Cruelest Month

‘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.’

‘But you knew Madeleine did,’ said Gamache.

‘Madeleine had a bad heart?’ asked Myrna.

‘It was brought on by her chemotherapy,’ confirmed Gamache. ‘She told you about it, didn’t she, Hazel?’

‘She didn’t want to tell anyone else because she didn’t want to be treated like a sick person. How’d you know?’

‘The coroner’s report said she had a bad heart and her doctor confirmed it,’ said Gamache.

‘No, I mean how’d you know that I knew? I didn’t tell anyone, not even Sophie.’

‘Aspirin.’

Hazel sighed. ‘I thought I’d been clever there. Hiding Mad’s pills in among all the rest.’

‘Inspector Beauvoir noticed them when you were looking for something to give Sophie for her ankle. You have a cupboard full of old pills. What struck him was that you didn’t give Sophie the aspirin. Instead you kept searching for another bottle.’

‘The ephedra was hidden in the aspirin bottle?’ asked Clara, lost.

‘We thought so. We had the contents analyzed. It was aspirin.’

‘So what was the problem?’ asked Gabri.

‘Its strength,’ said Gamache. ‘It was low dose. Way below normal. People with heart conditions often take a low dose aspirin once a day.’

There were nods around the ring. Gamache paused, staring at Hazel.

‘Madeleine kept something a secret. Even from you. Perhaps especially from you.’

‘She told me everything,’ said Hazel, as though defending her best friend.

‘No. One last thing, one huge thing, she kept from you. From everyone. Madeleine was dying. Her cancer had spread.’

‘Mais, non,’ said Monsieur Béliveau.

‘But that’s impossible,’ Hazel snapped. ‘She’d have said something.’

‘Odd that she didn’t. I think she didn’t want to, because she sensed something in you, something that fed on, and created, weakness. Had she told you, though, you wouldn’t have killed her. But by then the plan was in motion. It started with this.’

He held up the alumni list he’d gotten from the school that afternoon.

‘Madeleine was on the alumni of your old high school. So were you.’ Gamache turned to Jeanne, who nodded. ‘Hazel took one of Gabri’s brochures, typed “Where lay lines meet – Easter Special” across the top and mailed it to Jeanne.’

‘She stole one of my brochures,’ Gabri said to Myrna.

‘Big picture, Gabri.’

With a struggle he accepted that maybe he wasn’t quite as aggrieved as Madeleine. Or Hazel.

‘Poor Hazel,’ said Gabri, and everyone nodded. Poor Hazel.

   FORTY-FOUR

Akind of shell shock settled over Gamache in the week that followed. His food tasted dull, the paper held no interest. He read and re-read the same sentence in Le Devoir. Reine-Marie tried to engage him in discussions of a trip to the Manoir Bellechasse to celebrate their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary. He responded, showed interest, but the clear, sparkling colors of his life had dulled. It was as though his heart was suddenly too heavy for his legs. He lugged himself around, trying not to think about what had happened. But one evening when he was out for a walk with Reine-Marie and Henri, the shepherd had suddenly tugged free and raced across the park toward a familiar man on the other side. Gamache called after him and Henri stopped. But not before the man on the far side had also spotted the dog. And the owner.

Once more, and for the last time, Michel Brébeuf and Armand Gamache locked eyes. In between so much life happened. Children played, dogs rolled and fetched, young parents marveled at what they’d produced. The air between the men was ripe with lilac and honeysuckle, the buzz of bees, puppies barking, children laughing. The world stood between Armand Gamache and his best friend.

And Gamache longed to walk across and hug him. To feel the familiar hand on his arm. The smell of Michel in his nostrils: soap and pipe tobacco. He yearned for his company, his voice, his eyes so thoughtful and full of humor.

He missed his best friend.

And to think for years Michel had actually hated him. Why? For being happy.

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

But today no happiness could be found there, only sorrow and regret.