By Louise Penny

Winner of the 2007 Agatha Award for top Novel!When leader Inspector Armand Gamache is termed to enquire a woman’s dying, it doesn’t take lengthy for him to gain that no love used to be misplaced on leave out de Poitiers. yet no matter if everybody hated her—her husband, lover, and daughter between them—how is it that not anyone observed her get electrocuted in the midst of a frozen lake within the middle of city? Gamache digs underneath the outside of 3 Pines to discover the place the true secrets and techniques are buried. yet different problems lie forward for the detective. it kind of feels he has a few enemies of his own…and with the arrival of the sour iciness winds, anything way more chilling is in store. 

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Additional info for A Fatal Grace (Three Pines Mysteries, No. 2)

Example text

It had companionship and kindness. And it had an empty store with a loft above. Waiting. For her. Myrna never left. In just over an hour Myrna had gone from a world of complaint to a world of contentment. That had been six years ago. Now she dispensed new and used books and well-worn advice to her friends. ‘For Christ’s sake, shit or get off the pot,’ had been her advice to Clara. ‘It’s been months since Jane died. You helped solve her murder. You know for sure Jane would be annoyed she gave you all her money and you’re not even enjoying it.

The voice of Madame Latour, the music teacher, could be heard in the crowded, excited room. ’ Madame’s face, birdlike and bright, peeked round the corner where Crie had crept to change alone. Instinctively Crie grabbed her costume and tried to cover her near-naked fourteen-year-old body. It was impossible, of course. Too much body and too little chiffon. ’ Crie stared, too frightened to speak. Her mother had warned her about this. Had warned her never to sing in public. But now, betrayed by a buoyant heart, she’d actually let some humming escape.

He stared down at the one before him now. A majestic tree soared into the sky, as though keening for the sun. The artist had photographed it and had somehow captured a sense of movement without making it disorienting. Instead it was graceful and calming and, above all, powerful. The tips of the branches seemed to melt or become fuzzy as though even in its confidence and yearning there was a tiny doubt. It was brilliant. All thoughts of CC were forgotten. He’d climbed into the tree, almost feeling tickled by its rough bark, as if he had been sitting on his grandfather’s lap and snuggling into his unshaven face.

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