‘How’d you hear about it?’
‘A brochure. Gabri must have advertised.’
Gamache nodded. The sun was warm on his face, though not hot.
‘Nothing like that has ever happened to me before. No one has ever died at one of my rituals. And no one has ever been hurt. Not in the physical sense.’
Gamache longed to ask, but decided to stay quiet.
‘People often hear things that upset them emotionally,’ said Jeanne. ‘Spirits don’t seem to care much for people’s feelings. But for the most part contacting the dead is a very gentle, even tender experience.’
She stopped and looked at him. ‘You said you know nothing about the Wicca. I assume that means you know nothing about our rituals as well.’
‘That’s true.’
‘Séances aren’t about hauntings or ghosts or demons. They aren’t about exorcisms even. Not really. They’re not even about death, though we do contact the spirits of the dead.’
‘What are they about?’
‘Life. And healing. When people ask for a séance chances are they need healing. On the surface it might appear to be about titillation or a game to pass the time and scare each other, but someone there needs something resolved, in order to get on with their lives. They need to let something or someone go. That’s what I do. That’s my job.’
‘You’re a healer?’
Jeanne stopped and looked directly into Gamache’s deep brown eyes. ‘I am. All Wicca are. We’re the crones, the midwives, the medicine women. We use herbs and ritual, we use the power of the Earth and the power of the mind and soul. And we use the energy of the universe and we use spirits. We do whatever we can to help wounded souls heal.’
‘There are a lot of wounded souls.’
‘Which is why I came here.’
‘To find more or to rest from your labors?’
Jeanne was about to answer when her face suddenly changed. It went from earnest and concentrated to perplexed. She stared off at something behind him.
He turned round then he too suddenly looked perplexed.
Ruth Zardo was limping slowly down her walkway, quacking.
Jean Guy Beauvoir found La Maison Biologique without difficulty. The organic store was on rue Principale in St-Rémy, right across from the dépanneur where people bought their cigarettes, beer and Loto-Québec tickets. The two stores enjoyed more cross-fertilization than might have been expected, since both shops dealt with hope. Hope the lottery would go their way, hope it wasn’t too late to reverse global warming. Hope that organic foods would counter the effects of nicotine. Odile Montmagny herself liked a puff every now and then, generally after a glass, or bottle, of cheap wine bought at the dépanneur.
As Inspector Beauvoir entered the empty shop he noticed a strange unnatural smell. It was a musky, dark aroma as though the various herbs and dried flowers, incense and powders were locked in battle.
In short, it stank.
A pretty, pudgy woman in her late thirties or early forties was standing behind the counter, her hand flat on a closed exercise book. Cheaply cut and dyed hair sat limply around her face. She looked pleasant and unremarkable. For the briefest moment she also looked annoyed, as though he’d entered her private space. Then she smiled. It was the practiced smile of someone used to pleasing.
‘Oui? Est-ce que je peux vous aider?’
‘Are you…’ He brought out the piece of paper the Chief Inspector had given him with the names of everyone who was at the séance. He looked down at it, drawing the performance out slightly. He wanted her full attention. He knew perfectly well what her name was, of course. He just wanted to mess with her mind. Get her off balance. Now he looked up only to see her looking down at the red notebook under her hand. She’d escaped in the moment he’d taken to pause. Her mind, far from being messed with, had actually wandered back to her own business.
‘Are you Odile Montmagny?’ he asked loudly.
‘Yes.’ She smiled pleasantly, almost vacuously.
‘My name is Inspector Beauvoir. I’m with the Sûreté du Québec. Homicide.’
‘Not Gilles?’ She was transformed. Her body went rigid, her face focused and frightened. Her hand moved from the notebook to the wooden counter and her fingers tried to dig into the surface.
‘Gilles?’ he repeated. He knew immediately what she was thinking and didn’t yet want to ease her mind.
‘What’s happened?’ she pleaded.
Odile thought she was going to pass out. Her head had gone numb and her heart was throwing itself against her ribcage as though desperate to break out, to find Gilles.
‘I’m here about Madeleine Favreau.’
He watched her closely. Her flaccid, empty face had come alive. Her eyes shone, her brain was focused. She looked brilliant. And terrified. And gorgeous. Then it all dissolved. Her head, thrust forward toward him in desperation, sagged. All the muscles collapsed. In a blink the old Odile had returned. Pretty, dull, eager. But he’d seen what was under there. He’d seen what he suspected few knew existed, perhaps even Odile herself. He’d seen the brilliant, gorgeous, dynamic woman who lived trapped beneath the safe layer of dullness and smiles, of dye and sensible goals.
‘Madeleine was murdered? But she had a heart attack, I’m sure of it.’
‘Oui, c’est vrai. But her heart attack was helped. She was given a drug that caused it.’
‘A drug?’
Had no one called Odile from Three Pines? Everyone had converged on Olivier’s Bistro to get the latest news. It was their broadcast center, with Gabri as the anchor. Beauvoir had found himself interviewing the only person in the area no one thought to call. Beauvoir felt suddenly very sorry for this woman and her eager, searching face. He felt sorry for her and slightly repulsed. Losers always repulsed him which was one of the reasons he’d never liked Agent Nichol. From the moment he’d met her a few years earlier he’d known she wasn’t just trouble, but worse than that. She was a loser. And in Beauvoir’s experience losers were the most dangerous people. Because eventually they got to the stage where they had nothing more to lose.
‘It’s called ephedra,’ he said.
She seemed to consider the word. ‘And it stopped her heart? Why would someone kill her that way?’
Not ‘why would someone kill her?’ but ‘why do it that way?’ It was the way, not the woman, that seemed to surprise Odile.
‘How well did you know Madame Favreau?’
‘She was a customer. Used to buy her fruit and vegetables here. There were some vitamins she’d pick up too.’
‘A good customer?’
‘Regular. She’d come about once a week.’
‘Did you see each other socially?’
‘Never. Why?’ Did she seem defensive?
‘Well, you had dinner together Sunday night.’
‘That’s true, but it wasn’t our idea. Clara invited us over before the séance. We didn’t even know Madeleine would be there.’
‘Would you have gone had you known?’ Beauvoir knew he was on to something. Could feel it. Could see the defensiveness in her face, could hear it in her tone.
Odile hesitated. ‘Probably. I didn’t have anything against Madeleine. As I said, she was a customer.’
‘But you didn’t like her.’
‘I didn’t know her.’
Beauvoir let the silence stretch. Then he looked around the shop more closely. It was a jumble of items. Food and produce seemed to be on one side and clothing and furniture on the other. On the food side he could see clay pots with wooden lids and scoops hanging from them. He could see coarse sacks and on the wooden shelves climbing the walls were hundreds of glass jars filled with what looked like grass. Could they be dope? He walked closer, noticing Odile staring at him, and peered at the jars. They had names like ‘Bee Balm’ and ‘Ma Huang’ and ‘Beggar’s Button’ and his favorite, ‘Cardinal Monkeyflower’. He took it down and opening the lid he sniffed tentatively. It smelled sweet. He couldn’t believe the Pope had ordained a Cardinal Monkeyflower. He wondered if there was a village named after him near Notre-Dame-de-Roof Trusses.