By Louise Penny
Winner of the 2007 Agatha Award for most sensible Novel!
Welcome to iciness in 3 Pines, a picturesque village in Quebec, the place the villagers are getting ready for a standard state Christmas, and an individual is getting ready for homicide. not anyone cherished CC de Poitiers. now not her quiet husband, now not her spineless lover, no longer her pathetic daughter—and definitely not one of the citizens of 3 Pines. CC de Poitiers controlled to alienate each person, correct up till the instant of her death.
When leader Inspector Armand Gamache, of the Sûreté du Quebec, is termed to enquire, he fast realizes he's facing anyone particularly remarkable. CC de Poitiers was once electrocuted in the course of a frozen lake, in entrance of the full village, as she watched the yearly curling match. And but nobody observed something. Who might have been insane sufficient to attempt this type of macabre approach to murder—or really good adequate to succeed?
With his trademark compassion and braveness, Gamache digs underneath the idyllic floor of village lifestyles to discover the harmful secrets and techniques lengthy buried there. For a Quebec iciness is not just staggeringly appealing yet lethal, and the folk of 3 Pines be aware of larger than to bare an excessive amount of of themselves. yet different hazards have gotten transparent to Gamache. As a sour wind blows into the village, anything much more chilling is coming for Gamache himself.
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Additional info for A Fatal Grace (Chief Inspector Gamache, Book 2)
The area car slid to a halt in front of the call box, its tyres just managing to avoid the puddle of blood and the shards of broken headlamp glass. PC Jordan took statements from witnesses while his observer, PC Simms, was sent to find the fallen licence plate. Then someone remembered Hickman’s wife. A woman neighbour went with Simms to wake her and break the news. Max Dawson, managing director of Dawson Electronics, the big, modern factory complex on the new Denton Trading Estate, gave a gentle guiding touch to the wheel of his Silver Cloud and turned the car into the private approach road to the house.
I can’t contact Mr. Frost, Sarge. ” “Typical,” snorted the sergeant. ” He consulted a typed list of funeral directors. “Tell Shelby to try Hawkins in the High Street. ” The panel slid shut. Wells was logging the last call in the phone register when he became aware of” an irritating tap, tap, tap. He raised his eyes. Someone had the temerity to be rapping a pencil on the desk to attract his attention. He jerked up his head and there was the new man, that sulky swine, the bearded Detective Constable Webster, with the usual scowl on his face, tap, tap, tapping away.
Instead he preferred to wallow in self-pity and drink himself stupid on the contents of the cocktail cabinet. And when he finally staggered into the station, unshaven, eyes red-rimmed, there was Hepton, Chief Inspector-bloody-Hepton, waiting for him, barring his way, that nagging, jarring voice scratching away at his raw nerve ends like a fingernail dragged down a blackboard. And then things were very blurred. He recalled flinging a punch. An almighty punch which spun Hepton around, knocked him into a filing cabinet, and sent him crashing to the floor.