The Cruellest Month (49 page)

From the shadows came a brief eruption of laughter before it was strangled.

‘I’m not his to call off,’ said Nichol, her eyes cold and hard.

‘Francoeur,’ Lemieux hissed at Brébeuf. ‘I thought you had him under control.’

‘Give me the gun, Agent Nichol.’ Gamache stepped forward, his hand out.

‘Shoot,’ yelled Lemieux. ‘Shoot him.’

Just then her cell phone rang. To their astonishment, she answered it, her eyes never leaving them.

‘Yes, I understand. He’s with me now.’

She thrust the cell phone at Gamache. He hesitated then took it.

‘
Oui, allô?
’

‘Chief Inspector Gamache?’ the heavily accented voice asked.

‘
Oui.
’

‘It’s Ari Nikolev. I’m Yvette’s father. I hope you’re looking after my daughter. Every time I call she tells me she’s solving the case for you. Is that true?’

‘She’s a remarkable young woman, sir,’ said Gamache. ‘I must go now.’

He handed the phone to Nichol. She handed him her gun. Lemieux watched, slack-jawed.

‘What is this?’ He turned once again to Brébeuf, the sputtering in the shadows. ‘You said she’s with us.’

‘I said she served a purpose.’ Brébeuf’s voice was strained, fighting to control the hysteria that gripped him. ‘When Francoeur transferred her back to homicide I knew Gamache would suspect she was a spy for Francoeur. Why else would he send her back? But Francoeur was never anything but a bully and a fool. He dropped Arnot as soon as
things got difficult. Nichol was our scapegoat. The obvious suspect, if Gamache got suspicious.’

‘Well you were fucking wrong,’ snarled Lemieux.

‘Yes, Dad, I think he’ll say yes now.’ She turned to Gamache. ‘He’s been bugging me to invite you for tea sometime.’

‘Tell your father I’d be honored.’

‘Yup, Dad. He says he’ll come. No I don’t have a gun on him.’ She raised her brows at Gamache. ‘Now. No, I didn’t fuck up, but thanks for asking.’

‘Did you know?’ Lemieux asked Beauvoir as his hands were yanked behind him and cuffs clamped on.

‘Of course I knew,’ Beauvoir lied. He hadn’t known until he’d confronted the chief on the side of the road. Until they told each other everything. Then it had come out. Nichol was working for them. He was glad he hadn’t thrown her into the spring-bloated Rivière Bella Bella, as all his instincts had told him to do. That caul really couldn’t be completely trusted.

‘I knew she wasn’t Francoeur’s spy. Too obvious,’ said Gamache, handing the gun to Beauvoir. ‘I spoke to her almost a year ago, told her my plan and she agreed to play along. She’s a courageous young woman.’

‘Don’t you mean psychotic?’ asked Lemieux.

‘Not likeable, I’ll grant you, but that’s what I was counting on. As long as you thought I suspected her, you were free to do what you wanted. And I was free to watch you. I told Nichol to be as annoying as she could to everyone, but to focus on you in particular. To rattle you. Your armor’s your likeability. If we could keep you off balance you might say or do something stupid. And you did. That day here you sneaked up on me. No agent of mine would ever draw his gun on me. You did it to shake me up. Instead you put beyond doubt that you were the spy. But I made a massive mistake.’ Gamache turned to Brébeuf. ‘I thought the near enemy was Francoeur. It never occurred to me it would be you.’

‘Matthew 10:36. A man’s foes shall be they of his own household,’ quoted Brébeuf, softly. The hysteria gone, the anger gone, the fear gone. Everything gone.

‘But so shall his friends.’ Gamache watched as Beauvoir and Nichol herded Brébeuf and Lemieux to the door.

Fourteen days
, thought Michel Brébeuf.
Fourteen days of happiness
. It was true. But what he’d forgotten until this very moment was that most of them had been with this man.

‘What the hell did you hit me with?’ Lemieux demanded.

‘A rock,’ said Nichol, preening. ‘One fell out of Inspector Beauvoir’s coat the other day and I picked it up. I threw it at you just as you fired.’

Armand Gamache walked down the dim corridor. Something odd was happening to the old Hadley house. It was becoming familiar. He could move about without turning on his flashlight. But he stopped partway along.

Something very large was coming toward him.

Reaching into his coat he took out his flashlight and flicked the switch. There in front of him was a multi-headed creature.

‘We’ve come to rescue you,’ said Gabri, from behind Myrna. Jeanne was in the lead followed by Clara and the rest.

‘Onward pagan soldiers,’ said Jeanne with a relieved smile.

The candle was burning low. They took their seats, the same ones they’d always taken, as though this was an old and comfortable ritual, a rite of spring.

‘You were about to tell us who killed Madeleine,’ said Odile.

Gamache waited until everyone was settled then he spoke.

‘
How bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man’s eyes.
’

He let the terrible words sink in.

‘Someone here had grown bitter looking at the joyous world Madeleine had created for herself. Do you know where that quote comes from?’

‘Shakespeare,’ said Jeanne. ‘
As You Like It
.’

Gamache nodded. ‘How’d you know?’

‘It was the school play our final year. You produced it.’ She turned to Hazel. ‘And Madeleine starred.’

‘Madeleine starred,’ repeated Gamache. ‘Always. Not because she tried but because she couldn’t help it.’

‘She was the sun,’ said Sandon, softly.

‘And someone flew too close,’ agreed Gamache. ‘Someone here is Icarus. Too close to the sun for too long. Finally the sun did what it always does. It sent this person plunging to the ground. But it took time. It took years. It actually took decades.

‘The murderer had created a fine life. Friends, a comfortable social life circle. It was a rich and happy time. But the ghosts of our past always find us. In this case the ghost wasn’t a person, but an emotion, long buried and even forgotten. But it was potent. Blinding, staggering, scorching jealousy.’ He turned to Jeanne. ‘If you thought it was hard being on Madeleine’s cheerleading squad, imagine being her best friend.’

All eyes turned to Hazel.

‘According to the yearbooks, you were a fine basketball player, Hazel, but Mad was better. She was the captain. Always the captain. You were on the debating team, but Mad was the captain.’

He picked up the yearbook and found their grad pictures.

‘She never got mad,’ he read the caption under young Hazel’s photograph, then closed the book. ‘Never got mad. I took that to mean you never got angry, but it meant something more, didn’t it?’

Hazel’s eyes were on her hands.

‘She never got Madeleine. Never caught up. And never understood. Never “got it”. Kept trying and kept failing, because you started seeing it as a competition and she never did. You were dogged by a best friend who was slightly better at everything. Once high school was out you broke away and the friendship faded. But years later, after a bout of breast cancer, Madeleine wanted to find old friends. By then you’d made a good life for yourself. A modest home in a lovely community. A daughter. Friends. A potential romance. You were involved in the ACW. But you’d learned something from high school. This afternoon at a meeting in Montreal a colleague said something to me. It was about…’ Gamache hesitated for a moment, ‘another case.’

Gamache heard the voice again, deep, commanding, authoritative. And accusing Gamache of only taking in the weak, the waste, the people no one else wanted. So that he’d always be better than them. To boost his own ego. He knew that wasn’t true. Not that he didn’t have an ego, but he knew that the people on his team were the best, not the worst. They’d proved it time and again.

But still Francoeur’s accusation had resonated. Driving back to Three Pines it clicked. It wasn’t the Arnot case. It was this case. It was Hazel.

‘You surround yourself with people who are wounded, handicapped in some way. Needy. You befriend people who are sick, or in bad marriages, alcoholics, the obese, the troubled. Because it makes you feel superior. You’re kind to them, in a condescending way. Did you ever hear Hazel refer to anyone other than “Poor” so-and-so?’

They looked at each other and shook their heads. It was true. Poor Sophie, Poor Mrs Blanchard, Poor Monsieur Béliveau.

‘The near enemy,’ said Myrna.

‘Exactly. Pity for compassion. Everyone thought you were a saint but it served a purpose for you. Made you feel needed and better than all the people you helped. When you met up with Madeleine again she was still ill. You liked that. Meant you could nurse her, look after her. Be in charge. She was sick and needy and you weren’t. But then she did something you hadn’t counted on. She got better. Better than ever.
A Madeleine not only shiny and bright and alive, but full of gratitude and the desire to grab life. But the life she grabbed was yours. Little by little she was taking over again. Your friends, your job at the ACW. You could see it coming, the day when you again faded into the background. And then Madeleine crossed the line. She took the two things you cherished most. Your daughter and Monsieur Béliveau. Both turned their attentions to her. Your enemy was back and living in your home and eating off your plates and feeding off your life.’

Hazel was slumped in her chair.

‘What was it like for you?’

She looked up.

‘What do you think it was like? All through high school coming second in everything. I was the best volleyball player on the team, until Mad joined.’

‘But second best is still great,’ said Gabri, who’d have loved to come in the top ten in any athletic event, even the Wellington Boot Toss at the fair.

‘You think so? Try it all the time. At everything. And having people like you saying exactly that, all my life. Second best is good. Second best is fine. Well it isn’t. Even in the school play. I was finally in charge. The producer. But who got all the credit when the play was a success?’

She needn’t tell them. A picture, bright and brutal, was forming. How many condescending smiles could one person take? How many fleeting glances as the person searched for the real star?

Madeleine.

How bitter a thing it is, thought Clara.

‘Then out of the blue Madeleine called. She was ill, she wanted to see me. I searched my heart and couldn’t find any more hatred. And when we met she looked so tired and pathetic.’

Everyone could see the reunion. The roles finally reversed. And Hazel making the one, spectacular mistake. Inviting Madeleine to live with her.

‘Madeleine was wonderful. She brightened up the house.’ Hazel smiled at the memory. ‘We laughed and talked and did everything together. I introduced her around and got her involved in committees. She was my best friend again, but this time an equal. I started to fall in love with her again. It was the most wonderful time. Do you have any idea what that feels like? I didn’t even know I was lonely until Mad was there again, and suddenly my heart was full. But then people began calling just for her, and Gabri asked her to take over the ACW, even though I was vice-president.’

‘But you hated the job,’ said Gabri.

‘I did. But I hated being left out more. Everyone does, don’t you know that?’

Clara thought of all the wedding invitations she hadn’t received and how she’d felt. Partly relieved at not having to go to the party and bring a gift they couldn’t afford, but mostly offended at being left out. Forgotten. Or worse. Remembered but not included.

‘Then she took Monsieur Béliveau,’ Gamache said.

‘When Ginette was dying she’d often say he and I would make a good couple. Keep each other company. I began to hope, to think maybe that was true.’

‘But he wanted more than just company,’ said Myrna.

‘He wanted her,’ said Hazel, the bitterness seeping out. ‘And I started to see I’d made a terrible mistake. But I couldn’t see how to get out of it.’

‘When did you decide to kill her?’ Gamache asked.

‘When Sophie came home for Christmas, and kissed her first.’

The simple, devastating fact sat in their sacred circle, like the dead little bird. Gamache was reminded of the one thing they were told over and over: don’t go into the woods in spring. You don’t want to get between a mother and her baby.

Madeleine had.

Finally Gamache spoke. ‘You’d kept Sophie’s ephedra from a few years ago. Not because you planned to use it then, but because you don’t throw anything away.’

Not furniture, not books, not emotions, thought Gamache. Hazel let nothing go.

‘According to the lab, the pills used were too pure to be the recent manufacture. At first I thought the ephedra was from your store,’ he said to Odile. ‘But then I remembered there’d been another bottle of pills. A few years ago. Hazel said Madeleine had found it and confiscated them, but that wasn’t true, was it, Sophie?’

‘Mom?’ Sophie sat wide-eyed, stunned.

Hazel reached for her hand, but Sophie quickly withdrew it. Hazel looked more affected by that than anything else.

‘You found them. And you used them on Madeleine for me?’

Clara tried to ignore the inflection, the hint of satisfaction in Sophie’s voice.

‘I had to. She was taking you away. Taking everything.’

‘You first tried to kill her at the Friday night séance,’ said Gamache, ‘but you didn’t give her enough.’

‘But she wasn’t even there,’ said Gabri. ‘No, but her casserole was,’ said Gamache, turning to Monsieur
Béliveau. ‘You said you couldn’t sleep that night and thought it was because you were upset by the séance. But the séance wasn’t all that frightening. It was the ephedra that kept you awake.’

‘
Est-ce que c’est vrai?
’ Monsieur Béliveau asked Hazel, astonished. ‘You put that drug in the casserole and gave it to us? You could have killed me.’

‘No, no.’ She reached out to him but he quickly leaned away. One by one everyone was backing away from Hazel. Leaving her in the one place she most feared. Alone. ‘I’d never take the risk. I knew from news reports that ephedra only kills if you have a heart condition and I knew you didn’t.’