by Louise Penny
A blast of ice-cold rain hit her, and something else. As she leaped further back she noticed something bouncing. Hail. Fucking hail? The door was banging now in the wind and as she reached to shut it she noticed snow swirling in the light as well.
Fucking snow?
Rain, hail and snow? Where’re the frogs?
Just then a phone rang. It was the tinny tune of a cell phone. A familiar tune, but not one Beauvoir could place. It certainly wasn’t his. He looked at Nichol who finally had some blood in her face. She looked made up by a vindictive mortician, great red splotches on her cheeks and forehead. The rest remained waxy.
‘I believe your phone is ringing.’
‘Not mine. Lacoste must have left hers.’
‘It’s yours.’ Beauvoir stepped toward her. He had a pretty good idea who would be on the other end of the line. ‘Answer it.’
‘It’s a wrong number.’
‘If you won’t I will.’ He advanced on her and she backed up.
‘No. I’ll get it.’ She opened it slowly, obviously hoping the ringing would stop before she had to hit the button. But the phone kept ringing. Beauvoir advanced. Nichol jumped back but wasn’t quick enough. In a flash Beauvoir had grabbed the phone.
‘Bonjour?’ he said.
The line was dead.
The bistro was nearly empty. The fire crackled softly in the grate, sending amber and crimson light spilling into the room. It was warm and comfortable, and quiet, except for the occasional thud as the storm produced a particularly violent blast.
Beauvoir brought a book from his satchel.
‘Wonderful,’ said Gamache, reaching for the yearbook. He leaned back in his chair, put on his glasses, reached for his red wine and disappeared. Beauvoir didn’t think he ever saw the chief as happy as when he had a book in his hands.
Beauvoir took a slice of crisp baguette, smeared it thickly with pâté and ate. Outside the wind howled. Inside all was calm and relaxed.
A few minutes later the door opened and Jeanne Chauvet blew in, her hair and a look of shock plastered to her face. Gamache rose from his seat and bowed to her slightly. She chose a table well away from them.
‘What do you want to bet Nichol chased her out of the B. & B. and into the storm? Only she could scare a woman who raises the dead for a living.’
Their starters arrived. Gabri put a lobster bisque in front of Gamache and a French onion soup before Beauvoir.
The two men ate and continued their conversation. This was Beauvoir’s favorite part of any investigation. Putting his head together with the Chief Inspector. Tossing around thoughts, ideas. Nothing formal, no notes taken. Just thinking out loud. With food and drink.
‘What struck you?’ asked Gamache, tapping the yearbook. His soup was smooth with a rich taste of lobster and lightly flavored with cognac.
‘I thought her grad photo caption might be significant.’
‘That Tanguay prison remark. Yes, I caught that too.’
Gamache turned once more to the grad photos, this time looking at Hazel. She’d obviously just been to the beauty shop before the picture. Her hair was puffy, her eyes black with too much liner and bulging. Her inscription read, Hazel enjoyed sports and the drama club. She never got mad.
She never got mad, thought Gamache and wondered whether that was an example of equanimity or indifference. Who never got mad?
He turned to the Drama Society page. And there was Hazel, smiling, her arm round a heavily made-up actress. Underneath the picture was written, Madeleine Gagnon as Rosalind in As You Like It. A description of the school play, a singular success, was written by its producer. Hazel Lang.
‘Wonder how Madeleine had time for it all. Sports, school play,’ said Beauvoir. ‘She was even a cheerleader.’ He flipped through the book until he found the page. ‘Here, see? There she is.’
Sure enough, there was Madeleine, full smile, hair gleaming even in the black and white photo. All wore short kilts. Tight little sweaters. Fresh and cheerful faces. All young, all lovely. Gamache read the names of the squad. Monique, Joan, Madeleine, Georgette. And one missing. A girl named Jeanne. Jeanne Potvin.
‘Did you notice the name of the missing cheerleader?’ Gamache asked. ‘Jeanne.’
He turned the book around for Beauvoir then looked over at the solitary woman at her table.
‘You don’t really think…’ Beauvoir jerked his head in that direction.
‘Stranger things have happened.’
‘Like séances and ghosts? You think maybe she magically transformed herself from a beautiful cheerleader into that?’
Both men looked at the mousy woman dressed in a drab sweater and slacks.
‘I have seen flowers come in stony places, And kind things done by men with ugly faces,’ Gamache said, watching Jeanne Chauvet.
Just then Olivier appeared with their dinner. Beauvoir was doubly pleased. Not only did he get his food, but it stopped the chief from reciting more poetry. Beauvoir was growing tired of pretending to understand stuff that totally went over his head. Gamache’s coq au vin filled the table with a rich, earthy aroma and an unexpected hint of maple. Delicate young beans and glazed baby carrots sat in their own white serving dish. A massive charbroiled steak smothered in panfried onions was placed in front of Beauvoir. A mound of frites sat in his serving dish.
Beauvoir could have died happily right there and then, but he’d have missed the crème brûlée for dessert.
‘Who do you think did it?’ Beauvoir asked, chomping on frites.
‘For a woman so loved we seem to have no end of suspects,’ said Gamache. ‘She was murdered by someone who had access to ephedra and who knew about the séance. But the murderer probably knew one other thing.’
‘What?’
‘That Madeleine Favreau had a heart condition.’
Gamache told Beauvoir about the coroner’s report.
‘But no one we’ve talked to has mentioned it,’ said Beauvoir, sipping his beer. ‘Is it possible the murderer didn’t know? He thought giving her ephedra and taking her to the old Hadley house would be enough.’
Gamache wiped up gravy with soft, warm bread. ‘It’s possible.’
‘But if Madeleine had a heart condition, why keep it secret?’
And what other secrets might Madeleine have had, and tried to take with her screaming into the grave?
‘Maybe the murderer just got lucky,’ said Beauvoir. But both men knew although this was a murder that had relied on many things, luck wasn’t one of them.
THIRTY-TWO
Jeanne Chauvet sat with her back to the room and tried to pretend she liked being alone. Tried to pretend she was mesmerized by the warm and lively fire. Tried to pretend she didn’t feel bruised and buffeted by the cold stares of the villagers, almost as violent as the storm outside. Tried to pretend she belonged. In Three Pines.
She’d felt immediately comfortable the moment her little car had glided down du Moulin a few short days ago, the village bathed in bright sun, the trees covered in chartreuse buds, the people smiling and nodding gently to each other. Some even bowed to each other as Gamache had just now in a courtly, courteous way that seemed only to exist in this magical valley.
Jeanne Chauvet had seen enough of the world, this and the others, to know a magical place. And Three Pines was one. She felt as though she’d been swimming all her life, but an island had risen. That night she’d lain in bed in the B. & B., snuggled into the crisp clean linen, and been sung to sleep by the frogs in the pond. Years of tired started to slip away. Not exhaustion, but a weariness as though her very bones had been fossilized, turned to stone, and were dragging her to the weedy bottom.
But that night in bed she knew Three Pines had saved her. From the moment she’d received the brochure through the mail she’d dared to hope.
But then she’d seen Madeleine that Friday night at the séance and her island had sunk, like Atlantis. She was once again in over her head.
She took a sip of Olivier
’s strong, rich coffee, made a warm caramel color by the cream, and pretended the villagers, so friendly when she’d first arrived, hadn’t themselves turned to stone, cold and hard and unforgiving. She could almost see them marching toward her, with torches in the hands and terror in their eyes.
All because of Madeleine. Some things never changed. All Jeanne had ever wanted was to belong, and all Madeleine had ever done was take that from her.
‘May we join you?’
Jeanne started and looked up. Armand Gamache and Jean Guy Beauvoir were looking down at her, Gamache with a warm smile on his face, his eyes thoughtful and kind. The other looked grumpy.
He doesn’t want to be here with me, thought Jeanne, though she knew she didn’t have to be a psychic to figure that one out.
‘Please.’ She indicated the soft chairs on either side of the hearth, their faded fabrics warmed by the fire.
‘Are you planning to move anywhere else?’ Gabri huffed.
‘The night is young, patron,’ Gamache smiled. ‘May I offer you something?’ he asked Jeanne.
‘I have my coffee, thank you.’
‘We were about to order some liqueurs. It feels a night for one.’ He looked briefly at the mullioned window, reflecting the warm interior of the bistro. The old panes quivered in another blast, and a slight tinkling told them the hail wasn’t finished.
‘God,’ sighed Gabri, ‘how can we live in a country that does this to us?’
‘I’ll have an espresso and a brandy and Benedictine,’ said Beauvoir.
Gamache turned to Jeanne. For some reason she felt in the company of her father, or perhaps her grandfather, even though the Chief Inspector couldn’t be more than ten years her elder. There was something old world about him, as though he was from another age, another era. She wondered if he found it hard in this world. But she thought not.
‘Yes, please. I’d like a…’ She thought for a moment then turned to look at the row of liqueur bottles on a shelf at the back of the bar. Tia Maria, crème de menthe, cognac. She turned back to Gabri, ‘I’ll have a Cointreau, s’il vous plaît.’
Gamache ordered his own then the three of them discussed the weather, the Eastern Townships, and the conditions of the roads until their drinks arrived.
‘Have you always been psychic, Madame Chauvet?’ asked Gamache once Gabri had reluctantly left.
‘I think so, but it wasn’t until I was about ten that I realized not everyone saw the world as I did.’ She brought the tiny glass to her nose and sniffed. Orange and sweet and somehow warm. Her eyes started watering just from the smell. She brought the Cointreau to her lips and wetted them with the syrupy liquid. Then she lowered the glass and licked her lips. She wanted this to last. The tastes, smells, sights. The company.
‘How’d you find out?’
She didn’t normally talk about these things, but then people didn’t normally ask. She hesitated and looked at Gamache for a long moment. Then she spoke.
‘At a friend’s birthday party. I looked at all the wrapped presents and knew exactly what was in them.’
‘Well, as long as you didn’t say anything,’ said Gamache, then looked at her more closely. ‘But you did, didn’t you?’
Beauvoir was a little miffed by this psychic turn by the chief. After all, he was the one who was supposed to have been born with a caul. He’d spent the late afternoon, after Nichol had hightailed it back to the B. & B., surfing the web for information on cauls. Took him a while to figure out how to spell it. Cowels. Kowls. Calls. Then he remembered that Batman supposedly wore one. So he Googled Batman, and everything fell into place. Every day held its surprises.
At first he thought she meant he’d been born with a silly mask and pointy black ears. But then something even more macabre appeared on his screen.
‘Yes,’ Jeanne was saying. ‘I was about halfway through the pile, telling everyone what each parcel held, when the birthday girl burst into tears. I remember to this day looking around the room. All the little girls, my friends, were staring at me. Angry and upset. And behind them their mothers. Afraid.
‘It was never the same after that. I think I’d always seen things but I assumed everyone did. Heard voices, saw spirits. Knew what would happen next. Not for everything. It was selective. But enough.’
Her voice was cheery, but Gamache knew it couldn’t have been easy. He looked over her shoulder to the villagers at their tables, having a relaxing and quiet dinner. But not one had approached Jeanne. The weirdo, the psychic. The witch. They were kind people, he knew. But even kind people can be afraid.
‘It must have been hard,’ said the chief.
‘Others have it harder. Believe me, I know. I’m no one’s victim, Chief Inspector. Besides, I never, ever lose my keys. Can you say that?’
She was looking at Gamache as she said it, but the wide smile on her face faded a little as she turned to look directly at Jean Guy Beauvoir. Her face was so full of understanding, of caring, he almost admitted that he too had never, ever lost his keys.
He’d been born with a caul. He’d called his mother and asked and after a hesitation she’d admitted it.
‘Mais, Maman, why not tell me?’
‘I was too embarrassed. It was a shameful thing at the time, Jean Guy. Even the nuns at the hospital were upset.’
‘But why?’
‘A baby born with a caul is either cursed or blessed. It means you see things, know things.’
‘And did I?’ He felt a fool asking. After all, he should be the one to know.
‘I don’t know. Every time you said something odd we ignored you. After a while you stopped. I’m sorry, Jean Guy. Maybe we were wrong, but I didn’t want you to be cursed.’
Me, or you? he almost asked.
‘But maybe I’d be blessed, Maman.’
‘That’s a curse too, mon beau.’
He’d been delivered of his mother with a veil over his entire head. Something between himself and this world. A membrane that should have stayed with his mother but somehow ended up coming with him. It was rare and upsetting and even today, according to his research, people believed those born with cauls were fated to lead unusual lives. Lives filled with spirits, with the dead and dying. And the ability to divine the future.
Was that why he was in homicide? Was that why he chose to spend all day with the newly dead, and hunt people who created ghosts? For more than ten years he’d mocked and ribbed and criticized the chief for relying so heavily on intuition. And the chief had just smiled and continued while he himself had bowed before the perfection of facts, of things you could touch and see and feel and hear. Now he wasn’t so sure.
‘What brought you here?’ Gamache was asking Jeanne Chauvet.
‘I got a brochure through the mail. It looked wonderful and I needed a rest. I think I told you this before.’
‘Being a psychic’s tiring?’ asked Beauvoir, suddenly interested.
‘Being a receptionist at a car dealership’s tiring. I needed a rest and this just seemed perfect.’
Should she tell them the rest? The writing across the top of the brochure? She’d seen the same one in the vestibule of the B. & B., and there was no writing. Had someone really taken the time to write that strange statement on her brochure just to lure her to Three Pines? Or was she paranoid?
‘Where’re you from?’ Gamache asked.
‘Montreal. Born and raised.’
Gamache handed her the yearbook. ‘Look familiar?’
‘It’s a yearbook. I have one too from my school. Haven’t looked at it in years. Probably lost it by now.’
‘I thought you said you never lose things,’ said Beauvoir.
‘Nothing I don’t want to lose,’ she smiled, handing Gamache back the book.
‘What high school did you go to?’ Gamache asked.
‘Gareth James High School, in Verdun. Why?’
‘Just trying to make connections.’ Armand Gamache swirled his cognac lazily in his glass. ‘People rarely murder p
eople they don’t know. There’s something about this case.’
He let it hang there, not feeling any need to explain. After a moment Jeanne spoke.
‘There’s an intimacy about it,’ she said quietly. ‘No, there’s more. It feels crowded.’
Gamache nodded, still looking into his amber liqueur. ‘The past caught up with Madeleine Favreau on Easter Sunday, in the old Hadley house. You brought something to life.’
‘That’s not fair. I was invited to do the séance. It wasn’t my idea.’
‘You could have said no,’ he said. ‘You’ve just said you know things, sense things, see things. Couldn’t you see something coming?’
Outside the wind howled as Jeanne Chauvet thought back to that night in this very bistro. Someone had suggested another séance. Someone had suggested the old Hadley house. And something had changed. She’d felt it. A dread had crept into their happy, laughing circle.
She’d stolen a look at Madeleine, lovely, laughing Madeleine, looking weary and nervous. Madeleine hadn’t even recognized her.
Jeanne had seen then the thinly masked revulsion Mad felt at the very idea of a séance at the old Hadley house. And that had been enough. A truck could have been bearing down upon them and all Jeanne would see was a way to hurt Madeleine.
It had never occurred to her to decline the second séance.
THIRTY-THREE
‘Shouldn’t you be in the studio?’ Peter asked, pouring himself another coffee and walking to the long pine table in their kitchen. He’d promised himself he’d say nothing. And certainly not remind Clara time was slipping away. The last thing she needed to hear was that Denis Fortin would be there in just a few days. To see her still unfinished work.
‘He’ll be here in less than a week,’ he heard himself saying. It was as though something had possessed him.
Clara was staring at the morning paper. The front page talked about the terrible storm that downed trees, cut off roads, caused power failures across Quebec, and then disappeared.