“I’ve got cops up there!” Yvette responded hotly. “He thinks he’s not responsible for them?” She bristled, and if she were a cat, she’d be puffed up twice her size.
“You know what I mean, Yvette,” Carole Ann said, trying for soothing.
“Yeah,” she allowed reluctantly, sounding somewhat less than soothed, “I know what you mean. And I’m gonna go bug Roland, see if he’s got some closets and storage rooms I can dig around in, looking for old maps and legends. I’d sure like to have a better lay of the land before I go traipsing around in there.”
“And I’d like to have a lot more information before you go traipsing around in there,” C.A. said quickly.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know you would,” the chief groused, sounding very cop-like. “Now you’re talking more like a lawyer,” she said sourly, “and less like a cop.”
Carole Ann thanked her for the back-handed compliment and asked to accompany her to visit Roland’s closets and storage bins.
“Why, Carole Ann? What are you looking for? That means there’s something you haven’t told me, doesn’t it?”
Carole Ann shrugged and offered a rueful grin. “I don’t know what I’m looking for, Yvette. Really,” she added at the chief’s lifted eyebrow. “There are pieces that don’t fit the puzzle and I suppose I’m hoping that I’ll recognize one those pieces when I see it.”
“You’re still talking like a lawyer,” the cop said, and said no more, leaving it for Carole Ann to pursue or drop the matter. She chose the latter option. Whatever dust might be stirred up in an old closet wasn’t worth antagonizing Yvette who, so far, had demonstrated a remarkable willingness to line up behind Carole Ann against her boss. That was luck too good to push since, technically, Carole Ann’s line of authority extended to David Messinger and not Yvette Casson.
Carole Ann stood up. “And I’m a good enough lawyer to know when I’ve used up all my lawyer chits. Thanks for your help, Yvette.”
Yvette shook her head ruefully. “You’re good, Carole Ann, real good. I know you haven’t told me everything you know, or think you know. I also know you’re smart enough to tell me what it is before you run the risk of placing yourself in line for an obstruction of justice charge. I just hope you’re smart enough to fill me in before whatever it is gets you— or somebody else— in hot water.”
Carole Ann left the chief’s office feeling more than a little out of sorts. She’d just received a not-so-subtle warning to tread carefully. The fact that Yvette Casson also believed something sinister and dangerous lurked in paradise would not prevent the chief from holding Carole Ann’s feet to the fire if that became necessary. She walked out into the sun-splashed square and stood watching the crowd, wondering how she could avoid conflict with her. The chief knew that Carole Ann was holding back, but she had no intention of sharing thoughts and suspicions. She needed facts, and the pursuit of them could get her in trouble with Yvette, and she didn’t want that. So her options were limited to making the three-quarter mile walk home and submitting to an afternoon of paperwork that easily could stretch well into the evening. She started walking, consoling herself with the fact that she could go for a run before dark and do a few laps in the pool, maybe even in the ocean, to compensate for the helpless, useless feeling that was making her so irritable.
She frowned at the sheet of white paper hanging from the latch of the front gate, and quickened her pace. She reached for it, opened it quickly, and released a relieved breath as she smiled down at the hand-written note from Roland Charles: Of course she wanted to be on hand in the morning when the road crew would resume construction at the New Government Road site. She could feel his excitement emanating from he paper, though she couldn’t muster enough optimism to share his belief that the road might be completed before the rainy season after all. A mini-paver, or whatever the thing was called, was a poor substitute for a bulldozer, a backhoe, and a dump truck, even though she knew that Luc and Jean, working under Toussaint Remy’s close supervision, finally had succeeded in getting the second dump truck up and running. She wondered why she hadn’t known that the equipment had arrived early— she hadn’t expected work to begin again until Monday— but to raise the question possibly would dampen Roland’s enthusiasm, and she didn’t want that.
Not that anything she could do or say could minimize the enthusiasm of the three dozen or more people who greeted her at the work site the following morning. The atmosphere was nothing short of festive, though everyone there— women, men, and a group of young people— was hard at work. Roland bounded over to her, perspiration already making his face shiny, his tee shirt and khaki slacks already soiled. “I called the men back to work and their friends and families have come with them!” She recognized that such an outpouring was a marvelous display of community spirit, and said as much, to his obvious annoyance. “No, Carole Ann,” he snapped. “I am not speaking of community spirit. The significance of this demonstration goes far beyond that! You must see that it means that no one associated with the job did the sabotage.” He met her astonished gaze with one of guileless self-satisfaction.
“Truly, Roland, I had not for a moment entertained that thought.”
“But...but...you and David wanted me to believe that it was an accident! If you didn’t mistrust these workers, then why?”
She mentally kicked herself in the butt for so totally underestimating the man. “We didn’t want to alarm you, Roland.”
“But I was already alarmed! What could possibly be more alarming?”
“The fact that at the end of your road, there’s a field of marijuana worth several million dollars.”
His eyes widened and he tried, and failed, to find his voice. He turned away from her to survey the scene across the road: People wielding everything from garden shovels and pickaxes to broken pieces of stick, were attacking and beating back the foliage from the entrance to the forest, once again revealing the beginnings of the new road. Several large burlap tarps were spread out on the ground and the cuttings tossed into them. Carole Ann watched, too, growing increasingly concerned for the safety of these people. “Did you tell Yvette that you were resuming work this morning?”
He shook his head. “No, the equipment isn’t here yet... oh my God!” he exclaimed, as the realization of the potential danger of the situation became clear. “I was just so excited...it comes tomorrow, to the port, and we will bring it up here on Sunday...oh my God! What have I done!”
“Calm down, Roland.” She took his arm, then tightened her grip. Several people already had looked toward them at the sound of his exclamation. “No need for anybody but us to know that we have anything to worry about here,” she said, sounding not at all convincing.
“What can...should we do?”
“I’ll run back home and call Yvette.” She had jogged to the site and had nothing but a door key in her pocket. “Are there people down the road, Roland? Near the marijuana field?”
He looked across at the crowd. “I don’t know...I don’t think so...”
“Without panicking them, Roland, make sure everybody remains here, at the entrance.” And she turned away to head toward home when he grabbed her arm.
“It would be faster to take my car,” he said retrieving a key ring from his pants pocket. And when she hesitated, he added, “My car is parked on your street. You must have passed it, a white pick-up.”
She nodded, accepting the keys from him. She remembered seeing it. She ran up the road for an eighth of a mile or so, then crossed over, and ran toward the truck , hoping she appeared more nonchalant than she felt. Just as she reached the intersection, Yvette’s cruiser arrived, lights flashing along with the chief’s anger. Carole Ann slowed her gait, more because of the scowl the chief wore than anything else.
“What the hell are you doing?” the chief barked.
“I was on my way to get you,” Carole Ann replied, trying to cover her surprise.
Yvette looked her up and down. “How fast do you run, exactly?�
�� Her tone was dry enough to crack ice.
“Roland’s” she said, dangling the keys, and Yvette actually looked around for the white pick-up, relaxing when she spied it.
“Why didn’t I know this was happening today?” Yvette‘s question demanded an answer, but she didn’t wait for one. “I don’t like surprises, especially the kind that jeopardize peoples’ lives. This was supposed to happen on Monday.”
“That’s what I thought, too, Yvette,” Carole Ann said, quickly explaining what she knew of the hurry-up work order.
“All those people and God only knows what lurking in the woods.” she muttered. “How the hell can I show up and secure the place without looking like a jerk or scaring the hell out of them?”
“Surely it’s against the law,” Carole Ann offered in a voice devoid of inflection, “for so many people to be gathered on a public road.” And she tossed Roland’s key ring at the chief, who caught it with her left hand. “Tell Roland I’ll see him Monday morning.” And she jogged off toward home.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The reception she received from the people of Little Haiti in general, and from Madame St. Georges in particular, made Carole Ann thankful that she had dressed as carefully as she had for the occasion, and that she had brought the gifts that she had. She had spent considerable time contemplating both and there was as much relief as thanks that she’d made the proper choices. Her white linen dress with its close bodice and flared skirt complimented the brightly colored silks of the other women, and they all wore sandals. Understanding the communal nature of Little Haiti, Carole Ann had brought two large wheels of cheese and, from her personal stash of necessities, two large cans of coffee, two boxes of tea bags, and several bags of popcorn. The women were delighted, and they quickly dispatched the several men in attendance to divvy up the bounty. Madame St. Georges beamed her pleasure at the five-pound bags of flour and sugar and the bars of French milled soap for her personal use.
After half an hour or so of small talk, all but three of the women departed as well, leaving Carole Ann and her hostess, Madame St. Georges, whose name, she learned, was Anne-Marie, to dine with Henriette, Louise, and Sophie. Were these the closest friends of Anne-Marie St. Georges? Or were there other reasons for their presence? Carole Ann wondered, and knew she could but wait for the answer. And she didn’t mind, because the meal was worth waiting for: Chickens slow-roasted over a spit; and potatoes and corn and plantain baked in the coals of the fire and seasoned with the juices of the chickens; and slices of fresh tomato and cucumber and onion. And gallons of sweet, tangy ginger beer, compliments of Monsieur Remy.
The meal was a comfortable affair. The women told jokes and stories and tall tales and giggled like school girls. They revealed, without shame and with little evidence of pain, the difficult patches of their lives, and Carole Ann amazed herself by telling of the murder of her husband and of her gradual return to something resembling normalcy. She found she was not the only woman to lose a husband to sudden, inexplicable violence, and was moved to give thanks that she hadn’t lost a child as well, as had two of the other women. She told them in great detail of the reason for her presence on the island when they asked, and she was humbled by the gratitude with which they received the news that the roads of Little Haiti were scheduled for paving. They didn’t care one bit that the work most likely would not be completed before the rainy season; they understood why and they cared only that their needs were considered by the new government. And, without feeling that she was prying or resorting to subterfuge, the things that Carole Ann wanted to know began to be revealed to her.
She learned that not all residents of Little Haiti were Haitian by birth— in the case of Madame St. Georges, her husband was Haitian— and prior to her move “down island,’ she had lived, as a child, in the de Villages mansion where her mother was the cook, and later in Sugar Town, and now, finally, here in Little Haiti.
“Sugar Town? I’ve never heard of that,” Carole Ann said. “Is it here, on this island?”
“Oh, mai oui,” Anne-Marie St. Georges giggled and her friends giggled with her. “We grow old, eh?” She said, the giggle fading, giving way to a smile of resignation, as she explained that “Sugar Town” was the name given to the village in the interior of the island where, decades ago, hundreds of cane cutters and loggers lived, as much to be close to their work as because villages like Little Haiti didn’t exist. “Back then, there were only haves and have-nots, poor and not-poor,” she said with a shrug. “And now, not even the cane and the trees can provide work for the poorest among us.”
“Did you know Simone St. Almain?” Carole Ann asked, and held her breath.
“Simone!” exclaimed Louise, and the four of them erupted into a rapid-fire conversation in island French, not a single word of which Carole Ann understood. Finally, as it abated, Louise asked Carole Ann how she knew Simone.
“She lives in Washington, D.C., and I am acquainted with her and her son,” Carole Ann replied carefully.
“Her son!” Sophie exclaimed, sending them off on another round of excited discussion.
“This son,” Anne-Marie asked after calm returned. “How old?”
“Thirty-three, I think,” Carole Ann responded.
“And Simone,” Sophie said. “She is still beautiful?”
Carole Ann nodded, recalling the conversation with the LeRoi sisters. “Do you know Denis?”
They shook their heads in unison. “Not as a man,” Sophie replied by way of clarification. “They left for the States when he— Denis, you say?—was but a boy.”
“Got sent away, you mean,” Louise interjected with a snort. “To save the embarrassment.”
“You’ll have to explain that one,” Carole Ann said, and listened again with genuine interest to the thirty-plus year old debate over who had fathered Simone St. Almain’s child: Philippe Collette or Henri LeRoi. “And which was it?” she asked.
The four island women shrugged as one. “Who knows?” Anne-Marie asked, and nullified Carole Ann’s suspicion that Denis could be hiding out in Little Haiti. Not only would every resident pf this community have recognized a stranger, these women certainly would have recognized Denis as the son of Philippe Collette. “Though I think Henri because it was known that he loved Simone, and it was known that Philippe did not,” she added.
“Phillipe did not love anyone,” Louise contributed with another snort, “which is why he’s condemned to the hell of being married to Marie-Ange and that family of mad-hatters!”
Sophie cackled; Henriette, the quiet one, covered her mouth with both hands, her eyes wide above them in shocked delight; and Anne-Marie issued a gentle admonition that Louise shouldn’t speak ill of the unfortunate. Barely able to conceal her fascination and her surprise, Carole Ann asked who in Marie-Ange Collette’s family was mad, and who among them was considered unfortunate, unleashing another round of giggles.
“I’m certain that none but us consider them unfortunate, though anyone who knows them, knows they’re quite mad,” Anne-Marie St. Georges offered. And considering that she had worked in the deVillages household all of her life, Carole Ann was inclined to accept her assessment of the situation. But which family of Marie-Ange did they mean? She asked.
“Ah, Madame!” Anne-Marie exclaimed when the laughter had died down, but still wiping tears from her eyes. “You are very precise. You must understand things just so, yes?” And she set about explaining, to Carole Ann’s total amazement, that Hubert de Villages “was quite mad,” as were his eldest son and eldest nephew; and when she heard their names, Carole Ann recognized them as the first cousins who owned the lumber mill and the sugar cane mill. And as she listened to the women’s’ descriptions of the madness of the de Villages family, she recognized the symptoms of Alzheimer’s.
“I know of Madame Collette’s relationship to Monsieur de Villages, but what has she to do with his illness?” Then she was struck with a thought that literally chilled her. “You’re not suggesting that M
arie-Ange, too is ill?”
“No, no, no, Madame!” It was Henriette who answered. “Madame Collete is quite well, thank God, but much of the burden of the old ones’ sickness falls to her...” Her strong voice trailed off into an almost whisper, and Carole Ann could almost see her mind working; could all but witness her battle with herself over whether to say more. “I am Madame Collette’s cook,” she said after a moment. “I live four days a week in her house and the other three here, in my own home.” She stopped again and looked toward Anne-Marie. “For the big parties, like the one you attended last weekend, Anne-Marie also cooks.”
“You were in Deauville looking for what, Madame?” Anne-Marie asked pointedly.
“There is something...ugly...on this island, Madames,” Carole Ann replied slowly, watching them understand both her words and her meaning. “I find that I am concerned beyond the scope of my contract with the Isle de Paix government.”
“This...ugly thing...” Anne-Marie asked, “it is in Deauville?”
“I wish I knew for certain,” she replied. “I think it begins there, and I don’t think that it has spread throughout the island. It is not here, in Little Haiti, and it is not inside the government. Not yet.” She spread her hands palms up. “I would like to know at least one government that is not infected with ugly things,” she said with a slight shrug, and folded her hands in her lap.
She sat, not uncomfortably, in the circle of silence that surrounded her, the eyes of the four women alternating between studying her and seeking something from each other and searching for permission from within to release long-held secrets. And, she was convinced, these were the women who knew the secrets. Odile and Viviene had knowledge, information. Sophie and Louise and Henriette and Anne-Marie knew the secrets.
“I am cook to Monsieur de Villages,” Anne-Marie said, “and Henriette is cook to Madame et Monsieur le President. Sophie is housekeeper to Monsieur de Villages, and Louise for the Collettes.” She looked at each woman as she called her name and revealed her role, then she locked eyes with Carole Ann, making certain that she understood the transgression that was about to occur. “And you are correct that something evil and ugly roams about the Island, but it does not begin in Deauville. It comes from France and it comes from the States, from your dea.”
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