Cruelest Month

by Louise Penny

  ‘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 people 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.

  The day had dawned overcast and a little drizzly. A normal day in April. The snow and hail had melted by morning and the only signs of the storm were twigs blown down and flowers flattened.

  ‘I know you can do it.’ Peter sat beside her. Clara looked exhausted. ‘But maybe you need a little break. Take your mind off the painting.’

  ‘Are you nuts?’ She looked up. Her deep blue eyes were bloodshot and he wondered if she’d been crying. ‘This is my big chance. I don’t have any time left.’

  ‘But if you go into your studio now you might mess it up even more.’

  ‘Even more?’

  ‘I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry.’

  ‘God, what’m I going to do?’ She wiped her tired eyes with her hand. She’d been awake most of the night, at first lying in bed trying to get back to sleep. When that hadn’t worked she’d obsessed about the painting. She no longer knew what she was doing with it.

  Was she so upset by Madeleine’s death she couldn’t clear her mind enough to create? It was a convenient and comforting thought.

  Peter took her small hands and noticed they were stained with blue oils. Had she not cleaned them from yesterday or had she been in the studio already this morning? Instinctively he brought his thumb over to the oil and smeared it. It was from this morning.

  ‘Look, why don’t we have a little dinner party? We could invite Gamache and a few others. Bet he’s ready for a home-cooked meal.’

  As the words came out he was stunned by the cruelty of each and every one of them. That was exactly the last thing Clara should be doing. She shouldn’t be distracted, she needed to work through this fear, needed to be undisturbed in her studio. A dinner party, right now, would be disastrous.

  Was he nuts, Clara wondered? The painting was a mess and Peter was suggesting she hold a party? But while she seemed to have lost her talent, her muse, her inspiration, her courage, one thing she hadn’t lost was her certainty that Peter wanted the best for her.

  ‘Good idea.’ She tried to smile. Panic, she was discovering, was exhausting. She looked at the clock on the stove. Seven thirty. Picking up her coffe
e and calling to Lucy their golden retriever she put on a coat, rubber boots and a hat and went out.

  The air smelled fresh and clean or if not clean, at least natural. Dirt. It smelled of fresh leaves and wood and dirt. And water. And wood smoke. The day smelled wonderful but looked like a slaughter. All the young tulips and daffodils had been flattened by the storm. Bending down she lifted one, hoping it would get the idea, but it flopped back as soon as she let go.

  Clara had never really taken to gardening. All her creative energies went into her art. Happily, Myrna loved gardening, and even more happily she had no garden herself.

  In exchange for meals and movies Myrna had turned Clara and Peter’s modest garden into lovely perennial beds of roses and peony, delphiniums and foxglove. But in late April only the spring bulbs dared to bloom, and look what happened to them.

  Armand Gamache had awoken to a slight knocking on his door. His bedside clock said 6:10. A dull light was coming into his comfortable room. He listened and there again was the tapping. Creeping out of bed he slipped on his dressing gown and opened the door. There was Gabri, his thick dark hair standing up on one side like Gumby. He was unshaven and wore a shabby dressing gown and fluffy slippers. It seemed the more elegant and sophisticated Olivier became the more disheveled Gabri grew. The universe in balance.

  Olivier must be particularly splendid today, thought Gamache.

  ‘Désolé,’ whispered Gabri. He lifted his hand and Gamache saw a newspaper. His heart dropped.

  ‘This just arrived. I thought you’d like to see it before anyone else.’

  ‘Anyone?’

  ‘Well, I saw it. And Olivier. But no one else.’

  ‘You’re very kind, Gabri. Merci.’

  ‘I’ll make coffee. Come down when you’re ready. At least the storm’s over.’

  ‘You think?’ said Gamache and smiled. He shut the door, put the paper on the bed then showered and shaved. Refreshed he stared down at the paper, a splotch of black and grey against the white sheets. He quickly turned the pages before his courage flagged.