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“What did you say?”
“I’m arresting you.”
“What for?” asked Agent Cloutier, going to stand beside Homer.
“For assault.”
“I haven’t done it yet. Give me a moment.” Godin’s voice was flat, his cold stare returning to Tracey. “And you can make it murder.”
“I mean the assault on Madame Gamache. You punched her in the face.”
“I did?”
“He what?” said Gabri.
“Take him in,” said Gamache. Then, in front of everyone, Gamache did something he’d never done before. He apologized, even as he made the arrest. “Désolé.”
“I hit your wife?” asked Homer, more stunned by that than the arrest. “Is she all right?”
“She will be.”
“Oh, God,” sighed Homer. “What’s happening?”
They walked out of the bistro. Homer Godin in custody. And Carl Tracey a free man.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The morning sun was just slanting over the trees as Clara and Myrna stood on the edge of the village green and watched.
Ruth joined them, limping out of her home, clutching Rosa to her chest.
“What’s going on?”
“I think they found Vivienne,” said Clara, pointing to the coroner’s car and then down the path along the river.
Ruth and Rosa shook their heads. “It’s tragic. So young.” Then Ruth’s eyes and voice sharpened. “What’s he doing?”
“Looks like he’s arresting Homer,” said Myrna as they watched Armand walk with Homer to the Sûreté car.
“He can’t think—” Clara began.
“Jesus, even Clouseau can’t be that stupid,” said Ruth.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” muttered the duck.
Just then Homer stopped and turned. As did Gamache. As did everyone else on the village green.
Vivienne Godin was being brought out of the woods. In a body bag.
The bistro door opened, and Carl Tracey stepped out. Into the fresh air. And sunshine.
He saw the stretcher, took a deep breath, and said, “I wonder.”
“What?” demanded Olivier, coming out behind him.
“I wonder if she was insured.”
Staring silently at the long black bag as it was slid into the coroner’s vehicle, Homer Godin crossed himself. As did Gabri and Olivier. Even Ruth, unseen by the others, made the familiar gesture.
