The Gates of Evangeline (25 page)

The study door opens and Andre, in a swanky blue bathrobe, peers out. Barring Hugh Hefner, it's the only time I've actually seen a guy in a bathrobe.

“Jules,” he calls, “can I see you in the office?”

“Certainly.” Jules folds up the letter and heads in. I can hear the door lock behind them.

Despite their outward nonchalance, I have the feeling that things are about to heat up in there. They must've made up. That would explain the wrinkles in Jules's shirt, his less-than-perfect hair. He
is
here awfully early—maybe he never left last night. I'm glad for Andre. He seemed like he needed a pick-me-up.

I leave the house before I hear any telltale sounds from the study. There are, as it turns out, limits to what I want to know about Evangeline's goings-on.

•   •   •

W
ITH THE BONE
now in the hands of local law enforcement, I decide to do a little digging on Noah's mother. I need something to occupy myself with, to keep me from obsessing over the sugar mill, and Violet Johnson has been kicking around in my mind for a while. She was involved with Sean Lauchlin, once worked at Evangeline, and could well have been an accomplice to whatever pulled in Sean's half-million dollars.

As a former Deveau employee, Violet's name must've come up during the Gabriel investigation, so I start with a call to Detective Minot.

“Violet Johnson?” His voice is devoid of recognition. “I think I've seen the name in our files, but I don't think she was ever under investigation. Why? You find something?”

“I heard she might've been involved with Sean Lauchlin. Just . . . covering my bases.” I don't want to tell him about Noah just yet, don't want him sniffing around the only remaining Lauchlin for answers. Noah was upset enough when he felt I was violating Hettie's privacy. I can only imagine how aggravated he'd be if I pointed law enforcement in
his
direction and they began dredging up details of his family that he's already told me he doesn't care to know.

I put in a call to the vital records registry and learn that in Louisiana, birth certificates are not public record for one hundred years, death certificates not for fifty. Only a relative could obtain Violet Johnson's records—assuming she
has
records. I don't know if she was born in Louisiana or if she's even really dead. There's no trace of her on the Internet, so I head for the library and spend the remainder of my day perusing microfiches, town archives, even yearbooks from the local high school. Nothing. I'm on my way out, discouraged and increasingly anxious, when my phone vibrates.

“Hey,” Noah says. “It's me. Listen, I got some bad news.”

I don't like the sound of this.

“One of our big projects just hit some road bumps. I'm gonna need some extra time to sort this out.”

“You won't be back tomorrow then?”

“Prob'ly not 'til next week,” he concedes.

There is a sizable lump in my throat as I digest this.

“I'm sorry, babe . . . I miss you. How's everything goin'?”

“It's going.” I try not to sound as lost as I feel. “But come back soon.”

“I will. Promise.”

As soon as I hang up, the full weight of this day comes crashing down on me. I came to Chicory to help Gabriel. Was that one measly bone all he wanted from me? Am I done? Maybe the police can put the pieces together now, maybe not. All I can do is wait. But waiting is hard for me, especially with Noah gone. I'm not going to make it through these next days without some support. Who can I turn to?

I want someone who knows where I'm coming from, someone I don't have to explain it all to. I need more than a ten-minute phone call with Grandma will solve. Leeann's too young. She doesn't even know about Keegan. Detective Minot will be tied up in the case, and he's not a warm and fuzzy guy anyway. When I freaked out at the sugar mill this morning, he tried to pawn me off on his wife.

His wife.

Who else is better positioned to understand me? We're grieving mothers. And she knows about the things I've seen. She believes in me.

If I were comfortable reaching out to others, I would not be the woman I am today. I would have more friends. I might still be married. I would most certainly be happier. At this point, though, I'm so far out of my comfort zone, it doesn't sound all that crazy to just dial a number and foist myself upon someone I barely know. To say,
Hi, this is Charlotte Cates. I need someone to talk to, and I'm hoping it's you.

So I do it. I call Detective Minot's home phone, and she answers. Justine Pinaro. Didi's mother. And she listens. And she tells me, “Please, come right over. I'm so glad you called.”

For the first time since Keegan died, I see the only way through this, the only way forward. It's not by hiding, or avoiding, or running away, or keeping others out. It's the long, slow process of inviting them in that will save me. I, who have never let people in, not even my husband, must learn to.

And that's only the second-most terrifying discovery I've made today.

F
rom the moment I step into Justine Pinaro's home, I know I made the right call in coming. The front hall is cluttered with shoes, a jacket tossed on the floor, shopping bags not yet emptied. A table overflows with mail. It reminds me of my house in the weeks after I lost Keegan, and I love Justine fiercely for not cleaning up.

“You know how it is,” she says, and I nod. Unlike the last time I saw her, she's not dressed for going out in public. In pajamas and no makeup, she's still a nice-looking woman, but her sheer exhaustion is evident. Dark circles. What Rae would call “I Don't Care Hair.”

“I've been meaning to have you over,” she tells me apologetically, “but there's been a parade of people running through ever since Didi passed. They mean well, but I get so tired of putting on a good face.”

“Don't bother on my account.”

She smiles. “I wouldn't have asked you over if I thought I had to.”

And it's that easy.

I clear a space on the living room carpet and sit down cross-legged.

We talk about work. We talk about love. We talk about our children, tentatively at first, and then with warmth. For the first time in weeks, I speak my son's name aloud, allow myself the pleasure of my Keegan memories. The day he and Zoey rolled down the slope in our backyard two dozen times before Rae and I noticed they'd been crashing through poison ivy. The time I took him to the park to feed the ducks and an aggressive goose went after him and I hit it and he told everyone for weeks, “Mommy punched a goose.” Justine has her own stories. I listen. I laugh. I get to know Didi, the little girl who brought us together.

When I mention that I haven't been sleeping well at Evangeline, she looks scandalized. “Stay here,” she says. “I can't believe Remy didn't offer.” She glances at a nearby clock. “It's after five. Run and get your things. I'll get the guest room ready.”

I tell her I don't want to impose.

Justine rolls her eyes. “You spoke to my comatose daughter, you're helping out my husband, you're lending me an ear in a time of need. How could you impose?”

I'm pretty sure this means I've made a friend.

•   •   •

T
HE PLAN IS TO GRAB
a quick overnight bag at Evangeline, but when I get out of my car, I see Andre outside smoking the last of a fragrant cigar. He's dressed in his version of casual wear: khakis, desert boots, and a blue-checked button-down under a V-neck sweater.

He spots me and smirks.

“Charlotte! You're just in time for dinner.” He waves me over. From the look on his face, the family hasn't been notified about the bone yet. “Please. If I have to sit through a meal with just Syd and Bridgie, my head might explode.”

I'm not excited by the prospect of some uptight Deveau dinner, but they
are
my hosts, and I can't afford to miss an opportunity to speak with all three. “All right. If you don't think your sisters would mind.”

When I enter the dining room with Andre a few minutes later, Sydney looks like she does, in fact, mind.

“You brought company.” She unfolds a napkin on her lap, each movement laced with displeasure. “I guess this is a working dinner?”

Andre casts me a knowing smile, as if Sydney's rudeness further proves the need for my presence. He slips his hand under my elbow and pulls out my chair with a flourish. “Kind of you to join us this evening, Charlotte. Evangeline is becoming increasingly geriatric, as you can see. We need more of you pretty young things to keep the place fresh.”

Without all the guests and fancy place settings, the long, formal dining table is an odd space to have a meal. Even after Brigitte joins us, we are at less than half the seating capacity. The mostly empty table, combined with Brigitte's determined cheer, feels a bit desperate, as though she is a mother presiding over a birthday party no one has chosen to attend.

“So! Charlotte!” The exclamation points in her voice are a far cry from her sister's frosty reception. “I just spoke with Isaac this morning, and I've been waiting for an update. He says that he is
very
pleased with your work. Tell us all about it.” Her hamster cheeks puff out in an expression of delight.

“Give the poor girl a minute to catch her breath before you grill her, Bridgie, I don't want you scaring this one away.” Andre pats my hand. “She's a good one.”

“Oh!
Well
then.” Having decided I am a potential romantic interest for her brother, Brigitte looks both wildly curious and a bit dismayed by his selection. “I think it's only fair to warn you, Charlotte, our brother is
quite
a charmer. But his attention span for relationships has never been a strong point.”

“He'd rather be dead than married and so would I,” Sydney advises me, clearly pleased with the chance to take a swipe at her sister. “Marriage is an antiquated institution.”

Brigitte smiles indulgently at her twin. “Oh, you'll find someone. Third time's the charm. And Andre would meet the right woman in a heartbeat if he just stopped working once in a while instead of settling for whatever convenient thing drifted his way.” She turns to me in wide-eyed apology, as if the remark were unintentional. “I didn't mean you, of course, honey.”

“Of course.” I fight back the urge to laugh.

How can these two be so obtuse? The facts are staring them in the face. Andre's forty-seven years old, and he's probably never had a serious relationship with a woman. He calls hot young Jules into his office for private meetings
while wearing a bathrobe
, and these two don't know.

Andre, however, is enjoying himself. He uncorks a bottle of wine. “I've had my fun in life, Charlotte,” he says with a wink. “But who knows? Maybe I've finally reached a settling-down age.”

I think I'm going to throw up in my mouth. Is this why he invited me to dinner? To put on a heterosexual show for his sisters?

Fortunately, dinner arrives before things can get any more bizarre. Leeann and Paulette bring in a water pitcher, butter, a basket of hot rolls, and serving dishes of steaming food, both women exuding professionalism.

“Tilapia, okra, and sweet potatoes,” Leeann says. “I hope y'all enjoy you meal.”

Sydney waits until they leave and then utters a long sigh. “That okra looks dry.”

Brigitte butters a roll, her attention still on me. “I really am anxious to hear about the book. Have you found, I don't know, an
angle
?”

I don't tell her that I've completed chapters—it would only invite scrutiny. “Still primarily fact gathering at this stage,” I tell her.

“Any facts that we can help you gather?” Andre asks.

“Yes, actually.” I hadn't intended to bring this up, but with all three Deveau siblings present, I'm curious to see their collective reaction. “Obviously the media portrayal of your family in the wake of Gabriel's disappearance was . . . unflattering.”

Andre shrugs as if unflattering and accurate are not mutually exclusive, but Brigitte leaps at this. “Yes,” she agrees. “Yes, it was.”

I turn to her. “I'm interested in something you said the other day. You mentioned that on the night of your birthday you had nothing to drink but a glass of champagne. I'm wondering why the media reported that you and Sydney were
both
intoxicated and ill that evening.”

“They get everything wrong, don't they?” Brigitte says carelessly. “I wasn't sick.”

“Really? The police reports also stated that you spent the night ill. Were those wrong, too?” I can scarcely believe what I'm hearing.
Is this woman really arrogant enough to blow up her own alibi after thirty years in the clear?

“Maybe we told someone I was sick to get them off my back, I don't remember.” Brigitte dabs at her eye and removes a stray clump of mascara. “The police were
very
concerned about my movements that night.”

“Evidently so is Charlotte,” Sydney says acidly. “I told you, Bridgie.”

Brigitte remains untroubled by her own dubious alibi. She sits back in her chair and laughs lightly. “It's a sad world, I think, when a sixteen-year-old girl is better off vomiting from alcohol poisoning than sleeping peacefully all night in her own bed. Being the good girl should never be used against someone.”

“I'm not trying to use anything against anyone. Just clarifying.”

She leans across the table, fluffy blond head tilted in my direction. “People have written some nasty things about us over the years, I'm sure you know that. It truly is an act of faith to open our home like this after the unfortunate relationships we've had with
some
journalists.”

I nod politely.

“You probably heard about that
ugly
lawsuit we won years back.” Brigitte shakes her head, as if to indicate that winning lawsuits is a distasteful business, but her words could hardly be more pointed. “You've met us, Charlotte. You know we're a loving family with a rich history and a terrible wound in our past.
That's
the story that needs telling. And I trust you with that story.” She smiles, her eyes still fixed on me, and I see that Brigitte has more in her arsenal than temper tantrums when it comes to getting what she wants. “It's important that we can trust each other, isn't it?”

I glance at Andre, wondering if he'll weigh in, but he's cutting his tilapia into neat bites, poker-faced. A duck-and-cover maneuver.

“Trust . . . is important,” I say.

It's hard to imagine the meal getting any more awkward, but then Paulette appears in the doorway. “Sorry to intarupp,” she murmurs, one hand held protectively against her belly, “but they's some policemen at the gate. Security wanna know if they should buzz 'em in.”

I stare down at my plate, face burning. Of all the times to come by, the sheriff's department picks
now
?

“What do they want?” Sydney frowns.

“Somethin' 'bout the sugah mill.” Paulette's eyes dart around as if waiting for a land mine to go off.

Sydney gives a little snort of irritation. “This is Deenie Strickland's problem. We lease her the land, that doesn't mean it's our job to chase off every frisky teenager.”

Brigitte takes a quick sip of wine and stands up. “Send the officers in. I'll handle this.” She strides off down the hall.

I push okra around my plate and sneak a peek at Sydney and Andre. Sydney eats her okra with a tragic expression, sighing at each long, green piece she loads onto her fork. Andre, on the other hand, regards me curiously.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “You look a bit jumpy.”

“She probably doesn't like the food,” Sydney says. “Who can blame her?”

Andre tries, charitably, to engage me in a discussion of New York City restaurants. Although I do my best to respond, I'm straining to hear what's going on in the other room. Brigitte and some officers are talking in the foyer, but I can't make out any words beyond some expressions of dismay on Brigitte's part.

A few minutes later, she returns, visibly shaken. “I think we might need a lawyer,” she whispers.

“A lawyer? Why?” Andre delivers the last forkful of fish to his mouth.

“The police found a human bone in the old sugar mill. They want our consent to do a search.”

“I'm sorry,” Sydney interjects. “They found
what
?”

“A
bone
.” Brigitte presses her hand to her lips as if it's a dirty word.

“When?” Andre's all ears now. “When did they find it?”

She shrugs helplessly. “I don't know. The middle of the night? They said an officer dropped by to make sure there weren't any teenagers hanging around, and he found a bone.”

“Found it where?” Andre prompts her. “In the parking lot? In the mill?”

“I don't know!”

“But it belongs to a
person
?” Sydney clutches her wineglass anxiously.

“I guess so. They had some expert from the university look at it today.”

“Oh my God,” Sydney moans. “And now they're going to search the place?”

“Unless we stop it.” Brigitte turns to her brother, the legal brain of the group. “What do you think, Andre? Should I call the lawyer?”

“No,” he says. “No, of course not. We want to know what they'll find just as much as they do.” He presses his hands to the bridge of his nose, thinking hard. “Did they say how old the bone was?”

Brigitte shakes her head. “You don't think it could be . . .”

Sydney clamps her hand over her mouth. “No, no, no. It
can't
be.”

“I don't know,” Brigitte wails. “Come talk to them, would you both?”

“Go ahead, Syd. I'll be just a minute.” Andre waits for his sisters to leave and then assesses me coolly. “You don't look very surprised.” There's nothing friendly in his demeanor now.

“Well . . .” Sometimes I wish I wasn't such a rotten liar.

“You knew about this, didn't you? How did you know?”

“I know somebody at the sheriff's department.” Even the truth—albeit a partial truth—sounds lame coming out of my mouth.

“The guard said you were gone this morning from three to five a.m. Where were you?”

Tattletale,
I think.

“I was just out.” Winner: worst excuse ever.

“You're the one who found the bone, aren't you?” His nostrils flare. “Who's giving you information, and why the hell haven't you shared it with my family?”

I don't know how to answer.

“Are you really a writer or just some FBI plant? Because if you're with the FBI, you've harassed my family more than enough over the years without infiltrating our home and—”

“Whoa!” I exclaim, half-flattered I could come off as badass enough to be a federal agent. “I'm not some secret agent, I just . . . got to know one of the cops in town, okay? We met up early this morning and . . .” Met up at three a.m.? I'm aware of how flimsy this explanation is, and I'm guessing psychic visions won't go over any better, so I grope for something more credible. “Look,” I say, “the officer is married and we . . . made a mistake. Please don't go dragging me into it.” This is actually the most inspired lie I've ever told. I think of Rae's Third Rule of Lying—admit to something bad, but not as bad as the truth—and I wonder about the legitimacy of my lies of omission.