THE CRUELEST MONTH
Also by Louise Penny
Still Life
Dead Cold
THE CRUELEST
MONTH
Louise Penny
Copyright © 2007 Louise Penny
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-3981-2
For my brother Rob and his wonderful family,
Audi, Kim, Adam and Sarah, with love
CONTENTS
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
READING GROUP DISSCUSSION QUESTIONS
ONE
Kneeling in the fragrant moist grass of the village green Clara Morrow carefully hid the Easter egg and thought about raising the dead, which she planned to do right after supper. Wiping a strand of hair from her face, she smeared bits of grass, mud and some other brown stuff that might not be mud into her tangled hair. All around, villagers wandered with their baskets of brightly colored eggs, looking for the perfect hiding places. Ruth Zardo sat on the bench in the middle of the green tossing the eggs at random, though occasionally she’d haul off and peg someone in the back of the head or on the bottom. She had disconcertingly good aim for someone so old and so nuts, thought Clara.
‘You going tonight?’ Clara asked, trying to distract the old poet from taking aim at Monsieur Béliveau.
‘Are you kidding? Live people are bad enough; why would I want to bring one back from the dead?’
With that Ruth whacked Monsieur Béliveau in the back of his head. Fortunately the village grocer was wearing a cloth cap. It was also fortunate he had great affection for the white-haired ramrod on the bench. Ruth chose her victims well. They were almost always people who cared for her.
Normally being pelted by a chocolate Easter egg wouldn’t be a big deal, but these weren’t chocolate. They’d made that mistake only once.
A few years earlier, when the village of Three Pines first decided to have an egg hunt on Easter Sunday, there’d been great excitement. The villagers met at Olivier’s Bistro and over drinks and Brie they divvied up bags of chocolate eggs to be hidden the next day. ‘Ooohs’ and ‘Aaaaahs’ tinged with envy filled the air. Would that they were children again. But their pleasure would surely come from seeing the faces of the village children. Besides, the kids might not find them all, especially those hidden behind Olivier’s bar.
‘They’re gorgeous.’ Gabri picked up a tiny marzipan goose, delicately sculpted, then bit its head off.
‘Gabri.’ His partner Olivier yanked what was left of the goose from Gabri’s massive hand. ‘They’re for the kids.’
‘You just want it for yourself.’ Gabri turned to Myrna and muttered so that everyone could hear, ‘Great idea. Gay men offering chocolates to children. Let’s alert the Moral Majority.’
Blond and bashful, Olivier blushed furiously.
Myrna smiled. She looked like a massive Easter egg herself, black and oval and wrapped in a brilliant purple and red caftan.
Most of the tiny village was at the bistro, crowded around the long bar of polished wood, though some had flopped down in the comfortable old armchairs scattered about. All for sale. Olivier’s was also an antique shop. Discreet tags dangled from everything, including Gabri when he felt under-appreciated and under-applauded.
It was early April and fires crackled cheerily in the open grates, throwing warm light on the wide-plank pine floors, stained amber by time and sunlight. Waiters moved effortlessly through the beamed room, offering drinks and soft, runny Brie from Monsieur Pagé’s farm. The bistro was at the heart of the old Quebec village, sitting as it did on the edge of the green. On either side of it and attached by connecting doors were the rest of the shops, hugging the village in an aged brick embrace. Monsieur Béliveau’s general store, Sarah’s Boulangerie, then the bistro and finally, just off that, Myrna’s Livres, Neufs et Usagés. Three craggy pine trees had stood at the far end of the green for as long as anyone remembered, like wise men who’d found what they were looking for. Outward from the village, dirt roads radiated and meandered into the mountains and forests.
But Three Pines itself was a village forgotten. Time eddied and swirled and sometimes bumped into it, but never stayed long and never left much of an impression. For hundreds of years the village had nestled in the palm of the rugged Canadian mountains, protected and hidden and rarely found except by accident. Sometimes, a weary traveler crested the hill and looking down saw, like Shangri-La, the welcoming circle of old homes. Some were weathered fieldstone built by settlers clearing the land of deeply rooted trees and back-breaking stones. Others were red brick and built by United Empire Loyalists desperate for sanctuary. And some had the swooping metal roofs of the Québécois home with their intimate gables and broad verandas. And at the far end was Olivier’s Bistro, offering café au lait and fresh-baked croissants, conversation and company and kindness. Once found, Three Pines was never forgotten. But it was only ever found by people lost.
Myrna looked over at her friend Clara Morrow, who was sticking out her tongue. Myrna stuck hers out too. Clara rolled her eyes. Myrna rolled hers, taking a seat beside Clara on the soft sofa facing the fireplace.
‘You weren’t smoking garden mulch again while I was in Montreal, were you?’
‘Not this time,’ Clara laughed. ‘You have something on your nose.’
Myrna felt around, found something and examined it. ‘Mmm, it’s either chocolate, or skin. Only one way to find out.’
She popped it in her mouth.
‘God.’ Clara winced. ‘And you wonder why you’re single.’
‘I don’t wonder.’ Myrna smiled. ‘I don’t need a man to complete me.’
‘Oh really? What about Raoul?’
‘Ah, Raoul,’ said Myrna dreamily. ‘He was a sweet.’
‘He was a gummy bear,’ agreed Clara.
‘He completed me,’ said Myrna. ‘And then some.’ She patted her middle, large and generous, like the woman herself.
‘Look at this.’ A razor voice cut through conversation.
Ruth Zardo stood in the center of the bistro holding aloft a chocolate rabbit as though it were a grenade. It was made of rich dark chocolate, its long ears perky and alert, its face so real Clara half expected it to twitch its delicate candy whiskers. In its paws it held a basket woven from white and milk chocolate, and in that basket sat a dozen candy eggs, beautifully decorated. It was lovely and Clara prayed Ruth wasn’t about to toss it at someone.