquidator. She didn’t have much, and what she had, she left to Homer. Do you mind my asking why you want to know all this? We know who killed her—we just have to get him.”

“We have to regroup,” Gamache explained. “And part of that is getting to know Vivienne better. Is it likely she was having an affair?”

“I know what Tracey said, but I can’t see that happening. She always seemed more a loner, really.”

“Did you like her?”

Cloutier frowned. “What little I saw, yes. I guess.”

It was not exactly a ringing endorsement. But then, Gamache suspected that Cloutier’s opinions were affected, perhaps even infected, by what her friend Kathy had said. It was all too easy, Gamache knew, to believe the worst of others.

He thought for a moment. “Why do you think she married Carl Tracey?”

Cloutier considered. “Small community. Not much choice. She probably thought he was the best she could do. Maybe he wasn’t so bad at first. I don’t really know.”

Gamache nodded.

Could there have been love there once? Or was Vivienne punishing her parents? Look what you made me do. Or was it a childish attempt to make her father jealous?

Everyone made mistakes. Gamache had made his fair share, especially when young. Annie had married and divorced before finding Jean-Guy. As had Jean-Guy, before finding Annie.

Vivienne’s mistake just happened to be far worse than she could have planned or imagined.

They’d come to the end of what Agent Cloutier could tell him about Vivienne. Though there was one more thing.

“Did she like dogs?”

“Pardon?”

“Dogs. Did she like them?”

“Well, yeah. Loved them. Look at Fred. She rescued him as a puppy. Found him hurt on the road. He’s been with her a lot longer than Carl.”

“Merci,” he said.





CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE


“Chief Inspector and Madame Gamache, this,” said Clara, with a slightly manic flourish, as though producing the dinner guest out of thin air, “is the famous art critic Dominica Oddly.”

Ta-da.

Then poof, Clara disappeared.

“Madame Oddly,” said Armand, shaking her hand.

“Chief Inspector?” said the critic.

“Armand.”

“Of the S?reté? Sounds like some old Nelson Eddy/Jeanette MacDonald movie. Gamache of the S?reté.”

Armand smiled. “That was the Mounties. No horse, I’m afraid.”

“And yet quite a lot of horseshit,” said Ruth, joining them.

Dominica’s eyes flickered to the duck in Ruth’s arms, then back up to the elderly woman’s face. Choosing to ignore the fowl, she said, “I didn’t mention before that I like your poetry.”

“Thank you. Her name’s Rosa.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck, said Rosa.

“Poetry,” Reine-Marie whispered in Ruth’s ear. “Not poultry.”

“Oh.” She turned back to Dominica, looking her up and down. “Are you related to the maid?”

Reine-Marie dropped her eyes, and Armand gazed around as though he’d never met the old woman before.

“Maid?” asked Dominica.

When Ruth began to point toward Myrna, who was talking with Clara by the fireplace, Reine-Marie jumped in. “How could you possibly know about Nelson Eddy?”

“I love classic cinema,” explained Dominica. “When the art form was just beginning.”

“And you’d consider Rose-Marie a classic?” asked Ruth. “I suspected you had no taste. That’s why I thought you’d like Clara’s art.”

Dominica laughed. “But I like your poetry. And your poultry.”

“An aberration. The exception that proves the rule.”

“Not a rule,” the critic pointed out. “An opinion.”

Dominica Oddly hadn’t yet decided if the people who chose to live in this small Canadian hamlet were wonderful and creative or simply inbred.

“Beer?” asked Gabri, bringing a bottle over to Dominica. She’d left the group and was looking around.

“Thank you. Is the duck okay? She looks strange.”

“Oh, the duck’s okay. It’s the fuck who’s strange.”

Dominica laughed. “But a great poet.”

“And Clara’s a great artist.”

To that, Dominica just raised her bottle. “Thanks for the beer.”

Across the room, Clara was trying to keep the smile on her face and the bile down as she watched the young woman, who’d just destroyed her career and was now drinking her beer and eating her food. She wouldn’t be surprised if she found this young woman sleeping in her bed.