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.
“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.