The Cruellest Month by Louise Penny Read Free Book Online Page B

and through bleary eyes watched his partner.
    Gabri, in rumpled pajama bottoms and slippers, was holding a croissant in his hand and seemed to be taking it for a walk round their living room.
    ‘I’m getting rid of any evil spirits that might have followed me home from the séance.’
    ‘With baked goods?’
    ‘Well, we didn’t have any hot cross buns, so this was the next best thing. Isn’t the crescent the symbol of Islam?’
    Olivier was constantly surprised by Gabri. His unexpected depth and his profound silliness. Olivier shook his head and went back to bed, trusting that in the morning all the evil spirits and the croissants would be gone.

   SEVEN   
    E aster Sunday dawned gray, but there were hopes the rain would hold off until after the Easter egg hunt. All through the church service parents ignored the minister and instead listened for drumming on the roof of St Thomas’s church.
    The church smelled of lily of the valley. Bunches of the tiny white bells and their vivid green leaves were placed in every pew. It was lovely.
    Until little Paulette Legault launched a bouquet at Timmy Benson. Then all hell broke loose. The minister, of course, ignored it.
    Kids ran up and down the short aisle, parents either trying to stop them or ignoring them. Either way the outcome was the same. The minister gave a little reading from the rite of exorcism. The congregation said Amen and everyone raced from the chapel.
    A lunch was organized by the Anglican Church Women, led by Gabri, in the basement and picnic tables with red check tablecloths had been set up around the green.
    ‘Happy hunting,’ the minister shouted and waved as his car mounted du Moulin, heading for the next chapel in his next parish. He was pretty certain his little service had saved no one. But then, no one had been lost either and that was good enough.
    Ruth stood on the top step of the church, balancing a plate of thick maple-cured ham sandwiches on Sarah’s bread still steaming from the boulangerie, home-made potato salad with eggs and mayo, and a huge slice of sugar pie. Myrna came up beside her wearing a plank on her head scattered with books and flowers and chocolate. Villagers wandered around the green or sat at picnic tables, women in massive exuberant Easter bonnets and men trying to pretend they weren’t.
    Myrna stood beside Ruth, her own plate sagging under an embarrassment of food, and together they watched the hunt. Children darted around the village, shrieking and screaming with delight as they discovered the wooden eggs. Little Rose Tremblay was knocked into the pond by one of her brothers and Timmy Benson stopped to help her out. While Madame Tremblay yelled at her son Paulette Legault whacked Timmy. A sure sign of love, thought Myrna, grateful she wasn’t ten any more.
    ‘Wanna sit together?’ Myrna asked.
    ‘No I don’t “wanna”,’ Ruth said. ‘Have to get home.’
    ‘How’re the chicks?’ Myrna took no offense from Ruth; to do that would be to live in permanent offense.
    ‘They’re not chicks, they’re ducks. Ducklings, I suppose.’
    ‘Where do we get the real eggs?’ Rose Tremblay stood in front of Ruth like CindyLou Who before the Grinch, holding three exquisite wooden eggs in her pudgy pink palms. For some reason the children of Three Pines always went straight to Ruth, like lemmings.
    ‘How should I know?’
    ‘You’re the egg lady,’ said Rose, wearing a soggy blanket. She looked a little, Myrna thought, like one of Ruth’s precious duck eggs wrapped in her own flannel.
    ‘Well, my eggs are at home getting warm, where you should be. But if you insist on this foolishness, go ask her for the chocolate ones.’ Ruth waved her cane like a crooked wand at Clara, who was trying to make her way to a picnic table.
    ‘But Clara has nothing to do with giving the kids their chocolate eggs,’ said Myrna as little Rose took off, calling the other kids until it looked like a tornado descending on Clara.
    ‘I