The Nature of the Beast
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.