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“Nothing legible?”

“No.”

“But that explains why she kept making the same mistake,” said Cloutier, nodding. “She wrote it down wrong and didn’t realize that. So who did she think she was calling?”

“I’m not willing to give up on Bertrand yet,” said Beauvoir, finally swallowing. “What you say is true. She can’t have made exactly the same mistake over and over. So maybe it wasn’t a mistake at all. She meant to call Bertrand and did. We have no idea what she actually said to him. Someone met her on that bridge, and she’d have had to arrange it. I think he’s lying. I’ll put an agent on his place.”

“There is something else,” said Lacoste. “Something Agent Cloutier here discovered.”

She turned, like a proud parent, to the older woman.

This was the accountant’s moment to shine. Lysette Cloutier gathered her notes.

“Vivienne Godin might be having an affair, but her husband certainly was.”

“How do you know?” asked Beauvoir.

“The internet,” said Cloutier.

“Wikipedia?” asked Beauvoir, half joking, half dreading the answer.

“Non,” laughed Cloutier. “Google.”

Beauvoir opened his mouth, but Lacoste jumped in. “Let her explain.”

“Since Tracey doesn’t have internet at home,” said Cloutier, “but does have a website and a social-media presence, it seemed pretty obvious someone was doing it for him, so I tracked down the IP address and found her. I then went onto his public Instagram account and convinced her to give me access to their private account.”

“How did you do that?” asked Beauvoir.

“I set up a dummy website and Instagram account. NouveauGalerie. Said I was a gallery owner looking for new artists. I needed to communicate in private and to see more of Carl Tracey’s work.”

“So she gave you access to their private account, not knowing who you were?” said Gamache.

“Smart,” said Beauvoir.

“Merci.” She smiled and looked at Isabelle Lacoste, who nodded encouragement. “This’s what I found.”

She turned her laptop around for Beauvoir and Gamache to see the photos of Tracey and Vachon together. It was obvious they were lovers.

They scrolled through the pictures and read the private messages between Carl Tracey and Pauline Vachon.

“Look at this one,” said Cloutier. “She’s a drunken slut. You deserve better. That’s from Pauline. Pretty clear.”

“Of an affair,” said Gamache. “Maybe. But murder?”

“Look here, patron,” said Lacoste. “On the day of the murder.”

Both Beauvoir and Gamache leaned closer to the laptop as she found the posts sent Saturday around midday.

Stuff’s in the bag. Everything’s ready. Will be done tonight. I promise. That from Carl Tracey.

And Pauline Vachon’s reply: Finally. Good luck. Don’t mess it up.

Beauvoir sat back and exhaled. “I promise. Jesus. So this Vachon was in on it.”

“More than that,” said Lacoste. “I think it was her idea.”

“Well, her encouragement anyway,” said Gamache.