The Gates of Evangeline (7 page)

“Now let's clarify the terms of your project.” He cocks his head to one side.

Here it comes. I knew there would be strings attached.

“Brigitte informed me that you'll be writing a history of the Deveau family.”

“I wouldn't call it a history,” I say, finally looking him in the eye. “You and I talked about this on the phone. The book is primarily about their brother's disappearance.”

Jules continues as if I said nothing at all. “Of course they intend to provide you with complete access to the family genealogical archives. I think you'll find many fascinating stories about the Deveaus over the last two centuries.”

I can only assume he's representing the wishes of the sisters with this genealogy business, which sets off alarm bells. I sincerely hope this doesn't turn into an ugly tug-of-war, Isaac pressing for a dramatic true-crime tale on one hand, the Deveau twins expecting some storied family chronicle on the other.

“You promised me interviews,” I remind Jules, already getting a headache. “They'll be crucial to the book's success.”

“Certainly. Sydney and Brigitte are eager to speak with you.”

I wait for the catch; he delivers it.

“The sisters do have one stipulation. I'll need some assurance of your cooperation.” He glances at the doorway and lowers his voice. “You know, of course, that their mother is very ill.”

“Yes, I'd heard that. Is she . . . lucid?”

“For the time being. But given her condition, her daughters are asking that you not discuss the book and its subject matter with her. They see no need to upset her at this stage.”

I lean forward in my chair, incredulous. “You mean Hettie doesn't know I'm here?”

“Oh, Mrs. Deveau is expecting you.”

“Then what exactly am I hiding?”

“Her daughters told her that you're writing a book about plantation homes. I think we can agree there's no reason to tell her otherwise.” His tone has a smooth politician quality that rubs me the wrong way. I'm no longer awed by the pretty face.

“Plantation homes? I don't know the first thing—”

“She's ill, Ms. Cates. Dying. I don't think the subject will come up, and if it does, I trust that you're equipped to handle it gracefully.” He sees me about to protest and adds, “This really isn't negotiable. Brigitte made their wishes very clear.”

“So I can't interview Hettie about Gabriel?”

He shakes his head. Good-looking or not, this guy is seriously starting to piss me off. I'm tempted to ask who he works for, anyway. Neville Deveau must have left his estate to his wife. As estate manager, Jules should be answering to Hettie, not her daughters. Obviously he's decided to ingratiate himself with the women who will be in charge once Hettie dies. Job security.

I gnaw on a fingernail. Jules may be a traitor, but what about Sydney and Brigitte? Hettie's own daughters, scheming behind her back. I have no doubt she would nix the project if she knew anything about it. Gabriel was her son, not some trashy, sensationalist piece of journalism. Her son.

Don't make this about you.

I take a deep breath. “Hettie Deveau is the single best resource I have going into this project, Jules, and you're telling me she's not on board.”

He stiffens when I address him by his first name. “Hettie Deveau won't live to see the summer,” he says. “We're all trying to make her final days as pleasant as possible.”

“The story of Gabriel's kidnapping is
her
story. She has the right to know what's going on.”

“If you have an ethical objection, we can contact Meyers Rowe and find another writer,” Jules tells me evenly. “Otherwise, work around it.” He stands up to signal that our chat has ended. “Would you like to see the grounds?”

I've invested too much to just walk away now. I bite my lip and nod, but the expression on my face plainly says,
Prick.

For the first time since I've met him, Jules smiles. The smirk is short-lived, though. He smoothes a lock of hair back in place and his face becomes expressionless, plastic, yet still so infuriatingly handsome I want to punch him.

C
harlie?” Rae picks up on the second ring. “I'm so glad you called!”

She really does sound glad, and I miss her suddenly, her gossip and her sass. It's half past five, and I'm sitting cross-legged on a pastel bedspread, hoping someone can convince me this book thing was not a mistake. “Hey, you,” I greet Rae with more pep than I feel. The sun is gone, and the radiator hasn't quite kicked in yet. “Is now a good time?”

“I'm on my commute. Now's perfect. So . . . wow, are you in Louisiana?”

“I'm here,” I confirm.

“How was your drive down? No, wait—” Rae interrupts herself before I can reply. “I want to hear about the house first. Is it insane?”

I climb under the quilted bedspread to get warm. The mattress squishes beneath me, promising a long and uncomfortable night. “Evangeline is—what you'd imagine. Very elegant.” That much is true. Every room that Jules showed me was exquisite, and with the exception of the well-equipped contemporary kitchen, each retained its Old South charm.

“How many rooms?”

I grilled Jules for this kind of information on our brief tour, taking notes as he dispensed factoids about the estate. “Sixteen rooms total,” I recite. “The place was built in the 1840s, but the family has made a number of additions and updates.”

“Dang. Do they have a cook and a butler and all that?”

“No butler,” I report, “but an estate manager. And definitely a cook. I met her today.” Her name is Leeann and she looks impossibly young to know her way around all those gorgeous stainless steel appliances. A plump, pink-faced girl, Leeann strikes me as someone who probably still rises with breathless delight at five a.m. on Christmas morning. “I think she cooks more for the staff than the family,” I explain to Rae. “She said they have a chef come on weekends and for guests or parties.”

“You don't count as a guest?”

From my crater in the squishy mattress, I eye my ugly pastel room. “Uh, no. I think I'm on par with the hired help.” I don't tell her that Jules explicitly urged me to eat meals with the staff. In some weird way, I find it embarrassing.

“How many people does it take to run a place that big, anyway?” Rae asks.

I try to remember everyone that Jules mentioned. A housekeeper, groundskeeper, part-time landscaping crew. Security. Nurses for Hettie. The cook, a chef, and of course, Jules himself. “I'm guessing they have about fifteen people who work here full- or part-time,” I say. “And the mom, Hettie, is the only one who lives here. Her kids and granddaughter just stop by for visits.”

Rae sighs, out of envy or disapproval or maybe both. “Is it crazy gorgeous?”

“I only got to see the downstairs, but yes.”

“Wait, your room is downstairs?”

I laugh dryly. “More like in the backyard.”

“Say what?” I figured Rae wouldn't be thrilled by this development, and in point of fact, neither am I. Before I left, Rae spent hours selecting a wardrobe for me that she deemed appropriate mansion-wear, and now I'm not even living in Evangeline. In fact, the house gets alarmed at eight p.m. each night to keep me and all the other employees out.

“It isn't
that
bad,” I say, picking at a square on the quilt. “They put me in a guest cottage. I have a mini kitchen and a bathroom.” I omit the details of the flowered wallpaper, lace curtains, and excessive use of lavender. I think they were going for homey, but the space reminds me of a giant girly Easter egg.

“So the guest cottage is a separate house out back?” Rae asks.

I try to describe it for her. “You walk five minutes from the main house and there are four little cottages, where some of the staff live. They used to be slave quarters, like from plantation days.” I know that will get her going.

“Are you
kidding
me? They invite you over and stick you in a slave house?” She whoops indignantly. “That's disrespectful to you and all the black folk who were enslaved on that plantation. Seriously, that's like making a motel out of Auschwitz.”

According to Jules, the original slave housing was demolished early in the twentieth century. The cottages as they stand now were built about fifteen years ago. They're modern to the point of having key-coded doors, but I don't tell Rae that. I find her outrage oddly comforting.

“Evangeline actually has Confederate memorabilia in the sitting room,” I offer.

Rae whistles. “You really gonna stick this out for three months, Charlie-girl?”

“Gonna try.” Three months sounds like a long time right now, so I change the subject. “Did my renter show up?” For a while, it didn't look like I'd be able to find a short-term renter, but a couple of weeks before I left, a divorced mom whose home had been damaged in a fire materialized.

“She moved in yesterday,” Rae says. “She's got two daughters. Teenagers.”

“Oooh, our dream come true. Babysitters!”

The second the words leave my mouth, I'm shocked.
You forgot,
I realize.
For a minute, you actually forgot
.

“Maybe they can sit for Zoey,” I add lamely, but the empty space in my chest is already burning. Guilt blazes through me in a quick fire.
How could you forget your child, forget he's gone?

Rae and I talk for a few more minutes, but I'm guarded now. I hold my loss close, pressing it against my chest, my lungs, until it hurts to breathe. Maybe I'm punishing myself. Maybe I'm protecting myself, from forgetting and having to remember all over again. Either way, my absent little boy hovers between us. Without him, what do Rae and I really have in common?

Finally her train pulls into the Stamford station, and we say a quick good-bye.

“Take care of yourself,” Rae tells me. “Make sure you eat, promise?”

“Promise.”

After we hang up, I don't know what to do with myself. I can't just lie here sinking into this monstrous bed, so I do something useful and look up the contact Isaac gave me in local law enforcement: Detective Remy Minot. Although Gabriel's abduction was originally handled by local, state, and federal law enforcement agencies, the cold case has fallen to the parish sheriff's department—a solid indication the investigation is dead in the water. If there were anything promising to go on, I have no doubt the FBI would be all over it. Still, Detective Minot will have access to files from the original investigation. He's worth talking to.

I call the Bonnefoi Parish sheriff's department and am quickly transferred to Detective Minot's voice mail. I leave a message, knowing the chances of this guy returning my call are slim. Cops like journalists when a cold case needs exposure, but the one thing Gabriel's kidnapping never lacked was publicity.

It's six o'clock. Leeann, the cook, said she puts out a spread for the staff every weeknight between six and seven. If I want to eat tonight, it's that or drive back to town in the dark. There are definite advantages to meeting the staff. Maybe there will be some old, faithful caretaker who has been working for the family thirty-some years and remembers Gabriel. At the very least, I can get quotes for the book—an insider's view of the family.

I slip on a jacket and step into the night. The moon is just a sliver as I follow the dirt path back toward Evangeline's distant lights.
Why couldn't Hettie spring for some outdoor lighting?
The garden, with its tall and spindly shrubbery, has become a jungle of strange shapes and unidentifiable shadows, and the solemn cherub who presides over the empty fountain looks better suited to a headstone. I can feel the swamp not so far away, ready to swallow up anything, anyone. I quicken my step. Whoever took Gabriel probably stood in this very garden, watching the house that night, waiting. That person could still be out there. Could still be close.

I weave along the path, eyes darting around for some unknown danger, and jump when a low-lying plant brushes my ankle. At the height of my paranoia, I hear something. A male voice, almost immediately to my right.

“Do you know how long I've been waiting for you?”

I freeze. There's a figure, partially obscured, standing on the other side of a hedge. I think that my heart will fly out of my chest.
Who the hell—

“Three weeks. It's been almost three weeks now. So don't tell me to be patient.” It's Jules, I realize. Jules is talking, but not to me. He must be on a cell phone. “Yes, I am aware of your busy schedule, thank you. You reminded me of it both times you canceled our plans last week. Are you aware of the sacrifices I make to keep our relationship even remotely functional?”

I'm about to continue walking when he steps into the path ahead of me, still absorbed in his conversation. I stand in the darkness of the hedge, not six feet behind him, debating whether or not to reveal my position. Will it look like I've been spying on him if I burst suddenly from a bush? Is it worse to
look
like I was eavesdropping or to actually eavesdrop?

“No, you listen. I lie for you, I sneak around like some guilty teenager, I change my plans for you at a moment's notice—” Jules paces around, tilting his chin up to the sky so I get a good look at his perfectly proportioned silhouette. If he turned around, he'd see me lingering in the bushes. But he doesn't.

“So you'll be here? That's a promise?” His voice sweetens when it appears he will get his way. “Good. Don't forget my cuff links this time. They should still be on your dresser.” He pauses. “No, the Louis Vuittons. They're black.” He pauses again, then chuckles as if the caller has said something amusing. I wonder what kind of joke one can make about designer cuff links. “Right. I'll see you this weekend, then.” He takes off for the house, too pleased with his domestic victory to notice me, thank goodness.

I give him a couple of minutes, idly imagining what kind of beautiful, high-powered woman has chosen to tolerate Jules—a married one, if they're sneaking around—and then head for the warm glow of the kitchen.

Through large French doors, I can see a young black family seated in the breakfast nook. Employees of the estate, I guess, since they aren't being served in the dining room. It hadn't occurred to me that families might live on the premises, but there they are: a mother, a father, and a small girl on bent knees who frowns suspiciously at her food. I hesitate for a moment, not wanting to interrupt the scene, but Leeann, the cook, spots me and hurries over to let me in. A large, old, rust-colored dog follows on her heels, waiting for handouts.

“Well, hey there! I was wondrin' if you were goin' to stop by.” She's a hefty, fair, apple-cheeked girl who barely fits into her massive chef's shirt, and she's even friendlier now than when I met her with Jules. Again I'm struck by how young she looks. If I saw her on the street, I'd put her at twenty.

“Hi, Leeann.” I return her toothy grin and stoop to pet the dog. “This place smells heavenly.” Although I've never been a fan of Country French décor, the whitewashed cupboards, cart of potted herbs, and hanging rack of copper pots provide the room with a homey sweetness. On the wooden island, Leeann has laid out a plate of fish, along with half-empty bowls of collards and something orange. I help myself and join the young family at the table.

“This is the lady from New York I was tellin' y'all about,” Leeann informs them. “Charlotte, right?”

“I go by Charlie.” I wave at the little girl. Her father, a long-limbed young man who doesn't look much older than Leeann, leans over her plate cutting her fish into pieces. Beside him, the mother shifts in her chair and regards me neutrally. I see now that she is very pregnant.

“Charlie, this is Paulette.” Leeann puts her hands on the pregnant woman's shoulders. “She's the housekeepa. Well, for a couple more months, anyway. She and Benny here got a baby boy comin' March first.”

“Congratulations,” I say, but the word feels awkward in my mouth.
Of course there would be kids here. And a pregnant woman.
I don't know why this surprises me.

I turn to Paulette's husband, forcing myself to be pleasant. “Do you work here too, Benny?”

He nods. “I look afta da cars, drive Mrs. Deveau around, fix stuff what breaks.”

Their daughter eyes me as she shovels chunks of fish into her mouth with her fingers. In a few years, she will be a homely child, but for now her wide-apart eyes and big forehead are still cute.

“Bailey, use a fork.” Benny hands her one. The dog makes an astute canine calculation and plops himself down by Bailey, who continues studying me.

“I'm tree years old,” she announces loudly. “Ma name is Bailey Thomas. You should wear makeup.”

“Bailey!” Paulette exclaims. “You act right!” She looks at me, apologetic. “I'm sorry. We still workin' on manners.”

“No problem. She probably has a point.” It's embarrassing to have a three-year-old tell me I'm not keeping up my appearance, but Bailey is right. I've let myself go. If I'm going to run with the Deveaus, I need to look like money.

“Don't you mind Bailey. She the li'l princess around here, ain'tcha, mamzelle?” Leeann coos.

Bailey swallows her food down with a gulp of milk. “I'm tree years old,” she reminds me, a bit aggressively, as if I might accuse her of being two.

I put on an impressed face. “Three is pretty old.” Older than Gabriel ever got to be.

“It's not that old.” Bailey frowns. “On ma next birthdee, I'm gone be four.”

“She the same age as ma li'l man,” Leeann tells me.

I can't conceal my surprise at that one. I knew I was an older mother, but seriously? How can Leeann have a three-year-old?

“You look too young,” I say.

“I'm twen'y-three.”

I bet she didn't even mean to have him. I bet he was an accident and yet there she was, popping out a baby before she could even legally drink. Why does she get to have a child and I don't?