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Her hair was clean and nicely done. Makeup carefully applied. She was pretty.

Her clothes were simple, almost elegant, thought Cloutier. Black slacks and a white blouse, with a bright red silk scarf.

Lacoste was also taking in Vachon’s appearance. The makeup was cheap, clumping, and too heavily applied. The slacks were from a discount store, and the red scarf was rayon. Masquerading as silk. And hiding, Lacoste could see, a coffee stain on the white blouse.

Lysette Cloutier saw what she was meant to see. Isabelle Lacoste saw the truth.

Still, Lacoste knew that making the most of herself, on very little money, while holding together her own company at the age of twenty-one, was far from criminal. In fact, it was remarkable.

Pauline Vachon was a remarkable young woman. But she was also a nervous young woman. She clearly had not expected them to connect her to Tracey. And certainly not this quickly. And certainly not in any way that would lead her to be sitting in a Sûreté interview room.

Beneath Pauline’s calm, helpful veneer, Lacoste could sense alarm. Barely suppressed. But suppressed. This was indeed a self-possessed young woman.

So why had she hooked up with the mess that was Carl Tracey? That was just one of many questions that came to mind.

Pauline sat upright in the interview room. Almost prim. And looked down at the photo on the metal table.

“Yes. He’s one of my clients. Carl Tracey.”

“And what do you do for him?”

“I set up his website and manage his social media.”

“Which platforms?”

“Instagram mostly.”

“Can you give us the address of his website and social-media accounts?”

Cloutier wrote it down, though, of course, she already knew it. Vachon did not volunteer the private account.

“Many followers?” Lacoste asked.

“Not really. I tried to tell him that you need to post a lot to get interest, but honestly, what can a potter post that could go viral? More pictures of a lump of clay on a wheel?”

Lacoste smiled. “I sympathize. Unreasonable clients. The worst.”

Pauline relaxed a little. “He’s not really that bad. He just doesn’t understand.”

“You post for him?”

She nodded.

“Why doesn’t he do it himself?” asked Lacoste.

These were softball questions. Every interrogator had a particular technique. Hers was to set people at their ease. Have them lower their defenses.

“He’s an artist. Not great at technical things. Besides, there’s no internet at his place. Can you tell me what this’s about?”

It interested Lacoste that it had taken this long for Pauline Vachon to ask. It was normally the first question out of anyone’s mouth. But then, this young woman already knew the answer.

“Has something happened to Monsieur Tracey?”

She looked directly into Lacoste’s eyes. Not blinking. Brown eyes all innocent with just the right touch of curiosity. Without, it would appear, guilt or guile.

“I’m afraid his wife has drowned, and we just have some questions.”

“Oh, that’s terrible.” Pauline looked from Lacoste to Cloutier and back again.