The Cruellest Month Read Free Page A

Easter eggs. The cheery colors had bled into her palms.
    Suddenly the séance, which had seemed an amusing idea a few days ago when Gabri had put the notice up in the bistro announcing the arrival of the famous psychic, Madame Isadore Blavatsky, now felt different. Instead of happy anticipation Clara was filled with dread.

   THREE   
    M adame Isadore Blavatsky wasn’t herself that night. In fact, she wasn’t Madame Isadore Blavatsky at all.
    ‘Please, call me Jeanne.’ The mousy woman stood in the middle of the back room at the bistro, holding out her hand. ‘Jeanne Chauvet.’
    ‘
Bonjour, Madame Chauvet.
’ Clara smiled and shook the limp hand. ‘
Excusez-moi.
’
    ‘Jeanne,’ the woman reminded her in a voice barely audible.
    Clara stepped over to Gabri who was offering a platter of smoked salmon to his guests. The room was beginning to fill up, slightly. ‘Salmon?’ He thrust the plate at Clara.
    ‘Who is she?’ Clara asked.
    ‘Madame Blavatsky, the famous Hungarian psychic. Can’t you just feel her energy?’
    Madeleine and Monsieur Béliveau waved. Clara waved back then glanced over at Jeanne who looked as though she’d faint if someone said boo. ‘I certainly feel something, young man, and it’s annoyed.’
    Gabri Dubeau vacillated between delight at being called ‘young man’ and defensiveness.
    ‘That isn’t Madame Blavatsky. She doesn’t even pretend to be. Her name’s Jeanne someone-or-other,’ said Clara, absent-mindedly taking a piece of salmon and folding it onto a pumpernickel. ‘You promised us Madame Blavatsky.’
    ‘You don’t even know who Madame Blavatsky is.’
    ‘Well, I know who she isn’t.’ Clara nodded and smiled at the small, middle-aged woman standing slightly bewildered in the middle of the room.
    ‘And would you’ve come if you’d known she was the psychic?’ Gabri gestured with the plate toward Jeanne. A caper rolled off the end, to be lost on the rich oriental carpet.
    Why do we never learn? Clara sighed to herself. Every time Gabri has a guest he organizes some outlandish event, like the time the poker champ came to stay and took all our money, or that singer who made even Ruth sound like Maria Callas. Still, horrible as these socials Gabri threw together turned out for the villagers, they must have been worse for the unsuspecting guests, roped into entertaining Three Pines when all they wanted was a quiet stay in the country.
    She watched as Jeanne Chauvet gazed around the room, rubbed her hands on her polyester pants and smiled at the portrait above the roaring fireplace. Before Clara’s very eyes she seemed to disappear. It was actually quite a trick, though not one that spoke highly of her psychic abilities. Clara felt badly for her. Really, what was Gabri thinking?
    ‘What were you thinking?’
    ‘What do you mean? She’s a psychic. She told me when she booked in. True, she’s not Madame Blavatsky. Or from Hungary. But she does readings.’
    ‘Wait a minute.’ Clara was getting suspicious. ‘Does she even know you’d planned this evening?’
    ‘Well, I’m sure she divined it.’
    ‘Once people started showing up, maybe. Gabri, how could you do this to her? To us?’
    ‘She’ll be fine. Look at her. She’s loosening up already.’
    Myrna had fetched her a tumbler of white wine and Jeanne Chauvet was drinking as though it was water before the miracle. Myrna looked over and lifted her eyebrows at Clara. Much more of this and Myrna would have to conduct the séance.
    ‘Séance?’ Jeanne asked a minute later when Myrna asked what they could expect. ‘Who’s holding a séance?’
    All eyes turned to Gabri, who very carefully placed the platter on a table and went over to stand beside Jeanne. Gabri’s bulk and natural exuberance seemed to make the nondescript woman shrink even further until she looked like clothes on a hanger. Clara guessed she was somewhere around forty. Her hair was dull brown and looked as though she cut it herself.