By Louise Penny
Winner of the 2007 Agatha Award for most sensible Novel!When leader Inspector Armand Gamache is named to enquire a woman’s dying, it doesn’t take lengthy for him to achieve that no love used to be misplaced on pass over de Poitiers. yet whether every body hated her—her husband, lover, and daughter between them—how is it that not anyone observed her get electrocuted in the course of a frozen lake within the middle of city? Gamache digs underneath the outside of 3 Pines to discover the place the genuine secrets and techniques are buried. yet different problems lie forward for the detective. it sort of feels he has a few enemies of his own…and with the arrival of the sour wintry weather winds, whatever way more chilling is in store.
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Extra resources for A Fatal Grace (Three Pines Mysteries, No. 2)
Later in her life the most wonderful thing happened. She fell in love with Peter Morrow and agreed to put off taking New York by storm. Instead she agreed to move to the tiny village he loved south of Montreal. It was a region Clara was unfamiliar with, being a city girl, but such was her love for Peter that she didn’t even hesitate. And so it was, twenty-six years ago as a clever and cynical art college grad Clara stepped out of their rattle-trap Volkswagen, and started to weep. Peter had brought her to the enchanted village of her childhood.
Clara had seen pictures of the Sassoon salons and thought that while Myrna’s description was a little dramatic it wasn’t that far off, judging by the pouting, unhappy women in the photos. A few hours later, struggling along rue Ste-Catherine, mittened hands grasping the ropes of bags overflowing with gifts, Clara was exhausted and pleased. Her buying spree had gone brilliantly. She’d bought Peter the perfect gift, and smaller items for family and friends. Myrna was right. Jane would be having fun watching her spend the money.
Getting on the crowded escalator up to the main floor Clara saw a familiar figure descending. CC de Poitiers. And CC had seen her, she was sure of it. CC de Poitiers gripped the rubber handrail of the escalator and stared at the woman getting on at the bottom. Clara Morrow. That smug, smiling, self-righteous villager. That woman always surrounded by friends, always with that handsome husband, showing him off as though it was more than some freak of nature that she’d landed one of the Montreal Morrows.