Cruelest Month

by Louise Penny

  ‘This isn’t about body image,’ said Beauvoir, trying to bring it back on track.

  ‘Maybe it is,’ said Gamache. ‘Madeleine Favreau was forty-four, early middle age. A search of her room showed she had no problems with her body, no diet books or weight loss articles, not even any diet drinks or products in the fridge.’

  Nichol smiled at Lacoste. Gamache hadn’t agreed with her gross generalization.

  ‘We have no reason to think she was taking ephedra to lose weight,’ he said.

  ‘Could she have been taking it for a cold?’ Lacoste asked, undeterred by the maniacal Nichol.

  ‘It’s not sold as a cold remedy any more,’ said Lemieux.

  ‘And even if it was, there was none in her room or the bathroom. We’ll do another search, but unless she hid it, and she didn’t really have reason to, then someone else slipped it to her.’

  ‘Which is why you declared this a murder,’ said Beauvoir.

  ‘Which is why I think this might have something to do with body image.’

  They looked at him, perplexed, having lost the thread of what he was saying.

  ‘Madeleine Favreau wasn’t taking ephedra, but someone was. Someone had bought it, probably for themselves, and then used it on her.’

  ‘But ephedra is banned in Canada. Health Canada pulled it years ago,’ said Lemieux. ‘It’s also banned in the US and Britain.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Lacoste.

  Agent Lemieux consulted his notes again. He didn’t want to make a mistake here. ‘There were 155 deaths in the US and more than a thousand incidents reported by doctors. Mostly heart and stroke. And not in the elderly. These were for the most part young and vigorous people. An investigation was launched and it was decided that ephedra certainly burned fat, but it also raised the heart rate and blood pressure.’

  ‘Then a couple athletes died,’ said Beauvoir.

  ‘A baseball and a football player, that’s right,’ agreed Lemieux. ‘That was when the baby robin really hit the fan.’ Even Gamache smiled. Nichol did not. ‘An investigation was launched and it was discovered that ephedra affects the heart, but mostly in people with a pre-existing condition.’

  ‘So it’ll raise the heart rate of anyone,’ recapped Beauvoir. This was what he craved. Facts. ‘But can actually kill people with already damaged hearts. Did Madame Favreau have a damaged heart?’

  ‘No medication in her medicine cabinet,’ said Gamache. ‘We won’t have the coroner’s report until later today.’

  ‘I wonder how many people have heard of ephedra?’ said Beauvoir. ‘I hadn’t, but then I don’t diet. Presumably most people who diet have heard of it, is that fair to say?’ He turned to Lacoste, who thought about it. She dieted every now and then. Like most women she owned a fun-house mirror that one day showed her fat, the next slim.

  ‘I think anyone who diets habitually would know about it,’ she said, slowly, trying to figure it out. ‘Dieters become obsessed with losing weight and any product that promises to do it without effort would be noticed.’

  ‘So we’re looking for a dieter?’ asked Nichol, confused.

  ‘But there’s a problem,’ said Lemieux. ‘You can’t buy it here. Or in the States.’

  ‘That is a problem,’ conceded Gamache.

  ‘Except,’ came a voice behind them. The technician who’d downloaded the information was sitting at one of their desks, looking out from behind a flat screen. ‘You can order ephedra on-line.’ He pointed to the screen in front of him. Getting up, they moved to his station.

  There on the screen was a long list of Googled sites, all offering to ship perfectly safe ephedra to anyone desperate and stupid enough to want it.

  ‘Still,’ said Armand Gamache, straightening up. ‘The ephedra alone wouldn’t do it. Once the ephedra was in her body the potential was there, but the murderer needed one more thing. An accessory. The old Hadley house.’ To everyone’s amazement he turned to Nichol. ‘You were right. She was scared to death.’

  NINETEEN

  Clara leaned back and reached for her mug. In front of her were the remains of breakfast. Crumbs. The plate looked so forlorn she popped a couple of slices of bread into the teepee toaster and closed the doors.

  She and Myrna had stayed with Agent Lacoste at the old Hadley house while she did whatever she needed to do. Not nearly fast enough in their opinion. Most of the time Clara had stood just inside the room and stared at the little bird, curled on its side, legs up to its chest, not unlike Madeleine, though smaller. And with feathers. Well, maybe not so much like Madeleine. Still, there was a similarity. They were both dead.

  But while Clara felt terrible about Madeleine, she carried no guilt. Unlike this little creature. She knew she’d helped kill it. They’d all known there was a bird. In fact, that was why they’d decided to use this particular room, in hopes of maybe saving it.

  Had she even tried? No. Instead she’d been terrified the bird would attack out of the shadows. Far from trying to save the bird Clara had hated it. Wanted it to die, or at least go away, or failing that attack someone else.

  And now it was here. Dead. A baby. A tiny, frightened robin, which probably fell down the chimney from its nest and only wanted to find its mother and its home again.

  Finally Agent Lacoste had been ready. The three women had held hands and stared at the salt circle. And each sent silent thoughts out to Madeleine. While Agent Lacoste had seen only the grotesque shell, Clara and Myrna remembered her alive. It was liberating, seeing Madeleine smiling and laughing. Glowing. Listening and taking everything in with those interested eyes. The living Madeleine became more real. As it should be.

  Then Clara thought of the bird, and apologized to it, and promised to do better next time.

  It was the most peaceful few moments in the old Hadley house Clara had ever spent. Still, none of them protested when it was time to leave.

  Chief Inspector Gamache had been driving by just as they’d left and Agent Lacoste flagged him down. Myrna and Clara said hello then walked back to the loft. While Myrna put the bacon back on, Clara called Peter to tell him where she was.

  ‘Have you seen the paper?’ he asked.

  ‘No, we were too busy doing an exorcism.’

  ‘You’re at Myrna’s? Wait there. I’ll be right over.’

  Myrna put on more bacon and ground some coffee while Clara set the table and cut the bread for the teepee toaster. By the time Peter arrived breakfast was ready.

  ‘From Sarah’s.’ He held a paper bag. Clara kissed him and took it.

  Croissants.

  Twenty minutes later Peter licked his finger and wiped a bit of butter from Clara’s cheek. Not even close to her mouth. How does she do it, he marveled. It was like a superpower without purpose.

  ‘I dropped by Monsieur Béliveau’s store too,’ he said, pouring coffees.

  ‘Is he open?’ Myrna asked. ‘I didn’t notice.’

  ‘As always. He came over for dinner last night, you know,’ said Peter, opening some jam jars. One still had the wax on top and he needed to dig it out with a knife. ‘Hardly ate anything.’

  ‘Not surprised,’ said Myrna. ‘I think he loved her.’

  The other two nodded. Poor man. To lose two women he loved within a few years. He’d been so sweet over dinner the night before. Even bringing a pie from Sarah’s Boulangerie. But his energy had flagged and within half an hour he just sat there, moving food about on his plate. Peter kept filling his wine glass, and Clara prattled on about getting the garden ready. That was the beauty of friends, she knew. Nothing was expected of Monsieur Béliveau, and he knew it. Sometimes it’s just nice not to be alone. He’d left early, right after supper. And he’d seemed a little livelier. Clara and Peter had taken Lucy and walked with Monsieur Béliveau across the village green to his home. On the veranda Clara and Peter had hugged him but offered no easy words of comfort. To do that would be to simply comfort themselves. What Monsieur Béliveau needed was to feel bad. And then he’d feel bette
r.

  Now, over breakfast Clara and Myrna told Peter about their morning so far. He listened, amazed by their courage to go back into that house and astonished by their stupidity. Did they really believe Madeleine’s spirit was hovering around the room and could hear them? Never mind the supposed spirit of a dead bird. And, even more disconcerting, did an officer with the Sûreté believe it? But that reminded him. He reached for the paper he’d brought and opened it.

  ‘Listen to this.’

  ‘Golf scores?’ Myrna asked, pouring more coffee and offering some to Clara. Peter was hidden behind La Journée, the Montreal paper.

  ‘This is in the city column.’ Peter poked his head round the paper to find Myrna pouring cream into her coffee and Clara opening the doors of the toaster to gingerly remove the bread. Giving one piece to Myrna, Clara reached for the marmalade and started speading it thick upon her toast. They were paying absolutely no attention. He ducked back behind the paper with a smile. That would soon change, he knew. He started to read out loud.

  ‘It is a matter of some concern that a senior officer in the Sûreté du Québec is living way beyond his means. According to my sources a man in his position should be making no more than ninety-five thousand dollars. Even that, in my opinion, is far too much. Still, even on that overly generous salary his lifestyle exceeds his apparent income. Wearing high-end clothing, mostly from England. Taking vacations in France. Living in style in Outremont. And, just recently, buying a Volvo.’

  Peter slowly lowered the paper to see a tableau. Myrna and Clara were staring at him, their eyes almost as wide as their mouths. Toast arrested halfway up.

  He lifted the paper again, to read the last line. The knife thrust. The twist as it struck home.

  ‘And all this since the sad case of Superintendent Pierre Arnot. What did he have to do to earn this money?’

  Gabri watched as his guest sipped the last of her herbal tea and replaced the cup. He was peeking from the kitchen side of the swinging door, and through the crack he could see her getting up.

  Jeanne Chauvet had returned to the B. & B. after dinner the night before. Gabri had smiled, given her the key to her room and discreetly called Gamache at home.

  ‘She’s back,’ he’d whispered.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘She’s back,’ he’d said, with more vigor.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, the witch is back,’ Gabri yelled into the phone.

  ‘Gabri?’

  ‘No, Glinda. Of course it’s me. She came back five minutes ago. What should I do?’

  ‘Nothing, patron. Not tonight, but make sure she doesn’t leave until I get there tomorrow. Merci.’

  ‘When will you be here? How do I stop her? Allô? Gamache, allô?’

  He’d stared at the ceiling all night, trying to figure out how to contain the little woman downstairs. And now the moment had come. She was rising from the table.

  Was this mousy little woman a murderer? He thought she probably was. She was certainly responsible for that séance, and that séance had killed Madeleine. Had almost killed him, come to that. Was that her intention? Was this awful woman trying to kill him? Was he the real target? But who’d want him dead?

  Suddenly a very long list appeared, from the little girl he’d tormented in grade two to the friends whose recipes he’d stolen, to the deliberately hurtful remarks he’d made about people behind their backs but within earshot. So clever and cutting. People had laughed and Gabri had eaten it up and had tried not to notice the look of pain, of confusion and hurt, on the faces of people who’d considered him a friend.

  Wasn’t that why he and Olivier had decided to move here? Partly to get away from the mountain of crap they’d created in their old lives, but mostly to live in a place where kindness trumped cleverness.

  He’d begun again here, but had his old life found him? Had one of those old fags found him and hired this witch to get him?

  Yes, it was the only reasonable explanation. If she didn’t kill him now, and she might not what with Gamache here, she would at the very least curse him. Make something wither and fall off. He hoped it wasn’t his hair.

  Jeanne looked around the dining room then slowly walked down the corridor to her room.

  Is she climbing out the window at the far end? Gabri wondered. Just the sort of tricky thing she was likely to do. He opened the door a little wider and poked his head out. The cat escaped and walked nonchalantly into the dining room.

  ‘Looking for your mistress, you little shit?’ whispered Gabri, now convinced Olivier’s damned cat had become Jeanne’s familiar. Whatever that was. But Gabri knew it wasn’t good. Craning his neck to look through the crack in the door he saw the coast was clear. He squeezed his bulk through the narrowest possible opening in the door, which was actually wide open by the time he was halfway through, then tiptoeing along he peeked down the corridor. The window was open, but the screen was still in place.

  Gabri decided the most strategic position would be the front desk. After about thirty seconds of intense vigilance he decided maybe he should play free cell on the computer while he waited for either Gamache to arrive or the witch to kill him. No need to be bored. As he moved the mouse a picture popped up on the screen.

  Ephedra, it said. Gabri read, considered placing an order, then decided to call Olivier instead.

  ‘I wonder if he’s seen it,’ Clara said, lowering her toast. She was finally full, if not fed up.

  ‘He looked perfectly relaxed when we ran into him this morning,’ said Myrna.

  ‘He’d hardly show it, would he?’ said Peter, taking Clara’s toast.

  ‘What is it with that Arnot case? That was years ago,’ said Myrna.

  ‘Five at least,’ agreed Peter. He sat up and put his hands on the table in a studied, relaxed manner. He’d once been snapped at by Ruth for being pompous and pedantic. Both unfair, he knew, but still it had stung. Since then he’d been careful not to appear too formal or superior when telling people things they might not know. Like how to cut a tomato properly or hold a newspaper, or giving them information, like the Arnot case.

  Peter had read about it at the time. It was all over the news, the cause célèbre for months.

  ‘I remember now.’ Myrna turned to Peter. ‘You became obsessed with it.’

  ‘I did not become obsessed. It was an important case.’

  ‘It was interesting,’ agreed Clara. ‘Of course, we didn’t know Gamache yet, but everyone had heard of him.’

  ‘He was one of the stars of the Sûreté,’ said Myrna.

  ‘Until the Arnot case,’ said Peter. ‘The defense made Gamache out to be a self-serving hypocrite. Happy to take the honors that went with power but fundamentally weak. Driven by jealousy and pride.’

  ‘That’s right,’ agreed Myrna, remembering more as she cast her mind back. ‘Didn’t the defense imply he’d set Arnot up?’

  Peter nodded. ‘Arnot was a superintendent in the serious crimes squad. At the trial it came out that Arnot had ignored some violent crimes, even murder. Just let it happen.’

  ‘Especially when it involved natives,’ said Myrna, nodding.

  ‘I was just about to say that. Eventually, Pierre Arnot had ordered his most trusted officers to actually kill.’

  ‘Why?’ Clara asked, trying to remember back that far.

  Peter shrugged. ‘The notion put forward by papers like this,’ he held up his copy of La Journée, ‘was that Arnot was just allowing the criminals to kill each other instead of innocent people. A community service.’

  There was silence in Myrna’s loft as the three remembered the shocking revelations. All the more shocking since the Québécois, French and English, had respect, even affection for the Sûreté. Until this. The trial had ended all that.

  Peter remembered watching the news. Watching the senior Sûreté officers arriving grim-faced every day. The microphones and cameras thrust into their faces. At first they’d arrived together
, a show of unity. But in the end two were cut out of the herd.

  Gamache and his immediate superior. A Superintendent someone. The Superintendent had been the only one to publicly stand beside Gamache. It was almost touching to watch the two men growing wearier and more drawn as the revelations and accusations and bitterness increased.

  But still Gamache had smiled when asked the same stupid, leading, insulting questions by reporters. He’d been calm, old-fashioned in his courtesy. Even when he’d been accused of disloyalty. Even when, finally, he’d been accused of being an accomplice. Of knowing about the murders and giving his tacit approval. After all, Arnot had implied, how could the head of homicide not have known?

  ‘It was awful,’ said Clara. ‘Like watching the Hindenburg crash over and over in slow motion. Something noble had been wrecked.’

  Peter wondered whether Clara was thinking of Gamache or the Sûreté itself.

  ‘The papers were sure torn,’ he said. ‘Most supported Gamache, but some called for his resignation.’

  ‘That paper,’ Myrna jutted her head toward La Journée, folded next to Peter, ‘ran editorials saying Gamache should be in the same cell as Arnot. Let the two kill each other.’

  ‘What happened to Arnot and the others?’ Clara asked.

  ‘In some penitentiary somewhere. It’s a wonder they haven’t been killed by the inmates yet.’

  ‘I bet that asshole Arnot is running the place,’ said Myrna. She balled up her napkin and threw it with as much force as a paper napkin could achieve onto the table. The other two stared at her, surprised by her sudden anger.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Clara.

  ‘Don’t you get it? We’ve just talked about that case as though it was some episode on a TV drama. It was real. That man Arnot killed people. Killed the very people he was supposed to help. Why? Because they were natives, full of despair and sniff. And the one man who put a stop to it, who had the balls to stand up to Arnot and the entire Sûreté hierarchy, they tried to destroy too. Arnot’s psychotic, and I don’t say that lightly. I know the signs. I’ve diagnosed and worked with psychotic people for years. Don’t you get it?’