The Cruelest Month

‘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.