Sheila pulled up to a tidy group of houses in a section of town Renée hadn’t seen before. Luis reached for the door.
Before he could leave, Renée asked, “Why were you tailing me tonight?”
“Because of something Rose said.”
“What?”
“She said Death follows you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Ceremonies
The tail lights glowed red as the Honda pulled away. It took some persuasion—Sheila hadn’t wanted to leave. Renée finally convinced her by offering Adam’s floppy disk. Sheila would start on the investigation, and they would compare notes in the morning. Renée felt badly about capitalizing on the older woman’s fear for her sister, but she needed answers, and she wouldn’t get them if Sheila was around.
She waited until the car turned the corner before striding into Rose’s bungalow. A floor lamp cast a pale white light in the living room. “Rose?” Renée called out. Her voice echoed in the silence.
When she got no answer, a part of her felt relieved. Maybe she should leave, start the long trek back to the hotel. She had a pass—if she was caught without an escort, she could plead ignorance. The penalty couldn’t be any worse than confronting Rose.
She pushed aside her uncertainty and marched into the kitchen. “Rose?” she called again, louder this time. The kitchen stood empty. Candles flickered on every surface; dark shadows danced on the walls. What was going on?
“Rose?” Still, no reply, but she could hear a faint echo of sound, rhythmic, mesmerizing. She cocked her head and listened.
A drum. Someone was beating a drum.
She followed the sound through the kitchen and out the back door. The moon hung low over the water, but a bank of clouds obscured its light, casting half shadows everywhere she looked. She searched out the drumbeat the way a snake follows the snake charmer’s flute. Without conscious thought, she found herself taking the stairs down to the beach.
The water lapped at her toes. She moved closer to the drummer, who stood in shadow. She wanted him to turn around, to look at her. She wanted . . .
He turned. It was John.
She fell back a step, the sand shifting beneath her. “What the hell is going on here?”
He didn’t answer, didn’t even miss a beat. “Noye map noye—”
“Rose?” Over his shoulder, she saw a figure in the ocean as still as driftwood. She lunged for it before John could let out a strangled cry.
“Renée, no! You can’t—”
The frigid water swallowed her whole. An icy noose tightened around her neck, choking her. She rolled to her side, taking in a sharp bite of air before the water engulfed her again. The ocean was alive, the waves churned, the current pushed and shoved at her. She sliced her arms through the water and kicked out with her feet to release its hold.
Her slacks and shirt weighed her down. Why hadn’t she taken the damn things off? Rose had seemed so close. It should only have taken a few strokes to reach her. But the water was disorienting. The darkness was absolute—she had no sense of time or place. How long had she been swimming? The ocean resisted her every stroke. Every lift of her arms and splash of her feet was harder than the last. It was like swimming in quick-set concrete. She kept her limbs arrow-straight as her arms pierced the water.
A chill sank in her bones. The cold was getting to her. She was seeing things, snatches of movement and dark images that dissipated with the next wave. They looked like bodies bobbing and weaving in the water. The stuff of nightmares.
Pain shot through her, tightening her muscles. She couldn’t lift her right arm. Panic set in. She flailed, struggling to stay afloat. Water rolled over her. She slapped out with her good arm, kicked hard with her feet. Was she rising or sinking? She didn’t know which way was up.
Her throat spasmed. She tried to gulp air, but ice water filled her mouth. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t swim, couldn’t move.
Stillness. There was only stillness.
An arm wrapped around her waist, dragging her down. She wanted to pull away, but she had no fight left.
Darkness descended.
When she came around, the sand scratching at her flesh was a welcome relief. She could feel its grittiness—that must mean she was still alive.
Voices. A woman spoke words she couldn’t make out, a man replied. She frowned, as if she might understand if she just focused hard enough.
“Renée, can you hear me?” John knelt beside her, rubbing her arms.
“Yes,” she tried to say, but only a grunt of pain escaped. Her blood rushed back into circulation, bringing with it stinging pinpricks of feeling. He subjected her legs to the same treatment. She gritted her teeth and hung on.
“I’m getting you back inside, okay?” he said.
She nodded. A moment later, she felt herself lifted in his arms. He carried her across the sand with Rose trailing behind them. When they entered the kitchen, the flickering candles were now mere stubs of wax. More time had passed than she thought.
“Take her to the bedroom,” Rose said. “I will prepare tea.”
John moved through the bungalow with startling familiarity. He found his way to a small bedroom and lowered her slowly until her feet hit solid ground. “I’ll get you some towels.”
He left the room, leaving her frozen in place. Water dripped from her body and pooled on the tile floor. Her gaze swept the room, taking in the twin bed, dresser and nightstand. The only thing gracing the walls was a framed picture of a blue-eyed Jesus.
John returned a moment later. “You need to get out of those wet clothes.” He handed her two fluffy white towels, but when she tried to take them from him, her arms wouldn’t obey. He saw her dilemma and helped her shed her clothes, then turned around to preserve her modesty as she took off her underwear.
She draped herself in a towel and wrapped the other on her head turban-style. “W-whaat . . . happened?”
He carried her to bed and tucked her in like a child. “You jumped in the goddamn ocean, that’s what happened.”
She knew that much and had the chattering teeth and near-death experience to prove it. “T-t-thank—”
“Don’t thank me,” he said. “Rose was the one who pulled you out of the water.”
How was that possible? The figure in the ocean had looked like a drowning victim herself. How had Rose survived those frigid temperatures let alone saved her? The questions swirled in her mind, though she could barely get out a coherent sentence. “So . . . c-c-cold . . . Why so . . . cold?”
He fussed with her sheet until she grabbed his hand, forcing him to look at her. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he said.
“Try m-m . . . me.”
“I don’t have all the answers. Hell, I don’t have any. But I been thinking about it a long time. You ever been in a hurricane?”
She shook her head, trying to maintain focus, trying to understand how a hurricane and Rose Fleurie fit in the same sentence.
John said, “A slow-moving hurricane hangs over the ocean. It churns things up, and all that churn cools the water beneath. I think something like that happens when Rose does one of her ceremonies.”
The chattering would not stop. “C-c-c . . . ceremonies?”
His brows knitted in a frown. “Some believe when a soul dies, it slips into the water—the rivers, the streams, oceans, don’t matter. Prayers and songs bring back the soul. It is reborn.”
“W-whaa—”
“I’ll tell you what I was told.” He shot her a look of caution. “Don’t ask questions, just listen.”
“But I—”
Rose walked in the room with a steaming mug in hand. “I have your tea. Drink. It will warm your insides.”
Renée took the proffered mug and stared suspiciously into its depths. She couldn’t handle another “home remedy.” Not now.
“It is Lipton,” Rose said with a twinkle in her eye. “I hear it is quite good.”
Renée swallowed the hot brew. It
did indeed warm her going down. “What happened out there?”
Rose gave her a quizzical smile. “I must ask you, non? Why did you jump in the water?”
“I thought you were drowning.”
The older woman’s smile softened, as if the response touched her. “I am a strong swimmer.”
“What is this ceremony you were doing? Do you really believe you can raise the dead?”
John flushed when Rose turned those all-seeing eyes on him. “I have your rations. I’ll go put ’em in the kitchen,” he mumbled as he fled the room. Rose seemed amused by his hasty retreat.
When Renée tried to sit up, the older woman gently eased her back onto the pillows and fiddled with the bedsheets. “What’s he doing here?” Renée asked. “Is he a part of all this?”
“He worries about me, that one.” Rose tipped the mug in Renée’s hand, silently urging her to drink more. “He does not help me raise the dead, if that is your question. My job is not to raise souls but to remember those who have descended anba dlo—under the water.”
It wasn’t much of an explanation. Then again most of Rose’s answers were confusing, to say the least. Renée decided to try another line of questioning. “Did this . . . ceremony have anything to do with Yvette Destin’s death?”
“Are you accusing me of killing again?”
Is that what she was doing? Renée took the last sip of her tea, stalling for time. “Yvette died of seawater poisoning,” she finally said.
“I told her seawater cures nothing.”
“So you talked to her?”
Rose took the empty mug and placed it on the nightstand. “She asked for a cure. I examined her, but I could not help.”
“Why not?”
Rose’s smile was slightly mocking. “You think because I healed your ribs, I can heal anyone?”
“No, I—” Renée paused. There was no good answer to the question. Did she believe Rose had healed her ribs? Everything she knew—or thought she knew—about healing and the body told her that was impossible. Yet her pain-free ribs said otherwise. And what about Luis? Was his healing the result of chemotherapy or something else? “What I meant was, if you believe you can heal others, why would you deny Yvette?”
“It is not I who heals. I serve the Spirits. They decide.”
The conversation had already taken a detour into the strange. Renée tried to steer it back on course. “What would make Yvette think seawater could cure her?”
Rose unwrapped the towel around Renée’s head and gently dried her hair. The long, soft strokes nearly lulled Renée into a trance. “She wanted to save herself from the will of the Spirits,” Rose said.
This was at least something Renée could understand. If someone had given her a terminal diagnosis, she would have done almost anything to beat the disease and live—for her daughter just as much as for herself.
Death follows you. She had felt the pull of death in that ocean tonight.
A rush of gratitude shot through her. She took Rose’s hand and said, “Thank you for saving my life.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Muckety-Mucks
We’ve got nothing.” Renée pushed the papers away, feeling as though she had severed the last of Sheila’s hope. The woman had shown up at dawn. They’d spent the last two hours side by side at Renée’s desk, combing through the files from Adam Hartmann’s computer and finding nothing.
But Sheila couldn’t admit defeat. “All them papers? There’s gotta be something we can use.”
Renée shook her head. “I was wrong about the autopsy report. The one on his computer is exactly the same as the one I have.”
“What about the water temperature? Eric’s professor said it was too low.”
This was a tricky question. Renée carefully navigated her way through the murky waters. “I received independent confirmation the number is accurate.”
Sheila’s brows knitted together in a deep frown. “Them other papers about Ms. Fleurie, none of that helps?”
“I’m afraid not,” Renée said, gesturing to the stack on her desk. “It’s basic information on Rose’s life. I have no idea why any of this would interest Adam. I suppose he’s trying to find anything to exclude her from the country, but there’s nothing here to motivate someone to kill Eric.”
Sheila’s hands covered her face. Her shoulders shook with suppressed sobs, but when she looked up, her eyes were resolute. “What are we gonna do now?”
Renée felt a lump rise in her throat. There was nothing more she could do. “I’m sorry, Sheila.”
Sheila absorbed the blow with a few rapid blinks. “Thanks for trying.” She headed for the door with the slow, deliberate gait of an eighty-year-old weighted down by sorrow.
Renée accompanied her, racking her brain for something she could say or do that would make things better. There was no pithy Hallmark greeting to cover this situation. “Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”
Sheila nodded and slipped out. When she was gone, Renée slumped against the door. Had she missed something? Her mind rapidly reviewed the stack of documents. As she’d told Sheila, the two autopsy reports were exactly the same. It threw her for a loop—she had been so sure Adam was hiding something.
The report on Rose had been unusual, but there was nothing in it to raise suspicion. She had no idea why Adam would be interested in Rose’s certificate from Le Cordon Bleu or details of her various romantic liaisons. The man was a creep.
Damn it, she had to be missing something. But what?
A knock sounded at her door, startling her out of her thoughts. Sheila must have forgotten something. She opened the door, but it wasn’t Sheila. “What do you want?”
Adam Hartmann stood with his eyes downcast. “Rose Fleurie,” he mumbled.
“What about her?”
He looked up, and the look on his face could only be described as shell-shocked. “Her hearing’s set for tomorrow at three o’clock.”
She gripped the doorknob so tightly, her knuckles nearly pierced flesh. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“Who’d you call?” he demanded. “What kind of pull do you have that gets the INS Commissioner himself to overturn my directive?”
“What? I—” She bit back her words. In her astonishment, she was about to say too much.
“Did that husband of yours do this? His parents are muckety-mucks in diplomatic circles, aren’t they?”
“Why are you so fixated on my private life?”
“Was it him?” Adam demanded, raking a hand through his hair. He seemed genuinely disturbed.
She gave him her most mysterious smile. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
He turned on his heels, but as he retreated down the hall, Renée called out to him. “What?” he snapped, glancing at her over his shoulder.
“You touch Gigi again, I’ll cut off your balls and feed them to the sea creatures. You understand me?” She slammed the door before he could respond.
Who the hell forced Adam Hartmann to reverse himself?
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
I Prefer It Rough
My guest slipped away from the bungalow. I closed the back door and returned to the day’s first meal—mayi moulin ak mori. The well-seasoned cornmeal bubbled a bright, happy yellow. The codfish had been soaked in freshwater overnight to leach out the ocean salt. It now swam in a spicy red sauce. I had invited my guest to share breakfast, of course, as a sign of gratitude. But we both knew it was not possible. Some debts can never be repaid, just as some endings can never be happy no matter how hard we pray.
Do you know what regret feels like? Such a silly emotion. We regret because we imagine things could have been different. The truth is they could not, they must be as they are. I learned this on the day my life came to an end for the second time.
It began as an ordinary night. Madame held her party despite the coming storm. The beach house was dressed in candlelight and long silk drapes. The women fluttered around in their
gowns and sparkling jewels. The men drank Cognac and smoked their smelly cigars. Outside, the wind howled and whipped through the neighborhood, snapping electric lines and plunging the world into darkness. But inside, a thousand candles glittered in a cheery constellation.
There was a knock at the door. I left my post among the chattering guests to answer.
A blast of rain followed the man who slipped inside. “Gade yon tanpèt.” What a storm, he said in a god-awful American accent.
Philip.
My heart pounded so loudly, it covered everything in silence. His mouth continued to move, but I could not hear him. I scurried into the shadows, hoping to disappear with the gloom. “The guests are in the dining room, sir,” I choked out.
“Rose? Is that you?” He spoke effortless Kreyòl, as if he had practiced for many years.
I shook my head, though he probably couldn’t see me. “Dinner is almost over, but I will ask the cook to serve you.”
“Rose,” he murmured.
“Please, excuse me.” I tried to turn away, but he pulled me in his arms. The smell of sugar cane and jasmine clung to him.
“I cannot believe it is you,” he said.
I was drowning in eight-year-old memories. “Please, you must let me go.” I tried to pull away, but the feel of him was my undoing. All those familiar lines, the muscles and angles of his body. I was transported back to those long nights at the Hotel Oloffson.
“I have missed you.” He spoke in a voice clogged with longing.
“Are you really here?” I whispered.
He bent to kiss me, but Madame called out from the dining room. “Rose, where are you? We need more candles.”
I pulled away. “You must come for me tonight. I am at the top of the stairs in the servants’ quarters.”
He gave a small nod then watched as I mounted the staircase. “Mouin renmein ou,” he said. I love you.
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