The Cruellest Month (9 page)

C
hief Inspector Armand Gamache looked over the top of his newspaper and stole a peek at his infant granddaughter. She was sitting in the mud on the edge of Beaver Lake, sticking her filthy big toe into her mouth. Her face was covered in either mud or chocolate, or something else entirely that didn’t bear thinking of.

It was Easter Monday and all of Montreal seemed to have the same idea. A morning walk around Mont Royal, to Beaver Lake at the summit. Gamache and Reine-Marie sunned themselves on one of the benches and watched as their son and his family enjoyed a last day in Montreal before flying back to Paris.

With a shriek of laughter little Florence toppled into the water.

Gamache dropped his paper and was halfway out of his seat when he felt a restraining hand.

‘Daniel’s there,
mon cher
. It’s his job now.’

Armand stopped and watched, still poised to act. Beside him his young German shepherd, Henri, got to his feet, alert, sensing the sudden shift in mood. But sure enough Daniel laughed and scooped his tiny, dripping daughter into his large, safe arms and plunged his face into her belly making her laugh and hug her daddy’s head. Gamache exhaled and turning to Reine-Marie bent down and kissed her, whispering, ‘Thank you,’ into the crown of her graying hair. He then reached out and smoothed his hand along Henri’s flank, and kissed him too on the top of his head.

‘Good boy.’

Henri, no longer able to contain himself, jumped up, his feet almost up to Gamache’s shoulders.

‘
Non,
’ commanded Gamache. ‘Down.’

Henri dropped immediately.

‘Lie down.’

Henri lay down, contrite. There was no doubt who was the alpha dog.

‘Good boy,’ said Gamache again and gave Henri a treat.

‘Good boy,’ said Reine-Marie to Gamache.

‘Where’s my treat?’

‘In a public park,
monsieur l’inspecteur
?’ She looked at the other families walking leisurely through Parc Mont Royal, the beautiful mountain rising in the very center of Montreal. ‘Though it probably wouldn’t be the first time.’

‘For me it would.’ Gamache smiled and blushed a little, glad Daniel and his family couldn’t hear.

‘You’re very sweet, in a brutish kind of way.’ Reine-Marie kissed him. Gamache heard a shuffling and suddenly noticed the book section of his paper taking flight, one sheet at a time. Leaping up he lunged here and there, trying to stomp on the pages of his paper before they blew away. Florence, wrapped in a blanket now and watching this, pointed and laughed. Daniel put her on the ground and she stomped her feet as well. Gamache then exaggerated his actions until Daniel, his wife Roslyn and little Florence were all lifting their legs high and lunging after imaginary rogue papers, Gamache after the real thing.

‘It’s a good thing love is blind,’ laughed Reine-Marie after Gamache returned to the bench.

‘And not very bright,’ agreed Gamache, squeezing her hands. ‘Warm enough? Would you like a
café au lait
?’

‘Actually I would.’ His wife looked up from her own paper,
La Presse
.

‘Here, Dad, let me help.’ Daniel handed Florence to Roslyn and the two men strode off to the pavilion in the forest, not far from the lake. Joggers squelched along the trails of Mont Royal, here and there a rider appeared and disappeared through the bridle paths. It was a brilliant spring day with actual warmth in the young light.

Reine-Marie watched them go, two peas in a pod. So alike. Tall, sturdy like oaks, Daniel’s brown hair just beginning to thin and Armand’s almost gone on top. The sides, trim and dark, were graying. In his mid-fifties Armand Gamache held himself with ease and his son, now incredibly thirty, did too.

‘Do you miss him terribly?’ Roslyn sat beside her mother-in-law and looked into the comfortable, lined face. She loved Reine-Marie and had from the first dinner the older woman had prepared for her. Newly
dating, Daniel had introduced her to his family. She was petrified. Not simply because even then she knew she loved him but at the thought of meeting the famous Chief Inspector Armand Gamache. His firm, fair handling of the toughest homicide cases had made him practically a legend in Quebec. She’d been raised with his face staring at her across the breakfast table as her own father read about Gamache’s exploits. Gamache had aged in those pictures over the years, the hair receding and graying, the face expanding a bit. A trim moustache showed up and lines not corresponding to creases in the paper had begun to appear.

But then, unbelievably, it was time to meet the three-dimensional man.

‘
Bienvenue.
’ He’d smiled at her and given a little bow as he opened the door of their apartment in Outremont. ‘I’m Daniel’s father. Come in.’

He wore gray flannels, a comfortable cashmere cardigan, a shirt and tie for the Sunday lunch. He smelled of sandalwood and his hand felt warm and solid, like slipping into a familiar chair. She knew that hand. It belonged to Daniel as well.

That had been five years ago, and so much had happened since. They’d married, had Florence. Daniel had come home one day hopping with the news that a management company had offered him a job in Paris. Just a two-year contract, but what did she think?

She didn’t have to think. Two years in Paris? They were one year into it now and loving it. But they missed their family and knew how excruciating it had been for both sets of grandparents to kiss tiny Florence goodbye at the airport. To miss her first steps and words, to miss the first teeth and her ever-changing face and moods. Roslyn had expected her own mother to be the hardest hit, but she thought perhaps Papa Armand was the worst. Her heart broke as she’d walked down the glass corridor to the plane and seen his palms pressed against the waiting room window.

But he’d said nothing. He’d been happy for them, and he’d let them know it. And he’d let them go.

‘We miss you all.’ Reine-Marie held her hand and smiled.

And now there was another child on the way. They’d told both sets of parents at supper on Good Friday and there’d been a roar of excitement. Her father had brought out champagne and Armand had rushed off to the store to get her some non-alcoholic apple cider and they’d toasted their great good fortune.

While they waited for their order Armand put his hand on his son’s arm and guided him a little way into the pavilion, away from any
onlookers. He reached into his Barbour jacket and handed Daniel an envelope.

‘Dad, I don’t need it,’ Daniel whispered.

‘Please take it.’

Daniel slipped it into his own coat. ‘Thank you.’

Son hugged father, like Easter Island megaliths come together.

But Gamache hadn’t moved far enough away. Someone was watching.

Roslyn and Florence had joined another young family and Daniel wandered over while Gamache subsided onto the bench again, handing his wife her coffee and picking up his paper. Reine-Marie had disappeared into the front section of
La Presse
. It was unusual for her not to greet him, but he knew that both of them often got caught up in reading. Henri was asleep in the sunlight at his feet and sipping his coffee he watched the people stroll by.

It was an exquisite day.

After a few minutes Reine-Marie lowered the newspaper. Her face was troubled. Frightened almost.

‘What is it?’ Gamache reached over and put his large hand on her forearm, searching her eyes.

‘Did you read the paper?’

‘Just the book section so far, why?’

‘Is it possible to be scared to death?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Apparently someone has been. Frightened to death.’

‘
Mais, c’est horrible.
’

‘In Three Pines.’ Reine-Marie searched his face. ‘In the old Hadley house.’

Armand Gamache paled.

   TEN   

‘
C
ome in, Armand. Joyeuses Pâques.’ Superintendent Brébeuf shook hands and closed the door.

‘Et vous, mon ami.’ Gamache smiled. ‘Happy Easter.’

The surprise of Reine-Marie’s news had worn off. He’d read the story and just as he’d finished his cell phone had rung. It was his friend and superior at the Sûreté du Québec, Michel Brébeuf.

‘A case has come up,’ Brébeuf had said. ‘I know Daniel and his family are with you, I’m sorry. Can you spare some time?’

It was a courtesy, Gamache knew, for his boss to ask. He could have commanded. But then the two had grown up together, been best friends forever and gone into the Sûreté together. They’d even gone after the Superintendent’s job together. Brébeuf had prevailed, but it had not affected their friendship.

‘They’re returning to Paris tonight. Not to worry. We’ve had a good visit though never long enough. I’ll be in shortly.’

He’d said his goodbyes to his son, his daughter-in-law and his Florence.

‘I’ll call later,’ he said to Reine-Marie, kissing her. She waved and watched him walk purposefully to the car park, hidden by a stand of pines. She watched until he was out of sight. And still she watched.

‘Have you read the papers?’ Brébeuf asked, settling into the swivel chair behind his desk.

‘Not so much read as chased.’ He remembered trying to read, his own massive boot print on the paper. ‘It’s not the Three Pines case you’re talking about.’

‘So you have read the papers.’

‘Reine-Marie pointed it out. But it said it was a natural death. Ghoulish, but natural. Was she really scared to death?’

‘That’s what the doctors at the Cowansville hospital said. Heart attack. But—’

‘Go on.’

‘You’ll have to see for yourself but I hear she looked…’ Brébeuf paused, almost embarrassed to say it, ‘as though she’d seen something.’

‘The paper said she’d been at a séance at the old Hadley house.’

‘A séance,’ Brébeuf harrumphed. ‘Foolishness. I can see kids doing it, but adults? I just don’t understand why anyone would waste their time with that.’

Gamache wondered why the Superintendent had come in on his day off. He couldn’t remember Brébeuf discussing a case before it had even begun.

So why this one?

‘It wasn’t until this morning the doctor thought to have blood work done. This is what came back.’

Brébeuf handed over a sheet of paper. Gamache put on his half-moon glasses. He’d read hundreds of these and knew exactly what to look for. The toxicology report.

After a minute he lowered the paper, looking at Brébeuf over his glasses.

‘Ephedra.’

‘
C’est ça.
’

‘But does it have to be murder?’ Gamache asked, almost to himself. ‘Don’t people take ephedra on their own?’

‘It’s a banned substance,’ said Brébeuf.

‘True, true,’ said Gamache, distracted. He was scanning the report again. After a moment he spoke. ‘This is interesting. Listen to this.’ He read from the report. ‘The subject is five foot seven and weighs 134.7 pounds. You wouldn’t think she’d need a diet pill.’ He took off his glasses and folded them up.

‘Most people don’t,’ said Brébeuf. ‘All in their minds.’

‘I wonder what she weighed a few months ago,’ said Gamache. ‘Maybe this is how she got down to 135 pounds.’ Gamache tapped his glasses on the report. ‘With the help of ephedra.’

‘Maybe,’ agreed Brébeuf. ‘It’s your job to find out.’

‘Murder or misadventure?’ Gamache went back to the paper in his hand, wondering what else it might yield. But the Chief Inspector knew that paper rarely held the answers to his questions. Was it murder? Who was the killer? Why had the killer hated or feared this woman so much he had to take her life? Why? Why? Always the why before the who.

No, the answers lay in flesh and blood, not in a book and not in a report. And so often not even in things corporeal, but in something that couldn’t be held and contained and touched. The answers to his questions lay in the murky past and in the emotions hidden there.

The paper in his hand would yield the facts but not the truth. For that he had to go to Three Pines. For that he’d have to go, yet again, into the old Hadley house.

‘Who will you take on your team?’ The question brought Gamache back to his friend’s office. Brébeuf had tried to sound casual but the oddity of his query couldn’t be hidden. Never before had he questioned Armand Gamache, his chief of homicide, about procedure and certainly not about anything as mundane as personnel assignments.