A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15)(36)

She snapped the laptop closed in disgust and, putting it on the floor, she lay back and grabbed the TV remote. But then she looked down at the slender rectangle sitting on the floor below her. And she got to wondering.

How did a man without internet have a website?



* * *



Isabelle Lacoste ignored the phone call from Lysette Cloutier.

It was her strict policy to leave work behind, at least until the kids were fed and in bed. Unless the call was from Monsieur Gamache or Jean-Guy.

Besides, she was on leave.

It was only after the third attempt that Isabelle picked up.

“Oui, all??”

“I’m so sorry to disturb you, patron.” The voice was just the tiniest bit off. Not slurred. If anything, the words were too well enunciated. Too precise.

“What can I do for you?”

“Carl Tracey has a web page.” And then came a sound between a laugh and a snort.

“Yes.”

“But he doesn’t have internet. He also has an Instagram account. That’s active. So how does he do it?”

Now Lacoste’s mind was engaged. How did he do it? There was only one answer—

“He has a webmaster,” said Cloutier. “Some woman named Pauline. She must manage it all for him. Post for him.”

“Okay,” said Lacoste, sitting at her own laptop and putting in Carl Tracey’s name.

“Dinner,” her husband called.

“Be right there.”

“You’re coming here?” asked Cloutier with alarm, looking at the almost empty wine bottle and empty bag of chips.

“No, I was speaking to my husband.” Putting her hand over the receiver, she called, “Start without me.” Then she returned to Cloutier. “Is there anything incriminating on the sites?”

“Not that I can see, but there might be a private Instagram account that they use, just the two of them.”

“That no one else can see? That’s possible?”

“Yup.”

“How would we know?”

“We wouldn’t, unless we asked and she told us.”

“And to get access to the private account?” asked Lacoste. By now she’d found the public Instagram account. It was pretty standard, clearly meant for marketing his pottery.

“Need to be invited.”

“Why would they have a private account?” Lacoste asked.

“Dunno.” Then Cloutier thought. “Private messages. That’s why.”

She sounded both triumphant and a little surprised she’d managed that answer.

“Things they don’t want public,” said Lacoste.

Cloutier sang, “Someone’s trying to hide their privates.” Then she definitely snorted.

Lacoste looked at the phone. She’d mentored the older woman since she’d been transferred, kicking and screaming, from accounting into homicide. Never once had the accountant snorted. Or even made a joke. She’d barely smiled.

She’s drunk, Lacoste knew. Now, why would Lysette Cloutier get drunk?

“Are you all right?”

“Just fine.” Now Cloutier sounded insulted. “I thought you’d be pleased about this.”

Now she sounded hurt and a little irritated.

“I am. Look, it’s been a long, difficult day. You’ve done well. Leave it and start fresh in the morning. And for God’s sake, don’t contact this woman, right? We don’t want Tracey to know we’re interested in his private Instagram. Right?”

“Right.”

Lysette Cloutier hung up but did not take that advice.

She should have.



* * *



Clara put on the outdoor lights at the back of her home.

On warm summer evenings, she and her friends would sit in the garden having drinks and dinner. The lights were placed to illuminate the perennial beds of delphiniums and phlox and old garden roses.

Beds that had been first planted more than a century ago.

But on this cold April evening, Clara had climbed the ladder and repositioned the lights so that they pointed into the night, to where her garden met the river.

Now the lights illuminated an expanse of mud and the wall of sandbags.

“Floodlights,” said Gabri, standing beside Myrna in the kitchen and staring out the window.

They’d gathered in Clara’s home, partly out of habit, partly out of a need to be together, partly because it was the best vantage point to monitor the Bella Bella and still be protected.

And privately out of fear that this would be the last time.

The neighbors put the food they’d brought onto the kitchen island, buffet style. And now they gathered around the window, to see if they could see anything.

But Clara herself had left them and gone back to the doorway into her studio, where Reine-Marie joined her.

“You okay?”

“I’m well in body,” said Clara. “But considerably rumpled up in spirit.”

Reine-Marie laughed. Easily recognizing the lines from the Anne of Green Gables books she, her daughter, and now her granddaughters loved so much.

She put her arm through Clara’s. “Fortunately, you’re among kindred spirits.”

Clara squeezed her hand and continued to stare into the studio.