Haitian Graves (4 page)

W
hen we got to the police station, LeBlanc wouldn’t let me come any farther. A murder investigation, he reminded me, was not part of my job here.

Once again he was right. But once again I didn’t like it.

I told myself to mind my own business. The Hammond murder had nothing to do with me.

I had the next day off, and I was determined to enjoy it. I slept in. When I got up, I thought about going for a run but figured it was already too hot. I did a hundred laps in the pool instead. Then I prepared myself a nice breakfast of omelet and fresh fruit. I put the food on a tray and carried it down to the garden. As I ate, my mind wandered to Marie Hammond and Alphonse. I speared a juicy slice of mango. When we’d first arrived, no one had so much as hinted that Alphonse was causing trouble with Marie. Later, Hammond “remembered.” As did Nicholas. Nicholas, I was pretty sure, had been primed on what to say before our return visit.

Still, that didn’t mean it wasn’t true. Alphonse seemed like a timid old guy. But after all my years as a cop, I knew better than to judge anyone by appearance.

I was wiping up the last of the fruit juices with a slice of toast when my phone rang. Pierre.

“What’s up?” I said.

“Thought you’d want to know. We searched Alphonse’s home this morning.”

“And?”

“Found two hundred American dollars and a stack of gourdes. Hidden under a cooking pot.”

“Does he live alone?”

“Yeah. Wife and kids killed in the earthquake.”

“What’s he say about the money?”

“That he doesn’t know how it got there. I am thinking…” He hesitated.

“Go ahead,” I said. Thinking was good. I wanted cops to think.

“He did look very surprised when we showed him the money. Then again, he might be a good actor.”

“Thanks.” I hung up. Two hundred bucks. About a month’s salary for a gardener. A lot of money to have hanging around a house in Jalousie. Then again, it might be his savings. Maybe he didn’t trust banks. But he said the money wasn’t his. Was that the truth? Or what he thought he should say to the cops?

What did I know? Maybe he did kill Marie Hammond. Not because he was interested in her, but because he was stealing from her. Hammond did say money had been taken from her purse.

It’s gotta be hard for people like housemaids and gardeners. They work all day in big houses. Surrounded by all the luxuries money can buy. And then they go home to a refugee tent or a cardboard-and-tin shack.

I read for a while longer and enjoyed another swim. At noon I got dressed to meet a couple of friends for lunch. Guys who were in Haiti working on plans for a proper, modern police-training facility.

I’d brought a car with me from Canada. An old but reliable Toyota RAV4. I headed out in it to the Hotel Oloffson. The Oloffson’s a gorgeous old place. Long balconies, gingerbread trim, ironwork as delicate as lace, and ornate wooden fretwork. Turrets and white paint and a red roof. Mazes of nooks and crannies. Modern Vodou sculptures fill the rooms and the lush tropic gardens, popping up in the most unexpected places. The hotel was made famous in Graham Greene’s novel
The Comedians
. It still has the aura of a place that time left far behind.

My friends had arrived before me. They’d taken a table on the wide verandah, overlooking the main staircase and the gardens. I sat down and ordered a beer. They told me about the progress (or lack thereof ) on the new police college. I talked about my work, but I didn’t mention the Hammond case. I was still telling myself to forget about it. We shared the local police and government gossip.

“I hear the presidential-palace rebuild has been put up for bid,” I said.

“As if. There’s some idle talk going around. But everyone knows there’s no way of paying for it.”

“They have more important things to fix first. Where’d you hear that, Ray?”

I shrugged. “Just gossip.”

We stopped talking when our food arrived. The pretty waitress placed an overflowing plate of spicy shrimp, rice and beans in front of me. I watched as a taxi pulled up to the bottom of the steps. An elderly white couple got out. The man leaned heavily on a cane, while his wife fussed about. The driver brought their bags. They all went into reception. A minute later the driver came back out, shaking his head. He got into his cab and drove away.

We finished our lunch. I would have enjoyed staying longer, but my friends had to get back to work. We walked down the steps together, and they went to their car. I had a phone call to make. I stood in the shade of a white-painted brick alcove beside a statue of a tall-hatted Baron Samedi. Samedi is the chief spirit of the Haitian Vodou world. Religion here is a seamless blend of Vodou and Christianity.

Pierre told me he’d heard nothing more about the progress of the Hammond investigation.

The old couple passed me, heading toward the street. I hung up and hurried after them. “Are you needing some help?” I asked.

They turned and smiled at me. The man leaned on his cane. He was already wheezing in the heat. The woman was in her late seventies. She was well preserved, with expensively cut and colored ash-blond hair. She wore powder-blue summer-weight slacks and a blue-and-white-striped shirt. A long turquoise-and-silver necklace was around her neck, and matching earrings were in her ears. A gold band and a single hefty diamond were on her left hand. I figured they’d last about five minutes out on the street. If that.

“We’ve just arrived,” she said. “I suggested a short walk. Have a look around. Perhaps find an
ATM
.” Her accent was Canadian. Manitoba I guessed.

“That’s not advisable,” I said. Until recently, the area around the Oloffson had been part of the red zone. Meaning our embassy staff wasn’t even allowed to go there without a bodyguard. Never mind on foot, lost and swinging expensive jewelry.

“I couldn’t understand anything the receptionist at the desk told me,” the woman said. “You’d think they’d speak English, wouldn’t you, if they want tourists. She tried to tell us not to go for a walk, but I didn’t think that was what she meant.”

“It was exactly what she meant,” I said. “Look, if you need a bank, I can take you. You won’t find an
ATM
on the street.”

“That’s very kind of you,” she said. We introduced ourselves. They were Harold and Laura Anderson. They were from Winnipeg and happy to meet a fellow Canadian.

I loaded them into my car, and we set off. Mrs. Anderson told me they’d never been to Haiti before. I refrained from saying, “I know.” Since her husband retired, they liked to travel. To Europe mostly, some Caribbean cruises. This year they thought they’d do something different. She did almost all of the talking. The old man said he didn’t like Rome. It was too crowded.

I parked half on the sidewalk in front of the bank. She told me I could wait in the car. I went in with them anyway. They were perfectly safe going
into
the bank. It was leaving that might present a problem. Not long ago a Canadian priest had been murdered on his way out of the bank. The killers got away with the money he’d withdrawn.

I watched as the couple stood in line and were served. Mrs. Anderson smiled politely at everyone. They were as innocent as babies. The streets of Port-au-Prince weren’t
unsafe
. Not if you were a fit, six-foot-three cop and kept your wits about you and your hand firmly on your wallet.

But these two?

Not a chance.

Once we were back in the car, I told them so. “Do not leave the hotel grounds on your own. If you want to see the sights, hire a driver.”

“Would you show us what there is to see?” she asked.

“I don’t…”

“How about today? Right now. We don’t have to go far. Just around here.” She gave me a smile. I thought not of my mother, but of my daughters. They were making noises about traveling the world. If they were lost and innocent, I hoped someone would help them out.

“Sure,” I said. “And then I’ll give you a number you can call.” There was a driver I used when I intended to drink more than I should on a night out.

We drove through the streets and I pointed out the sights. The center of Portau-Prince had been flattened by the earthquake. The cathedral was a pink ruin. Mrs. Anderson said it reminded her of Rome. The beautiful national museum was underground, so it survived. I told them to be sure their driver took them there, as it was well worth seeing. As I drove, I pointed out the so-called gingerbread houses. They’d been built of wood back in the twenties and fared much better in the earthquake than modern structures did.

“Harold. Look at that,” Mrs. Anderson squealed as we drove past the cemetery. All cemeteries in Haiti are above ground. Elaborately decorated tombs. Bright paint. Lots of statues. “Can we go in?” she asked me.

“Sure. It’s worth seeing.” I parked the car close to the entrance. Women were selling vegetables, and men were offering trinkets. We passed by a creek bed with more garbage than water. Inside the cemetery, people clustered in the few patches of welcome shade. Chickens pecked in the dirt and crumbling stone paving. The concrete and stone tombs are packed tightly together. They’re mostly painted cream, yellow, turquoise or pale blue. Many are faced with blue and yellow tile. Some feature sculptures of winged angels. Most are topped with crosses. They’re laid out in rows and sections. Like streets. With signposts. A few are protected by iron grills. To keep grave robbers out or the inhabitants in? I wasn’t sure. Almost all of the tombs were damaged. Whether from the earthquake or just the passage of time, I couldn’t tell.

In death as in life, the richer families have big tombs. Some are three stories tall, with windows. The poorer ones are not much larger than a single coffin. They all have the name of the family or individual carved on them. We walked slowly down the rows. I like it here. I’ve never found it a solemn place. People gather to visit their loved ones, both departed and otherwise. The sun shines hot overhead. The sky’s a brilliant blue. Leaves stir in the breeze.

“It’s wonderful,” Mrs. Anderson said.

“That it is.” I turned, looking for Mr. Anderson. He’d stopped to rest. He leaned against a large tomb. White brick, green with age, crumbling into the ground.

He waved at us. “You carry on. I’ll rest here.” His breath came in short gasps.

“No, no. I’ve seen enough. We’ll go back.” She hurried to him. She took his arm and helped him stand upright.

We walked back through the street of the dead. A chicken followed us.

I took them back to the hotel. I helped Mr. Anderson, visibly tired, out of the car. Mrs. Anderson thanked me for my kindness. They walked very slowly up the stairs and into the hotel.

T
hursday was another a day off. But today the pool didn’t have much appeal. I called LeBlanc at the number he’d given me. The cop who answered told me that Agent LeBlanc was not in. I suspected he was
not in
only to me.

I put on my uniform and drove to Petion-Ville. In Canada, I’d be in real trouble, wearing the uniform and carrying a weapon when not on duty. But what the heck. I doubted anyone here would even notice. Certainly no one would care.

I hammered on the garage door.

“You again,” Nicholas said.

I looked over his shoulder. Hammond’s Lexus was gone.

Excellent.

“I’ve come to see Mr. Hammond,” I said.

“He’s gone to work.”

My face fell. “Gee. That’s too bad. I must have misunderstood his message. Everything okay here?”

Nicholas shifted his shotgun. “Yes.” His sleeve fell back. A watch, with a thick gold chain strap and a multitude of dials, flashed in the sun.

He wasn’t wearing that watch last time I was here.

“I’ve lost my house key. It must have dropped out of my pocket.” I stepped forward. Nicholas took a step back. “I’ll have a word with the housekeeper, okay? Ask if she found it.”

He hesitated.

Never hesitate, I teach my students.

I pushed my way past him and dashed up the steps. The gate was unlocked. I rattled it and called out. The housekeeper came out of the back. She saw me standing there in my uniform, waving and smiling. She did not smile back. “Mr. Hammond is not at home.”

“That’s okay. I’ve lost a key. Did you find it when you were cleaning?” I pushed the door open and walked in. Bold as brass.

“No.”

“I might have lost it when I was in the laundry room the other day. I’ll check. You can come with me.” I went into the kitchen. She followed. In the family room, the
TV
was on. I glanced in. The girl was sprawled across the floor, a doll cradled in her lap. She turned to face me. Her dark eyes were wide. She stuck her thumb into her mouth.

“Kids not at school?” I asked.

“They have been taken out of the school,” Josephine said. “They are going to America soon.”

I would have thought school would be a better place for them, after the death of their mother. Better than being at home alone with a stranger. Watching
TV
.

But I wasn’t here to give parenting advice.

I made a thorough search of the laundry room. No key was to be found. Which wasn’t a surprise, as I hadn’t lost one.

“Did you know Paulette?” I asked.

“No.”

“Do you know why she quit?”

“No.”

“So the family’s moving to the States, eh? That means you’ll be out of a job.”

“Yes. Are you finished here?”

“I guess I am.”

We went back to the kitchen. Marie’s son had his head buried in the fridge. He turned as we came in. I sucked in a breath.

The boy’s right eye was the color of an approaching storm. Purple and dark blue. His lip was puffy and split. A drop of blood had dried on his hairless chin.

“What happened to you?” I said.

“Nothin’.”

“Obviously something. Have you been in a fight?”

“None of your business,” he said. He grabbed a can of Coke and marched out of the room.

I turned to Josephine. “Who hit him?”

“His father,” she said. To her, it was no big deal. “He was weeping over the death of his mother. It is time he became a man. Men do not weep.”

He was eight years old. In Canada, I would have reported it. Here? I didn’t know.

In the other room, Jeanne-Marie started to cry. Josephine hurried out. I followed. The boy had grabbed his sister’s doll. He was swinging it by the hair over his head. His laughter was harsh, taunting. The girl jumped up and down, missing it by a couple of feet. She begged him to let the doll go.

“Give that to her
now
!” I shouted.

He dropped the doll. The girl fell on it, weeping. She gathered it to her skinny chest. “Don’t cry,” she whispered. “Mommy’s here. The bad man won’t hurt you.”

The boy stared at me. He was just a kid, but the black eye and the split lip made him look mean. “Stupid girl,” he said. He dropped to the couch and picked up the remote.

“You must leave now,” Josephine said.

Voices from the garage. Footsteps on the stairs. Gail Warkness marched down the long verandah. “What are you doing here, sergeant?” she snapped.

I gave her the story about the key. She didn’t seem to believe me.

“I think you’d better leave,” she said.

“I assume Nicholas called you.”

“Mr. Hammond was in a meeting and unable to get away.”

“Is it part of your job to check on casual visitors? Must keep you busy.”

“Not so casual. Seems to me a death took place here recently.” She didn’t remove her sunglasses. I couldn’t read her eyes.

“That it did,” I said. “I’m glad you’re here. I want to talk to you anyway. Privately.”

We left. Nicholas gave me a hard stare. “You are not to come back,” he said. He shifted the Escort 12ga in a warning. Or a threat.

“On my way over,” Warkness said when we were standing in the street, “I called Agent LeBlanc. He tells me your assistance is no longer needed on this case.”

“Just helping out,” I said. I walked to my car. I held the door open for her. “Come into my office.”

She climbed into the passenger seat. I switched on the engine. Cranked up the air-conditioning.

“Look, Gail,” I said. Keeping it friendly. “They’ve arrested the gardener. He may or may not have killed Marie Hammond. But I don’t think LeBlanc’s the type to go to a lot of trouble trying to prove anyone’s innocence.”

“My office will be following the case.”

“Yeah. Good. But I also think Hammond’s wanting a quick resolution. A charge. A trial. Over and done with.”

She lowered her sunglasses. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying the man’s more concerned about getting out of Haiti than mourning his dead wife. I’m saying his family life is darn creepy. I’m saying I’d be interested
to know why the housekeeper left so quickly.”

“She quit. Vodou is strong here—you know that. She told Hammond she feared Mrs. Hammond’s spirit would linger.”

“So Hammond says. I don’t know how you do things in the States, Gail. But I was taught that the spouse is usually the prime suspect. And that we don’t take our prime suspect’s word for what went down.”

“Butt out, Robertson.”

“Hey,” I said. “I’m just asking questions. Like a good cop does. Have you seen the kid today? Hammond belted him in the face. Hard enough to break the skin.”

“This isn’t the States, Robertson. It’s not even Canada. People can discipline their kids the way they want here.”

“But Hammond’s an American. You keep telling me that. He wants to take the kids back to the States. He’ll learn a thing or two about parenting there.”

Her eyes slid away from me.

“He is moving back to the States, isn’t he? That’s what I’ve been told.”

“None of your business, Robertson. Once again, I’m telling you to butt out.”

“You don’t tell me to do anything, Warkness. I don’t see that you have any authority here.”

“And you certainly don’t. Leave these people alone. If I find you here again… if I find you bothering Mr. Hammond or his children again, I will put in a formal complaint. I can have you kicked out of Haiti.”

“What the fuck?”

She opened the door and jumped to the ground. She put her sunglasses back into place. “And don’t think I won’t.”

Dumbfounded, I watched her cross the street with strong, purposeful strides.

Nicholas had been watching the whole thing. Warkness spoke to him. She jabbed her finger at me. Then she got into her cheerful yellow Ford Escape and drove away.

If I’d been alone, I would have pounded the dashboard. But Nicholas was still watching me. I gave him a cheerful wave before doing a U-turn and driving off.

I only went as far as the next street. My heart was pounding. I pulled to the side of the road.

Did Warkness know something about what went down when Marie died? Was she warning me off because she didn’t want me to know what she knew? Or was she just being difficult? Throwing her weight around? Because she could?

She seemed awfully interested in the fate of Steve Hammond. And not the least interested in the truth of what had happened to Marie Hammond. Sure, it was an embassy’s job to help its country’s citizens if they ran into trouble. But not to the point of trying to derail a police investigation. I’d found out there was no serious bidding going on for the rebuilding of the palace. What then, I had to ask, was Hammond doing here? And what business was it of Warkness’s?

Three women came down the street. They were laughing and joking. They caught sight of me watching, and their eyes turned wary. Their worn and faded but clean clothes said they were probably maids in nearby houses. I rolled down the window.

“Hi. Can I talk to you ladies for a minute?” I gave them my friendliest smile.

They approached my car but stopped a cautious couple of feet away. Their eyes were hooded and suspicious. So much for my smile.

“Yes?” the oldest one said.

“Do you know Paulette? She worked at the Hammond house. The pink one around the corner.”

The women nodded.

“That’s great!” I said. “I need to talk to her. I went to the house. But they say she quit.”

More nods.

“Do you know why?”

They glanced at each other. “Mrs. Hammond died. Paulette left. We have not seen her.”

“Do you know where I can find her?” I remembered that I was in uniform. “Nothing to do with the police,” I said quickly. “I owe her some money.”

They looked doubtful. I gave them another big, friendly smile.

“Paulette goes to Son of God Church in Jalousie. They might be able to help you.”

The older woman walked away. The others followed. No one looked back.

I used my phone to locate the Son of God.

Now was as good a time as any to pay them a visit.

Google Maps led me to a small church in a very poor neighborhood. Boys kicked a battered soccer ball around the dusty yard. They were about the same age as François. I figured he’d be better off here, poor but playing ball with his friends, than being beaten up by his rich stepdad.

They stopped their game when I stepped out of my car.

“Hi,” I said. “Is the priest around?”

They scattered. I thought they were running away. But they were soon back and told me the priest would talk to me. They escorted me inside the church.

The priest was standing at the altar. He turned when I and my entourage came in. He was an old guy. His back was bent, and he walked with a cane. But his eyes were sharp and penetrating.

“Thanks, kids,” I said to the boys. “You can go back to your game now.”

No one moved. The priest shouted something in Creole and they fled.

“I’m trying to find a woman who comes to your church,” I said. “She’s not in any trouble. I just need to talk to her.”

I only had her first name and a rough description of her. It was enough. The priest knew who I was talking about. He wouldn’t give me her address or take me to her house. I had no authority to order him to do so. I didn’t want to alarm the woman in any event. He agreed to get in touch with her. I was to return that afternoon. She would be here. Or not.

Outside, I kicked the ball around for a few minutes with the kids. Then I headed into town to grab lunch.

When I got back a few hours later, the boys were gone, but Paulette was in the church.

She was sitting quietly in a pew at the back when I came in. No one else was there, not even the priest. Paulette’s hands were folded neatly in her lap. Her head was down. Her lips moved in prayer.

She was a Catholic. Didn’t mean she didn’t practice Vodou also. The two religions were so closely entwined here, they were sometimes one.

I slipped into the pew beside her. “Thank you for coming.”

She didn’t look at me. “I do not want trouble.”

“No.”

“But I am sorry for Mrs. Hammond. I will help you if I can.”

“Why did you quit?”

She snorted. “I did not quit. He, Mr. Hammond, told me to leave. He said he did not need me.”

“Why?”

Suddenly, tears filled her eyes. “It is not good for the children. Their mother died. I looked after them. I cared for them. And then I was gone also.”

“Did Hammond pay you what he owed in your wages?”

She wiped her eyes. “Yes. And much more. I think it is what they call in the American movies a payoff.”

“Why would you need to be paid off ?”

She looked at the front of the church. It was a small building, a poor congregation. Christ hung on the crucifix above the altar. Paint was peeling from His face, making Him look like a leper.

“So I would not talk to you,” Paulette said at last. “To the police.”

“I don’t believe her death was an accident. I believe someone murdered her. Do you know who might have killed Mrs. Hammond?” I asked.

“I do not know. But I am not surprised at what you say. She was not happy with him. She was Haitian. Her husband doesn’t like Haiti. He doesn’t like Haitians. He thinks we are all dirty and stupid.”

“Why did she stay married to him?”

“She was poor and Haitian. But she was young and beautiful. He is American and very rich.” Paulette shrugged. “We all know women such as her. What choice do they have? She had no husband, no family. But two children to provide for.”

“What do you think happened? When she died?”

Paulette turned and faced me. I read the fear in her eyes. “Mr. Hammond gave me money to go away. He told me never to speak of my time in his home.”

“I’m not working with the judicial branch,” I said. “I won’t tell anyone I spoke to you.”

“Why should I believe you? Why do you care?”

I sighed.
Good question
. “Because what happened to her was not right.”

“Mrs. Hammond was very unhappy. We did not talk. We were not friends. But it was easy for me to tell. I’ve worked in other big houses. Whether foreign or Haitian, the wives have parties by the swimming pool. They have many friends. Their children have many friends. Mrs. Hammond had no one. She did not go out. When she went shopping, Mr. Hammond would have Nicholas drive her.”