The Gates of Evangeline

by Hester Young

  “Look at you, Kinney. Running off at the mouth again.” The man gives us a crooked smile.

  Officer Kinney straightens up. “We were just waitin’ for you, Remy.”

  He’s not wearing a badge, so it takes me a second to realize this is Detective Minot. He doesn’t look like the stereotype of a cop I had in my head. Pale eyes, shaggy salt-and-pepper hair, and a complexion that’s been beat up by the sun. Forties? Fiftyish? I’m not sure. His face is drawn and tired, and he’s too thin.

  “Glad to meet you, ma’am.” He nods at me. “Al, I can take it from here.” Officer Kinney drifts away, disappointed. Detective Minot settles down at his desk and regards me dubiously. “Miss Cates, is it? So tell me, is this book your idea?”

  Great, I think. Even the guy with the criminal justice degree can see this is a stupid move.

  “The publisher approached me,” I say. “I’m fully aware this project has some limitations.”

  “So you’re in it for the paycheck.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, you got some sense, then.” He turns to his computer and checks his inbox. “Ask me whatever you like, but understand this case is colder than a cast-iron commode on the shady side of an iceberg.”

  I smile. “I guess that’s my first question. On a case this old, how can you make headway?”

  He deletes a few e-mails. “All I can do is follow up with good, old-fashioned police work, ma’am.” I get the sense he’s fielded this before, maybe from Sydney or Brigitte. “Chat with the original investigators. Go back to the files, review statements, see if there’s anything we might’ve missed. Reinterview witnesses, see if anybody’s story has changed. Cross-reference names of all the folks who worked at Evangeline to see if any have a criminal record now.”

  “Has anything turned up?”

  “Well, sure. A few DUIs, tax evasion, possession and sale of a controlled dangerous substance. But nothing in particular that raises a red flag.”

  “What would raise a red flag?”

  Minot looks up from the computer and ticks things off on his fingers. “Anything illegal involving a minor. Extortion, what with the ransom note. Larceny, breaking and entering. Violent behavior.”

  Across the hall from us, a trim detective leads a sluggish boy in baggy pants into a conference room. I wonder if the boy is a witness, perp, or victim. It bothers me that I can’t tell, that a predator can look no different from its prey.

  “Have you reinterviewed many people?” I ask Detective Minot, hoping he might throw a few names and addresses my way.

  “Many of the key players in the Deveau case have passed away,” he replies. “Gabriel’s father, Neville, had a heart attack last year. Maddie Lauchlin, the nanny, has been gone a good fifteen years, and her husband, Jack, the caretaker, passed not so long ago. There was a housekeeper named Della who died, too. And tracking down the ones still living can be a real pain in the rear.”

  I wish he’d stop fooling around on his damn computer. I know I’m not exactly a priority, but following some basic rules of conversational etiquette would be nice. “Can I ask your opinion on something, Detective Minot?”

  “Can’t guarantee an answer.”

  “Do you think Gabriel’s dead?”

  He picks up a pen, studies it a moment, then looks at me long and hard. “You do my job awhile, Miss Cates, and you don’t think highly of your fellow man. What else could’ve happened to him? Not quite three years old. Nobody takes a kid that young with anything good in mind.”

  “No, I guess not.” I think of the dream I had, Gabriel’s words: He hurt me. You gotta tell on him. If only I could confirm that I’m on the right track.

  “Was there any indication that Gabriel was being abused?”

  He shakes his head. “Nobody reported anything. He’d never been to a hospital. According to statements made by the Deveau help, he never had more cuts and bruises than your average toddler.”

  “What about sexual abuse?”

  “Again, nothing reported. But without a body, no one could examine him.”

  “Okay, but his behavior could indicate a problem. How did people describe him? Was he withdrawn? Fearful? Did he have any sleep disturbances?”

  Detective Minot scribbles something on a Post-it. I can’t tell if it’s related to our discussion or a reminder to pick up milk. “Folks said he was a handful. Very attached to his mother and his nanny.”

  “Did he have contact with anyone else on the estate?”

  “The whole staff knew him, of course. Neville was there some, but he was in New Orleans during the week and he traveled a lot. Andre and the twins, when they were home from boarding school. And whatever other visitors the family had.” He makes another note. I’m starting to suspect it’s a grocery list.

  “So not a lot of people had unsupervised access to him.”

  “From the reports, no, not during the day. At night and during his nap times, hard to tell.”

  I shudder. If I’d encountered this case a year ago, I’d probably never have let Keegan sleep alone again. “How long have you been a cop?”

  “Twenty-four years.”

  “You get a lot of homicides in the parish?”

  “Some. Drug-related or domestic violence, mostly.”

  I butter him up a little. “With all your experience, you must have good instincts. What does your gut tell you about the Deveau case?” I’m hoping his “gut instinct” will be based on information that hasn’t been made public, and I want to see if it jibes with my visions of Gabriel.

  Detective Minot looks at me and for the first time there’s a spark of something. “I’ve got no doubt you’ve done your research, that you’re familiar with the details of this case.”

  “I know what’s been released,” I say cautiously.

  “You’re a smart lady, I can tell that.”

  “Thanks.” Suddenly he’s buttering me up. What’s he after?

  “Let’s have an honest conversation about this, off the record. Put on your detective cap and tell me what you see in this case.” I have his full attention now. He’s testing me, getting a feel for how I think.

  I have a vague feeling that Detective Minot is much smarter than I’ve been giving him credit for. “Um. Well, Gabriel’s abductor was in the house. He knew where to go. He picked a night when Gabriel’s parents were gone. And the family dog didn’t make a fuss when he entered the room. So I’d say the abductor wasn’t a stranger.” This is a run-of-the-mill analysis you could read on hundreds of websites, but it’s all I’ve got.

  “You say ‘he.’ You think the abductor is male?” Detective Minot leans back in his chair.

  I think my answer has disappointed him. “Yeah, I do.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Just . . . a hunch.”

  “You got kids?” he asks, as if that would explain my inability to consider a woman a suspect.

  The question hangs in the air for a few ugly seconds before I respond.

  “Not anymore.”

  Something flickers in his gaze. He doesn’t pursue it, but I can feel him softening, perhaps thinking of the red-haired girl on his computer as he wonders about my loss. “All right,” he says, “you think it was a man. What else?”

  “Well, two possibilities.” I take a deep breath. “One, somebody had been watching that kid a long time, learning about the family routines, the locked door at night. Somebody who people, and the dog, trusted. He took Gabriel, maybe with an accomplice from the inside, hoping to get ransom money. He left the note in Neville and Hettie’s bedroom. But something went wrong and whether accidentally or intentionally, Gabriel ended up dead.”

  “Or? What’s your second possibility?” His face betrays no emotion.

  “The ransom note was bullshit, left to throw off police. Gabriel’s abductor was someo
ne he knew who . . . hurt him. The guy had probably been doing it for a while, but Gabriel was getting old enough to talk. Maybe the guy got scared. So he killed Gabriel to hide what he’d been doing.”

  Detective Minot doesn’t comment on my theories. Instead, he folds his arms behind his head. “You’re staying at Evangeline, aren’t you?”

  I nod, wondering how he knows. Some of Evangeline’s employees live in town. They must talk.

  “You met the family yet?”

  “I met Andre and the twins last night. And I’ve met Hettie a couple times, briefly.”

  “What do you think of her?”

  What is he getting at?

  “She was . . . polite. She had more snap-crackle-pop than you’d expect from somebody who’s dying.”

  “What kind of mother do you take her for?” His tone remains casual, but I’m taken aback.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Devoted? Distant? Overprotective? What’s your read?”

  I think about her giving Noah the money to start his business, all her motherly affection projected onto someone else’s kid because hers was gone. And then I think about her giving away the entire estate without informing her daughters. “I don’t know,” I admit. “She’s a tough read.”

  Detective Minot leans toward me, his blue eyes suddenly intense. “You’ve been a mother, Miss Cates. Let me ask you. If someone took your child, would you ever stop searching for who?”

  I say nothing. Of course I wouldn’t. No one took my child, and I’m still searching for who. Still unable to believe that something was wrong with Keegan’s brain, that no one was at fault. I want to know where this is going. “Have you talked to Hettie?”

  “Oh, I talked to her.” Someone at the front of the building seems to be yelling at the receptionist, but Detective Minot is now completely focused on me. “After we reopened the case, I went to see Hettie Deveau. Usually families like to know you’re still working for them, and I thought I’d interview her again, seeing as she was sick and likely to decline. You know what she said?”

  The shouting over at the reception desk continues, and I hear male voices attempting to calm the screamer down.

  Detective Minot is too caught up in his story to notice. “She said there was no sense dredging up the past because God knew the truth and He would judge. Said she appreciated that I was doing my job, but I probably had more important things to do.” He stares at me. “More important things to do. From Gabriel’s mother.”

  It’s a weird reaction, and I get why it doesn’t sit well with Detective Minot. “Well,” I say doubtfully, “she’d just found out she was dying, right?”

  Detective Minot taps his pen on his desk. “You know, statistically speaking, who’s usually responsible when a kid gets killed.”

  “The parents,” I acknowledge. “But Neville and Hettie Deveau both had an alibi. They were in New Orleans at the twins’ sweet sixteen party until ten forty-five on the fourteenth. And some guy from their hotel confirmed seeing them at three a.m. that morning, didn’t he? When he brought them aspirin?”

  “New Orleans isn’t exactly cross-country. It’s a two-and-a-half-hour drive. Their entire alibi hinges upon that one witness.”

  “You think they paid him off? You think Neville went back that night—” I’m a little breathless. I’ve thought from the beginning that Gabriel was sexually abused by a family member. It would fit.

  Detective Minot holds up a hand. “Now, I’m not saying that. It could’ve been a legit kidnapping, an employee or someone connected to the family. Hell, could’ve been multiple people involved. But in an unsolved case, you gotta start from square one. To me, that means an alibi’s gotta be more solid than just some kid from room service.”

  “So you consider Neville a serious suspect,” I murmur.

  He shrugs. “Mothers are just as likely to kill a child as fathers. Unlike you, I’m not ruling out a woman.”

  I can’t imagine tiny Hettie hurting anyone, let alone her own child, but I can definitely imagine her covering up for her husband. The thought sickens me. If she knew—if she even suspected yet continued to live with Neville right up to the very end—she is every bit the monster he was.

  Detective Minot stands up, satisfied that he’s planted this disturbing idea in my head, and hands me a business card. “You’re not a cop,” he says, “and people talk differently to women. You hear anything interesting, you call me, all right?”

  I thank him and leave the building, my mind running in circles. The cool morning air fills my lungs and clears my head. I dig my cell phone out of my purse and call my ride.

  “How’d it go with your ticket?” Noah asks.

  “I took care of it,” I say, and leave it at that.

  As I wait for Noah to arrive, I try to figure out my next move. I’ve got to find a way to talk to Hettie, preferably without Jules and the twins finding out. If I can spend some time with her, maybe I can get a sense of what makes her tick. Is she a grieving mother who has suffered thirty years not knowing the fate of her youngest child? Or is she somehow complicit in his disappearance? My stomach clenches up like a fist. Can I even handle the answer?

  The truth could be so ugly.

  11.

  Back at Evangeline, Noah and I stand by his truck, trying to figure out where to leave things. The sun has emerged at last, lighting up the house and grounds in blinding Technicolor. I shade my eyes with one hand and remark on the good weather, but the conversation is about to run out and a decision will have to be made. Do we like each other as human beings? Is there any purpose in pursuing this?

  “So . . . ,” Noah says, scratching the back of his neck. “You got plans for this week?”

  This is my opportunity to tell him how busy I am, to gently shut off any future possibilities between us, and I should take it. The man is a dead end, a detour at best. There are bigger issues in my life, issues that require my full attention. I know this.

  But his smell. Fresh laundry, cologne, a dash of pheromones—I’m off my game.

  I’m halfheartedly racking my brain for something I can say to make a clean break when Jules bursts from the house and strides toward us. Andre’s arrival yesterday does not seem to have improved his mood any, so who knows what kind of drama has transpired between them. Or perhaps Jules has realized that he looks best when broody and ill-tempered, like a lovely and petulant Ralph Lauren model. I wonder if Andre sees more in him than the fabulous jawline and full, pouty lips. I don’t.

  “Where have you been?” Jules demands. He doesn’t give Noah a second glance. “I heard you disappeared last night.”

  “I wasn’t feeling well,” I say, and Noah smiles slightly.

  “Well, Sydney and Brigitte want to speak with you.”

  “Speak with me about what?” Can they really be that offended by my leaving their party early?

  Jules glares at me. “About your book. You wanted an interview, didn’t you?” He smoothes his hair, plainly irritated by all this running around. “They’re returning to New Orleans shortly, but you can meet with them in the study in five minutes.” Having delivered the message, he heads back for the house, nose tilted an inch or two higher than necessary.

  Noah turns to me, smelling a rat. “What’s goin’ on with this book a yours, anyway?”

  I give him a wide-eyed look and feign ignorance, but he’s having none of it.

  “Sydney and Brigitte don’t know the first thing about architecture,” he presses. “And I don’t think you were dealin’ with any parkin’ ticket this mornin’.” He leans against the bed of his truck assessing me with quizzical eyes. “Plantation homes, my ass. You even really a writer?”

  I’m caught, no way out but the truth. “I’m not writing about houses,” I say. “I’m writing about Gabriel.”

  He snorts. “I shoulda known. Another Gabriel groupie.” He kicks
at the dirt with the toe of his boot, and I feel myself dissolving in guilt. “I wish you knew what my poor Nanny went through. I wish you coulda seen how scared she was a reporters, journalists, all you folks that go sticking your nose in other people’s business. And I can’t even imagine how it’s been for Hettie.”

  “Look, it’s not a topic I chose.” I make only a weak attempt at defending myself because part of me thinks that Noah is right. “The publisher offered me a contract. It’s a job, okay?”

  “If you got no problem with what you’re doin’, then why’re you keepin’ it a big secret?”

  I see no point in dishonesty now. “Sydney and Brigitte came up with the whole plantation-home thing. They don’t want their mom to know about the book.”

  Noah’s face clouds over as his allegiance to Hettie takes hold. “You serious? You’re workin’ for those two?” His eyes flash, and I’m scared for a second that he’s going to break something. “I know this may be inconvenient for y’all, but Hettie isn’t dead yet. It’s bad enough how her daughters act, but you, you’re a guest! She’s got a right to know what people stayin’ in her home are up to, especially if they’re fishin’ around her personal affairs.”

  “And I agree with you, Noah! But as you’re aware, Hettie and her daughters have some problems in the communication department. I got caught in the middle of it all; is that really my fault?” I’m nearly shouting at him now, not what I intended at all. I lower my voice. “You told me this morning about Hettie donating the house, and I won’t tell anyone. I’d appreciate if you could return the favor.”

  Bringing up the secret he shared only pisses him off further. “That’s the difference between us,” he spits out. “I told you.”

  I search for a good response, but he’s already walking away, hands curled into fists. That’s what you wanted, I remind myself. For him to leave you alone. But as I watch him trudge away, I have the sneaking suspicion this isn’t what I wanted at all.