When it was finished he placed the needle on the spinning vinyl again, but not at the beginning. Sitting back down, he listened, again, to the saga of the dog in the woods. The listener was meant to come away with the heartwarming image of the family not giving up hope, and the dog finding home. But what stayed with Jean-Guy was the image of an animal getting in touch with its true nature. Willing to kill if it had to.

*   *   *

The call came into the Incident Room in the old train station the next morning. It was from the local detachment of the Sûreté.

“Since you’re already here, Chief Inspector, I thought you’d want to know.”

“Know what?”

“A body was found this morning.”

Lacoste grabbed a pen and motioned to Beauvoir, who came over.

“Who?”

She wrote the name on her notepad, and next to it the word murdered. And heard Jean-Guy whisper, “Merde.”

“Where?” Lacoste wrote an address. “Is there a team there?”

“The first response just reported in. I’ve told them not to touch anything.”

Inspector Beauvoir had moved over to his desk and she could hear him calling for a Scene of Crime unit from Montréal.

“Bludgeoned to death at home,” the local agent said. “The place has been ransacked. Looks like robbery. I’ve dispatched an ambulance, of course, but it’s too late.”

“Call the coroner,” said Lacoste.

“Already done. She’ll meet you there.”

“Good.”

She hung up and looked down at her notepad, where a name was written and circled.

Ten minutes later they were kneeling beside the body of Antoinette Lemaitre.

Chapter 23

CHAPTER 23

“I recognize her,” said Sharon Harris, the coroner. “She runs the Knowlton Playhouse, doesn’t she?”

Dr. Harris and Isabelle Lacoste were kneeling beside Antoinette, who was lying on her back, staring at the ceiling. Surprised. Jean-Guy Beauvoir was crouched on the other side of the body.

“Oui,” said Chief Inspector Lacoste. “The Estrie Players.”

“They were doing the Fleming play,” said Dr. Harris, her gloved hands swiftly checking the body. “Community’s in a bit of an uproar about it.”

The coroner grimaced as she spoke Fleming’s name, as though she’d put a rotten trout into her mouth. Here was a woman who worked with corpses in all states of decay and what disgusted her? The very mention of John Fleming.

The grimace was, Lacoste knew, involuntary. Like being tapped on the kneecap. Flinching at the mention of Fleming was a healthy human reaction.

“Not much damage that I can see,” said the coroner. “I don’t want to move her until your forensics people have arrived, but from what I see she’s been dead less than twelve hours, but more than six.”

“Between nine thirty last night and two thirty this morning,” said Beauvoir. “And cause of death?”