by Louise Penny
What the old poet didn’t realize, or had forgotten, was that social media was less about truth than perception. People believed what they chose to believe.
Neither did she appear to understand the damage she’d just done.
“I have to let you go,” Armand said into the phone.
When he hung up, he looked briefly at the clear image on the screen, taking one deep breath after another. Trying to control his outrage.
Then, reaching for the phone, he said to Jean-Guy, “Can you give me a few minutes?”
Jean-Guy stepped toward the door, paused, then turned around. He knew what Armand was about to do. “Non.”
“Non?”
“I’m staying with you.” He sat down. There would be no argument.
Jean-Guy did not leave his side as Armand called the families of the officers who’d been slain that day. Whose deaths, like some horrific snuff film, were once again played out in public.
Armand placed call after call.
They were numbers he knew by heart, since he spoke to the mothers, fathers, husbands, and wives every week and visited the families whenever he was invited.
Now he called to warn them. To listen to their rage. To absorb, again, their agony.
When he’d finished, he asked Jean-Guy to leave him. Just for a couple of minutes.
And this time, Jean-Guy did.
When he was alone, Armand sat quietly, then dropped his face into his trembling hands.
Things are strongest where they’re broken, the young voice reassured him. And Armand gasped with pain as he held the agent, no more than a boy, in his arms.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“Some abortion drug.”
Those were Pauline Vachon’s words. Too ashamed to go back to her doctor, she’d gone where desperate women had for centuries. Into a back alley.
But this time it wasn’t some sadist with a coat hanger. It was a kid with a pharmacy.
“Mifegymiso?” Lacoste asked.
“Maybe. I dunno. I just took it, and it worked.”
“Is that how Carl Tracey knew about it?”
There was silence. Except for the ticking of the old clock on the wall. As the reality of what they were really talking about hit Pauline.
“I was just trying to help a client. Nothing wrong with that.”
Lacoste remained silent.
“His wife was pregnant,” Vachon went on. “He said it probably wasn’t his, that they hadn’t had sex in months. So I told him about the drug.”
“And where to get it.”
“Yes.”
“You knew he was going to give it to her, probably without her knowledge, and that was fine with you?”
“What he did with it was his business.”
Lacoste struggled not to show her disgust. At Tracey. But also at this alarming young woman who didn’t seem to see anything wrong with this.
“It didn’t work,” said Lacoste. “Vivienne was still pregnant when she died.”
“She couldn’t have been. This was last summer,” said Vachon.
Isabelle Lacoste’s mind raced.
It seemed they were talking about two different pregnancies. Carl Tracey had ended one with the abortion drug last summer. But now Vivienne was pregnant again.
Had she suspected what he’d done? Was that one of the reasons, perhaps the main reason, she’d decided to finally get out now? So the same thing didn’t happen to this child?
“Well, she was,” said Lacoste. “Pregnant. You didn’t know?”
“I didn’t know him all that well. He didn’t tell me everything.”
“You knew him well enough to set up an illegal drug buy. Well enough to help him abort the baby, without his wife’s knowledge. Well enough to sleep with him.”
Lacoste opened the file in front of her and removed the photographs, taken off the private feed. She placed them, one at a time, on the table.
Pauline was momentarily taken by surprise but then recovered herself. With speed rarely seen by Lacoste, she grasped the situation. And made a decision.
“I’m not exactly picky, am I?” said Pauline, smiling.
Lacoste realized she’d underestimated this young woman and how remarkable she really was.
This was strategic. Mix truth in with lies, so it became more and more difficult to tell them apart.
“It meant nothing,” Pauline explained. “Might not’ve been the smartest thing I’ve done, having sex with a client, but hey, people’ve done worse.”
“Like murder,” said Lacoste.
There could be no more doubt about the relationship between Tracey and Vachon, and neither was there any doubt about the relationship between interviewer and interviewee. One was in charge, the other in trouble.
Pauline Vachon looked down at the photographs, her lips compressing. “How did you get these?”
“You’ve been corresponding with NouveauGalerie, I believe,” said Lacoste.
“You?” said Vachon, looking first at Lacoste, then at Cloutier, who gave a curt nod.
The clotted makeup could not conceal the panic in her face.
Lacoste opened the file again and read, “Stuff’s in the bag. Everything’s ready. Will be done tonight. I promise. That was a message from Carl Tracey to you, around noon on the day Vivienne disappeared. And your reply?”
“Look, I had nothing to do with it.”
“Finally. Good luck. Don’t mess it up.” She looked up from the file. “But he did, didn’t he? He messed it up royally. That’s why you’re here, Pauline.”
The younger woman was flushed. But she tried one more twist to get off the hook.
“Those were about the clay Tracey was buying. He was going to do more pieces that night. I told him not to mess it up. He’d been promising some for weeks.”
Lacoste got up. “I’ll let you think about what you just said. Unless something happens in the next few minutes, like a meteor strikes, you’ll be charged with the murder of Vivienne Godin.”
She and Cloutier left the room. Leaving the file behind.
* * *
“We have her,” said Lacoste, walking up to Beauvoir, who was standing outside the meeting room. “Pauline Vachon doesn’t admit to being part of the murder—yet—but she will. I’m letting her stew for a few minutes. She was clearly shaken when she realized we’d seen the private account.”
“You should’ve seen her face,” said Cloutier.
Lacoste nodded. “She admits she used the abortion drug herself and was the one who told Carl Tracey how to get it on the black market.”
How Lacoste got the young woman to admit to a third abortion, never mind buying the black-market drug, still amazed Cloutier. It had been a masterful combination of guile, of guesswork, of knowing when to push and when to make nice. Until Vachon had nowhere to go but the truth.
Cloutier was looking at Lacoste with something close to awe. But there was caution there as well. She did not want to make the same mistake as Vachon.
Whether by natural instinct or honed skills, Isabelle Lacoste had the power to see things people wanted to hide.
And they all had them, as Lysette Cloutier knew only too well.
But while Cloutier was focused on Lacoste, Lacoste was focused on Beauvoir.
“What is it?”
He told them about the video.
Before Lacoste could react, the door opened and Gamache stepped out. He was pale but composed.
Every agent in the open room looked over at him.
They’d all read the Twitter feed and seen the doctored video that was blowing up online. They had yet to see the real video that had just been posted.
“What can we do, patron?” Lacoste asked, going to him and touching his hand.
“There’s nothing to be done. Mais merci, Isabelle. I’ve spoken to the families.” His smile was tight and his voice brisk. “How did the interview go with Pauline Vachon?”
As they returned to the meeting room to talk privately, both Lacoste and Beauvoir not
* * *
They watched on the monitor as Pauline Vachon turned the folder around and went through the photographs and printouts.
Then she sat back in her chair. And stared at the far wall.
Seeing, Lacoste knew, all her work, all her dreams, dissolving.
Then Beauvoir closed the feed on his laptop and turned to Lacoste.
“Tell us what happened.”
When Lacoste finished, Beauvoir thought for a moment. “She’ll crack.”
“I’m not so sure,” said Lacoste. “She’s clever and she’s tough. Makes me so angry. She really could’ve made something of her life. I still don’t know why she’d hook up with Carl Tracey.”
“She saw a shortcut,” said Beauvoir.
“To what? An abusive relationship in a remote farmhouse? Not exactly Cinderella.”
“She probably thought she was smarter, tougher than Vivienne Godin,” said Beauvoir. “That she could control Tracey.”
“We saw the bruises on her arms,” said Cloutier. “She must know.”
“Maybe she does. Maybe it’s the cycle of abuse, right, patron?” said Beauvoir, and Gamache nodded.
Beauvoir and Lacoste exchanged glances but said nothing. They’d give him time, and space, to return to them.
Beauvoir sat forward, his voice all business. “The coroner’s report came in. The fetus, a baby girl, was his.”
“His who?” asked Lacoste, needing to be absolutely clear.
“Carl Tracey. The baby was his.”
“You’re kidding.” It was, of course, rhetorical. Isabelle Lacoste sat back in her chair. What did this mean?
“Do you think Vivienne knew this and was messing with Carl when she told him it wasn’t his?” she asked. “Or did Vivienne really believe the baby was someone else’s?”
“We only have Tracey’s word on it that she said anything,” Beauvoir pointed out. “I think that’s bullshit. Her father said she was desperate to get out as soon as she could, that day. Why would she provoke Tracey by saying anything?”
“What did Pauline Vachon say about the messages on the private Instagram?” Gamache asked, speaking for the first time in the meeting. “How did she explain them?”
“Said they were about clay he was buying.”
Gamache frowned. “Smart. She’s quick on her feet.”
“She is that,” agreed Lacoste. “This might not be as easy as we’d hoped.”
“But she must know no one in their right mind would believe that,” said Beauvoir. “Not after what happened.”
“Do you get the impression she cares for Tracey?” Gamache asked.
“Not especially,” said Lacoste. “I think she has sex with him for the same reason she has sex with so many other men. It’s a form of self-loathing.”
“What role do you think she has in all this?” Gamache asked.
“I don’t know, but I can tell you she’s involved. And she knows we know.”
“What do you think would happen if you told her the baby was Tracey’s?” Beauvoir asked.
Lacoste considered that.
“It’d be a surprise. A shock. Not because she loves Tracey, but it would prove to her that he lied about that. He can’t be trusted.”
“Exactly,” said Beauvoir, sitting forward. “She’s smart. She must realize that he’d blame the killing on her in a second if he was cornered.”
“So we need to press that home,” said Lacoste. “She must be thinking about it even now. This information about the fetus might be just that last shove we need.”
“Give it another go, Isabelle,” said Beauvoir. “Try to turn her. We have enough now to arrest him, but her testimony would secure a conviction.”
Lacoste gave one curt nod. “Leave it to me.”
“I’ll apply for an arrest warrant for Tracey, but we’ll wait to hear from you. Even if you can’t turn her, we’ll bring him in. He’ll crack, even if she won’t.”
“She will,” said Lacoste. “I’ll make sure of it.”
* * *
Clara Morrow dropped the printout onto the bistro table and sat down across from Dominica Oddly.
“Do you really think this?”
“I do.”
“You say here”—she tapped the paper—“that I was once promising. Exceptional, even. But then I got lazy.”
“Yes.”
“But it’s not true.”
“No?” asked Oddly. “Are you sure?”
The critic had left Clara in her studio to read in private the review that had just gone public. She’d strolled across the village green, and, brushing slush off the bench, she sat, looking at the three pine trees that clearly gave the place its name. It seemed a little “on the nose” for Oddly. Too obvious. Three pines in Three Pines.
She’d have preferred if there were two pines. It would make the place more interesting. Give it a story. What happened to that third tree? Granted, not much of a story, but better than none.
As it was, this hidden little hamlet was pretty but banal. She could almost see the stone and brick and clapboard homes, the church on the hill and the forest behind, turning into a watercolor before her eyes. Something not quite real. Not quite of this world. Certainly not of the gritty, noisy, aggressive world she’d just left.
This was like a pretty painting by some elderly, marginally gifted artist.
Nice. Sweet. Predictable. Safe.
Oddly smiled as she thought of the residents peering through their curtains at the wild black woman in dreadlocks and combat boots sitting in the middle of their peaceful village. She must, she thought, scare them to death.
She’d spotted the bistro when she’d arrived, and now she made for it. Her boots, veterans of sidewalk garbage and dog shit, squelched on grass and mud.
She opened the door and was prepared to enter a space decorated with Grand-mère in mind. All lace and gingham. Stuffed with old snowshoes and spinning wheels and dusty twig baskets filled with dried flowers hanging from the rafters. Furnished with cheap imitation pine tables and uncomfortable chairs.
If Oddly knew one thing about Québec, it was that it was a cheap imitation of the real thing. France.
Instead what she found was a place both contemporary and somehow ageless. It seemed to straddle the centuries. Comfortable armchairs upholstered in fresh linens sat around an assortment of rugged old tables. Dark oak. Maple. Pine. Tables made from the forests that surrounded the village. They were scratched and dented and worn by a century or more of meals. Of drinks. Of companionship. And hardship.
The place settings, displayed in an old Welsh dresser, were white china with clean modern lines.
Oriental rugs, hand-tied, were scattered on the wide-plank floors. The walls were freshly plastered and painted a shade that contrasted nicely with the warm wood and stone.
She looked up.
Nothing hung from the sturdy beams.
The bistro smelled of rich coffee and subtle maple smoke from the fieldstone fireplaces at either end of the room.
It was a place of confidences. Of companionship. Where secrets were exchanged and yearnings admitted. Where children grew into adults, into seniors. Where homecomings were celebrated and lives celebrated by those left behind.
It was a place where both grandmother and granddaughter would feel at home.
“Bonjour,” said a young woman coming from behind the long bar to greet her. “Une table? C’est votre choix.”
She smiled at Dominica, as though dreadlocked New York critics were their regular customers, and pointed to the near-empty room. It was midafternoon, between rushes.
The few other customers had glanced at her, then gone back to their conversations. Showing little interest and no fear.
“Ummm,” said Oddly, not at all sure what the young woman had said.
“Oh, sorry. English. Sit anywhere you like. The fireplace has just come open. I’ll clean the table for you.”
The young woman spoke in slightly accented English. As Oddly followed her to the large armchair by the fire, she thought she might have to do something rare for her.
Reconsider her opinion.
This was no France wannabe. This was genuine Québec. With its own history, etched into flesh and bone, into stone and wood. Into the cushions of the armchairs and sofas, retaining the impressions of warm bodies who’d sat there before her. Eating, talking, commiserating, laughing. For generations.
This was no imitation, but the real thing.
By the time Clara found her, Dominica had enjoyed a glass of red wine and a delicious buttery Riopelle de l’Isle. A cheese made on a tiny Québec island, and named after one of her favorite artists. Jean-Paul Riopelle. Dominica hadn’t realized that the abstract expressionist painter came from Québec. And lived, worked, and died on a small island.
She smeared the cheese on a baguette fresh from the bakery next door, and looked at the village, framed by the mullioned windows.
She was wondering how much homes around the village green cost, and if any of her subscribers would notice, or care, if she decamped to Canada.
Though, looking at Clara Morrow’s face, she knew one person who might not be pleased.
* * *
Vivienne’s father closed his eyes and, bringing his hand to his heart, made a sound.
Gamache, sitting across from him, watched closely. It wasn’t clear if Homer was sighing or moaning. Whether he was relieved or having a heart attack.
Armand noticed that the hand over his heart was crunched into a fist. But not tight. Not in pain. At least not physical pain. His heart, under attack for days, might just, with the news of the imminent arrest of Carl Tracey, finally be fighting back.
“I know you’re not messing with me, Armand, but I need to hear it again. You’re arresting him. For what he did.”
“Yes. I’ll be going with Chief Inspector Beauvoir. We’ll be bringing him in probably within the hour. You’re free to go, but, Homer”—it was the first time he’d used the man’s first name to his face—“I’d like Agent Cloutier to drive you back to Three Pines.”
“To get my things.”
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