The Nature of the Beast: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel (27 page)

Oh no, thought Beauvoir, surely not.

Drove my Honda, which I’m fonda
 …

He tuned out the lyrics and replaced them with the conversation after dinner, when he and Isabelle had walked to the Gamaches’ from Clara’s so he could pick up the record and they could have a brief discussion about the evening.

“What I find strange,” Isabelle had said, as they sat in the Gamaches’ living room, “is that neither the CSIS people nor Rosenblatt picked up on Dr. Bull’s poor academic record and that maybe there was someone else, the real designer, working behind the scenes. I mean, it was right there. Even Madame Gamache found it.”

“Thank you, dear,” said Reine-Marie.

“
Désolé
. But you know what I mean. These people are supposedly experts on Gerald Bull, and professionals at deciphering information, and yet they miss that?”

Armand nodded. “Why do you think that is? Beyond the obvious answer that Reine-Marie is far smarter than all of them.”

“
Merci, mon cher
,” said Madame Gamache. “You know, a lot of geniuses did poorly in school. Maybe that was Dr. Bull.”

“Maybe,” said Jean-Guy. “But I think the CSIS people, and perhaps even Professor Rosenblatt, didn’t miss it. They were just hoping we would. I think they know perfectly well someone else was involved with Project Babylon.”

“And that’s why they’re still here,” said Armand, nodding.

“To look for the plans or the person?” asked Isabelle.

“Both,” said Beauvoir.

“You think the person who designed Project Babylon is here in Three Pines?” asked Lacoste.

“I don’t,” said Beauvoir. “Not really. But maybe. I don’t know.”

“Impressive,” said Lacoste.

Jean-Guy smiled tightly and got up. “I’m heading over to Ruth’s place with Al Lepage’s record. I want to hear it. Coming?”

“No, I’m going back to the Incident Room and see if any reports have come in. Both the Canadian government and the Americans are looking into Al Lepage. Does it seem odd that he arrived in Québec already having a French surname?”

“What strikes me as odd,” said Beauvoir, “is that he said he walked across the border and just stumbled into Three Pines.”

“How else would you find it?” asked Reine-Marie. She thought for a moment. “He was a draft dodger, right?”

The Sûreté officers nodded.

“From what I remember, they were welcomed in Canada,” said Reine-Marie. “I’m not sure they really had to sneak across the border.”

“They were pardoned too,” said Armand. “By Jimmy Carter. Many returned.”

“But not Al Lepage,” said Isabelle Lacoste.

“I’ll ask Ruth if she knows anything,” said Beauvoir.

“One other thing you might check out tomorrow,” said Armand, as he walked them down the path. “Where the CSIS agents disappeared to today. They weren’t in the village and I don’t think they were at the site of the gun.”

That had been an hour ago, and now Jean-Guy found himself alone in Ruth’s living room, listening to Al Lepage’s record.

When it was finished he placed the needle on the spinning vinyl again, but not at the beginning. Sitting back down, he listened, again, to the saga of the dog in the woods. The listener was meant to come away with the heartwarming image of the family not giving up hope, and the dog finding home. But what stayed with Jean-Guy was the image of an animal getting in touch with its true nature. Willing to kill if it had to.

*   *   *

The call came into the Incident Room in the old train station the next morning. It was from the local detachment of the Sûreté.

“Since you’re already here, Chief Inspector, I thought you’d want to know.”

“Know what?”

“A body was found this morning.”

Lacoste grabbed a pen and motioned to Beauvoir, who came over.

“Who?”

She wrote the name on her notepad, and next to it the word
murdered
. And heard Jean-Guy whisper, “
Merde
.”

“Where?” Lacoste wrote an address. “Is there a team there?”

“The first response just reported in. I’ve told them not to touch anything.”

Inspector Beauvoir had moved over to his desk and she could hear him calling for a Scene of Crime unit from Montréal.

“Bludgeoned to death at home,” the local agent said. “The place has been ransacked. Looks like robbery. I’ve dispatched an ambulance, of course, but it’s too late.”

“Call the coroner,” said Lacoste.

“Already done. She’ll meet you there.”

“Good.”

She hung up and looked down at her notepad, where a name was written and circled.

Ten minutes later they were kneeling beside the body of Antoinette Lemaitre.

CHAPTER 23

“I recognize her,” said Sharon Harris, the coroner. “She runs the Knowlton Playhouse, doesn’t she?”

Dr. Harris and Isabelle Lacoste were kneeling beside Antoinette, who was lying on her back, staring at the ceiling. Surprised. Jean-Guy Beauvoir was crouched on the other side of the body.

“
Oui
,” said Chief Inspector Lacoste. “The Estrie Players.”

“They were doing the Fleming play,” said Dr. Harris, her gloved hands swiftly checking the body. “Community’s in a bit of an uproar about it.”

The coroner grimaced as she spoke Fleming’s name, as though she’d put a rotten trout into her mouth. Here was a woman who worked with corpses in all states of decay and what disgusted her? The very mention of John Fleming.

The grimace was, Lacoste knew, involuntary. Like being tapped on the kneecap. Flinching at the mention of Fleming was a healthy human reaction.

“Not much damage that I can see,” said the coroner. “I don’t want to move her until your forensics people have arrived, but from what I see she’s been dead less than twelve hours, but more than six.”

“Between nine thirty last night and two thirty this morning,” said Beauvoir. “And cause of death?”

“At a guess, I’d say that.” The coroner leaned close to Antoinette’s head and pointed to the back of her skull where her purple hair was clotted and matted a deep red.

“It looks like a single catastrophic blow. Crushed the skull. She probably didn’t know what hit her.”

“And what did?” asked Lacoste.

They looked around and quickly found blood staining the corner of the hearth.

Beauvoir leaned closer. “Looks like it.”

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.”

There was a conflict of tenses that would resolve itself with time.