A Better Man

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The morning sun was just slanting over the trees as Clara and Myrna stood on the edge of the village green and watched.

Ruth joined them, limping out of her home, clutching Rosa to her chest.

“What’s going on?”

“I think they found Vivienne,” said Clara, pointing to the coroner’s car and then down the path along the river.

Ruth and Rosa shook their heads. “It’s tragic. So young.” Then Ruth’s eyes and voice sharpened. “What’s he doing?”

“Looks like he’s arresting Homer,” said Myrna as they watched Armand walk with Homer to the Sûreté car.

“He can’t think—” Clara began.

“Jesus, even Clouseau can’t be that stupid,” said Ruth.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” muttered the duck.

Just then Homer stopped and turned. As did Gamache. As did everyone else on the village green.

Vivienne Godin was being brought out of the woods. In a body bag.

The bistro door opened, and Carl Tracey stepped out. Into the fresh air. And sunshine.

He saw the stretcher, took a deep breath, and said, “I wonder.”

“What?” demanded Olivier, coming out behind him.

“I wonder if she was insured.”

Staring silently at the long black bag as it was slid into the coroner’s vehicle, Homer Godin crossed himself. As did Gabri and Olivier. Even Ruth, unseen by the others, made the familiar gesture.

After the coroner’s vehicle drove away, Vivienne’s father closed his eyes and tilted his head as far back as it would go. Exposing his throat to the Universe.

“Chief Inspector?” said Beauvoir as he came around the corner from the path along the river.

He indicated Homer, clearly in custody, by the car.

“I’ll explain,” said Gamache, then instructed Cameron to take Godin into the local detachment. “Don’t book him. I’ll be in to do the paperwork later. Make him comfortable, but don’t let him out of your sight.”

Cameron turned to Homer. “I’m sorry, sir. Would you mind?”

Homer got into the backseat without complaint.

As Cameron went to walk to the driver’s side, Gamache stopped him.

“One moment, please. I have a question for you.” He led Cameron a few feet from the car. “Was the child yours?”

Cameron’s eyes widened. “No, of course not. I told you, nothing happened between Vivienne and me.”

“You knew she was pregnant before we said anything. She told you. Is the child yours? Tell me the truth.”

“I am. It’s not mine. Couldn’t be.”

“I think you’re lying. I think there’s a lot you aren’t telling us. I understand you’re worried about your family. Your job. But you know it’ll come out. Best if you tell us yourself.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

Gamache pressed his lips together and gave a single curt nod. “You’re helping a murderer.”

“How?”

“By muddying the waters. By leaving questions unanswered. Questions we have to now take precious time investigating.”

“I have answered them.”

“But not truthfully.”

Gamache made a mental note to call the Alouettes organization and ask why they’d let Bob Cameron go. And why no other football team picked him up.

“May I go with him, sir?” Lysette Cloutier asked Chief Inspector Beauvoir.

He looked at her a moment. “Why?”

“Why? Because he’s my friend. He’s just lost his daughter.”

Beauvoir nodded. “Is it possible, Agent Cloutier, that you’re more than friends?”

“More…? Non. I care about him, but his wife was the one who was my friend. My best friend. I was maid of honor at their wedding.”

“When did she die?”

“Five years ago. Ovarian cancer.”

“I’m sorry.” He paused. “You’ve kept up a relationship with Monsieur Godin?”

“There is no relationship. Not in the way I think you mean. We’re old friends, that’s all.” On seeing Beauvoir’s skepticism, she pressed her lips together before nodding. “All right, you’re right. But my relationship isn’t with Homer, it’s with Vivienne. She was my goddaughter.”

She dropped her gaze and studied her muddy boots before lifting her head and looking him straight in the eyes. Perhaps, he thought, a little too straight.

“I should’ve told you sooner, but I was afraid.”

“Of what?”

“That you’d think I was too close. That you’d take me off the case.”

“You’re right. I probably would’ve.”

Cloutier shook her head. “I’ve screwed up everything. I promised Katherine I’d look after her daughter. Keep her safe. I made that promise at the baptism, and I made it again at her deathbed. I didn’t do a good job of it, did I? But what I can do now is help catch her killer. That’s all I want.”

“And Homer Godin?”

“What about him?”

“More than professional interest?”

“Of course not.”

“You took his hand.”

“I was trying to comfort him. Haven’t you ever held the hand of the mother, or father, of a murder victim? To console them?”

Beauvoir had to admit he never had.

He’d seen Chief Inspector Gamache do it.

And he himself had reached out, come within inches of that brute sorrow, but something stopped him every time.

They were different men, with different strengths. And maybe, he thought, that was one of the many reasons he was leaving the Sûreté. Heading to Paris. He knew, deep down, that there was a level, deep down, he could never reach as an investigator.

While Jean-Guy Beauvoir explored the tangible, what could be touched, Armand Gamache explored what was felt. He went into that chaotic territory. Hunting. Searching. Tracking. Immersing himself in emotions until he found one so rancid it led to a killer.

Beauvoir stopped at the door. Gamache went through it.

Which wasn’t to say Beauvoir was insensitive to feelings. Watching Agent Cloutier, he’d picked up on hers.

There was something between her and Homer Godin, he was sure of it. Though he doubted Godin knew that. He wondered if Cloutier had even admitted it to herself.

“May I go with them, sir?” she asked again.

Beauvoir looked over at Homer. As though the day wasn’t bad enough, now he found himself alone in the back of a police car. While the man who killed his daughter was standing in the sunshine.

“Go.”

He might not be able to hold Homer’s hand, but he could offer comfort in other ways.

Clara, Myrna, and Ruth stepped back as the cop car passed them.

Ruth shook her head and looked over at Gamache and Beauvoir, conferring on the village green.

“Shouldn’t there be a third Stooge?” Just then another car arrived. “Never mind. Spoke too soon.”

Isabelle Lacoste got out and walked, limping slightly, over to her two colleagues.

“Was that Monsieur Godin in the back of the patrol car?” Lacoste asked. “Is he under arrest?”

Gamache explained to both of them what he’d done, and why.

“I know Reine-Marie won’t press charges. It was an accident. But maybe we can hold him long enough to collect evidence.”

“Against Tracey, oui,” said Beauvoir, glancing over his shoulder at the man lounging, like a reptile, in the early April sun.

He turned to Lacoste and Gamache. “Walk with me, please.”

Isabelle raised her brows in amusement and wondered if Gamache recognized those words. It was something he’d often said to them during murder investigations.

Now they fell into step and waited for Beauvoir to speak.

“What do you think?” he said.

“This one might be difficult,” said Lacoste. “Proving she was murdered.”

“Is it possible she wasn’t?” asked Gamache.

Beauvoir considered, glancing over at Tracey, then back to his two colleagues. “Possible, I suppose, but I don’t believe it was an accident, or suicide. Do you?”

“Not for a moment,” said Lacoste.

Gamache nodded. It was murder. He knew that. What he didn’t know was whether they could prove it.

“Did you know that Agent Cloutier was Vivienne Godin’s godmother?” Beauvoir asked.

“Huh,” said Gamache. “Why didn’t she tell us that before?”

“Says she was afraid of being taken off the case. But I’m not convinced. Why keep that a secret unless there’s more there?”

Gamache then told them about Bob Cameron.

“Merde,” said Beauvoir. “He was having an affair with her?”

“Denies it,” said Gamache.

“You don’t believe him?” asked Lacoste.

“I don’t.”

“You think he might’ve killed Vivienne?” Beauvoir couldn’t keep the skepticism out of his voice.

“I think he and Vivienne were much more involved than he admits. And where there’re secrets—”

“There’s fire. What do you think happened?”

“I think one possible scenario is that they arranged to meet on that side road by the bridge. Where they wouldn’t be seen. If she told him then that the child was his and that she’d left Tracey to be with him—”

“Is he married?” Lacoste asked.

“Oui. With two children.”

“You think in a moment of madness he pushed her off the bridge,” she said.

“Or just pushed her away and she fell against the railing. I’ve seen him play. He’s strong. And it’s the sort of instinctive move a left tackle makes.” Gamache mimicked the pushing motion. “It wouldn’t take much for Vivienne to break through the railing and fall.”

“And he just left?” asked Lacoste.

“Once she was in the water, he couldn’t save her even if he wanted to.” Once again, and just for an instant, Gamache felt himself submerged in the bitterly cold water. Unable to breathe.

“And now he’s too afraid to admit anything,” said Beauvoir. “Still, do you think that’s what happened?”

It didn’t take Gamache long to answer that. “Non.”

“We all know who did this,” said Lacoste.

“Bon,” said Gamache, and turned to continue walking, but when he realized Beauvoir had not joined him, he stopped and returned.

“There’s something I’d like to ask you,” said Jean-Guy.

“Oui?”

Reine-Marie had walked around the village green and joined Olivier and Gabri outside the bistro.

“Jesus, he did hit you, didn’t he?” said Gabri, looking at the bruise on her face. “You okay?”

“Nothing Honoré hasn’t done, also by accident.” She touched her bruised cheekbone lightly. “I put frozen peas on it.”

They brought her up to speed on what had happened, and as they talked, she took another few steps away from Carl Tracey, who was sitting at a table on the terrasse. Drinking a beer. At eight in the morning.

“Does that remind you of anything?” Olivier asked.

“A clown in a sewer?” Gabri suggested.

“No, not him. Them.” Olivier gestured toward the three Sûreté officers on the village green.

Reine-Marie cocked her head, staring. And then she gave a short puff of amusement and recognition.

Isabelle. Jean-Guy. Armand.

Three colleagues.

Three friends. A trinity. Sturdy. Eternal. Together.

“Three Pines,” she said.

“Three Stooges,” said Ruth as she walked by and entered the bistro.

“I know I assigned this to you, that you’re the lead investigator, but do you mind if I take over?” Before Gamache could answer, Beauvoir held up his hand. “I know it’s a lot to ask.”

“You have a perfect right to assume command of any investigation. May I ask why?”

“This will probably be my last case with the Sûreté. With any police force. This’s the one I want to go out on.”

When Gamache didn’t answer, Beauvoir asked, “What is it?”

“Have you thought that maybe this isn’t the one you want as your final case?”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re pretty sure we know who did it.”

“More than ‘pretty sure,’ I’d say. Tracey all but admits it.”

“He admits he beat Vivienne, not that he threw her off the bridge. He keeps insisting it was suicide, and we’re going to have a helluva problem proving it wasn’t at least an accident. And, as you said, even if we can prove it’s murder, it might be extremely difficult to convict the man.”

“We’ve had more difficult cases,” said Lacoste.

“True.”

“Are you reluctant to give it up? Because of Annie? I’ve seen how much you sympathize with Godin. More than usual.”

Armand smiled and nodded. “It’s true. This one’s gotten under my skin. And yes, because of Annie. I’m trying not to, but the truth is, I find myself asking how I’d feel, if … And even more since you told us Annie’s pregnant.”

“Pregnant?” asked Lacoste. When Jean-Guy nodded, she gave him a quick embrace. “Félicitations.”

“Merci.”

“I think you feel the same way,” said Gamache. “About Vivienne and Annie.”

“Not really.”

Gamache stared at his son-in-law, frankly and openly amazed. “I beg your pardon?”

“This is a terrible case, absolutely. But I haven’t personalized it.”

There was silence as Gamache watched him. And then spoke.

“You almost killed yourself trying to get to her body,” he pointed out. “I’ve seen you desperate to stop a murderer, but I’ve never seen you take it so personally.”

“I’m not.” Then he relented. “Okay, maybe a little. It’s hard not to. But I have my feelings well under control. Don’t worry.”

Isabelle Lacoste looked from one to the other. Both, she knew, were personalizing this. Far more than she’d ever seen. Far more than was healthy.

If they weren’t worried, she was.

“Bon,” said Gamache. “I’m happy to hand over the case. May I act as your second-in-command, patron?”

“For the first time?”

“And, with luck, the last.”

Beauvoir gave a small laugh and put out his hand. “Welcome aboard. I’ll try to go easy on you, son. Just don’t screw up.”

“You inspire me already, Chief Inspector.”

“Now, isn’t it your nap time?”

“You might want to consider grabbing some sleep yourself,” said Gamache. “Long day behind us and long day ahead.”

“Work still to be done. I need to set up an incident room.”

“I’m sure your second-in-command can do that.”

“You’re my second-in-command.”

Gamache gave a short grunt of laughter and clapped Beauvoir on the arm. “Well, good luck.”

But as he walked away, Armand’s smile faded. Replaced by a slight frown.

He called his RCMP colleague as soon as he got back home.

It rang. And rang. Finally clicking over to voice mail.

Gamache looked at his watch. The sun had been up for slightly over an hour.

The floodgates at the mighty dams had been open for slightly under an hour.

What was happening up there?

He left a message, then went upstairs, suspecting he wouldn’t be able to sleep. But the moment his head hit the cool, fresh pillow, he was out.

Reine-Marie, also exhausted, had joined him, and in their sleep they moved to the middle until their warm bodies touched.

Beauvoir and Lacoste walked past the thick wall of sandbags, pausing to consider them.

“Came close,” she said, pointing to the ones that had been pushed over by the force of the river.

Beauvoir grunted.

How close they all were, without knowing it, to disaster. All the time.

They walked over the stone bridge to the old brick train station. It had seen its share of reunions. And partings. Its share of tears. And shouts of joy.

Even he, fairly immune to fantasy, could feel that every time he entered the familiar building.

It had also seen its share of murder investigations, having been used in the past by Chief Inspector Gamache as temporary headquarters for the homicide unit.

Now Chief Inspector Beauvoir directed his team to set up shop.

Abandoned decades earlier by the railway, the building was now home to the Three Pines Volunteer Fire Department, overseen by its chief, Ruth Zardo, who glared down at them from the official photo, taken when she’d been given the Governor General’s Award for poetry.

“I didn’t feel the aimed word hit,” Beauvoir said, looking up at the embittered old poet. “And go in like a soft bullet.”

I didn’t feel the smashed flesh

closing over it like water

over a thrown stone.

“What was that, patron?” asked one of the agents.

“Nothing.”

“Sounded like poetry,” she said with some alarm.

“Keep working.” Beauvoir caught Isabelle Lacoste’s eye and saw amusement there. And recognition.

My God, he thought. I’m turning into Gamache.

But while he feigned alarm, what he actually felt was a sort of contentment. That on his last case he should finally turn into his mentor.

He stood still amid the activity and let the evidence come to him. But what came to him was an image. Clear as day. Young and pregnant Vivienne Godin, breaking through the railing. Arms out. The duffel bag, her worldly possessions, falling with her.

Her blue eyes wide, as realization hit.

And then the water. Cold as ice. Closing over her.

… like water over a thrown stone.

How would I feel if it was Annie …

Armand was right, of course. He was struggling to separate the two women.

Does my twisting body spell out Grace?

I hurt, therefore I am.

Faith, Charity, and Hope

are three dead angels

falling like meteors—

“Always cheerful, eh, you old witch,” muttered Jean-Guy as he gave one last glance up at Ruth before turning to examine the sodden items at his feet.

They’d found Vivienne’s purse in the tangle of the dam. Its contents were spread out on the sanitized plastic sheet on the floor, alongside the things from the duffel bag.

An agent described each item for the recording as it was removed. Tagged. Cataloged. Photographed. Swabbed. Examined.

Private items transformed, like black magic, into public property.

Finally the entire contents were spread out.

From the purse they’d taken a wallet, with a hundred and ten dollars and change. Driver’s license. A bank card but no credit card. Some paper, too wet to read, the water having turned it into pulp. Some mints. A Bic lighter but no cigarettes. What looked like house keys and car keys.

“Nothing unusual,” said Lacoste. But something had caught her eye. Taken from the duffel bag.

Wearing gloves, she picked up the pill bottle and sounded out the label. “Mifegymiso. I don’t know it.”

“I do,” said one of the agents, looking over. “It’s an abortion pill.”

“You mean the morning-after pill?” asked Beauvoir.

“No, that’s different. That’s for the day after sex, to stop insemination from going further. This’s for pregnancies in the first few months. To terminate them.”

“I didn’t know there was such a thing,” said Beauvoir. “Legal?”

“Yessir.”

“What do you think?” he asked Lacoste as they stared down at the collection of items.

“I think it’s strange that Vivienne Godin was beyond three months pregnant and she takes abortion pills with her. I’m assuming they won’t work this far into a pregnancy. If she had the pills, why not use them earlier?”

“Maybe she thought they would work,” said Beauvoir. “Maybe she was waiting to see how the father would react, and if it went badly, she’d take them.”

“This isn’t prescription,” said Lacoste. “There’s no doctor or pharmacy on the label. Not even her name.”

“Black market,” said Beauvoir.

“Seems so. If they’re legal, why go onto the black market?”

“And why would she tell her husband that the baby wasn’t his, even if it was true? She must’ve known how he’d react. Why not just get out while she could?” said Beauvoir.

Tracey, goddamn him, had said the same thing. That Vivienne knew what he’d do. That he’d hit her. Beat her. Though surely she never thought he’d kill her.

“Maybe she didn’t tell him,” said Lacoste. “We only have Tracey’s word for that.”

Beauvoir was considering. “Then why would he say it? He gave us a motive. He’s clever enough to know that.”

“He told the Chief that they were drunk,” said Lacoste. “Maybe she didn’t mean to tell him but it just came out. Maybe it wasn’t even true.”

Beauvoir nodded. He, more than most, understood the corrosive effect of booze. How it stole judgment and inhibitions until things were said and done that could never be unsaid. Undone. Alcohol stole dignity and friends and family and livelihoods before finally taking the life.

Alcohol was a thief. And often a murderer.

“She wanted to hurt him before she left,” said Lacoste.

“She couldn’t match him physically, but she could hurt him with words.”

The aimed word … like a soft bullet, thought Beauvoir, glancing up at the photo of Ruth scrutinizing them.

“Sober Vivienne probably knew better, but drunk…?” said Beauvoir. “The toxicology report will tell us more.”

“There’s something else,” said Lacoste. “The clothes she packed don’t make sense.”

“Why not?”

“Where’re the sweaters? The heavy shirts? The socks?”

“There’re shirts and jeans.”

“Summer weight. It’s freezing out. Why take those?”

“Maybe she planned to go south. Florida.”

“Maybe,” said Lacoste.

“Or…?”

“Or maybe she packed in a hurry. Just grabbing things. Or—”

“Maybe she didn’t pack the bag,” said Beauvoir. “Maybe he did.”

Lacoste nodded. “To make it look like she’d gone away. No woman in her right mind would take those clothes in early April.”

“The problem we’re going to have,” he said, “is proving that Tracey packed the bag. Even if we find his DNA and fingerprints on the items, his defense would argue they were there because they lived together.”

“Oui,” said Lacoste. “But if his prints are on that”—she pointed to the pill bottle—“we might have something. I think he tossed it in not knowing what it was.”

“Not exactly a smoking gun,” said Beauvoir, but he could feel hope rising, if not faith and charity. This might be the first nail.

Lysette Cloutier sat in the Sûreté detachment. She’d chosen a desk with direct line of sight into the cells. Where she could watch Homer.

The sandwiches and coffee she’d taken in were untouched.

Lysette had stayed with him for a while, but he seemed lost in his own world. Oblivious to her presence. Even, she felt, a little annoyed by it.

He clearly wanted just to be left alone.

If she couldn’t comfort him, there was one thing she could do.

Glancing around, making sure she wasn’t being watched, she went online. Found Carl Tracey’s Instagram feed. And typed.

Reviewing it, going over each word. Changing one, adjusting another. Until it was just right.

Then she hit send and tapped the pen on the desk, waiting for a reply.