A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, #15)

by Louise Penny

He’d taken each for a leisurely walk, early in their placement in homicide, and told them the four statements that led to wisdom. Never repeating them. I was wrong. I’m sorry. I don’t know. I need help.

Far from the humiliation it was meant to be, this actually felt comfortable. Comforting, even. Someone else was in charge, and he could just concentrate on the job at hand.

Only then did Gamache realize how much, deep in his core, he’d missed this.

No citizen is safe in a state where police feel free to beat those they don’t like. Who take the law into their own hands.”

As the others watched, the Chief Inspector walked back to the porch, took out his wallet, placed bills at Tracey’s feet. Then walked back to the car. The old dog in his arms. As he got in, he said, “His name’s Fred.”

“I’m well in body,” said Clara. “But considerably rumpled up in spirit.”

At the wall, Armand put his arm out to Olivier. “Hold my hand.” “This is so sudden,” said Olivier. “But not unexpected.” “Silly man,” said Armand with a grunt of laughter. “Just hold on so I don’t fall in.”

As he spoke, the Chief Inspector raised a finger, counting the questions. “Is it true? Is it kind? Does it need to be said?”

The editing was rough. Not really designed to fool anyone. Except those who wanted to be fooled.

What the old poet didn’t realize, or had forgotten, was that social media was less about truth than perception. People believed what they chose to believe.

“Something from St. Francis. Something he said to a woman who’d lost her child in a river.” Homer closed his eyes. “Clare, Clare, do not despair. Between the bridge and the water, I was there.”

“Pour yourself a vat of wine, cut a huge slice of chocolate cake, sit by the fire, and know you’re loved. You and your art. Okay?”

Dominica Oddly was shocked by the violence, and even more shocked by the tenderness. She snapped her laptop shut. And for the first time felt real revulsion for social media. That would cut, twist, put a lie to the truth. That would nail decent people to posts. And then she remembered what she’d just done.

Armand was shaking his head. “She’d never leave him with Carl. She must’ve known what he’d do to Fred.”

He sat there, and in the quietude he turned the case around. In the calm, he saw what had eluded him before. Armand rose to his feet, then slowly sat back down as the import of it struck him. Until all he knew to be fact was revealed as fiction.

Henri kept all he needed to know, all that really mattered, safe in his heart. Where there was not need of words. Except, maybe, good boy.

Marilynne Robinson’s words always made him think of his father and mother. “I’ll pray that you grow up a brave man in a brave country,” he whispered. “I will pray you find a way to be useful.”

“Obviously he didn’t love me enough. Didn’t love me as much.” “As much as Vivienne?” “As much as I loved him.” “What did he do?” “Nothing. He just said we couldn’t see each other anymore.” “And you accepted that?” “What could I do?”

“I’m saying things grow. Fester. Time doesn’t always heal. Sometimes it makes things worse. Is that what happened to you, Lysette?” “Of course not.” “Did you think about it, about him, every day?” “No.” “Did you think about what might’ve been, if Vivienne hadn’t done that? How your life would be so different?”

Noli timere.

Bishop, the golden retriever who shared Michael’s and my life for many years, died while I was writing this book.

Bishop is the last in a long line of golden retrievers who have shared, and improved, our lives. Who taught us how to be more generous, more kind, way more forgiving. More patient. More human.

Not long after Michael was diagnosed with dementia, our last golden, Trudy, passed away. Michael came with me to the vet, and watched, befuddled by what was happening. Upset that I was upset, but not quite grasping why. For weeks, Michael looked for Trudy. And asked where she was. It broke my already fragile heart. A month or so later, knowing our distress, Kirk came by and said he’d heard about an old dog, a golden, whose family could no longer care for him. Would we like to meet him?

Bishop took one look at Michael, walked over, placed his teddy chew toy on Michael’s lap, sat down, and barely left Michael’s side, until the day Michael died. Bishop was our miracle dog. Our gift from a loving Higher Power. He was dedicated to Michael. And so, after Bishop’s passing this spring, at the grand age of fourteen, it seemed only right to return the favor, and dedicate A Better Man to a wonderful dog. Indeed, to all our dogs. To all the cats, horses, birds, gerbils, fish, and animals who make our lives so much better. Who give up their freedom, for us.

These books are about community. About love and belonging. About the great gift of friendship. How lucky I am to live in Three Pines. In every way. With you. We are never alone.