A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15)(116)

But then he wondered if that wasn’t exactly what Chief Inspector Gamache was doing. Trying to get Tracey. Sometimes, sometimes, if you didn’t look directly at a thing, something caught your attention. Out of the corner of your eye.

When Beauvoir looked at Gamache, as he did now, he saw a man who would easily, even in a bathrobe, perhaps especially in a bathrobe, pass as a college professor. A decent and thoughtful man. Who loved sitting by the fire, or in his garden, or in the bistro with a book. He loved good food and poetry and friends. He loved his wife and children and grandchildren. And Armand Gamache loathed violence.

But out of the corner of his eye, Jean-Guy Beauvoir saw cunning. A man who was calculating. Shrewd. Ruthless at times.

And determined. He would stop at nothing to catch a murderer. To catch Tracey.

“Why don’t you look over these.” Gamache handed over Tracey’s statements. “I’ll call Cameron and Cloutier.”

“But before you do…” Beauvoir looked him up and down, and Gamache smiled.

“Good point.”

He left Beauvoir and Lacoste by the fireplace. With their coffees. Reading.

As he mounted the stairs, Gamache looked back at Jean-Guy. He saw a man carefully held together. Taut. Intense. Nervous energy simmering close to the surface. Curt at times. Fierce in a fight. A man who blew off tension by happily smashing opponents into the boards in his hockey games.

But out of the corner of his eye, Armand Gamache saw kindness. Loyalty. A deep, almost inconceivable capacity for love.

Jean-Guy Beauvoir would stop at nothing to catch a killer. This killer.



* * *



“Oh, shit,” said Clara.

She was sober now. She felt she’d never been more sober.

Getting up from the easel, she had a shower, put on clean clothes, made a pot of strong coffee, and took a mug over to her kitchen window.

It was dawn. But barely light. Huge flakes only April could produce were falling. Plump with moisture, they hit the ground and melted. But not all. Some stayed behind.

A thin layer of white covered the grass, the road. It clung to the three huge pines. The cars and bench.

It should have been beautiful, except that by April most yearned to look out and see green. Not winter, clinging on.

Clara returned to her studio, but instead of going in, she snapped off the light and closed the door.

Then, needing fresh air, she took Leo for a walk. Their feet making dark tracks in the bright snow.



* * *



While Isabelle and Jean-Guy read over the files, Armand showered, shaved, and changed into slacks and shirt and tie. Quietly. So as not to awaken Reine-Marie.

Gray light and a cool breeze were now coming through the windows.

Before going downstairs, he looked in on Homer, to make sure he was all right and to see if Fred was hungry and eager to go out. Homer was asleep, and Fred just lifted his head, then lowered his gray muzzle to his paws.

Armand returned with food and water bowls, which he placed on the floor, then softly closed the door.

When he returned to the living room, he looked up the numbers for Agents Cameron and Cloutier in the S?reté files. He reached for the phone, but that was as far as he got.

“When you’re ready, patron.”

Jean-Guy’s voice broke into Armand’s thoughts. Broke his concentration. His hand still resting on the phone, Armand looked over and saw Jean-Guy and Isabelle staring at him. Waiting for him.

“Alors,” said Jean-Guy, adjusting his glasses. “We went through Carl Tracey’s statements and cross-checked with those of others, including Pauline Vachon and Homer Godin.”

“And made a list of what it might mean if he was telling the truth,” said Isabelle.

Gamache nodded. Listening. He had his own notes beside him on the sofa.

“He said she was alive when he left her,” said Jean-Guy. “If that’s true, then someone else murdered her. If that’s the case, my money’s on Pauline Vachon. With or without Tracey’s knowledge.”

“But probably with,” said Isabelle.

By habit, they glanced at Gamache to gauge his reaction, but the Chief was noncommittal. Simply listening. Though it seemed to Jean-Guy that Gamache was struggling to remain focused.

“Is something wrong?”

“Non, non, go on. Pauline Vachon. I’m following.”

Jean-Guy glanced quickly at Isabelle, who’d also noticed the uncharacteristic distraction.

“I’ll get to that later,” said Jean-Guy, “but for now let’s go back to what Carl Tracey told you when you first visited his home. Before Vivienne was found. He said they’d both been drinking. That was later confirmed by the autopsy report on Vivienne’s blood-alcohol level.”

“Oui,” said Isabelle. “So that much was true. He said she was drunk. That was an exaggeration. They had an argument. She told him the baby wasn’t his.”

“This’s directly contradicted by Monsieur Godin,” Jean-Guy pointed out. “In his statement, he said Vivienne wanted to sneak away. That she was afraid of her husband. She’d never have provoked him like that.”

“So does that mean Homer was lying?” asked Isabelle.

“It could mean that Vivienne meant to sneak away,” said Jean-Guy, “as she told her father, but then had a drink. Maybe for courage. But it backfired. She had too many, and things got out of control.”