The Honest Folk of Guadeloupe (13 page)

“Give you?”

“To be on the safe side. It was your daughter who was reported missing, it was your daughter who hired the car. So when she turns up, we want to be sure it’s her.”

“I have a picture … it’s at the hotel. But you must promise to give it back. It’s a very lovely photograph—taken at La Baule several years ago. The summer before my Gérard died.”

“A recent photo?”

“People used to think we were sisters—even if I’m a lot broader across the beam than her. And I didn’t have her until I was thirty-five.”

“The person in the Polaroid doesn’t look like you at all. Your daughter’s white, Madame Vaton?”

The woman gave a high-pitched giggle. “What a strange question!”

“Would you care to answer my strange question?”

It was a few minutes after eleven o’clock and children were returning home from primary school for lunch. They walked by the roadside, their clothes bright, their satchels perched high on their backs. Away from Pointe-à-Pitre, ribbons and plaits appeared popular among the rural schoolgirls.

“Is your daughter white? Your husband …”

“Somewhere, perhaps, my dear husband had Negro ancestry but it was nothing to be ashamed of. He was from Guadeloupe and he had lovely skin.”

Trousseau drove carefully. “You weren’t surprised your daughter had come to Guadeloupe without telling you?”

“Ever since she was little she talked about coming to her father’s island.”

“She didn’t tell you before she left?”

“My little girl can be secretive—that’s something she gets from me.”

“There are relatives? Your husband was from Basse-Terre. Is it possible she’s gone to stay with people from your husband’s family?”

Perhaps Madame Vaton did not hear Trousseau’s question; perhaps she chose to ignore it. “With the Lord’s help, I know she’ll turn up. It’s happened before. She’ll turn up, alive and well.”

“She has relatives in Guadeloupe?”

“Not that I know of.”

A row of banana trees ran alongside the road, their green leaves shifting with the breeze of the passing cars.

Soon the Peugeot came to the cemetery where a group of boys was intent on throwing sticks into a mango tree; to take better aim, they stood out on the roadway, indifferent to the hoots of the traffic.

“Happened before?” Anne Marie had come out of her reverie. “What happened before?”

“A cemetery?” Madame Vaton pointed. “Is that a cemetery?”

Trousseau smiled. “Here in the islands, the cemeteries are often bigger than the towns. Probably something to do with our voodoo past.”

“I wouldn’t like that.”

“We’re on this Earth for a short space of time. Death is forever so we take it seriously.”

“Madame Vaton.” Anne Marie did not attempt to hide her irritation—as much with Trousseau as with the woman. “This isn’t the first time your daughter’s disappeared?”

“Voodoo?”

“Please answer my question. Your daughter’s disappeared before?”

“Several times.” Madame Vaton looked sideways at Anne Marie. The thin lips had tightened. “Nothing to worry about. I never believed
she was dead. I knew Our Lord wouldn’t take my little angel from me.” A tight smile. “In my heart I knew she was alive, even when the two policemen came to my house.” She touched her forehead. “And to think it was only two days ago.”

Trousseau turned right off the riviera and headed toward the center of Gosier, past the Total garage.

“When was the first time?”

Madame Vaton lowered her voice, “When she pretended to run away from home.”

“Where did she go?”

“Evelyne was sixteen and under the pressure of exams. Evelyne is such a perfectionist. She gets that from me.”

“When did she run away?”

“It was before her Brevet but we soon found her—or at least the police found her.”

“Where was she?” Anne Marie asked, resenting the sweet
eau de cologne
, resenting the woman’s deliberate obtuseness and her synthetic emotions. “Where was she?”

“Staying with a teacher—a woman teacher of bookkeeping. Stayed with her for nearly a week before we found out where she was. I was almost out of my mind from worry and when they found her, the police weren’t at all happy.”

“What made her run away?”

The voice was now a whisper. “The police were convinced she was a …”

“Yes, Madame Vaton?”

“That she was a … lesbian.”

Trousseau turned in his seat and for an instant forgot about the other traffic, about the children playing at the roadside.

“I never believed it, of course.” Madame Vaton reverted to a conversational tone. “When Gérard retired, there was his pension, but that wasn’t enough. Not for a family, not to pay for her school things. I had to go out to work. I did a lot of overtime—it would pay for the clothes. Clothes and the other innocent pleasures in life.” The face broke into a pleasant smile. “I must say,
madame le juge
, that you have a lovely skirt.”

“Thank you.”

“Evelyne always said I worked too much. Wanted me to stay at
home—but I couldn’t afford to. She likes to be spoiled, to be pampered by me. That’s not a good thing.” A sigh. “I tried not to give in—for her sake. Evelyne didn’t always understand it was for her good. When she went to Church on Sunday, it was important she should be well-dressed. As pretty as a picture. I tried to do my best, I tried to do what was right. I was a good mother and I brought my daughter up to be a good Christian.”

“Your daughter’s a lesbian?”

“A lesbian? Of course not. What on earth makes you think that?” She laughed with amusement. “The teacher of bookkeeping was a lesbian. Or perhaps she wasn’t. It didn’t really matter either way, because our Evelyne’s a good girl and she doesn’t need any of that. She’s not interested in sex with women—or with men. Perhaps when she was younger—it’s a stage they all go through, isn’t it? But now she’s very sensible.” Madame Vaton raised the leather-bound book. “Too much talk about sex nowadays.”

Trousseau nodded. “Undoubtedly.”

“Evelyne was studying for her Brevet and the police said the woman’d tried to seduce other young girls, too, so we decided, Gérard and I, we decided not to bother with pressing charges. Best all around to let the matter drop. And of course, Evelyne got her exam. Clever girl, Evelyne. Clever and hardworking.” Madame Vaton added, “I like to think that she gets that from me.”

Anne Marie climbed back into the car

Trousseau had straightened his tie. “Back to town,
madame le juge
?”

“You’ve got the photo?”

Trousseau was sweating and he ran a handkerchief across his brow before handing Anne Marie a manila envelope. “Hot, isn’t it?”

“Take your tie off.” She took the envelope he held out. “For once, you could take off your jacket.”

Trousseau clicked his tongue as he slid behind the wheel of the Peugeot.

“Can we go now?” Anne Marie said tersely.

“Why the hurry?”

“Turn the conditioner off.”

Trousseau appeared offended. “Where to?”

“And open all the windows, for heaven’s sake. Get rid of that smell of perfume. I think I’m going to vomit.”

Trousseau did as he was told. He yanked the car into gear and looped round in front of the hotel. The wheels screeched on the hot concrete.

“That better,
madame le juge
?”

“Sorry to be so abrupt. Forgive me.” Anne Marie felt guilty. “I didn’t mean to be aggressive.”

He drove in silence.

“And thanks for accompanying her, Monsieur Trousseau. I didn’t feel up to it.”

“Madame Vaton was excited at the prospect of lunch. Said she’d heard so much about breadfruit, she was dying to try it.”

Anne Marie shuddered. “You’ve looked at the girl’s photo?

“A Christian woman,” Trousseau said.

“Madame Vaton?”

“You don’t like her,
madame le juge
?”

“I can’t stand her.”

“Lately there haven’t been many people you can stand,
madame le juge
.”

“As I get older, I get more intolerant.”

“You’re a lot older than you look because quite clearly you can’t stand me.” He caught his breath. “I do my best.”

“It’s the heat, Monsieur Trousseau. The heat and that woman’s dreadful
eau de cologne
. I know I’m …” She ran a hand through her hair. “I’m fed up, Monsieur Trousseau, fed up with the morgue and with this wretched enquiry—I hate murders. So sordid and sad.”

Trousseau glanced into the overhead mirror and accelerated. The stone walls to the hotel gardens were covered with unkempt, blossoming bougainvillea. “I’m simply a
greffier, madame le juge
. I try to do my job to the best of my ability.”

“You were very good. I truly admire your diplomatic approach, Monsieur Trousseau. You understand white women.”

The face clouded. “White women, black women, oriental women—
madame le juge
, I really don’t choose to distinguish.” He grimaced. “The Creator made us all equal, you know.”

“I appreciated your asking all the questions.” Anne Marie added, “Perhaps we ought to change jobs, you and I.”

“A nice lady.”

“You liked her?”

“Back to Pointe-à-Pitre?” Without waiting for a reply, without stopping at the stop sign, Trousseau pulled the car out on to the main road, turning left toward the city.

“You liked Madame Vaton?”

Trousseau said nothing.

“There are times when you amaze me.”

“Amaze you? I don’t see why. To me Madame Vaton seems a good Christian woman.”

“Can I invite you for lunch? I’d appreciate your company.”

“I don’t see what pleasure a
juge d’instruction
could possibly find in my company.”

“Lunch and later a drive into the country. A long drive to Saint-François.”

“It’s Friday afternoon and you’re seeing the
procureur
.”

“Not often we’re together, Monsieur Trousseau, and I value your opinions.”

“Will the
procureur
appreciate your absence?”

“Your company and your opinions.” Anne Marie had slid the photograph from the envelope. “Let me worry about the
procureur
while you worry about the driving.”

“Saint-François it is, then.” Without waiting for a reply Trousseau cut across the road, turned in the forecourt of the garage and headed back in the opposite direction. Five minutes later they reached the
route nationale
and he spoke again. “Left or right?”

“To Saint-François.”

“I do as I’m told and I mind my own business.”

“You’re a good man, Monsieur Trousseau, and you know I’ve always respected your opinion.”

In the photo, mother and daughter were on the beach at La Baule. Behind them, L’Hermitage Hotel. A photograph that made Madame Vaton appear younger. She wore a cotton frock. Her daughter was in a swimsuit. The photograph had been taken too far from the subject for the facial details to be clear.

“About the same height as the girl in the morgue.”

“Her daughter’s alive and she knew that,” Anne Marie said. “She was not behaving like a woman who’s just lost her only child.”

“Our Lord had told her. She’s a deeply religious woman.”

“She makes my flesh creep.”

Trousseau ran a finger along his moustache. “Like Docteur Bouton?”

“At least Docteur Bouton hasn’t got religion—even if he does make my flesh creep.”

Trousseau tugged at his tie. “I know a lot of people who could benefit from religion. People who ought to be a lot more charitable.”

“If you’re alluding to the fact that my maiden name is Bloch, Monsieur Trousseau …”

“Jesus came to earth to save sinners.”

“Let me remind you that I’m Catholic. Like my mother, God rest her soul, I’m a baptized Catholic.”

“Too many sinners who don’t want to be saved.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Our Savior came to wash away our sins.”

“You sound like Madame Vaton.”

“A Christian lady.”

“Vaton’s religion’s not sincere.”

“The day of reckoning will soon be upon us—and then perhaps you’ll see the need for religion,
madame le juge
. You will have ample time to regret not paying more attention to the word of the Holy Scriptures.” He again pulled at the knot of his black tie. The short end, Anne Marie noticed, was frayed.

“Monsieur Trousseau, I respect your religious beliefs. I respect other people’s opinions—but Madame Vaton’s not sincere.”

“You’ve no right to say that,
madame le juge
.”

Anne Marie savored the air rushing through the window, pulling at her hair. With a sudden, inexplicable lack of decorum she kicked off the ungainly shoes, raised her legs and set her feet under her thighs on the back seat. In the mirror Trousseau raised a disapproving eyebrow.

Anne Marie set her fist under her chin before continuing. “From the moment she gets off the plane, it’s as if she’s on holiday. Even in the morgue, for goodness sake. The Club Mediterranée. Her daughter’s dead and she’s enjoying herself!”

“She knew her daughter wasn’t dead.”

“Excited at the thought of eating breadfruit.”

“You’re forgetting her husband’s originally from Guadeloupe.”

“She’s not human.”

“If Evelyne Vaton’s not dead, Evelyne Vaton must be alive.”

“If she’s not dead, she’s alive.” Anne Marie started to laugh.

“And if Evelyne Vaton’s alive, she’s going to turn up.” He gestured over his shoulder to the photograph on Anne Marie’s lap. “When Evelyne Vaton turns up, you’ll know whether the mother was lying.”

“An unidentified corpse in the morgue—and because of the Hertz car, everybody thought it was Evelyne Vaton. We’ve shown our incompetence—and we’re no nearer to solving who killed the woman.”

“Incompetence?” He ran his finger along the line of his upper lip.

“Precisely, Monsieur Trousseau—incompetence. I should’ve checked with the people she was staying with in Basse-Terre.”

“Why bother when the mother was flying from France for the autopsy?”

Anne Marie shivered unhappily. “Some mother.”

“I wouldn’t use the word incompetence.” Trousseau shrugged. “Everybody thought it was Vaton’s body—including the prime suspect, Desterres. There was the photo and there was the bikini. You were fed the bait.”