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It was her strict policy to leave work behind, at least until the kids were fed and in bed. Unless the call was from Monsieur Gamache or Jean-Guy.
Besides, she was on leave.
It was only after the third attempt that Isabelle picked up.
“Oui, allô?”
“I’m so sorry to disturb you, patron.” The voice was just the tiniest bit off. Not slurred. If anything, the words were too well enunciated. Too precise.
“What can I do for you?”
“Carl Tracey has a web page.” And then came a sound between a laugh and a snort.
“Yes.”
“But he doesn’t have internet. He also has an Instagram account. That’s active. So how does he do it?”
Now Lacoste’s mind was engaged. How did he do it? There was only one answer—
“He has a webmaster,” said Cloutier. “Some woman named Pauline. She must manage it all for him. Post for him.”
“Okay,” said Lacoste, sitting at her own laptop and putting in Carl Tracey’s name.
“Dinner,” her husband called.
“Be right there.”
“You’re coming here?” asked Cloutier with alarm, looking at the almost empty wine bottle and empty bag of chips.
“No, I was speaking to my husband.” Putting her hand over the receiver, she called, “Start without me.” Then she returned to Cloutier. “Is there anything incriminating on the sites?”
“Not that I can see, but there might be a private Instagram account that they use, just the two of them.”
“That no one else can see? That’s possible?”
“Yup.”
“How would we know?”
“We wouldn’t, unless we asked and she told us.”
“And to get access to the private account?” asked Lacoste. By now she’d found the public Instagram account. It was pretty standard, clearly meant for marketing his pottery.
“Need to be invited.”
“Why would they have a private account?” Lacoste asked.
“Dunno.” Then Cloutier thought. “Private messages. That’s why.”
She sounded both triumphant and a little surprised she’d managed that answer.
“Things they don’t want public,” said Lacoste.
Cloutier sang, “Someone’s trying to hide their privates.” Then she definitely snorted.
Lacoste looked at the phone. She’d mentored the older woman since she’d been transferred, kicking and screaming, from accounting into homicide. Never once had the accountant snorted. Or even made a joke. She’d barely smiled.
She’s drunk, Lacoste knew. Now, why would Lysette Cloutier get drunk?
