False Pretenses (9 page)

“Just a couple minutes.”

Zoe locked gazes with Jacob and saw a polite young boy who thought he had done a good deed. She softened her tone. “Didn’t your parents ever tell you not to talk to strangers?”

Jacob’s cheeks turned bright pink. “Yes, ma’am. But the man didn’t seem dangerous, and lots of other people were around. I can sure use the ten bucks. I’m saving to buy a new skateboard.”

“All right, Jacob. Thanks for delivering the envelope.”

“You’re welcome. Have a nice day.”

Zoe stared at the note in her hand and then tore it open. The same five words were cut from a magazine and pasted on a sheet of white paper:
I know what you did.

How could he know? Who was he? And what was his next move?

Zoe felt sick to her stomach. There was only one way to fix this. It wouldn’t be easy. But how could it be any harder being blackmailed?

CHAPTER 8

Zoe opened the door and stepped out on the Broussards’ half of the gallery that jutted out over the sidewalk at Zoe B’s. The sun had disappeared beneath the horizon, leaving the western sky ablaze with streaks of orangey pink and purple.

She clutched the portable phone so hard her knuckles were white. Could she pull this off? She waited until she heard Pierce’s footsteps coming in her direction, then put the phone to her ear.

“No, I’m glad you called,” she said louder than she intended to. “I-I’m just so shocked. Tell her husband how sorry I am. I’ll see y’all tomorrow. Bye.”

Pierce came up behind her and put his arms around her, his cheek next to hers. “I didn’t hear the phone ring. What’s wrong, babe?”

She paused, her palm so sweaty she thought the phone might slide out of her hand. “My friend Annabelle—the gal I roomed with when I worked for her parents’ restaurant in Morgan City—died Monday night of viral pneumonia. Her funeral’s tomorrow afternoon. I just can’t believe she’s dead. She was only thirty-seven, same as us. She had a husband and two little kids. It’s just awful.”

“I’m so sorry,” Pierce said. “Who called to tell you?”

“Her brother, Wyatt.” She turned around in Pierce’s arms and gazed into his trusting brown eyes. She had to make him believe her. “He spent a lot of time trying to find me. He knew I’d want to know.”

“That was thoughtful. I heard you say you’ll see him tomorrow. Are you going to the funeral?”

“I think I should. It’s at eleven at Holy Cross Catholic Church in Morgan City. Wyatt asked if I could come out to the house afterward and spend some time with the family. Could you cover for me tomorrow? I know it’s your day off. I hate to ask.”

“Of course I will.” Pierce kissed her cheek. “Do what you need to do. I can handle things here.”

“Thanks. I don’t deserve you.”

“Hey, we’re a team, remember? My turn to carry the ball.”

Zoe blinked the stinging from her eyes. If things went the way she hoped, maybe it would be the last time she had to deceive Pierce like this.

“I hear someone in the hallway,” he said.

“It’s probably the Langleys. They said they’d knock on our door after they got Carter to bed. I want to know what the sheriff had to say.”

Zoe sat next to Pierce on the couch in their apartment and took a sip of sweet tea, listening to Vanessa retell the details of her late-afternoon conversation with Sheriff Jude Prejean and Deputy Stone Castille.

“That’s about it.” Vanessa turned her ear toward the open front door as if she were listening for Carter. “I gave the sheriff the key to Langley Manor, and they were supposed to go out and investigate and get back to us. I’m sure we’ll hear something tomorrow.”

“Did you get the impression,” Pierce said, “that Jude thinks there’s a connection between the intruder at the manor house and the hanging?”

“He wouldn’t say.” Vanessa glanced over at Ethan. “We’re still not sure there even
was
an intruder at our place. I’m eager to know whether they found DNA on the lemon drop or collected any trace evidence from the closet. I’m more and more suspicious that someone was in the house.”

“I don’t know what to make of the twig incident.” Ethan took Vanessa’s hand. “But I think having the sheriff investigate further is important if we’re ever going to have peace of mind.”

“So do I,” Zoe said.

“Let’s not forget the bigger issue.” Pierce leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees. “The note on the deputy’s windshield was obviously put there to rile the white community. Why? We haven’t had any serious racial unrest in years.”

“The sheriff hasn’t actually confirmed there was a note,” Vanessa said.

“He didn’t deny it either, and he certainly could have—if it wasn’t true.”

Zoe was vaguely aware of Vanessa commenting and Pierce replying, but how could she worry about a lynching when her very future was hanging in the balance? Who was the man following her, and what did he really know? Would she be able to leave town without him following her? If so, would her plan work? What if it backfired and her secret was exposed? Would she be able to face Pierce? Would he even want to see her again—ever?

“Zoe …?”

She heard Pierce saying her name and looked up into his questioning face and realized three set of eyes were on her.

“Sorry,
cher
. I was thinking about Annabelle. Were you talking to me?”

“I just asked if you wanted more tea.” Pierce’s dark eyes were wide with compassion. He glanced over at the Langleys. “Just before you knocked on the door, Zoe got a call that her friend Annabelle had died. It was quite a shock.”

“I’m so sorry,” Vanessa said. “Why didn’t you say something? We can talk about this later.”

“Don’t feel bad. I really did want to hear what the sheriff had to say.”

“Well, now you and Pierce know everything we know.” Ethan stood and pulled Vanessa to her feet. “Let us get out of your hair and give Zoe a chance to absorb the shock of her friend’s death.”

“Did Annabelle live in Les Barbes?” Vanessa asked.

“No, she and her family live in Morgan City. I’m going to drive down for the funeral tomorrow. I still can’t believe she’s gone.”

“How did she die?”

“Viral pneumonia.”

“That’s too bad. People usually recover from that.” Vanessa’s eyebrows came together. “Did Annabelle have complications?”

“I don’t know the details. I’ll find out more tomorrow.” Could she remember what she’d said long enough to write it down so she could keep her story straight?

Vanessa put her arms around Zoe. “If there’s
anything
we can do, we’re just next door.”

Late that night Jude Prejean sat at the table in his office and looked over the facts they had so far in the lynching case, dreading the interview with Remy Jarvis’s father, whom his deputies finally reached just after dark, when he returned from a day’s fishing on the Roux River.

Jude heard footsteps and looked up just as Deputy Chief Aimee Rivette came to a stop in the doorway.

“Emile Jarvis just arrived,” she said. “I got him a cold drink and seated him in the first interview room. I smelled whiskey on his breath.”

“It’s going to take more than booze to stop the kind of pain he’s in.” Jude took off his reading glasses and rubbed his eyes.

“Now that we’ve released the victim’s name, Sheriff, the media’s anxious to hear from you.”

“They can wait. I want to talk to Emile first.”

“This is sad for more than just the obvious,” Aimee said. “Remy was everybody’s brother or son or grandson. He touched us all on some level.”

“We’re not resting until we find out who’s responsible.” Jude stood, the worn cartilage in his basketball knees feeling the effects of having trudged over uneven terrain at the Vincent farm and again at Langley Manor.

He followed Aimee down the hall and into the first interview room, where Emile Jarvis was seated, his arms folded on the table.

Jude squeezed the man’s shoulder. “I can’t even imagine what you’re feeling, Emile. I’m so sorry about Remy. We’re going to get whoever did this.”

Emile nodded but didn’t say anything.

Jude walked around to the other side of the table and sat next to Aimee. When was the last time he dreaded an interview this much? An awkward silence followed.

Emile seemed to stare at nothing, his wavy salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in a ponytail, his unshaven face red and swollen. It was hard to tell how much color was sunburn and how much was the result of tears spilled over his son’s murder.

Finally Jude said, “Everyone in the department is outraged over what happened to your son. We are committed to bringing the guilty parties to justice.”

“Why’d dey kill him?” Emile said softly. “Remy wasn’t a
couyon.
He wasn’t stupid. He was slow, dat’s all.”

“Everyone knew that,” Jude said. “This crime was about blacks and whites. The victim could’ve been anyone. I doubt it was personal.”

“It was to me.” Emile lifted his gray, bloodshot eyes. “My boy, my own flesh and blood, strung up like a side o’ beef.…” A tear dripped down his cheek.

“Judging by the time of death,” Jude said, “Remy must’ve been grabbed while he was out delivering newspapers. The coroner said he died from a blow to the head before he was hanged.”

Emile sobbed into his hands and shook his head. “Remy never hurt anybody. He had a heart o’ gold.”

“I don’t mean to minimize your loss in any way,” Aimee said, “but you can take comfort that Remy was unconscious and didn’t know what was happening to him.”

“But
I
know. I loved dat boy. It’s been him and me since his
mere
died. Remy was special. Had a sweetness ’bout him only his kind has. He couldn’t defend hisself. How could dey hurt him dat way—” Emile clamped his hand over his mouth, his eyes suddenly wide and frantic, and jumped to his feet—“I got the
mal au couer.…
” He turned and ran out of the room and across the hall to the men’s restroom.

Jude started to follow him, but Aimee grabbed his arm. “He can throw up without you. Maybe he’ll feel better. It’s probably a combination of booze and shock.”

Jude sighed. “Truthfully I can’t get the image of Remy hanging from a tree out of my mind. I’m glad Emile was on the river when it happened. No father should have to witness that.”

“He had to identify Remy’s body,” Aimee said. “I’m sure he’s imagined the whole thing a hundred times over.”

“I’ll never forget it.” Jude’s mind flashed back to the red cap on the ground—and the shocking realization that followed. He replaced the image with one of Remy crossing the finish line at the Special Olympics.

“People will be up in arms,” Aimee said. “Not just because Remy was the victim, but because a white man was targeted. The media is calling it a lynching, even if we’re not.”

Jude drew a circle on the table with his finger. “I didn’t deny it was racially motivated. But the word
lynching
never crossed my lips. And I didn’t confirm the note. It’s all speculation.”

“Sheriff, the man who called the radio station knew what was in the note word for word. We’ve got the recording of his voice, but he called from an untraceable cell phone.” Aimee sighed, fatigue making her look older than her thirty-nine years. “The public believes the caller. Maybe it’s time to confirm it and make an appeal for people to use restraint. We don’t have enough manpower to keep the peace.”

“Fair enough. I’ll go public with it. Police Chief Norman has already borrowed officers from Lafayette and New Iberia PDs. If we work together, we’ll be ready, whatever the response.”

Jude took his phone off his belt clip and scanned through his messages until Emile came back and resumed his place at the table.

“Sorry,” Emile said. “My stomach’s in a wad.”

“No need to apologize,” Jude said. “This has to be a nightmare for you. We promise not to keep you long. We just need to ask a few questions. Did Remy have any close friends?”

“Jus’ me and his kin. Other folks took a likin’ to him though. He couldn’t go anywheres widout someone strikin’ up a conversation.”

“Were the exchanges always positive?” Jude said. “Or did some people talk down to Remy because he was slow?”