The Gates of Evangeline (11 page)

The shouting over at the reception desk continues, and I hear male voices attempting to calm the screamer down.

Detective Minot is too caught up in his story to notice. “She said there was no sense dredging up the past because God knew the truth and He would judge. Said she appreciated that I was doing my job, but I probably had more important things to do.” He stares at me. “More important things to do. From Gabriel's
mother
.”

It's a weird reaction, and I get why it doesn't sit well with Detective Minot. “Well,” I say doubtfully, “she'd just found out she was dying, right?”

Detective Minot taps his pen on his desk. “You know, statistically speaking, who's usually responsible when a kid gets killed.”

“The parents,” I acknowledge. “But Neville and Hettie Deveau both had an alibi. They were in New Orleans at the twins' sweet sixteen party until ten forty-five on the fourteenth. And some guy from their hotel confirmed seeing them at three a.m. that morning, didn't he? When he brought them aspirin?”

“New Orleans isn't exactly cross-country. It's a two-and-a-half-hour drive. Their entire alibi hinges upon that one witness.”

“You think they paid him off? You think Neville went back that night—” I'm a little breathless. I've thought from the beginning that Gabriel was sexually abused by a family member. It would fit.

Detective Minot holds up a hand. “Now, I'm not saying that. It could've been a legit kidnapping, an employee or someone connected to the family. Hell, could've been multiple people involved. But in an unsolved case, you gotta start from square one. To me, that means an alibi's gotta be more solid than just some kid from room service.”

“So you consider Neville a serious suspect,” I murmur.

He shrugs. “Mothers are just as likely to kill a child as fathers. Unlike you, I'm not ruling out a woman.”

I can't imagine tiny Hettie hurting anyone, let alone her own child, but I can definitely imagine her covering up for her husband. The thought sickens me. If she knew—if she even suspected yet continued to live with Neville right up to the very end—she is every bit the monster he was.

Detective Minot stands up, satisfied that he's planted this disturbing idea in my head, and hands me a business card. “You're not a cop,” he says, “and people talk differently to women. You hear anything interesting, you call me, all right?”

I thank him and leave the building, my mind running in circles. The cool morning air fills my lungs and clears my head. I dig my cell phone out of my purse and call my ride.

“How'd it go with your ticket?” Noah asks.

“I took care of it,” I say, and leave it at that.

As I wait for Noah to arrive, I try to figure out my next move. I've got to find a way to talk to Hettie, preferably without Jules and the twins finding out. If I can spend some time with her, maybe I can get a sense of what makes her tick. Is she a grieving mother who has suffered thirty years not knowing the fate of her youngest child? Or is she somehow complicit in his disappearance? My stomach clenches up like a fist. Can I even handle the answer?

The truth could be so ugly.

B
ack at Evangeline, Noah and I stand by his truck, trying to figure out where to leave things. The sun has emerged at last, lighting up the house and grounds in blinding Technicolor. I shade my eyes with one hand and remark on the good weather, but the conversation is about to run out and a decision will have to be made. Do we like each other as human beings? Is there any purpose in pursuing this?

“So . . . ,” Noah says, scratching the back of his neck. “You got plans for this week?”

This is my opportunity to tell him how busy I am, to gently shut off any future possibilities between us, and I should take it. The man is a dead end, a detour at best. There are bigger issues in my life, issues that require my full attention. I
know
this.

But his smell. Fresh laundry, cologne, a dash of pheromones—I'm off my game.

I'm halfheartedly racking my brain for something I can say to make a clean break when Jules bursts from the house and strides toward us. Andre's arrival yesterday does not seem to have improved his mood any, so who knows what kind of drama has transpired between them. Or perhaps Jules has realized that he looks best when broody and ill-tempered, like a lovely and petulant Ralph Lauren model. I wonder if Andre sees more in him than the fabulous jawline and full, pouty lips. I don't.

“Where have you been?” Jules demands. He doesn't give Noah a second glance. “I heard you disappeared last night.”

“I wasn't feeling well,” I say, and Noah smiles slightly.

“Well, Sydney and Brigitte want to speak with you.”

“Speak with me about what?” Can they really be that offended by my leaving their party early?

Jules glares at me. “About your book. You wanted an interview, didn't you?” He smoothes his hair, plainly irritated by all this running around. “They're returning to New Orleans shortly, but you can meet with them in the study in five minutes.” Having delivered the message, he heads back for the house, nose tilted an inch or two higher than necessary.

Noah turns to me, smelling a rat. “What's goin' on with this book a yours, anyway?”

I give him a wide-eyed look and feign ignorance, but he's having none of it.

“Sydney and Brigitte don't know the first thing about architecture,” he presses. “And I don't think you were dealin' with any parkin' ticket this mornin'.” He leans against the bed of his truck assessing me with quizzical eyes. “Plantation homes, my ass. You even really a writer?”

I'm caught, no way out but the truth. “I'm not writing about houses,” I say. “I'm writing about Gabriel.”

He snorts. “I shoulda known. Another Gabriel groupie.” He kicks at the dirt with the toe of his boot, and I feel myself dissolving in guilt. “I wish you knew what my poor Nanny went through. I wish you coulda seen how scared she was a reporters, journalists, all you folks that go sticking your nose in other people's business. And I can't even imagine how it's been for Hettie.”

“Look, it's not a topic I chose.” I make only a weak attempt at defending myself because part of me thinks that Noah is right. “The publisher offered me a contract. It's a job, okay?”

“If you got no problem with what you're doin', then why're you keepin' it a big secret?”

I see no point in dishonesty now. “Sydney and Brigitte came up with the whole plantation-home thing. They don't want their mom to know about the book.”

Noah's face clouds over as his allegiance to Hettie takes hold. “You serious? You're workin' for
those
two?” His eyes flash, and I'm scared for a second that he's going to break something. “I know this may be
inconvenient
for y'all, but Hettie isn't dead yet. It's bad enough how her daughters act, but you, you're a guest! She's got a right to know what people stayin' in her home are up to, especially if they're fishin' around her personal affairs.”

“And I agree with you, Noah! But as you're aware, Hettie and her daughters have some problems in the communication department. I got caught in the middle of it all; is that really
my
fault?” I'm nearly shouting at him now, not what I intended at all. I lower my voice. “You told me this morning about Hettie donating the house, and I won't tell anyone. I'd appreciate if you could return the favor.”

Bringing up the secret he shared only pisses him off further. “That's the difference between us,” he spits out. “I
told
you.”

I search for a good response, but he's already walking away, hands curled into fists.
That's what you wanted,
I remind myself.
For him to leave you alone.
But as I watch him trudge away, I have the sneaking suspicion this isn't what I wanted at all.

•   •   •

I
FIND
S
YDNEY LOUNGING
in the study's oversized armchair, one leg kicked over the side, while Brigitte complains to Jules about one of the nurses. Although Brigitte is certainly the louder twin, Sydney is the more fashionable of the two. Her short dark haircut makes her blue eyes pop, and a good tailor has made the best of her difficult figure. Brigitte's fluffy blond mane, on the other hand, looks like a throwback to the eighties, and her white sweater calls to mind a lumpy snowman. Both women have broad shoulders and big hips, but Brigitte has at least thirty pounds on her sister. Marriage, I guess. No one to impress.

And impress me she does not.

“We pay these people entirely too much to tolerate any attitude from them,” Brigitte says, in the midst of her nurse rant. “I know my mama, and when I ask the help to do something, I am not looking for their
professional opinion
on why they shouldn't do it. You need to replace her, Jules.”

“I apologize, and I'll speak to her about it,” he promises as he gathers some folders off the desk in the corner. “Rose
is
your mother's favorite caregiver, however. It would be premature to let her go.” Jules knows his way around high-maintenance women.

“Just tell her Rose quit,” Sydney pipes up from her chair. “Mama won't notice.”

I cough lightly, and all heads swivel toward me. Brigitte adopts a large and welcoming smile, but her eyes dart around, calculating exactly how much I heard and what level of blabbermouth I might be.

“There you are,” Sydney yawns. “Feeling better, I see.” Jules must've passed along my sick excuse. “Bridgie and I have to be getting back to the city soon, but we thought we could give you an hour, anyway.”

Brigitte shoots her sister a look that seems to chastise Sydney for her lack of warmth and enthusiasm. “Charlotte, was it? I'm sorry we didn't get the chance to speak much yesterday, but with Mama there . . .” She turns to Jules. “Would you please draw the drapes? I can't stand this awful little man cave of yours.”

Jules pulls back the drapes obediently, but the study's dark and somber furnishings expertly fend off natural light. It is a room for migraine-ridden women, scholars burning the midnight oil, grave old white men weighing matters of political and economic import.

“Raleigh seemed to be enjoying your company last night,” Sydney tells me with a laugh, though I can't tell if she's amused by Raleigh's lechery or my falling victim to it.

“Oh yes,” Brigitte agrees, “he was very taken with you. After you left, he kept asking where you'd gone. He was really concerned.”

“It was an interesting evening,” I manage.

Brigitte plops herself down on an antique cream-colored love seat with carved wooden detail on the back. She folds her dimpled hands in her lap, left over right, so the enormous diamond on her wedding ring is displayed to its best advantage. “Isaac told us that you work for
Sophisticate
. I want you to know, your magazine ran an article on personal organizers that transformed my life. I'm so happy to be working with you. You wouldn't
believe
some of the people Isaac tried to send our way.”

I thank her and politely suggest we make use of our limited time together. I pull out a recording device and do a quick sound check while Jules slips out of the room, giving us some privacy.

“Okay, let's get started.” I smile, though every minute spent with these women seems to confirm Noah's ill opinion. “Could you tell me a bit about your family before Gabriel went missing?”

“Of course.” Brigitte leans forward in the love seat, genuinely eager to share. “It all began in 1846, when our great-great-great-grandfather Pierre Deveau built Evangeline for his new wife, Cherisse.” I get the feeling that she's told this story before. “
He
was a wealthy New Orleans merchant, and
she
was the youngest daughter of the Adrepont family. You've probably heard of the Adreponts. They ran a very successful sugar plantation until the war, which left them just
destitute
.”

She charges ahead, and I realize I'm about to receive two hundred years of Deveaus. Time for an intervention—but how to steer her back to the topic of Gabriel without inviting a debate on the subject of my book? “Now, the Deveaus fared very well in the war,” Brigitte continues. “Our fortune wasn't entirely dependent on sugar, you see. Our ancestors had the foresight to maintain many diverse sources of income—”

“Like selling supplies to the Union Army,” Sydney says.

“No, Syd. No, the Union Army
commandeered
—”

“It's not commandeering when they pay you,” Sydney argues, and from the outrage on Brigitte's face, another Civil War may erupt right here in the study. I take advantage of the opening.

“Of course I'll be researching all of this,” I say. “But what I'd really like to focus on for the moment is
your
family, the family you grew up in.”

The twins glance at each other. Brigitte shrugs, a bit grumpy. “There's not much to say. We were a regular sort of family.”

“Our father was gone a lot on business,” Sydney elaborates. “We three kids were off at boarding school. And Mama stayed here or in the New Orleans house. By herself and then with Gabriel.”

“Did you spend much time together as a family?” I ask, suddenly wondering if they ever really knew their little brother.

“Oh, sure,” Sydney says, “we had summers and vacations, usually on the water. Daddy would hire a crew and we'd sail the Virgin Islands, the Greek isles.”

“Your average, all-American family, would you say?” Somehow I keep a straight face.

“Definitely,” Brigitte replies, “until we lost Gabriel. Our poor mama, she . . . went through a hard time.” She turns to her sister. “Do you remember, Syd, Thanksgiving break after he went missing?”

Sydney shakes her head at the memory. “Oh, it was awful. She just looked . . . well, she didn't dress herself very nicely, I'll just leave it at that. She was . . .”

“Completely mismatched,” Brigitte supplies. “And her hair . . .” She shudders. “Mama had this awful pink robe,” she tells me. “Morning, noon, and night, she wouldn't take it off. She just kind of wandered around the house like someone's doddering old granny. It felt like we'd lost her right along with Gabriel.”

“And how did your dad take it?” I ask, ready to assume the worst of the late Neville Deveau.

“You've seen the security measures around here, haven't you?” Sydney says. “That's how he took it. Also, I think he punched a few reporters.”

“
One
reporter,” Brigitte corrects, “and that man said something nasty about Mama. Daddy was grieving as much as she was, Syd. He just didn't show it the same. You know he had such high hopes for Gabriel.”

I jump on this. “What kind of high hopes?”

“Just—doing the things a father does with a son. Sports, fishing, sailing,” Brigitte explains.

“Did your father do those things with Andre?”

Sydney wrinkles her nose and stretches. “Andre isn't that type. He was more interested in school.”

“He was a good student,” Brigitte adds. “All A's. Unlike us!” She giggles.

Until this moment, I never knew how annoying a middle-aged woman's giggle could be.

The image of Neville as a would-be involved father bothers me. It doesn't mesh with my preconceptions of a child-molester-turned-killer. And the lack of interest in Andre, Neville's not-stereotypically-masculine-enough firstborn, seems so . . . normal. Sad and ignorant, but normal.
He hurt me,
Gabriel told me in the dream, and my gut instinct has been telling me he meant his dad. Now I'm not sure.

I try to direct the twins back to their little brother. “How would you describe Gabriel?”

“He was only two when he disappeared. And we didn't see all that much of him.” Sydney sits up in her chair and checks her watch.

My time is running out.

“He was a happy kid,” Brigitte volunteers. “He couldn't sit still. Tired Nanny right out.”

I ask them as many questions as I can about family dynamics and the night that Gabriel disappeared, but the only thing either woman has much to say about is their sweet sixteen party. Brigitte, I learn, still harbors resentment toward Andre for not attending and isn't shy about voicing her complaints.

“He had a
date
,” Sydney tells her, trying to calm her down. “Probably the first date of his life. You know how shy he used to be with girls. Cut him some slack.”

“It wasn't a date,” Brigitte declares, “it was some boy Andre knew. He should've been at our party, there was no excuse.”

Poor Andre,
I think.
No wonder you're living in the closet. They don't
want
to know.

Sydney climbs off her perch on the chair and stretches. “Bridgie, we should get going.”

“Just one more question.” I can't let them get away without giving me
something
, anything. “You had a lot of different people working at Evangeline over the years. Did any stand out to you as strange or overly interested in Gabriel?”