The Gates of Evangeline

by Hester Young

  Detective Minot sighs. “We’ve never established any connection between Sean Lauchlin and the kidnapping. The money is the only thing we have on him. Could’ve been drugs, or maybe he was connected to some other kind of organized crime, I don’t know. The FBI probably pursued it further, but I don’t have access to that investigation.”

  “But they never found him?”

  “No. If he’s alive, he’s gone completely off the grid.”

  “What about the woman? The one he fought with his parents over?” Could this have been Noah’s mother, Violet Johnson? Noah told me his mother died when he was little, but that may have been another lie his grandparents told him. His entire knowledge of his parents came from two people who gave him, at best, a sanitized version of the truth.

  “We don’t know the woman’s name,” Detective Minot says, “but Jack and Maddie said their son kept talking about making a fresh start with her. He felt he’d have to leave the country to do that.”

  No wonder Noah was stealing photos at the library, searching for something concrete. For all anyone knows, his parents could both be living as Mexican crime lords. At least Sean’s mysterious lady love is an argument against his being a pedophile—if the woman truly does exist.

  Something else occurs to me. “What about blackmail? What if Sean Lauchlin knew something about the Deveau family? That could’ve been hush money.”

  “I’ve got no doubt that Neville Deveau had a lot of offshore accounts to protect his assets, but we couldn’t trace anything to him.” He shrugs. “You think Neville stopped paying Sean and then the guy got mad and snatched his kid?”

  I could buy this theory, except that it doesn’t fit with the sexual abuse angle, and I know what I felt out there at the swamp today.

  “I’m not sure what to think just yet,” I admit, “but if I see anything, you’re the first person I’ll call.” I start the car back up and flip off my hazard lights. Dr. Pinaro will be wondering where he is, and she’s been more than generous about lending out her husband for the afternoon.

  Back at his house, Detective Minot thanks me for the ride. I wait for him to get out, but he has one more question for me.

  “What are you doing Thursday afternoon?”

  “I don’t know . . .” I’m immediately on guard. Surely he can’t be hitting on me?

  His face reddens when he sees my discomfort. “I’ve got a meeting,” he explains. “I’m driving up to Lafayette to speak with Danelle Martin.”

  “The cook?” My voice comes out an excited squeak. Now, that is a different story. I’ve been hoping to track down Danelle Martin, who was with Maddie Lauchlin when she discovered Gabriel was missing. The way the case has been going, I’m thrilled that Danelle’s even still alive. “Can I go with you?”

  “I think you should.” He chuckles a little. “I get the impression this woman is a real handful, and she doesn’t like cops, that’s for sure. Maybe you two will hit it off.”

  I have a feeling there’s a hidden insult in that statement, but I don’t care. I just want to be there. Before I can ask him for more details, the rain that’s been threatening most of the day arrives with a vengeance. Detective Minot hops out of my car and salutes me.

  “One o’clock on Thursday. I’ll come get you.”

  You should be happy, I think as I drive back to Evangeline, much too fast now that I’m no longer chauffeuring law enforcement. He trusts you. He’s telling you things you could never find out on your own. That’s good, isn’t it?

  But I can’t stop myself from stressing about Noah. Something is off with this female visitor, I can feel it. He isn’t being honest with me, and it’s not hard to imagine why.

  The sky continues to pour, already flooding the roads. I steer directly into a puddle. The skid warning lights up as the Prius struggles to regain traction. With a child in the backseat, I used to be so cautious. Now it doesn’t matter. Now it’s just me.

  • • •

  THE NEXT DAY, Monday, I get my first glimpse of Noah’s mysterious designer. She’s Latina, as far as I can tell, like his ex-wife. Short but curvy in a fitted red leather jacket, and boobs that are disproportionately big for her little frame. She’s at least ten years younger than me. She stands in the garden chatting animatedly to Noah about an arbor, which raises my hopes. Maybe it truly is an innocent work relationship. But why does she have to be so damn pretty?

  “I know you like the classics, but wood is too cutesy,” she’s telling Noah. “When you come into the estate, those gates are intense. I say we build off that look and go with wrought iron.”

  I’m about fifteen feet away from them, on my way to the kitchen to beg a late breakfast off Leeann. Noah glances at me and then looks away. Whatever faith I might’ve had in him dies as I watch him quickly steer the woman out of my path. There’s no mistaking it. He’s avoiding me. I dig my fingernails into the palm of my left hand and swallow. It hurts more than I expected.

  After that, the two of them turn up everywhere. First, they’re wandering the grounds, then examining the trees that line the driveway, then discussing the front entrance of the home with frowns and knit eyebrows. Noah follows her around, half-listening, nodding or gently disagreeing, and I have a flash of the kind of husband he must have been: the one playing with his cell phone outside the women’s dressing room who says, “It looks good,” or “I like it,” without fully looking up.

  That evening, as I walk along the bayou, I come across the two of them yet again. I search for a detour—if he doesn’t want to see me, I don’t want to see him, either—but the woman has already spotted me and begins waving.

  “Hi there! We keep seeing you around.” She greets me with a perky grin. “I thought I should say hello. I’m Cristina Paredes, the landscape designer.”

  “Charlotte Cates.” I fail to match her enthusiasm. Standing beside her, Noah looks rather constipated.

  “Do you work here?” she asks.

  “Charlotte’s a writer,” Noah informs her, apparently not ready to totally disown me. “She’s from New York.”

  “Oh, really? I love New York.” Cristina puts a hand on her hip and runs the other through her hair. “How are you holding up out here, poor thing? This place must be such a yawn for you.”

  “Actually, it’s a welcome change of pace.” Being near her makes me feel a little sick, and it’s not just the cloud of perfume hanging over her. He’s going to smell like her tonight, I think. “Well, I’m sure you have a lot to do,” I say. “Nice to meet you, Cristina. Have a . . . productive visit.”

  Maybe she can tell he’s edgy. Maybe she sees the way I refuse to look at him. Something must tip her off, because her fake-friendly expression melts away and she falls silent, examining Noah with narrowed eyes.

  “See you, Charlie,” he mutters, and the nickname can only solidify her suspicion. I hurry off into the dusk, toward the silvery line of water. I hope she lets him have it.

  • • •

  THE WEEK DRAGS ON, and Cristina makes no more friendly overtures. All I can do is wait her out. The repair shop calls and confirms that my laptop cannot be resuscitated, although they did manage to rescue the files off my hard drive. I suck it up, buy a cheap replacement, and begin typing all the handwritten pages I’ve produced since the disaster. It’s enough material for a couple of chapters, which I e-mail to Isaac. He’ll let me know if I’m on the right track.

  Jules shows up at my cottage Wednesday morning and throws a hissy fit, having somehow heard about my visits to Hettie. Note to self: one of the nurses has a big damn mouth. I assure him there was no discussion of Gabriel or the book, but Jules threatens to contact Sydney and Brigitte if it happens again. The prospect of getting kicked off the estate isn’t financially appealing. I figure I’d better lie low for a little while and avoid Hettie. Thinking about her reminds me of my own grandmother and her precarious health, so I
call home to check in.

  “I’m doing just fine,” Grandma insists. “The staff stop by every morning to help with my medicine, and I go for a walk with Helga in the afternoon. Quit your worrying.” She changes the subject before I can press her further. “What about you? Are you missing home?”

  “No,” I say truthfully. Everything about my life in Stamford was tied to Keegan, and the farther I get from Sophisticate, the more I question all the years I devoted to it. “It’s different here,” I concede, “but it feels like I have . . . a purpose.”

  “You mean the book?”

  “I mean Gabriel Deveau.”

  “Charlotte.” There’s a warning in the way she says my name. “Thinking about that child all the time and Keegan, too—well, it doesn’t sound like the healthiest frame of mind.”

  She’s right, of course. And I haven’t even told her about the experiences I had by the swamp, or about Didi. She’d just worry, and why do that to her when she can’t stop me? “It’s something I have to do, Grandma,” I tell her simply. “I’m sorry, I just do.”

  “I trust you,” she says, as if I’ve given her a choice.

  An hour later, my old life comes knocking again with a text from Rae: Biz trip to NOLA soon!! We can hang. Call me, xoxo. Rae’s been to New Orleans for business before, so it isn’t totally surprising. While I don’t relish the thought of Rae in Chicory—my existence here is a lot less glamorous than the two of us had imagined, and she’s likely to sniff out the Noah situation—the idea of spending a few days with her in New Orleans does lift my spirits.

  By night, though, my nerves are acting up again. Tomorrow is Thursday. Tomorrow Detective Minot and I meet Danelle Martin. One casual remark could open up a new line of questioning, could be the breakthrough. You never know what will be the game-changer.

  It could be me.

  • • •

  THE NEXT DAY, on the hour-long drive to Lafayette, Detective Minot briefs me on Danelle Martin. A black woman originally from Shreveport, she was about thirty-five when the kidnapping occurred. She’d worked as the Deveau family cook for almost ten years at the time and continued on with them for another six afterward. Martin’s loyalty to the family and her reluctance to speak about their private lives infuriated police from the get-go. A vocal critic of the investigation, she complained to several media outlets that too much attention had been focused on Roi Duchesne in the early stages, allowing the real culprit to escape and jeopardizing Gabriel’s life. Possibly in retaliation for her big mouth, Martin became a person of interest in the case and was called in repeatedly for questioning. She hired a big-gun lawyer—likely paid for by the Deveaus—who threatened to sue the Bonnefoi Parish sheriff’s department, the state police, and the FBI for harassment. Without any evidence to implicate her, investigators were forced to back off. By then, however, the damage had been done, and Martin’s interest in helping law enforcement was nil.

  “You weren’t kidding when you said she disliked cops,” I observe. I’m starting to understand the strategic decision to bring me along and realizing it will benefit Detective Minot far more than me.

  “She wasn’t too happy about this meeting,” he says. “I figure if things go south, you’re my best shot. A woman outside the system might grease the wheels a bit.”

  I check myself in the passenger-side mirror, trying to see myself as she will. On the phone, Detective Minot instructed me to look approachable. I opted for jeans, a tailored shirt, and red slip-ons, hair flipped out. Now I’m regretting my choice of dress. I look like a suburban white woman in a cleaning product commercial. I wouldn’t trust me.

  Lafayette is supposedly one of Louisiana’s biggest cities, but most of our drive takes us along winding country routes. I can’t figure out what the people here do for a living; few of the local businesses seem to be thriving. A dingy old gas station is boarded up, and a food mart and breakfast joint don’t look as though they see a lot of customers.

  Eventually, we start to see some signs of real industry. The road converges with a major route and suddenly there are pharmacies, restaurants, major hotel chains, even a place advertising drive-through daiquiris. We end up in a so-so residential neighborhood with small, boxy, one-story homes. Danelle Martin’s place is no bigger than the others, but her well-maintained yard and dark purple shutters set it apart from the weedy properties with chipping paint.

  As Detective Minot and I step from his vehicle—an unmarked Impala issued by the sheriff’s department—I see a pair of young black males eyeing us suspiciously from their porch. I wonder if they can sense that Detective Minot’s a cop, or if it’s just the fact that we’re white. We walk up to Danelle’s front door, and he rings the doorbell. There’s barking inside, then someone muttering about putting the dog out. Detective Minot holds his badge up to the peephole. Finally the door opens and Danelle Martin stands, arms crossed, staring us down. She’s a trim, formidable-looking woman in her sixties. She has dark skin, close-cropped gray hair, and a pointy chin. She reminds me of a resistance poet, some warrior woman from the civil rights movement, but when I glance at her chest, I realize she’s a veteran of an altogether different battle. On the left side is a normal, slightly drooping breast. On the right, nothing.

  “Got one boob left,” she says, and I’m embarrassed that she caught me looking. “You ask me, that’s still one too many. Even more people starin’ at my chest now than when I had the two.” She shoos us into a tidy little living room.

  “I’m so sorry.” I don’t know if I’m apologizing for gawking or for the loss of her breast.

  “Lost a boob, saved my life. Pretty good trade.” She sits down on an old, pet-scratched recliner.

  Detective Minot and I hover for a moment before realizing we aren’t going to get any invitations. We sit on opposite ends of the couch, and I do my best to tactfully ignore the thin layer of dog hair coating it.

  “So you the writer, I guess,” Danelle says, addressing me. “Been wonderin’ about you, how you gonna make a book with a whole lotta nothin’. Those fools never turned up head or tail of that chile. Why you wanna make a book on this, anyhow?”

  I could tell her about my dream, which sounds more than a little crazy, or about Keegan, but she has no apparent use for sentiment. “It’s an interesting case, and this is the job they offered me,” I say. “I have to earn a living.”

  Wrong move. “You best watch what you do for money, girl,” Danelle advises me. “There’s more than one kinda whore.”

  Detective Minot purses his lips, but I can’t tell if he’s suppressing a laugh or getting frustrated that I’m not doing a better job at winning Danelle over. “I’m sure Miss Cates will try to tell Gabriel’s story respectfully and accurately,” he says, taking over. “Thank you for seeing us today. You mind if I record our conversation?”

  Straight off, there’s trouble. “Yes, I mind. I don’t want you people messin’ with my words, pullin’ sound bites that make it look like one thing when I meant another.”

  “It’ll be a more accurate reflection of the conversation if I tape it,” Detective Minot warns. “And I write slow.”

  “Suits me fine,” she retorts. “I’m retired anyhow.”

  And so they begin, both old pros at navigating Q & As.

  I don’t know why I thought this would be interesting. It’s not. Detective Minot walks Danelle through a long series of questions she must have answered a hundred times before about her employment with the Deveaus, the routines of the house, and the night of August 14. He pauses periodically to jot things down, and I inwardly curse Danelle’s mistrust of recording devices. Even worse, half of his questions concern seemingly pointless minutiae. I don’t blame her when she rolls her eyes at “Can you tell me what you made for dinner that night?” and “Walk me through the steps of that recipe, would you?” I’m guessing that Detective Minot is establishing a timeline, but I hear nothing prom
ising in her replies.

  According to Danelle, Gabriel was getting ready for his bath when she left for the evening. It was roughly half past seven. The last time she saw him, he was running naked down the hallway while Maddie Lauchlin chased after him. Danelle spent the rest of the night in her cottage and noticed nothing unusual. The next morning, around seven o’clock, she headed back to Evangeline to make breakfast. Despite all the starts and stops, I’m listening anxiously now to her narrative, waiting for the inevitable discovery. Unlike the first time I learned the details of the case, I can picture it all now. I’ve been there.

  “I was makin’ waffles when Maddie came in, lookin’ upset,” Danelle continues. “She said she’d misplaced the key to Gabriel’s room and needed mine. So I went upstairs with her to unlock the—”

  “Why’d you go with her?” Detective Minot asks. “Why didn’t you just give her the key?” There’s no change in his tone or demeanor, but I find it a compelling question.

  “I tried,” Danelle tells him, “but Maddie said she was bein’ so scatterbrained, she’d probably just go and lose mine, too. So I went with her.”

  I glance at Detective Minot to see if that explanation sounds as flimsy to him as it does to me. There’s no getting around the fact that, without Danelle present to see the door still locked that morning, Maddie would’ve been the first person blamed for Gabriel’s disappearance. Nobody would’ve been talking kidnapping. The assumption would’ve been that Maddie forgot to lock the door and Gabriel ran out into the night and got himself killed. Having Danelle there as a corroborating witness was certainly convenient.

  Detective Minot flexes his writing hand a few times, tired of note-taking. “Was that typical of Maddie? Being scatterbrained?”

  Danelle hesitates. “Maddie’d had a bad few months. Used to be she ran a tight ship, but she was dealin’ with some family business and sometimes things got away from her.”

  Like locking the door? I wonder. Maybe there was no murder here at all, just a terrible accident that Maddie tried to cover up to save her own skin. With the bayou situated directly outside Evangeline’s front door, it’s not hard to imagine something horrible happening to a rambunctious two-year-old. But that wouldn’t explain the absence of a body, or the dream I had about Gabriel.