A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15)(22)

“And yet,” said Cloutier, “you say your wife managed to drive out later in the day.”

There was silence, and they could see Tracey’s brain skidding in the muck.

“She could, but you couldn’t?” Cloutier pressed.

“She left at night, when the roads had frozen again.”

He’d hit on an explanation bordering on reasonable. After Tracey had given them the names of the stores he’d visited, Gamache asked, “When was the last time you saw your wife?”

“Saturday night, like I said. We’d been drinking. Vivienne got pissed and started yelling abuse. Told me the kid wasn’t mine. I went into my studio to do some work and get away from her. When I got up next morning, she was gone.”

The phone rang.

“You take it,” said Tracey.

Gamache picked it up and listened. “Bon. Merci.” He hung up. “We have the warrant.”





CHAPTER NINE


Like the rest of the house, the bedroom was a shambles. Bed unmade, bedding dirty. A partly drunk bottle of beer was on the floor next to the bed. An ashtray was overflowing with butts.

In the bedside table, there was a small stash of pot. And rolling papers.

“Yours?” Gamache asked Tracey.

“Hers.”

Gamache nodded, taking that in but not necessarily believing it.

The clock radio blinked 12:00.

Gamache stood in the middle of the room and turned full circle. Clothing was left on the floor where it fell. Socks, underwear, sweaters, jeans. Not just one day’s worth but days. And days.

An agent was going through the closet and the dresser drawers, photographing and cataloging what was there.

It was very difficult to tell if anything had been taken.

Gamache asked Tracey about the clothes. Were they all his? Were some Vivienne’s?

“All mine.”

In Vivienne’s closet clothing was hung up. Her drawers were a bit haphazard, with underwear and turtlenecks and jeans shoved in. But at least clean and off the floor.

Looking at the top of the dresser, he noticed jewelry. Inexpensive. Bright. Bulbous. No photographs, though.

She might’ve taken those with her.

Gamache hoped that was true.

“Is there a suitcase missing?” Gamache asked.

“Suitcase? We don’t have any of those. Why would we?”

Gamache nodded. That alone was pretty telling. And slightly chilling.

In the bathroom, Gamache pointed to a toothbrush. “Is this hers?”

“No. That’s mine. This’s hers.” Tracey pointed to the other one in the holder. The bristles were worn almost flat.

Maybe she’d left this one and bought a new one, Gamache thought.

He hoped that was true.

The forensics officer bagged both brushes. For DNA testing.

Gamache opened the medicine cabinet. Nothing extraordinary there. No prescriptions, just cold meds and ointments. There were no gaps on the narrow shelves. Nothing obviously missing.

Then he left and walked from room to room, with Tracey following him. A shadow.

Other officers arrived and were searching the outbuildings.

“There’s no sign of her, patron,” reported Agent Cloutier. She found him in the living room, kneeling by the sofa. “But they have found something, just off the kitchen.”

“I’ll be right along, merci.” He brought out a pen and moved a potato-chip wrapper aside. Then, standing up, he called to the forensics officer in the room. “Can you check this, please?”

He stepped away and turned to Tracey. “I think it’s blood. Is it?”

“Could be. Might be hers. Might be mine. Who knows?”

“We will, soon. What happened here?”

“I told you. We got into a fight.”

“You hit her?”

“And she hit me. Gave as good as she got. Look, I know you think I’ve done something, but I didn’t. I left her here.” He pointed to the sofa. “Alive.”

“Check the rest of the room carefully,” Gamache advised the officer.

Brushing past Tracey without a word, Gamache followed Agent Cloutier into the kitchen and through a door he’d assumed was a pantry. But instead it led into what had once maybe been an outhouse. Or a pigsty or chicken coop. It had been knocked through to connect to the main house.

He stood at the door and prepared himself. Clearly there was no body inside. He’d have been told right away. Nor was this an obvious crime scene. Again, he’d have been told.

But it did strike him as a place where unpleasant things might have happened. To animals. Or people.

He went in.

What struck him first was the extraordinary heat.

The agents working in there were perspiring and trying not to drip sweat and contaminate the room. On seeing him they stood up and started to salute. But with a gesture he stopped them and indicated they should continue working.

Then he looked around.

Not a slaughterhouse at all. Not an old outhouse. It was much larger than that. An old garage. Converted into a workshop.

No, not a workshop. A studio.

He saw a potter’s wheel. He saw plastic bags filled with clay, their tags still on. The walls were lined with shelves holding unglazed pieces. He saw what Cameron had meant. No one could possibly use Tracey’s works for anything practical. They wouldn’t hold food or drink or flowers.