The Gates of Evangeline (27 page)

Sensing he's about to drift into the therapy zone with me, I change the subject. “Do you remember a woman named Violet Johnson? She worked for your family when you were about eleven or twelve.”

He gives me an apologetic look. “I don't remember much about the help. Apart from Danelle and the Lauchlins, most of them came and went.”

“Tell me about the Lauchlins, then. I'm interested in them.”

“Interested why?” Andre frowns. “There was surveillance on them for months. There was never any sign they did wrong.”

“I take it you were fond of Maddie and Jack.”

“Maddie was . . . well, she was my nanny. We kids were her life. Especially Gabriel.”

Maddie is not who I'm worried about, of course. “What about Jack?” I ask, toying with the strap of my life jacket. “Were you close to him?”

Andre shakes his head. “I wasn't his kind of boy. He tried to teach me about car engines once. I told him I'd pay people to do that stuff for me when I grew up, so he shouldn't waste our time.” He smiles sheepishly. “I was a brat.”

I hate to ask, knowing how Noah feels about his grandfather, but I have to. “Did Jack spend much time with Gabriel?”

“Oh, sure. Gabriel followed him around. He liked to watch Jack use tools.” He kneels down at the edge of the boat and, with one hand, shoves away some brush. “He was a handful, that kid. Always trying to stick objects into sockets or toss things in the toilet. He'd run away, too. That's why they locked him in at nights.”

Keegan went through a similar phase, but I don't let myself dwell on that thought. “Did you know Maddie's son well? Sean?”

Something in Andre's face flickers at the mention of Sean. “I knew him, sure, but not well. He's twelve years older . . .”

“Brigitte had quite the crush on him.”

“Did she? I don't remember.” His nonchalance doesn't fool me for a second. Danelle Martin was right. Andre had it bad for Sean.

“He was handsome. I've seen pictures.”

Andre drums his fingers against the metal frame of the boat, a little flustered by my persistence. “You want to know if I was interested in him? Sure. I was a teenage boy. He was nice to me. Of course I was interested. But nothing ever happened. He was completely straight.”

His agitation betrays the depth of his feelings for Sean, but I don't push my luck.

“Was he involved with anyone, do you know?”

“I didn't keep track of his relationships. He was very private.”

Neither Danelle nor Andre knew about Violet, then. Maybe Sean and Violet had no relationship at all, and Noah was the product of a fling. He could've been an illegitimate son the Lauchlin family never even acknowledged until Violet died. Unless, of course, she's the mystery woman Sean wanted to flee the country with. Whatever made him want to run away with her might also have made them hide their relationship from others.

“You know Sean disappeared just a few months before your brother,” I say. “Don't you find that odd?”

“Disappeared?” Andre frowns. “The story I heard was that he left.”

Could he have come back? Conspired with someone to kidnap Gabriel, hoping to build on his half million? Sean could easily have learned from his unwitting parents when Neville and Hettie would be out of town, and the family dog would've known him well enough not to make a fuss. He was a local, likely knew the swamps, and had military training. Gabriel would've trusted him. All he had to do was wait.

“Sean left,” I say thoughtfully. “But maybe he didn't go so far.”

“We should probably get back,” Andre tells me, uninterested in exploring my Sean Lauchlin conspiracy theories. “My niece is joining our family for dinner tonight. Wouldn't want to miss the details of her wild spending spree in Cabo.”

Brigitte's daughter is in her early twenties, too young to have been mixed up with Sean or Gabriel, and by all accounts too much like her mother for me to endure. I'm happy to sit this one out.

On the ride home, Andre's in his own world, adeptly retracing our course through the swamp and bayou all the way back to Evangeline. I wish I knew what he was thinking, what potentially useful memories he might hold. So many pieces of the truth out there, and everyone trying to conceal their own little part. Not because they're guilty, necessarily, but because the truth is ugly or uncomfortable or embarrassing.

I understand. I have my own ugly truths to contend with.

•   •   •

I'
VE BEEN ON LAND
for about thirty seconds when I feel my phone vibrating. It's Detective Minot. I left him that crazy text and then forgot to call him. Oops.

“Hey.” I move away from the dock where Andre is tying up the airboat. “I'm still alive.”

“Jesus, Charlotte. Don't send me messages like that. Better yet, don't run off alone with people you think are gonna—” I lose the remainder of his scolding to poor reception.

“Sorry. I was freaking out over nothing.”

“I called you three times.”

I feel both guilty and relieved that someone in this world is looking out for me. “Thanks. For checking up on me.”

“I wasn't just checking up on you,” he says. “I have something to tell you. Can you be at City Park in fifteen minutes?”

The search. Oh my God, the search. I glance at my watch. Almost five, and they've been at it since six this morning. Something must've turned up.

“I'll be there in ten.”

•   •   •

I
FIN
D
D
ETECTIVE
M
INOT
on a bench by the duck pond. The sun hangs low, and the dwindling light casts everything in melancholy shadows. Even the fat, waddling ducks are depressing, reminders of children who will remain suspended in time. Keegan loved feeding ducks, and I'm sure Detective Minot took Didi here when she was small. Was he different before his daughter got sick, I wonder, or has he always been the serious, brooding type? It's hard to picture him as someone's dad, but Justine showed me old photos of him. He looked so normal, carrying little Didi on his shoulders, grinning, smooching his wife. I'm not sure I wanted to see that side of him, to be burdened with knowledge of the man he could've been had he never heard the words “acute lymphocytic leukemia.”

I take a seat beside him on the bench. “Well? What's your news?”

He rubs a hand over his stubbly face. “Looks like this whole mess has gotten bigger than the sheriff's department can handle. The Feds are sending over some guys tomorrow.”

“Are you serious? The FBI's getting involved?” My eyes widen. “You must've ID'd him, right? They wouldn't care unless it was Gabriel. Did you match the bone?”

“It's not Gabriel,” Detective Minot says gently.

I wrap my fingers around the wooden slats of the bench, unable to fully comprehend what he's just said. “But it has to be. You know it has to be.”

“No. I never thought it was.” His tone is apologetic. “That jawbone we found in the sugar mill didn't belong to a two-year-old. It was too large.”

Over on the weedy pond, a pair of ducks begin to squabble. I feel like the air's been knocked from me. “Why didn't you tell me?” I whisper. “Why'd you let me think there was a chance when you knew I'd failed?” All my high hopes, all this faith I had in my “gift,” it was all for shit.

“I think there's a reason you led us to that sugar mill,” he insists. “It could be part of the puzzle.”

I'm still smarting from my mistake, but his department wouldn't have called in the FBI unless this was a big deal. “What happened?”

“Didn't take long with the dog this morning, I'll tell you that. You expect to spend days on this kind of search, but those bones . . . it's like they were begging to be found.” He looks a little spooked. “The team's still excavating as we speak, but I think they got the bulk of it.”

“Did the forensic anthropologist from the university get a look?”

Detective Minot nods. “He's overseeing the excavation. Today was mostly just bagging fragments they found, but from what I understand, they got a decent portion of the skull and pelvis.”

I remember vaguely that these parts are helpful in determining gender. “Male or female?”

“Off the record, very preliminary, he's guessing the victim was an adult Caucasian male.”

The wind rustles my hair, sending shivers up and down my back. I can feel there's more. It's like we're in court and Detective Minot is building his case for me, bit by bit.

“Looks like there was a bullet hole in the skull,” he says. “They haven't retrieved any casings so far, and we don't know yet if there were multiple shots, or if that was the cause of death, but this guy took a bullet to the back of the head.”

“Point-blank?” I'm imagining a mob-style execution.

“Probably not. A handgun, most likely, but we'll have to wait for the report.”

“Anything else? Clothes? A wallet?”

“We found a shoe in the same approximate location,” he continues. “Size-twelve tenny shoes. A brand called Raceway. I looked them up, and this particular style was sold for just two years: 1980 and '81.”

I don't speak, just wait. A greedy duck approaches me, his black eyes glassy and alert as he calls for handouts, but I shoo him away.

“There was one last thing.” Detective Minot pauses, gearing up for his smoking gun. “Dog tags.”

I'm confused. “There was a dog?”

“No, no. Military dog tags.”

“Military . . .” At last it dawns on me. “Oh my God. You think—”

“I saw the name, plain as anything. It's him, Charlotte.” The park, the setting sun, the overweight duck strutting around my feet—I see none of it. All I can see is Remy Minot, his look of awe as he tells me in hushed tones that, after nearly thirty years, they've found him. They've found Sean Lauchlin.

T
here's no evidence that Gabriel's disappearance is related to Sean Lauchlin's murder, but that doesn't stop Detective Minot and me from speculating as we wander the empty park. We pass a couple of sagging picnic tables and a trash can that gives off an unpleasant smell, but no people. Even the ducks have retreated into the long grass at the pond's edge.

“Revenge,” I say. “Sean killed Gabriel, and Neville found out. Neville took matters into his own hands and disposed of Sean himself.”

“Neville couldn't do that,” Detective Minot contends. “Not with local, state, and federal law enforcement agencies breathing down his neck. The minute Gabriel was reported missing, they monitored his every movement.”

“Neville hired someone to do it for him.”

“That's exactly what law enforcement was looking for when they thought he orchestrated Gabriel's kidnapping—calls and meetings with possible criminals for hire. They found nothing. Anyway, it still wouldn't explain the half million in Sean's bank account.” He pauses by an old tree and runs his hand over initials carved in its trunk as if this scar might possess an answer. “You've said there's a sexual-abuse element to this case.”

I nod. “I felt it when we went to the swamp.”

“My money's on Andre Deveau. He had access to Gabriel and no alibi.”

I fill him in on today's boat ride. “You should look into this Kyle Komen guy he claims he was with, but I don't think Andre fits. Someone took the rowboat out and dumped Gabriel in the swamps. I don't think anyone in the Deveau family had the know-how.”

“Whoever took the boat put it back. That points to an employee, like Jack Lauchlin.”

I'm aware that Daddy Jack's involvement would destroy Noah, but I, too, keep coming back to him. “Jack had access to the boat and to Gabriel,” I concede. “And Jack could easily have gotten the key to Gabriel's bedroom from his wife.”

Detective Minot breaks from the path and begins pacing. “He's from the area. He would know boats, know the water.”

A couple of streetlights flicker on in the distance. I fold my arms tight against my chest. The New Yorker in me wonders how many rapes and muggings have happened in this park after dark. “Okay,” I say, “Jack could've killed Gabriel. But what about Sean? You're saying Jack killed his own son too?”

Detective Minot shrugs. “Maybe Sean knew his father was molesting the kid. Sean had a big fight with his parents right before he left in June, right? Maybe he never left at all. Maybe Jack killed him to cover up what he was doing to Gabriel.”

“That still doesn't explain the half million in Sean's bank account.” I'm relieved to find a flaw in his theory, something to remove Noah's grandfather from the equation.

“The money is a sticking point,” Detective Minot agrees.

I concentrate on the money and start down another line of thinking. “Maybe Sean was blackmailing Neville. If Neville was abusing Gabriel, and Sean somehow found out—”

“No,” Detective Minot interrupts. “Those payments to Sean's account began before Gabriel was even born.”

I revise my theory. “Sean grew up at that house. Maybe Neville molested
him
.” I feel a lot better pinning all this evil on a man I've never met, one who has no blood ties to the guy I've been sharing a bed with. Still, I don't find the scenario entirely convincing. Neville displayed no special affinity for children from what I've heard—and would he really be cheating on Hettie with adult women if his real interest lay in young boys?

Detective Minot shares my reservations, but for different reasons. “I could buy the blackmail angle, that Neville killed Sean to shut him up. But it doesn't explain Gabriel. Neville has an alibi for the night of the kidnapping. Which means he would've hired someone, and I'm telling you, investigators couldn't find a damn thing to support that.”

I kick at some dead leaves. “Maybe . . . they overlooked something. Someone local Neville might've used for the job.”

Detective Minot sinks onto a lopsided picnic table, and I can tell he's close to giving up for the night. “I can see why they focused on Roi Duchesne,” he says ruefully. “He sure fit the bill.”

“There's no wiggle room in Duchesne's alibi?”

“Nope. At least a dozen people saw him that night at a casino in Alabama.”

“If Duchesne did jail time, he might've known the right people,” I suggest. “Maybe he was just a middleman. We should talk to him.” Detective Minot makes some kind of grunt that I take to be agreement. Finally, I gather the courage to ask the question that's been plaguing me throughout this whole discussion. “Do you know if they've notified Sean Lauchlin's family?”

He shakes his head. “None of what I told you has been released to the public yet. Your lips are sealed, you understand?” He eyes me, sensing there's a reason I'm asking. “I don't think the Lauchlins have any family living. Maddie had a sister in Texas, but I'm pretty sure she's dead.”

I can't pretend Noah doesn't exist any longer, can't neatly separate my work from my romantic life. Noah has far more of a right to know about his dad than I do.

“Sean had a son,” I say softly. “I know him. We're . . . kind of close.”

“A son? You're kidding me.” Detective Minot blinks a few times as if trying to orient himself. “How old? And who's the mother? You realize this could have major implications in the investigation.”

I cover my face. The last thing I wanted to do was drag Noah into this. His father's murder will be hard enough to process without getting grilled on every little thing Jack and Maddie ever mentioned about his parents. And what if his cherished Nanny and Daddy Jack are involved?

Detective Minot, meanwhile, has his own betrayal to sort through. “Why didn't you tell me about this guy before?” he demands. “I mean, hell, you have a personal connection to the Lauchlins? I would never have shared—”

“Exactly why I didn't tell you.”

“Charlotte.” His nostrils flare. “I don't care how much this guy means to you. You wait for forensics to make a positive ID. If that information is leaked prematurely, it could compromise the investigation. And I'd lose my job.”

I don't want to screw things up for him, and really, silence is the easier course of action here. I can't predict Noah's response. For all I know, he'll show up at the sheriff's department wanting answers and it would be Detective Minot's ass. Carrying around this secret indefinitely, though, makes me sick to my stomach. Sean is his father. All these years Noah thought his dad didn't care . . . but maybe Sean did care.

“Promise me you won't blow this.” In the deepening twilight, Detective Minot's watching me closely, searching for signs of resistance. “Give me your word.”

“I promise.” But I want to cry. Noah trusts me.

“What's the son's name?”

“Noah Lauchlin.” I dispense his vital stats dutifully; the sheriff's office will need to notify him once Sean's identification is official. “He was born March 19, 1979. He lives in Sidalie, Texas. Maddie and Jack raised him after his mom died. Her name was Violet Johnson.”

“Violet.” He searches his memory. “You asked about her the other day.”

“She used to work at Evangeline.”

“Right. Housekeeper. She only lasted a few months. Didn't part on very good terms.”

I try to swallow back the sour taste in my mouth. “Look, I know you'll need to ask Noah questions about his family, but . . . give him time to process the news about his dad, okay?”

“Fine.”

We trudge quietly back to the parking lot. In the yellowy light of a streetlamp, Detective Minot watches me step into my car, his face hard even as he ensures my safety. He's angry at me, understandably, and angry at himself for confiding in me. I'm angry with me, too. I'm surrounded by good people who believe in me, and I'm letting them all down.

•   •   •

T
HE NEXT FEW DAYS
pass in a slow, excruciating haze. Over the weekend, several local news outlets cover the discovery of human remains at the old sugar mill. The stories contain nothing about the shoe or the military ID tags found, but all play up the fact that the land is Deveau owned.
This is not the first time the family has been connected to a major criminal investigation,
a reporter reminds viewers.
Nearly thirty years ago, two-year-old Gabriel Deveau was abducted from the family's Chicory home. Despite a highly publicized national search, the kidnapping remains unsolved. No word from authorities on whether the newly discovered remains have any connection to the 1982 case, but Bonnefoi Parish sheriff Jim Pardy says the bones recovered so far appear to belong to an adult
.

The program cuts to a press conference with Sheriff Pardy, a half-bald man who fields the questions of aggressive reporters. He confirms rumors of FBI involvement, explaining that they've been called upon for their superior resources and expertise. Asked about the identity of the victim, Sheriff Pardy declines to comment pending the official reports of forensic experts. He stresses that although the bones were on Deveau land, the family has not been charged with any wrongdoing.

I turn off the TV, head aching, but there's no way to escape an event this big in Chicory. By Monday, Evangeline's staff are all abuzz with the news. At dinner, Leeann talks about nothing else. She and her boyfriend have a bet going. She thinks the murder points to the presence of organized crime in Chicory and gleefully tosses around words like “hit” and “enforcer.” Mike thinks it's a sex crime, a rape and murder. The bet strikes me as surprisingly ghoulish.

“What do you win if you're right?” I ask, but she only shrugs.

Even Jules, who stops in to discuss tomorrow's menu with her, can't resist participating in the gossip. “It's probably someone who crossed Neville,” he tells us. “He was not a man to mess with.”

“Oh no,” Leeann protests, “Mr. D. wasn't like that . . . wouldn' kill no one.”

“Not in his final years, maybe,” Jules says with condescension. “When he was younger, though, he had quite the temper. His own family feared him. And he was a ruthless businessman.”

I can guess where Jules is getting all of his information. Does that mean Andre thinks Neville is responsible for the body at the sugar mill, or is that Jules's own conclusion? And does Andre suspect it's Sean Lauchlin they've found? He was certainly guarded when he spoke about Sean with me in the boat.

“Neville's not the only ruthless businessman around,” I say, just to see how Jules will react. “You know what they say. Like father, like son.”

Jules snorts. “Trust me when I say all of Neville's killer instincts went to his daughters.”

For the hundredth time, I wonder about Jules and Andre's relationship. I believed Andre when he said that Jules was more than just his boy toy, and I remember the phone call I overheard in the garden—Jules upset about hiding their relationship. Though I'm sure they have their own brand of intimacy, I also have the distinct impression that Andre knows things, dark and burdensome things he hasn't shared with Jules. But, as I think of Noah and all I haven't told him, I know that doesn't negate Andre's feelings for Jules. It just complicates them.

I don't know about Andre Deveau, but I'm tired of complication, tired of omissions. If I can't tell Noah the truth about his father, I can at least tell him the truth about myself.

On Tuesday morning, Noah calls to say he's en route to Evangeline. I walk around the grounds, brooding, and see Hettie outside in her wheelchair with all three children and a watchful nurse. The twins are engaged in their own conversation while Andre stares into space and Hettie dozes. Do her kids intend to stick around until she dies? Is she that close to the end? Maybe it's time to extricate myself from Evangeline before the family is consumed by her loss. I have enough to pull off the book that Isaac wants, and I don't know how to help Gabriel any further. Do I just . . . go home?

It all depends on Noah, and that scares me.

Hours later, Noah's truck pulls down the drive. He's earlier than expected—he must have driven like a demon to get here.

Don't look too eager.

But he looks excited enough for both of us. “Well, lookit here.” He lifts me off my feet in a bear hug. “Got my very own welcomin' committee.”

We walk back to his cottage hand in hand. I can't get over how happy he looks.

Do I really make someone this happy? How long can that last?

“How you been?” he asks. “You and Rae have a good time in the city?”

New Orleans feels so long ago.

“Yeah, we had fun.”

He punches in the key code to his door and motions for me to go inside. “You okay? You seem like you got somethin' on your mind.” I wince as he lifts his shirt and removes the gun and holster from his side. I didn't even realize he was wearing it.

“A lot's been going on here,” I tell him. “A body turned up.”

“A body?”

“Well. The bones.”

“Here?” The lightness in his mood evaporates. “Don't tell me they found Gabriel.”

“Not at Evangeline. A few miles away on some land that Hettie owns. And it's not Gabriel.”

“Do they know who?” He hesitates before placing his gun in his sock drawer, as if it might not be safe to part with just yet.

I swallow. I omit. I hate myself for it. “The police haven't released that information yet.” It's the only true thing I can think of that doesn't break my promise to Detective Minot.

“You look real upset about this, darlin'. Is there somethin'—”

Before I even know what I'm doing, I blurt out another truth. “I dreamed it.” This isn't where I meant for this conversation to go, but maybe it's for the best. “I dreamed about the bones, Noah . . . exactly where they were. And then they were really there. It's not the first time, either.”