A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15)(84)

These were softball questions. Every interrogator had a particular technique. Hers was to set people at their ease. Have them lower their defenses.

“He’s an artist. Not great at technical things. Besides, there’s no internet at his place. Can you tell me what this’s about?”

It interested Lacoste that it had taken this long for Pauline Vachon to ask. It was normally the first question out of anyone’s mouth. But then, this young woman already knew the answer.

“Has something happened to Monsieur Tracey?”

She looked directly into Lacoste’s eyes. Not blinking. Brown eyes all innocent with just the right touch of curiosity. Without, it would appear, guilt or guile.

“I’m afraid his wife has drowned, and we just have some questions.”

“Oh, that’s terrible.” Pauline looked from Lacoste to Cloutier and back again.

“Yes,” said Lacoste. “Did Monsieur Tracey ever talk about his wife?”

Vachon paused to gather her thoughts. To sort through the truth and lies and decide which to choose.

“A bit. He didn’t seem happy. He said she drank. Was depressed. I felt sorry for him.”

“Pauline,” said Lacoste, leaning forward a little and dropping her voice so that it sounded as though she were about to confide in the young woman. “I really hope you don’t mind, but I’m going to ask you some questions that might seem odd. Is that all right?”

“Sure. Of course.” She looked at her watch. “I have an appointment in an hour—”

“Oh, this won’t take that long. Don’t worry,” said Lacoste with a motherly smile, despite the fact there weren’t that many years between them. It wasn’t years but choices that separated these two women.

“How old was your mother when she had you?”

Both Vachon and Cloutier looked at her with surprise.

“You weren’t kidding about the strange questions,” said Pauline with a laugh. Though she was slightly guarded now. “She was sixteen.”

“Young. Must’ve been difficult. And your grandmother? How old was she when she had your mother?”

“Do you really need to know this? What does this have to do with Carl’s wife?”

Cloutier had the same question and just barely stopped herself from nodding agreement.

“I’m sorry,” said Lacoste, and looked it. “I just need your help understanding some things about this community. How judgmental it can be of young women.”

It was a vague answer but seemed to satisfy, mollify, Pauline.

“My grandmother was fifteen.”

“And you’re twenty-one?”

“Yes.”

“How old were you when you first got pregnant?”

That hovered between the two women.

“Why—”

“Please, Pauline. It would help a lot.”

Cloutier could see that Vachon realized she’d created a problem for herself. She’d offered to help, needed to appear willing to help. And these questions were not, on the surface, threatening or even, it must be admitted, pertinent.

But they were deeply invasive.

“I was sixteen.”

“And what happened?”

“I had an abortion.”

“The next time?”

Now Pauline shifted in her seat. “Why are you asking this? It’s not illegal. It was all done by a doctor in a hospital.”

“Yes, I know. But I also know that small towns can be supportive, but they can also be pretty awful. You get a reputation.… Nasty rumors spread. Rumors with just enough truth in them to do damage. People don’t always like it when you’re a success, do they?”

“Not always,” Pauline said, lifting her chin slightly.

Isabelle Lacoste found herself admiring this young woman. Who refused to give in. She had guts. But did she have a conscience?

“Non,” said Lacoste quietly. “They’re not always as kind as we’d like. Especially painful when friends aren’t happy for you. You’re trying hard to get out, to make a career for yourself. To make a success of your business. Get a little money. And people are all, ‘Oh, she’s too good for us now,’ just because you dress nicely and take some care. Right?”

Pauline nodded but was guarded. Though not as guarded as she should have been.

“Can I tell you something?” Lacoste lowered her voice. “Something no one else outside the police knows.”

Pauline nodded, leaning forward.

“Vivienne was pregnant. That’s why I’m asking. But we don’t really know who the father was.”

“Really? Got it,” whispered Pauline. “Poor Carl.”

“Yes. Poor Carl. Who can blame him for wanting out of that marriage?” Lacoste leaned back in her chair, her voice once again businesslike. “Now, the second time you were pregnant, another hospital procedure?”

“D and C, yes.”

“And the third time?”

There was now, in Lacoste’s tone, a slight edge. Not of judgment but of warning. Tell the truth.

“How did you end that pregnancy, Pauline?”



* * *



“I know who you are,” said Toby, sitting at a desk in the station, not all that far from where Lacoste was interviewing Pauline.