The Cruelest Month

Though winds blow stout –



Odile stared at the bags of organic cereal on the shelves, for inspiration. ‘Though winds blow stout,’ she repeated, stuck. She had to find something that rhymed with ‘gale’.



‘Pale? Pail? Shale? Though winds blow stout like a great big whale?’ said Odile, hopefully. But no, it was close, but not quite right.



All day in the store that she and Gilles ran in St-Rémy she’d been inspired to write. It had flooded out of her so that now the counter was awash with her works, scribbled on the backs of receipts and empty brown paper bags. Most, she felt sure, were good enough to be published. She’d type them up and send them off to the Hog Breeder’s Digest. They almost always accepted her poems, often without change. The muse wasn’t always so generous, but today Odile found her heart lighter than it had been in months.



All day people had visited the shop, most wanting a small purchase and a lot of information, which Odile was happy to supply, after being prodded. Wouldn’t do to appear too anxious. Or pleased.



‘You were there, dear?’



‘It must have been horrible.’



‘Poor Monsieur Béliveau. He was quite in love with her. And his wife barely two years gone.’



‘Was she really scared to death?’



That was the one memory Odile didn’t want to revisit. Madeleine frozen in a scream, as though she’d seen something so horrible it had turned her to stone, like the whatever it was from those myths, the head with the snakes. It had never seemed that scary to Odile, whose monsters took human shape.



Yes, Madeleine had been scared to death and it served her right for all the terror she’d visited upon Odile in the last few months. But now the terror was gone, like a storm blown over.



A storm. Odile smiled and thanked her muse for coming through again.



Though winds blow stout, a hurricale, What’s that,



what’s that to you and me.



It was past five and time to lock up. A good day’s work.



Chief Inspector Gamache called Agent Lemieux, still at the B. & B.



‘She’s not back yet, Chief. But Gabri is.’



‘Pass the phone to him, please.’



After a pause the familiar voice came on. ‘Salut, patron.’



‘Salut, Gabri. Did Madame Chauvet arrive by car?’



‘No, no she just materialized. Of course she arrived by car. How else does anyone get here?’



‘Is her car still there?’



‘Ah, good question.’ Gamache could hear Gabri carrying the phone out the door and presumably onto the veranda. ‘Oui, c’est ici. A little green Echo.’



‘So she couldn’t have gone far,’ said Gamache.



‘Do you want me to open the door to her room? I can pretend I’m cleaning. I have the key with me now,’ Gamache heard tinkling as the key was lifted from its peg, ‘and I’m walking down the corridor.’



‘Could you give it to Agent Lemieux, please? He should be the one to open the door.’



‘Fine.’ Gamache could feel Gabri’s annoyance. A moment later Lemieux spoke.



‘I’ve unlocked the door, Chief.’ There was an agonizing pause while Agent Lemieux stepped into the room and put on the light. ‘Nothing. Room’s empty. So’s the bathroom. Want me to search the drawers?’



‘No, that’s going too far. I just wanted to make sure she wasn’t there.’



‘Dead? I wondered too, but she isn’t.’



Gamache asked to speak to Gabri again.



‘Patron, we might need rooms for tomorrow night.’



‘For how long?’



‘Until the case is over.’



‘Suppose you don’t solve it? Will you stay forever?’



Gamache remembered the elegant inviting bedrooms with their soft pillows and crisp linens and beds so high they needed little step stools to reach. The bedside tables with books and magazines and water. The lovely bathrooms with old tiling and new plumbing.



‘If you made eggs Florentine every morning, I would,’ Gamache said.



‘You’re an unreasonable man,’ said Gabri, ‘but I like you. And don’t worry about rooms, we have plenty.’



‘Even over the Easter break? You’re not full?’



‘Full? No one knows about us, and I hope to keep it that way,’ snorted Gabri.



Gamache hung up after asking Gabri to call when Jeanne Chauvet returned and telling Lemieux to go home for the night. Looking out the window at the other cars whizzing along the autoroute into Montreal, Gamache wondered.