“She was either pushed or fell backward, hitting her head,” said Lacoste, and both Dr. Harris and Inspector Beauvoir nodded agreement.
“Murder,” said the coroner. “But perhaps not intentional. Looks like she might’ve surprised someone robbing her home.”
“There doesn’t seem to have been forced entry,” said Lacoste. “But that could mean nothing.”
As often as she’d been to this area of Québec, it still amazed her that people didn’t lock their doors. Perhaps when they went to bed, but beyond that anyone could walk in and out. Sometimes people survived. Sometimes they did not.
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.