Cruelest Month

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 seances 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 creme brulee 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 seance. 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 seance 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.