by Louise Penny
He stood and stepped aside so that the coroner and Lacoste could get a better look. They stared at the stone corner, then back to Antoinette, glassy-eyed and shocked.
“She was either pushed or fell backward, hitting her head,” said Lacoste, and both Dr. Harris and Inspector Beauvoir nodded agreement.
“Murder,” said the coroner. “But perhaps not intentional. Looks like she might’ve surprised someone robbing her home.”
“There doesn’t seem to have been forced entry,” said Lacoste. “But that could mean nothing.”
As often as she’d been to this area of Québec, it still amazed her that people didn’t lock their doors. Perhaps when they went to bed, but beyond that anyone could walk in and out. Sometimes people survived. Sometimes they did not.
But the fact that the door was unlocked did suggest Antoinette Lemaitre hadn’t yet gone to bed. And she was still in her street clothes, not pajamas.
“She was supposed to go to Clara Morrow’s for dinner last night,” said Beauvoir. “But she called to cancel.”
Sharon Harris looked up. “How do you know?”
“We were there,” said Lacoste.
“You know her?” Dr. Harris motioned to the body.
“Not well,” said Lacoste. “But yes. What time did Antoinette call Clara?”
Beauvoir thought. “Not sure exactly, but it was before dinner and we ate at seven thirty.”
“Did Clara say why Antoinette canceled?” asked Lacoste.
“No, she just said she thought Antoinette wanted a quiet night to herself after all the stress of the Fleming play. Brian, her partner,” Beauvoir explained to Dr. Harris, “had a meeting in Montréal. Something to do with his job. So Antoinette had the place to herself.”
“I believe he’s the man in the kitchen,” said Dr. Harris. “He found her.”
Beauvoir turned to the local agent guarding the scene. “Is that true?”
“Yessir. When we arrived he was next door, but we brought him over. He’s pretty shaken up. He was her conjoint.”
“What did he tell you?” asked Lacoste.
“Not much,” said the agent. “It was all we could do to keep him upright.”
Both looked down again at the dead woman.
They hadn’t known Antoinette well. Beauvoir had seen her and Brian in the bistro a few times, and once at dinner with the Gamaches.
The Gamaches, he thought. He’d have to tell them.
Knowing the victim was both a help and a hindrance. It meant they knew something of the victim’s habits, her personality. But it also meant they came at it with preconceptions.
Jean-Guy studied Antoinette Lemaitre and realized he hadn’t liked her.
She’d been childish and coquettish in a way that creeped him out. Antoinette did not behave like a woman in her forties. She wore too much makeup, had spiky hair dyed purple and clothes that were too young and too tight and too short. She could be willful and bossy.
He looked again at the blood, sticky on the hair and carpet.
But his main objection had little to do with her appearance and more to do with the fact she’d chosen to produce a play by a serial killer. He wondered if her murderer had had the same objection.
“She doesn’t seem to have been violated,” said Dr. Harris, standing up.
“Anything under her fingernails?” asked Lacoste.
“No flesh or hair. Whoever did this seems to have taken her by surprise. This”—Dr. Harris gestured at the room—“wasn’t done in a fight.”
They looked around at the overturned furniture, the drawers pulled from the desk and cabinets and dumped on the floor. The books splayed in piles on the carpet. Some even lay on Antoinette’s body.
“What does it look like to you?” Jean-Guy asked Lacoste.
“Not vandalism. Nothing’s broken. No spray-paint or excrement. I agree with Dr. Harris, it looks like she disturbed a robber.”
“A pretty desperate or persistent robber, wouldn’t you say?” he asked. “Most just grab the TV and run. Maybe pull out a few drawers looking for money.”
Lacoste considered. “Oui.”
It just wasn’t adding up, though. A robber generally waited for the home to be empty, or the person to be asleep. But the lamps were still on. Whoever did this knew the owner was probably at home and almost certainly awake.
And most of the mess was made after Antoinette was dead by someone who knew he wouldn’t be disturbed. And who was not disturbed by having just killed someone.
And that bothered Jean-Guy Beauvoir. A lot. Most robbers were just that. Robbers. They had no desire or stomach for murder. This was different. Someone had killed Antoinette, then spent hours searching her home while her body cooled.
The Scene of Crime team arrived and got to work. Jean-Guy directed them while Chief Inspector Lacoste walked around the rest of the house. Looking into rooms but not touching anything.
It was a modest single-story home with a basement. Even that had been ripped apart. It must’ve taken hours. The further she got into the house the more convinced Lacoste became this was not a simple robbery, and Antoinette Lemaitre not a random target.
Carpets had been ripped up, floorboards lifted. Paneling hung from the walls. A chair stood in the middle of the hall beneath an opening in the ceiling. Lacoste got on it and shone her light into the attic. She heard scampering and got off the chair.
If she had to she’d go up, but that was one of the perks of being Chief Inspector. She could assign someone else to do that now.
“The forensics team and Scene of Crime are doing their job,” said Beauvoir, joining her. “Time to talk to Brian.”
Jean-Guy had spoken with him briefly on his way to find Lacoste.
“How does he seem?” Lacoste asked.
“Stunned. Numb.”
But neither was under any illusion. As they walked back down the hallway, both seasoned homicide investigators knew they were about to speak to their main suspect.
Brian Fitzpatrick got to his feet when they entered. He was about to say something, but then looked as though he’d forgotten how to speak.
“I’m so sorry, Brian,” said Isabelle Lacoste. “This is terrible.”
He nodded. His eyes darted from one to the other.
“What happened?” he asked, sitting back down on his chair at the Formica table.
Lacoste looked at the agent from the local Sûreté detachment, standing bored by the doorway.
“Can you make a pot of coffee?” she asked. The agent looked put out, but agreed.
The kitchen had also been ransacked, though the damage did not seem as great. Mostly flour, sugar and cornflakes spilled out onto the counter, and drawers opened and emptied.
It seemed more pro forma, as though the robber-turned-killer had run out of steam or was running out of time. Or conviction.
Brian looked at them, all eyes, wide and red.
“What time did you find her, Brian?” Lacoste asked.
“I left Montréal about seven thirty this morning, so I got here about nine.”
“You were in Montréal last night?” asked Lacoste.
“Yes, at a meeting. I stayed over. I wish I hadn’t.” He had that haunted look people got when alternate endings began to appear. Endings in which they did something different. What might have been, if only …
“What did you find when you got home?” Lacoste asked.
Jean-Guy had assumed the role Chief Inspector Gamache favored in interrogations, of just listening. And watching. Occasionally contributing, but mostly absorbing what was being said, or not said.
“The door wasn’t locked—”
“Did that surprise you?” asked Lacoste.
“Not really. Antoinette would’ve been up and working by nine. She’d have unlocked the door already. But it did seem strange that the curtains were still closed.”
“She was a translator, is that right?” said Lacoste.
“Yes. She works from home.”
“So you opened the door,” Lacoste prompted.
“I yelled ‘Hi,’ but there was no answer. Of course.” He seemed to deflate a little at those last two words. “I hung up my coat and walked toward the living room and saw—” he gestured, but Chief Inspector Lacoste did not fill in the blank. “Everything was all over the place. I think I sorta went blank. Froze. And then I panicked and started shouting for Antoinette. I ran into the room and must’ve tripped because I ended up on the floor. That’s when I saw…”
“Saw what, Brian?” asked Lacoste quietly when the silence had gone on.
“Her foot. I’m not sure what happened next. I’ve been sitting here trying to put it together but it just seems like…” He struggled for the word. “I remember seeing her face, and her eyes. And knowing. I think I might’ve touched her because I remember feeling cold. And then thinking I was about to pass out. It was just too…”
He stared out the kitchen window and seemed to have ground to a halt, overwhelmed.
“What did you do then?” Lacoste asked.
She had the impression that had she not prompted him, Brian would have spent the rest of his life staring out that window. Stuck.
Lacoste glanced over at Jean-Guy, who also sat very still, absorbing it all.
“I panicked,” said Brian softly, not meeting their eyes. “I ran away. I had to get out. I went over to Madame Proulx’s place next door. She called the police.”
“Did you come back here?”
He shook his head. “Only when the police arrived. They asked me to come back with them, and they put me in here.”
The coffee was ready and Beauvoir poured them each a mug. When they’d taken a sip of the strong coffee, Lacoste resumed the interrogation. She made it sound like a conversation, but only a fool, or a man numb with grief, could mistake it for that.
“Can you tell us what you did last night?”
“I was in Montréal. The monthly meeting of the Geological Survey. We go through our reports.”
“Last night?”
“No, yesterday afternoon but I stayed over. Some of us go out for drinks and dinner after. We always do.”
“Can you give us the details, a phone number of someone who was there?”
“Yes.”
Beauvoir took it down.
“What time did you finish?”
“About eight, eight thirty. Not late.”
“Where did you stay? A hotel?”
“No, we have a pied-à-terre. Just a studio. I stay there when I’m in town for meetings and will have a few drinks.”
“Can anyone vouch for you?” asked Lacoste.
“Vouch for me?” he asked, and then it dawned on him, as it did every suspect eventually. That they were suspected. But unlike many, Brian didn’t get angry or defensive. He just looked even more frightened, if that was possible.
“I was alone in the apartment. There’s no doorman. I let myself in and didn’t go out again.”
“Did you call anyone?”
“Just Antoinette.” He pressed his lips together and took a ragged breath.
“What time was that?”
“When I got in, about three in the afternoon. Just to say I’d arrived safely. She told me we’d been invited over to Clara’s for dinner, but she thought she might cancel.”
“Did she tell you why?” Beauvoir asked, speaking for the first time in the interrogation.
“She said she thought a couple of people might drop by later.”
“Who?”
“People from the theater,” he said. “They wanted to talk to her. I think they wanted to fire her, but I didn’t say anything.”
“What did she think it was about?” Lacoste asked.
“She thought they’d changed their minds and were going to do the play after all.” His hand went to the copy of She Sat Down and Wept on the kitchen table. It was covered in scribbled notes. “She couldn’t believe everyone had quit.”
Once again Brian gave them names, and once again Beauvoir took them down.
“Emotions were running high about the play,” said Lacoste.
Brian nodded. “It was a mistake, of course. We shouldn’t have been doing it.” He looked at her then, focusing completely for the first time. “You don’t think it had anything to do with—” He gestured out the kitchen door toward the living room. “But that’s ridiculous. It’s just a play. No one cares that much.”
“They cared enough to quit,” said Lacoste.
But enough to kill?
“Who knew you’d be in Montréal?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” said Brian, thinking but obviously not grasping the significance of the question. “I think people knew I went in every now and then, but I don’t think I told anyone I was going in yesterday.”
Lacoste caught Beauvoir’s eye. Did Brian really not know he’d just been given a chance to take the heat off himself?
Antoinette was killed by someone who knew he wouldn’t be interrupted. The murderer therefore didn’t know about Brian, or knew Brian was in Montréal, or was Brian.
Had he told them lots of people knew he’d be away, that would open up the list of suspects. But he hadn’t. Which showed he was innocent or stupid, or so sure of himself he chose to play stupid.
They went through the rest of the questions and Brian gave answers, some halting, some incomplete, some thorough. What emerged was the image of a man numb with grief, who’d been a hundred kilometers away when Antoinette was killed. Who had nothing to do with it. Who wished he’d been there. Who couldn’t think of anyone who wanted her dead.
“I know you have to look at all possibilities, but it was a robbery, wasn’t it?” Brian finally asked. “It must’ve been. Look at the place.”
When the Sûreté investigators didn’t answer, he looked more confused than ever.
“You’re not saying someone killed Antoinette on purpose, are you?”
“It’s a possibility,” said Lacoste.
“Who would do it?” he demanded. “Why? I know she could rub people the wrong way, but she never got anyone that upset.”
“You can’t think of anyone?” asked Lacoste.
“Of course not,” said Brian. “This must’ve been a terrible accident. Someone came to rob the place, and Antoinette found them. Jesus, what’re you saying?”
“We’re saying it was probably robbery, but we have to be sure,” said Lacoste, her voice soothing. Certain.
Her calm seemed to have its effect. Brian took a deep breath and regained his composure.
“I’ll help in any way I can. What can I do?”
“You can prove you were in Montréal,” said Beauvoir.
This time Brian didn’t miss the implication, but instead of getting defensive he just nodded and gave them the address of the apartment building, the number of the superintendent, the names of neighbors.
He gave them the codes to their computers, their banking, their phones.
“Antoinette used the last four digits of your phone number?” said Beauvoir as he looked down at what he’d written.
“I know, too obvious,” said Brian. “I told her that but she wanted something she could remember.”
“And yours?” asked Beauvoir. “0621 for everything?”
“Yes. Something I could never forget. June twenty-first. Our first date. Ten years ago.”
Jean-Guy Beauvoir concentrated on the page, on the numbers, on the pen as he wrote it down. And tried not to look into Brian’s red, wondering eyes.
Like Brian, he too used his first date with Annie as his code. Something he would never, could never, ever forget.
How would he feel if he found Annie…?
Chief Inspector Gamache had told them to crawl into the skins of the victim and the suspects, but he’d warned his investigators that it was difficult to do, and it was dangerous. Jean-Guy had never really understood the need, or the danger.
But now he did.
He’d gotten into Brian’s skin but had overshot the mark and ended up in his broken heart.
As they left, Jean-Guy picked up the copy of the play from the table. Brian explained it was Antoinette’s. He’d taken it with him to Montréal, having left his own copy in the theater.
Beauvoir was not a superstitious man, or claimed not to be. But even to this rational man, the play seemed heavier than just paper.
* * *
They interviewed all the neighbors, none of whom saw or heard anything, and left Madame Proulx, next door, ’til last. She was middle-aged and plump and worried, her large, red hands intertwined and fidgety.
“What did Brian Fitzpatrick say to you exactly?” Isabelle Lacoste asked as they took seats in the comfortable living room. “When he arrived this morning.”
“That something had happened and he needed to call for help, but he was trembling too hard, so I called.”
“Did he say anything else?”
“Only that Antoinette had been hurt. I asked if we should go over to help and he looked so frightened, I knew.”
Her eyes moved from one to the other. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”
“I’m afraid so.”
And then she did something rarely seen anymore in Québec. She crossed herself.
“Did you see anyone arrive at their place last night?” Isabelle Lacoste asked.
“No, I had the curtains drawn and was watching television. Les Filles de Caleb.”
Lacoste nodded. It was what all the other neighbors had said. Everyone had drawn the curtains and settled in front of the television to watch the rerun of the wildly popular show.
A werewolf could tear apart the living room and this woman wouldn’t budge while that show was on. Lacoste was beginning to wonder if the killer had chosen the time for that very reason.
“Do you know who did it?” asked Madame Proulx.
“Non, not yet, but we will,” said Lacoste.
She tried to reassure Madame Proulx, but without a suspect arrested the reassurance was hollow.
At least Laurent Lepage’s murder hadn’t appeared random. It seemed clear from the beginning that he was killed not because he was Laurent, or a child, but because of what he found in the woods. There was a reason.
But the murder of Antoinette Lemaitre seemed senseless. There was no obvious motive. And into that void there streamed all sorts of suspicions. And understandable terror.
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