A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15)(117)

“So let’s say Vivienne had just enough alcohol to lower her defenses,” said Lacoste. “She said things she hadn’t planned to. What does Tracey do? He hits her. Then he said he left her, alive, and went into his studio to start a new piece but passed out instead. When he woke up, Vivienne was gone.”

It was the picture of a catastrophically unhappy home. Of a sick relationship. That could not possibly continue. And into which a baby was going to be born.

Unless something changed.

“Can that be true?” asked Jean-Guy. “Are we supposed to believe that Tracey left her alive?”

“For now,” said Gamache. “For argument’s sake. Yes.”

They sat quietly, trying to argue.

“So,” Jean-Guy finally said. “Who killed her if not Tracey?”

They looked at Gamache.

He had no definite answers, though he had spent the better part of the night looking into the dark corners of the case. Beyond the malice, to where some fact, some feral truth, might be waiting to be found.

“Pauline Vachon,” said Isabelle. “She had motive. She wants desperately to get out, to have a better life. And she’s brighter than Tracey.”

“That’s not saying much. Henri here is brighter than Tracey,” said Jean-Guy.

The shepherd raised his head and swiveled his mighty ears toward Jean-Guy. He was not, they all knew, a dog of great intellect. The main purpose of his head seemed to be to support his formidable ears, which were tuned to key words. Treat, dinner, walk, Henri.

Henri kept all he needed to know, all that really mattered, safe in his heart. Where there was not need of words. Except, maybe, good boy.

Armand lowered his hand and stroked Henri until the shepherd dropped his head to his paws.

“Pauline Vachon could plan it and pull it off,” Isabelle was saying. “Shoving a woman who’d had a few drinks, who wasn’t expecting to be attacked, from a bridge wouldn’t take much. Those bruises could’ve been made by anyone.”

“And the boot prints,” said Jean-Guy. “She could’ve been wearing Tracey’s. Trying to implicate him.”

“But how did she arrange to meet Vivienne on the bridge?” asked Isabelle. “There were no calls into the house that day and only those two numbers dialed out.”

“Tracey told Vivienne to go to the bridge,” said Jean-Guy.

Isabelle stared at him in disbelief. “Now, that’s really stretching it. You actually believe she’d go? To meet her husband’s lover? All Vivienne wanted was to get as far away, as fast as possible. There’s no way she’d agree to meet Pauline Vachon on a lonely bridge at night. Why would she?”

“To confront Pauline,” said Jean-Guy. “To give her hell. Suppose Tracey tells Vivienne he’s meeting his lover on the bridge, knowing she’ll go there.”

“Come on. Maybe on paper that works, but in reality?” said Isabelle. “Everyone who talks about Vivienne describes a woman frightened out of her wits.”

She looked over at Gamache, who was considering it.

The scenario Jean-Guy described was possible. Just. In normal circumstances a wife might go to confront her husband’s lover. Except these were not normal circumstances.

“Why the bridge?” he asked. “If they wanted her dead, there’re easier ways. Why go through all that rigmarole?”

“Rigmarole?” asked Jean-Guy, always amused when Gamache used odd Anglo words.

“Yes,” said Gamache. “It means either taking or luring a young woman to a bridge and throwing her off.”

“Really?” asked Jean-Guy.

“Non. But it does mean making something complicated that could be simple. There’s something else that argues against Vachon,” said Gamache.

“What?” asked Jean-Guy, not liking the sound of that.

Gamache picked up the notes at his side and, putting on his reading glasses again, scanned them until he found what he was looking for.

“Stuff’s in the bag,” he read. “Everything’s ready. Will be done tonight. I promise.” Gamache looked up at them. “The messages between Carl Tracey and Pauline Vachon on the day of the murder. And her reply: Finally. Good luck. Don’t mess it up.”

“Pretty damning,” said Isabelle.

“But the person it damns isn’t Pauline Vachon,” said Gamache, removing his glasses. “It shows that while Pauline Vachon knew about the murder plans, she wasn’t actually there. So suppose there’s another interpretation?”

“What?” asked Jean-Guy, not liking the sound of that either.

“Suppose Carl Tracey and Pauline Vachon were telling the truth.”

“Oh, come on,” said Jean-Guy. “You’re kidding.”

“You think I’m joking?” Gamache stared hard at Jean-Guy. “Just suppose that this exchange”—Gamache held up the page and shook it—“is about Tracey’s pottery. He was out of clay and went to the art-supply store. The Instagram post originated from there. We know that. And we found a new bag of clay, unopened, in his studio. Stuff’s in the bag. Everything’s ready. Will be done tonight. He might’ve been referring to new works.”

They stared at him in disbelief. Did Gamache really think that was possible?