Paradise Interrupted

by Penny Mickelbury

  She lifted her face to the sun as she strolled the few yards to the bank, and she spent a few moments appreciating the architecture of the structure. Like many of Isle de Paix’s older buildings, it had a faint Moorish cast, though it didn’t claim membership in any particular school or period, and it had been beautifully restored and maintained. It gleamed white in the sun, the gold lettering on the door reflecting the light. She pushed open the door and was surprised at how cool it was inside, the kind of cool delivered only by a powerful air conditioning system. She crossed the lobby toward the offices in the rear, musing that the de Villages, owners of the bank, certainly could better afford cool air than the beleaguered government of Philippe Collette.

  Christian Leonard did not bother to feign politeness when she was ushered into his office and thanked him for kindly agreeing to see her without an appointment. “Of course I remember who you are, Madame Gibson, but as you and your government have no business with the bank, I cannot imagine why you are here.” He was a thin man and he looked older than when she had seen him before. His fair hair was thinning, and a virtual absence of lips and chin, and a pasty complexion Carole Ann would have thought impossible in such a climate, made him altogether unappealing. He spoke heavily accented English, and he refused her offer to converse in French, assuring her that their conversation wouldn’t last that long. “What is it you wish of me, Madame?”

  “I’d like for you to permit the government to use the construction equipment owned by the Monsieurs Hubert de Villages and Monsieur Louis Marchand.”

  He raised an eyebrow at her and stretched his thin-to-nonexistent lips in a slit of a smile. “And why are you making this request of me, Madame?”

  “Because you have power of attorney for the Monsieurs de Villages and Monsieur Marchand, due to their mental incapacitation,” she said, still standing across the desk from him and thoroughly enjoying his momentary inability to settle on an emotion. His features displayed surprise, wariness, anger, and something close to fear.

  “You have no right,” he hissed at her, having settled on a cold anger.

  “I have every right,” she responded calmly. “I represent the government of Isle de Paix and I serve the interests of the government, and securing access to that equipment would benefit the government, so I not only have a right, I have a duty to make a request on behalf of my client. As to whether inherent in that is the right to make a request of you—” She shrugged and raised her palms, gratified to note that she had succeeded in both annoying and confusing him. He obviously didn’t understand English any better than he spoke it, and his arrogance at refusing to accept her offer to converse in French got him in trouble. And Christian Leonard was not the kind of man to admit an error, or to rectify one.

  “How do you know this?” he demanded.

  “How do I know what, Monsieur Leonard?”

  He sputtered. “About the Monsieurs! That they are... are...ill.”

  “Oh, is it a secret?” she asked, then shrugged. “I suppose that here, on a small island, Alzheimer’s would be kept secret, whereas in the States, it is widely discussed as cures are sought and treatments tested. We even have a former president who is afflicted. He and Monsieur de Villages are, I believe, about the same age.”

  “Get out of here!” he hissed at her, a fine spray of spittle aimed at her along with his fury. “And never return!”

  She closed the door to his office as she left, certain that he would not follow her into the lobby of the bank, certain that he was not the kind of director who advocated or engaged in camaraderie, though she dropped her hand into her pocket and grasped the gun, just in case. She stopped at the first desk she reached and asked who was handling Andre Collette’s customers since his departure, and learned that the director himself, Christian Leonard, had assumed Monsieur Collette’s accounts.

  Her sense of well-being increased as she stepped once again out into the warm sun light. She crossed the square, putting distance between herself and Christian Leonard and his bank, and stood peering in the window of the jewelry store as she decided what to do. There was one other visit to make. It could wait until tomorrow, but why should it? If she did it today, now, then she could spend all of tomorrow at her desk, completing her reports. She owed Jake a clear and concise view of her assessment of the state of Isle de Paix. She also needed to tell him what she had set in motion, so that if her assessment proved to be incorrect, which she didn’t think likely, he would be prepared to deal with the fallout. Which would be significant. It was that thought that helped make up her mind.

  She took the long way around to the rear of Government House where her Jeep was parked so that she could stop in police headquarters and speak to Yvette. She was surprised to find only one cop in the office until she remembered the new postings. They really did need to get the road paved and the new government building constructed so the other cops could be hired. She recalled thinking that twenty-five cops for this island was over-kill. She winced, remembering that she had used those exact words. Jake had told her mind her own business; cops were his business. When it came to ‘cop business,’ he was right every time.

  “Do you need to see me, Carole Ann?”

  She was startled to find Yvette at the door speaking to her. She shook her head. “Nothing important. I was just leaving Government House and thought I’d check in with you. Smooth sailing at the site?”

  Yvette nodded. “Thank the dear Lord. But tomorrow, as the saying goes, is another day.”

  “I’ve got a ton of paperwork to do in the morning, but I can help out in the afternoon, if you like?” She made it a question to give Yvette the opportunity to gracefully decline her assistance, and was pleased when she didn’t.

  “Thanks, Carole Ann. We could use you. I’m strained to the breaking point.”

  “I know you are, but I can’t commend you enough for the precautions you’ve taken and for the way you’ve deployed your officers. It’s really very impressive.”

  She relaxed a bit. “Thanks. And thanks for the plug this morning.” And when Carole Ann looked clueless, she added, “David wanted me to know that it was his idea that I get a new cruiser, not yours, and that he, not Roland, pulled the strings that will get it here next week, if you can believe that!”

  “It really was David’s idea. Where’s he getting it?”

  “Miami. We’re somehow at the top of the list to get their surplus cop stuff. He promises a couple of scooters, too. Not the monster Harleys, mind you. The kind the ticket writers use. But they’re faster than bicycles.”

  Carole Ann was relieved to be able to share laughter with Yvette again and, after agreeing to ‘come on duty’ at the construction site at one o’clock tomorrow afternoon, she left, walked around the building, climbed into the Jeep, and headed toward the Collette residence, certain that Philippe misspoke when he volunteered that Marie-Ange would be pleased to see her.

  Louise’s eyes widened when she opened the door, then narrowed as Carole Ann introduced herself, apologized for her rudeness in arriving without an invitation, and suggested that Monsieur le President might be to blame for her impromptu visit.

  “Please follow me, Madame. I will see if Madame Collette can come to talk.”

  “If she is too busy, I understand,” Carole Ann added, as Louise led the way from the entry foyer down a wide, chandeliered and Persian-carpeted hallway, to what she knew, from her previous visits here, was a small parlor or sitting room to the left of the grand staircase. In her crisp white blouse and tailored black skirt, withdrawn and formal, Louise was anathema to the shy but warm and funny woman Carole Ann had spent Saturday evening with, though she understood as well as anyone the nature of and need for a work persona.

  “Have a seat, Madame,” Louise said, standing aside so that Carole Ann could enter the sitting room. It was a lovely room, with floor-to-ceiling windows on two walls and furnished casually though elegantly in Asian-influenced rattan furniture, silk pillows and ottomans, and Oriental c
arpets. Travel and food magazines fanned out across the coffee table and two large potted plants flourished in front of the windows. There were, however, no framed photographs or any other personal, intimate touch in the room, detracting, Carole Ann thought, from its beauty. And it was just such an omission that fueled Jake’s dislike of Marie-Ange. He found her cold, distant and pretentious. Carole Ann understood her. Just as she refused to allow guests at her party see her cry, she would refuse to display her family in a public room. For the first time, Carole Ann understood that for Marie-Ange, perhaps Philippe’s presidency would prove to be too costly; that she certainly would have been happier to remain in Paris.

  “Carole Ann!” Marie-Ange swept into the room, as beautiful by day as by night. Unlike the bank director, she took full advantage of the climate: Her skin was burnished bronze and gold, and her hair— truly her crowning glory and her most identifying feature— was an unruly mane of red, gold and silver. Her only make up was lipstick, the same cherry color as her brushed silk shirt and Capri pants. The president’s wife had not dressed to receive an unexpected and uninvited guest. She already was dressed, either to go out, or she had just returned from an outing.

  Carole Ann rose and exchanged the traditional European-style greeting with Marie-Ange. “Thank you for seeing me, and, I hope, for forgiving my presumptuousness.”

  “No need for apologies, Carole Ann. Please, have a seat. I’m delighted that you could find the time to visit me. I hear from people all over the island how very busy you are, how much a part of the fabric of life here you have become.”

  “An easy thing to do, Marie-Ange. This island truly is a paradise and the people truly are wonderful. I’ve enjoyed this work more than any in recent memory,” Carole Ann replied with total honesty, realizing that she did. “And I really don’t want to intrude. You appear dressed to go out.”

  Marie-Ange waved a dismissive hand. “Nothing that can’t wait for a few moments. So, tell, me what brings you here?”

  Carole Ann met and held the other woman’s gaze before she spoke, and then she proceeded cautiously, knowing that she was about to offend but wanting to make it clear that that was not her desire or her intention. “I am in possession of some facts, some information, Marie-Ange, that could present difficulty for you and Andre.”

  “I can’t imagine that any fact in your possession could have any bearing on me or my son.” “It concerns Osborne.”

  The color drained from her face and the breath caught in her throat and her hands, resting on her knees, curled into tights fists. She held Carole Ann’s gaze but did not speak; indeed, did not breathe.

  “I’d like to help, Marie-Ange.”

  “Then leave here, leave this island, leave my son alone, leave me alone.” She had whispered the words but Carole Ann felt as if she’d been slapped.

  “That I cannot do.”

  Marie-Ange shrugged. “Then how do you think you can help? For the only help can be to never speak of it.”

  “And you know, Marie-Ange, that is impossible.”

  “Of course.” The president’s wife stood but did not pace or leave the room. She merely stood looking down at Carole Ann. “You have a commitment to Philippe and you therefore must tell him everything, no? So, why haven’t you told him these...facts you have? Why come to me?”

  “Because I want to help you, if I can. And if so, there will be nothing to tell Philippe.”

  “You cannot help. The damage is done.”

  “Not yet, Marie-Ange! There is no damage done yet!”

  Now her anger flamed. She raised a hand as if to strike and Carole Ann flinched, but did not move. “You think only of the government, only of Philippe. The damage is done, Madame, to my son and to me! Damage that cannot be repaired. And because that is so, damage also is done to my husband and to the government he serves—”

  She was interrupted by Louise bursting into the room.“Please excuse me, Madame,” she said in English, then, continuing in rapid French that Carole Ann barely understood, she imparted the information that a very upset Andre Collette had just arrived and, upon learning that his mother had a guest, and who that guest was, demanded that his mother get rid of Madame Gibson as quickly as possible. And then Louise left as quickly as possible.

  Carole Ann sat impassively for a moment as Marie-Ange struggled for control of her emotions. Then she stood. “I’m leaving now, Marie-Ange. If you change your mind, please call.” And she was about to follow Louise when Andre Collette sprung into the room like a prowling cat, hissing and spitting.

  “You have nerve to come here upset my mother!”

  “Your mother is upset because of your actions, Andre, not mine. It’s you who placed both of your parents in danger. Your friend Osborne has tried to kill them both, you know, and he tried to have me killed this morning.”

  “You’re a liar! Get out!” Andre screamed at her, and lunged. She saw it coming and side-stepped him, reaching out and grabbing his left arm as he went past, twisting it behind him and dropping him down to his knees. He whimpered and begged his mother to order Carole Ann to release him.

  Marie-Ange looked in horror at the tableau before her, turned away, and fled. Carole Ann dropped Andre to the floor and left the Collette residence.

  “I’m telling you, Jake, the woman was terrified!”

  “She damn well she should be, C.A.! The lady and her baby boy are in hock to a major league piece of scum like Nigel Osborne, fear is the best response.”

  “He’s got them trapped, Jake! First he hooks Andre, then, because that Leonard asshole cut her off, he’s able to hook Marie-Ange. Even if Philippe ever found out what was happening, he’d be powerless to stop it. All because Osborne believed he was set up,” she said, more disgusted than she’d ever been. From the moment she read the GGI reports on Nigel Osborne, and the transcripts of the interview with Henri LeRoi, she knew with certainty that the ex-DEA agent was the source of the trouble on Isle de Paix. It was Osborne who had set up LeRoi, and then had attempted to bribe him into submission. Le Roi had complained, through diplomatic channels, to the U.S. Government, and Osborne had been fired, but no other action was taken— Henri LeRoi still looked like a crook, Nigel Osborne still moved about the Caribbean with impunity, and Isle de Paix still was his base of operations. “And more than being in debt to him, I think Andre is part of his operation.”

  “Aw, shit,” Jake muttered. “And how are we supposed to tell the president that his son is a drug using, drug dealing piece of crap, and that his wife is almost as bad?”

  “Somehow, Jake, I don’t think it will come as huge surprise,” she replied, recalling Philippe’s response when she asked him about Marie-Ange. “This whole thing sucks,” she said indelicately, and hung up the phone.

  She cooked and ate dinner while she watched the news on CNN. Then she took a bottle of wine and a bag of popcorn to the desk. She had told Jake everything about what she believed to be Nigel Osborne’s role in the drug trafficking taking place on and around Isle de Paix, but she hadn’t told him of the mechanisms she had put into play to flush him out— of setting up Nicole Collette by alerting the Finance Minister to her possible involvement; of antagonizing Christian Leonard at the bank; of visiting Marie-Ange and accusing Osborne, in their presence, of attempts of her life and on theirs. And just in case some piece of the puzzle didn’t fit, or in case something happened that prevented her from telling the whole story, she began to write and she wrote until midnight.

  She shut off the computer and turned out the lights and went into the bedroom, where she changed into shorts and a tee shirt. She set the alarm, turned out the lights, and went into the bedroom down the hall, the one she’d come to think of as the guest room. Harold Collins, the GGI technician, had slept in this room, as had Denis St. Almain. And she would sleep here tonight, guns under each of the pillows on the bed. Because if she be was correct about who and what Nigel Osborn was, she knew that she was in danger.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

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nbsp; She arrived an hour early for her duty shift and found everyone at the construction site having lunch. Though there were thirty or forty people hard at work, not much remained of the festive air. These people were exhausted and Carole Ann could see why: There was a gaping opening in the forest, and the road-to-be was cleared and flattened.

  Roland Charles rose from the group surrounding him and walked across the road to greet her. “Yvette told me you would be here,” he said, first leaning in to kiss her, then withdrawing. “Look at me!” he said, looking down at himself, indistinguishable in dress and degree of cleanliness from any of the crew.

  “You look absolutely fetching,” Carole Ann replied, offering her cheeks to be kissed. “And I can’t believe how much work you’ve gotten done!”

  “Come, let me show you!” he exclaimed, hopping about from foot to foot like a little kid, and he sped off across the road. She followed.

  She greeted the workers— Monsieur Remy, Luc, Jean and Joseph by name— and grabbed Roland’s arm. “Why don’t you finish your lunch? I’ll just take a stroll down the road here,” she said with a flourish and a bow to the crew. And stroll she did. The road, for it legitimately could be called that, had achieved a uniform width of ten feet, for a distance of one hundred yards or so. The effort that this had required made her curse Christian Leonard. Knowing that neither Hubert de Villages nor anyone in his family was responsible for withholding the construction equipment from the government’s use somehow made the action that much more reprehensible. The aristocracy often behaved callously, either not recognizing their behavior as callous or not caring that it was. But who the hell was Christian Leonard to wreak such havoc on people’s lives?!

  “You bastard,” she muttered as she noticed, finally, the boards embedded in the earth, keeping the road straight. With the proper equipment, this road could be completed ahead of schedule, but a dump truck, thirty or so scythe-wielding women and men, and a mini-paver, were giving the forest a run. And the marijuana! The road had penetrated well into the field and, Carole Ann noticed, not only moving forward through the plants, but they had been hacked away and rolled over for several feet on both sides of the road—no doubt an effort on Roland’s part to keep secret for as long as possible the existence of the crop. She wondered when he’d done this. Then she shuddered as she wondered whether he’d acted alone.