A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15)(124)

Homer Godin was not a rich man. He’d labored all his life. Had a modest home he’d paid off. Lived a modest life in a small Québec town.

These sorts of sums would almost certainly clean him out. And then some.

He seemed to follow their thoughts. “She said she’d pay me back. She’d get a job when she could. What would you do?”

And there was that question again. Variations on the theme that had haunted them since this case had begun. How would they feel, if…?

What would they do, if…?

If Honoré came to his parents, in distress, and needed more money than they had?

If Annie went to her parents…?

If money would solve the problem?

They’d pay it. And more. To save their child? They’d give all they had. And more.

As Homer had.

“She called you on Saturday morning, telling you she was finally going to leave Tracey, is that right?” said Lacoste.

“Yes.”

“Think carefully, Monsieur Godin,” said Lacoste. “Did she say she was coming to you or going to someone else?”

“Me. Who else was there?”

“Tell us about your relationship with Lysette Cloutier,” said Lacoste.

Homer was shaking his head. “Vivienne wouldn’t go to Lysette. They barely knew each other.”

“No, I don’t mean that,” said Lacoste. “Your relationship with her.”

“How’d you know about that?”

“She told us.”

“She shouldn’t have. It was private.”

“She didn’t want to,” said Gamache. “She had to be pushed, hard. But she finally told us.”

“What did she say?”

“I think you need to tell us what happened,” said Beauvoir.

Homer raised his head and looked stubborn. Then relented. “Doesn’t much matter. We tried, and it didn’t work.”

“Why didn’t it work?” asked Gamache.

“It just didn’t. I thought of her as a friend. She wanted more, but I didn’t. Couldn’t.”

“Did you talk to Vivienne about it?” asked Lacoste.

Homer looked surprised. “About Lysette? No, why would I? There was nothing to talk about.”

Beauvoir looked at Gamache, then to Lacoste.



* * *



“So who’s telling the truth?” asked Lacoste. “Lysette or Homer?”

The senior officers had walked to the incident room, where they could talk without fear of being overheard.

“Maybe Homer gave Lysette the impression that Vivienne wouldn’t approve,” said Beauvoir. “Without actually saying it.”

“You mean he blamed his daughter?” asked Lacoste. “Is he that much of a coward?”

Beauvoir remained silent, not bothering to tell her how often he’d made up all sorts of far-fetched stories to get out of relationships. Granted, that was when he was younger.

“Could happen” was all he said.

“Or maybe Homer didn’t outright blame his daughter,” said Gamache, “but Cloutier did. Maybe it was easier on her feelings to think Vivienne forced it, rather than that the man she loved rejected her.”

“Easier to blame someone she already didn’t like,” said Lacoste. “And she might’ve even believed it.”

“If she really got it into her head that Vivienne stood between her and Homer,” said Beauvoir, “that sort of thing can eat away at a person. You said it yourself, patron. It’s a simple, clean motive. Most are.”

It was true. When the mist and smoke and fireworks dissipated, what was left in a murder investigation could be rendered down to a few words. Greed. Hate. Jealousy.

But really, it was even simpler than that. Even those words had a common parent.

Fear.

Cameron was afraid of losing his family.

Cloutier was afraid of losing Homer.

Pauline Vachon was afraid of losing her ticket out.

Carl Tracey was afraid of losing his home, his studio, his pottery.

If Vivienne lived.

“But how would they set up the meeting?” said Beauvoir. “There’s no record of a call between Cloutier and Vivienne.”

“True,” said Lacoste.

They’d checked all the calls into and out of the farmhouse, going back months. It was not as arduous as it sounded. There were hardly any, and those there were, were easily traced.

“One of the things I don’t understand,” said Gamache, “is why Vivienne didn’t leave earlier.”

“She had to get up courage,” said Lacoste, a little surprised by the question. “We’ve talked about this. Lots of abused women never leave—” Her phone buzzed. “Sorry. All??”

“A message just came in,” said Agent Cloutier. “I’d asked the forensic accountants to look into the bank accounts of all the people involved.”

“Yes? And?” asked Lacoste.

“I’ve forwarded it to you.”

Lacoste went to her emails. “Got it.” She clicked on it. “What’m I looking at?”

She waved the others over to her laptop.

Gamache and Beauvoir bent and stared at the screen while Lacoste put Cloutier on speaker.