A Better Man

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Jean-Guy Beauvoir sat behind the wheel of the unmarked car.

By tradition, the senior officer rode in the passenger seat. But Beauvoir could not bring himself to do that while Gamache was in the vehicle. Except that once, when he was too exhausted to drive.

Now they sat side by side. As they had for years. Watching the home of a murder suspect. Waiting for word from Lacoste. Waiting to give the word to go.

“What do you mean you’re staying the night?” demanded Clara.

“Sorry, but my flight from Burlington to New York was canceled,” Dominica Oddly said.

What she didn’t say was that she herself had canceled it. And spoken to the big gay guy about a room at their bed-and-breakfast. Or, as he insisted on calling it, bed-and-brunch.

If their B&B looked like their bistro and tasted like the bakery, she really might never leave. She did not tell Clara that. The woman already looked like her hair was on fire.

“Can’t you stay over in Burlington?” asked Clara, her voice rising. “Close to the airport?”

“Too late,” said Gabri, dropping a key into Dominica’s hand. “She’s booked in. The Basquiat Suite.”

“Since when do you name your rooms?” Clara all but hissed at him.

“Since she showed up,” said Gabri, unapologetically. “And if you’re not careful, we’ll call the public bathroom the Toilette Clara Morrow.”

“You know what she’s just posted online about my works,” said Clara, watching as Ruth and Myrna joined the critic at the bistro fireplace.

Reine-Marie had gone home, feeling the need for a long shower after watching those vile videos.

Gabri turned to face Clara, his expression no longer a little goofy. “I do. And now you have twenty-four hours you didn’t have before to change her mind.”

“She won’t change her mind.”

They walked over to the bar, and while Clara helped herself to a licorice pipe from the jar, Gabri poured her a red wine.

“You don’t know that.” He smiled and touched her hand. “People do change. Minds change. I know you know that.”

Clara turned and glared at Dominica Oddly, now laughing and chatting with her best friend and her mentor. In her seat. By the fireplace.

She felt the bile grow. Felt the subtle demonisms of thought take hold.

Lysette had tried to engage Homer in casual conversation. But, understandably, the only thing he was interested in hearing about was their investigation.

Lysette wasn’t really sure how much to tell him but suspected he would not pass any of it along. And it would be public knowledge anyway, as soon as Tracey was arraigned.

Besides, she was desperate to connect with him. To let him know the important role she’d played in having Tracey arrested.

To let him know she wasn’t just on his side but by his side.

In the twenty-minute drive from Cowansville to Three Pines, she’d been debating how much to reveal. Not just about the case against Tracey but about herself.

About her feelings.

It was just dumb luck that Chief Inspector Gamache had given her this time alone with Homer. He couldn’t possibly know what it meant to her. But now she needed to actually use it.

They were getting closer and closer to Three Pines.

Now was the time.

But what should she say? She couldn’t just blurt out, “I love you.”

Or could she? Maybe he needed to hear it. Especially now. To know someone loved him. Deeply.

Just before cresting the hill that would take them down into Three Pines, she reached over and placed her hand on top of his.

He didn’t pull away.

As they arrived at the Gamache home, just before putting the car in park, she squeezed.

And he, she was pretty sure, squeezed back.

Jean-Guy checked his phone again. It was instinctive.

There were, as he already knew from the last time he checked, no bars. No reception. Which was why he’d chosen a car with a radio connecting them to the station.

Now he stared at the handset. While beside him, Gamache stared out the window. Into the twilight. Through the trees to the lonely home and the single light at a single window.

Jean-Guy checked his phone again.

“That’s not true.”

“It is. The coroner just confirmed it. That baby was Carl’s.” Lacoste leaned forward. “A little girl. His daughter. Kinda makes you wonder, doesn’t it, Pauline?”

Pauline was silent, but Lacoste could see her mind whirring.

Superintendent Lacoste had another question for Pauline Vachon.

“Where were you on Saturday afternoon and evening?”

Homer knelt and put his face against the smelly old dog, rubbing him, mumbling to him, before standing back up.

“Armand called to say you were coming,” said Reine-Marie, standing at the door as Henri and Gracie ran out to greet the new arrivals. “I’m glad.”

She was freshly showered and had put on slacks and a soft sweater. She turned to Agent Cloutier. “I have soup and sandwiches in the kitchen. You must be hungry.”

She was. “Yes, please. Merci.”

As they entered the home, Homer stepped closer to Reine-Marie, looking at her face. Then he shook his head.

“I did that,” he said, pointing to the bruise. “I can’t believe it. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

“I do,” she said. “And I think you showed amazing restraint. I shouldn’t have tried to stop you. I’d have ripped the head off anyone who tried to stop me.”

If it had been Annie dragged from the river. Or Daniel. Or Armand. She’d have done far worse to anyone standing between her and them.

“Your room is waiting for you. Would you like to freshen up, then meet us in the kitchen?”

He nodded, and the two women watched as he slowly climbed the stairs. Followed, slowly, by Fred.

“Homer?” said Lysette, not sure what to do.

“I’ll be fine, Lysette.”

Even something as small as hearing him say her name thrilled her.

“Chief Inspector, this is Cameron.”

Beauvoir snatched the mouthpiece off its cradle and pressed the button. “Oui.”

Gamache turned to watch, holding Beauvoir’s eyes.

“We have the warrant for Tracey’s arrest.”

Beauvoir exhaled. They had it.

But he wanted more.

“Is Superintendent Lacoste still in the interview room?”

“Yes.”

“Tell her to call as soon as she comes out.” He went to replace the handset, but Gamache stopped him.

“I have an idea.”

“Hold on, Cameron,” said Beauvoir, and clicked the handset off while Gamache explained.

Beauvoir nodded approval, then clicked the handset back on. “Still there, Cameron?”

“Oui, patron.”

“This is what I want you to do.”

Agent Cameron knocked on the door, then entered.

Lacoste glanced at him with some annoyance. It was unusual to be interrupted in the middle of what was proving a difficult interrogation.

Pauline Vachon was holding unexpectedly firm.

She would not admit that Tracey planned to kill his wife and that that’s what the posts were about.

Cameron bent down and whispered in her ear, then left.

Lacoste smiled and turned back to Vachon, who was watching her with feigned boredom. But after a few seconds of silence, Vachon’s brows lowered.

“What?” she demanded.

“I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but an arrest warrant has just been issued for Carl Tracey. For the murder of Vivienne Godin. Chief Inspector Beauvoir is bringing him in. He’ll be here in half an hour.”

Lacoste got up and, collecting the papers, closed the file.

“Can I go now?”

“Not quite yet. I want to hear what Monsieur Tracey has to say. Then you can go.”

She walked to the door. And stopped when she heard that one word. That beautiful word.

“Wait.”

The radio crackled, and Jean-Guy reached for it so quickly it bobbled out of his hand.

He juggled it for a moment before finally grasping it.

“Beauvoir.”

“We have him,” said Isabelle Lacoste. “Pauline Vachon just admitted they’d discussed killing Vivienne. That Tracey planned to do it.”

“She’ll sign the statement? Testify against him?”

“Yes.”

They knocked on the door.

By now it was dark. Not even the porch light was on. Though there was still the one light on. Upstairs.

They knocked again. Still no answer.

Beauvoir turned to the two uniformed Sûreté agents and signaled them to go around back. Then he and Gamache exchanged glances.

Beauvoir turned the handle of the front door. It was unlocked. He swung it open.

“Tracey? Carl Tracey?” Beauvoir called. “Sûreté. We have a warrant for your arrest.”

He walked in, slowly, carefully, with Gamache right beside him. Both seasoned officers scanned the room. Looking for a killer.

They found him passed out, drunk, on the bed. In a puddle of his own vomit.