The Gates of Evangeline

by Hester Young

  “He was having an affair?” I try not to show her what a letdown this is, but frankly, it would be more surprising if Neville Deveau had been faithful to his wife. I can’t see why Danelle considers this such a bombshell. Of course it would have humiliated Hettie if her husband’s infidelities got out, but why would the FBI care? I suppose one of Neville’s lovers could’ve kidnapped Gabriel, but why? And that doesn’t fit with the sexual-abuse angle.

  “Neville wasn’t a bad man,” Danelle tells me. “I hope you say that in your book. He had the money and position to turn heads, and he was weak-willed. Nothin’ more to it. But he didn’t honor his marriage vows the way he shoulda. Never did.”

  “Did Hettie know?” She can’t have been that naïve, I think. The twins mentioned how frequently their father was gone on business trips.

  “Oh, she knew,” Danelle confirms. “First time she found out, Neville made nice, swore he’d behave. Then a couple years before Gabriel came along, some other lady turned up. It was an ugly scene. They had some words one night.”

  “What did she say?” I’m trying to understand how Hettie went from being devastated by Neville’s philandering to pregnant with his child a few years later. What happened in between? Did he make promises to change? Did she reach some kind of grudging acceptance? I remember the Bible I found, its passages about sexual immorality and sin. Maybe she put her faith in divine justice, believed that in the end her husband would answer to God.

  Danelle cocks her head to the side, remembering. The light catches one of her earrings. “Somethin’ just snapped in her. Never heard her yell like that before. She told him she’d wasted her life tryin’ to be a good wife, and for no good purpose. Said her life had no purpose at all. I’m not much for head shrinkin’, but I think Hettie was depressed. She didn’t know what she was gettin’ into with this kinda life.” Danelle glances over her shoulder at the house, and I know what she means. I can’t imagine regularly enduring dinner parties like the one I was subjected to here.

  “But she stayed with him. She could’ve taken him to the cleaners with a divorce settlement. Why didn’t she leave?”

  “And cut Neville loose? That wasn’t her way. She was gone make him sweat it.” Danelle toys with her string of beads, thumb and forefinger closing on a jagged blue one. “She talked about leavin’, mind you. Had him beggin’. But she was real mad. Said if he wanted to continue on with his whores, then fine, but the least he could do was find her a nice pool boy.” Danelle purses her lips, as if she thinks Hettie went too far.

  Maybe Jules is just one in a long line of family pool boys, I think. “How’d Neville react to that?”

  Danelle looks me square in the eye. “He hit her.”

  I inhale sharply. “You saw this?”

  “I heard ’em. He said she ever touched another man, he’d kill her, and—well, she went crashin’ into a table.”

  “Did he hurt her?”

  She nods. “Bloodied her nose. She came by the kitchen later askin’ for ice.”

  Now I realize Danelle’s big secret wasn’t the infidelity at all. Any whiff of domestic violence when Gabriel went missing, and that would’ve been the end for Neville Deveau. Guilty or innocent, he would have been buried alive in a sea of salivating investigators, immediately convicted in the court of public opinion.

  “Look,” Danelle says, “Neville had a temper an’ I don’t pretend otherwise. But I don’t believe he ever hurt anyone but that once. He never lifted a finger against any a those children, that I know. That’s why I didn’t go spreadin’ it around. Woulda just confused things, see?”

  I do see. It’s hard to be objective about a guy who cheats on his wife and then pops her in the face for threatening him with a dose of his own medicine. I’m struggling with it, anyway. “So after he hit her, what happened?”

  “Hettie went to their New Orleans house, lived there a few months while they sorted things out. The kids were away at school, but she went back to Evangeline when they came home, so they never even knew she was gone.”

  “And all of that was before Gabriel.”

  “Yeah. Couple years before. He’d taken up with some new lady by the time Gabriel was born.”

  It troubles me that Hettie had another child with this asshole. Was she stupid enough to think a baby could fix things? Or perhaps she was simply a good Christian woman who believed it her duty to yield to her husband’s desires. “Was Neville happy when she got pregnant?” I ask Danelle.

  She nods emphatically. “Pleased as punch. Hettie was the one who didn’t want that baby. She came around later, I guess, but . . .” Danelle trails off, declining to speculate further. “All I know is, nobody took it harder than Neville when Gabriel went missin’.” She shakes her head, and her obvious empathy for this man angers me. “Even after he put in them cameras and guards and all, he never had peace a mind. But he wouldn’t get rid of this place either, no matter how many times Hettie tried to make him sell it.”

  “Why not?” I think of the house in Stamford, all the memories of my son that it holds. I realize now that there is no future in that house for me, only past.

  Danelle considers my question. “Sounds crazy, but I think he was hopin’ Gabriel’d come back one day.” She studies my face, and for the first time, I detect something resembling anxiety in her. “I hope I did right tellin’ you this. I know it sounds bad for Neville, but I believe in my heart he did nothin’ wrong. He shouldn’a done what he did to Hettie, a course, but there’s a long way between gettin’ rough with a woman once and wipin’ your baby offa this earth.” Her eyes dart to the looming white house behind us and then back to me. “Whatchu thinkin’?”

  “I’m thinking you’re right,” I tell her. “I don’t think Neville was involved.” And it’s true. What Danelle just told me doesn’t, in my mind, implicate Neville. If he hit Hettie, isolated her from the world, and cheated on her, then it’s Hettie who had the motive. To rid herself of a child she never wanted. To bring pain to the man who hurt her.

  It’s possible, isn’t it? The twins’ birthday party ended around eleven, and Room Service Boy said both Neville and Hettie were present when he delivered aspirin at three a.m. If he was lying, though, if he was paid off, as Detective Minot suspects . . . she could’ve done it. She could’ve driven back to Evangeline, spent several hours there, and still made it back by eight o’clock when they got the phone call from Maddie that Gabriel was missing.

  File this one under “Things I Won’t Be Mentioning to Noah.”

  Danelle and I walk back to Evangeline, both clearly absorbed in our own thoughts. Suddenly the history of this place seems oppressive. For a moment, I can feel it all: the despair and drudgery of the hired help and the slaves before them, the listlessness and tedium of so many Deveau wives, the stress and pressure of being the owner of this estate. Sickness, injury, abuse—terrible things must have happened here, though they didn’t all make headlines. In truth, Gabriel Deveau is just another name in more than a hundred and sixty years of pain and sadness at Evangeline.

  “Is Hettie upstairs?” Danelle asks, bringing me back to the present. We’re at the front door, stepping into the shadowy foyer.

  “Yeah,” I say, trying to shrug off the bad vibes. “End of the hall.” I haven’t told the nursing staff to expect her, so I’m not sure what type of reception she’ll get. I linger at the foot of the staircase, listening. A quiet exchange of words, and then Danelle comes back down the stairs.

  “She’s sleepin’.”

  “Would you like to wait?” I have no idea how to entertain Danelle in the meantime, but it seems polite to offer.

  “I guess not,” she tells me, and I wonder if unburdening herself was the real purpose of this visit all along. “You said Hettie’s been confused in her mind anyhow. I saw the place. Maybe that’s enough.” She casts another glance around the large, airy foyer and up at the chandelier,
almost mournful. Does she miss her life here? I imagine her presiding over the kitchen like a magistrate, handing out plates to the staff like some kind of judgment. But it’s not nostalgia on her face, I decide. It’s pity. Compassion. She feels sorry for them.

  I can’t let her leave without asking one more thing. There’s been no delicate way to work it into our conversation today, to make it appear anything other than pointed and suspicious, but I have to know. “Ms. Martin, do you know if Maddie Lauchlin’s son spent time with Gabriel?”

  “Sean?” She eyes me shrewdly. “When he came to visit his folks, his mama was usually lookin’ after Gabriel. So yeah, they spent some time together.” She lowers her voice. “You got a special interest in Sean?”

  I don’t play this close to the chest, not after the way Danelle opened up to me earlier. “Kind of,” I admit. “I don’t know much, but the guy seems shady as hell to me.”

  I wait for her to leap to his defense as she did with Maddie, Neville, and Andre. She only nods and studies one of the gold-framed paintings. “I got no love for Sean myself.”

  “No? Why not?”

  Danelle weighs this a couple seconds before delivering a heavy edict. “Sean Lauchlin got above himself. He spent so much time around fine folks, he started struttin’ ’round like he was one of ’em.” Her mouth twists in disapproval. “The family was awful fond of him. Made him worse.”

  I’m startled to hear Danelle upholding class divides, particularly when she seemed so open-minded about Andre’s sexuality. On the other hand, she’s confiding in me. Maybe we can get somewhere. “I heard Sean had a big fight with his parents a couple months before Gabriel went missing. Did Maddie ever say why?”

  Danelle shakes her head. “She and Jack were pretty tight-lipped about it. Sean’d been worryin’ them for years doin’ I dunno what. Poor Maddie just about went to pieces when he left.”

  I remember Noah said he used to play with Gabriel when he was little, and I have to ask. “Did you know Maddie and Jack’s grandson?”

  She looks surprised. “No. Never heard Maddie talk about him but once.”

  “What did she say?”

  “I dunno. Just slipped out one day when she was upset, somethin’ ’bout her grandbaby. Didn’t even know she had one ’til that minute. When I asked her, she clammed right up.” Danelle sees my bemused expression and offers an explanation. “Maddie was real religious, and I guess Sean didn’t marry the girl. She musta been embarrassed. She was that kind.”

  I’d love to continue with the conversation, but Jules pops his head out of the study and gives us both an icy stare.

  “Can I help you?” he asks Danelle in a voice that is anything but helpful.

  “No,” she says, unmoved by some pretty boy less than half her age. “I’m on my way out, thank you.” She pats my shoulder, the friendliest gesture I’ve received from her to date. “You have a good day.”

  Jules waits for Danelle to leave and then turns to me. “It really isn’t appropriate for you to bring personal guests onto the property.”

  “She was here to see Hettie,” I say evenly. “But I’ll certainly keep that in mind.”

  I need to get away from this damn house. The fencing and cameras and guards are making me feel very mental patient. Besides, I want to pass everything Danelle told me today on to Detective Minot. The fifty dollars I lost in our bet is a small price to pay for escape.

  I don’t know how Hettie stayed at Evangeline all these years—largely alone, from the sound of it—without losing her mind. Maybe she didn’t.

  19.

  If I find Detective Minot comfortable to be around because he shares my rather cynical worldview, I find Leeann comforting because she does not. I spend my Wednesday afternoon engaged in grim but ultimately unproductive conjecture with Minot, and my Thursday writing about it. By Friday, I’m ready for a little kitchen gossip.

  I have to give Leeann credit: there’s just no earthly way to dislike her. With her big, toothy smiles and rambling tales of folks around town, I can see how she charmed old Neville Deveau into hiring her two years ago. I could pretend that my frequent kitchen visits are about research for the book or even her cooking—and in fact, I value Leeann for both of these reasons—but the simple truth is that I feel happy in her presence.

  Six months ago I would have had nothing but disdain for Leeann. She is an overweight, uneducated twenty-three-year-old unwed mother who has lived her entire life in Chicory, Louisiana. She’s never been out of state, and her only goals in life are to marry her hard-to-pin-down boyfriend and have more children. To the elitist Manhattanite, Leeann’s not much, but she’s kind, something I’m learning to appreciate.

  Historically, I’ve always avoided “nice” people whose niceness is their primary quality. I pitied them. I spent my time with snarky intellectuals, basking in our superiority, our finely tuned sense of irony. Leeann wouldn’t recognize sarcasm if it paraded by with a banner and a bullhorn, but any sign of sadness or stress in one of her coworkers, and she’s all over it, offering to help. When she babbles about some drama unfolding within her church congregation or earnestly recounts a scene she saw on Real Housewives, I feel grateful to hear about a world not tinged by evil or tragedy.

  “So . . .” Leeann smiles as she scrubs a copper pot from lunch. “How much you like ’im?”

  I know without asking that she means Noah. I shouldn’t be here, of course, shouldn’t be indulging in some middle-school discussion of “boys.” Rae is flying in tomorrow night, and I ought to be banging out a chapter so I’ll have time to hang out the next few days. Really, though, this is more fun.

  “I like him enough,” I say, returning Leeann’s smile.

  “Nuff for what?” Leeann presses. “Do you ‘happily eva afta’ like ’im? Or just ‘have a li’l fun ’til you get back to New York’ like ’im?”

  “He just got divorced,” I tell her. “And I . . . haven’t dated in a while. A little fun is all I can handle.” I approach the farmer’s sink, where she’s working, and grab a green-checked dishrag. “Here, let me dry for you.”

  Leeann hands me her pot, smirking. “You best watch out, Charlie. God might have more in store for you than fun.” I think she’s trying to tease me, but it sounds ominous given all the other things that God or Fate or Chance has dumped on me recently.

  “I know you believe in God and Jesus, Leeann, but . . . do you believe in other things? Things you can’t explain?” I didn’t intend to have this conversation, but I can’t help myself.

  I’m not making a whole lot of sense, but she responds confidently anyway.

  “When you believe in God, you got an explanation for everything.” She’s so certain, those mild blue eyes totally untroubled. I find myself inexplicably infuriated. An explanation for everything? Like why my son is dead? But I hold it in.

  I remind myself that Leeann is only twenty-three. She hasn’t lost anything she loved enough to hate the idea of God. She hasn’t seen enough of the world to make it complicated.

  “What about ghosts?” I ask. “Do you believe in spirits?”

  Leeann sets down her last pan on the counter and wipes her soapy hands on a free dishrag. “I believe the Lord has His messengers,” she says, “and sometimes He sends His angels to us.”

  “Angels,” I repeat. Not exactly the word that pops into my mind when I think of my visions of Gabriel Deveau, Hannah Ramirez, and Didi Minot.

  Leeann nods. “There’s heavenly visitations in the Bible. And my son saw one.”

  “Your son saw an angel?” The fact that I’m only 90 percent skeptical of this claim alarms me.

  “He’s seen her a few times,” Leeann says with perfect seriousness, as if one can trust absolutely a three-year-old’s reports of an angelic presence.

  “How did he know it was an angel?” I realize it’s pathetic that I’m looking to a preschooler for t
ips, but what else do I have to go by?

  “He just knew,” Leeann says. “Maybe she had wings. Anyway, that’s what I believe in. Messengers from heaven, not ghosts.”

  I still don’t see the distinction, but before I can pursue the matter, the pocket of Leeann’s pants starts to vibrate. She fishes out an ancient, scratched-up cell phone. “It’s Mike.” She frowns, and I gather that’s her boyfriend. “I hope there’s not trouble at home.” She presses the button with her thumb. “Hello?”

  A pause. Her face knits up into a worried frown. “Qui ça dit? Why you on Mike’s phone, sha?”

  I haven’t heard Leeann break into Cajun French before, but I gather from her tender tone that it’s her son, the Angel Spotter. I can just make out a tearful little voice on the other end, and it fills me with a stabbing sense of loss. I would give anything to be inconvenienced by my child at work.

  “Okay, sha, s’okay.” Leeann soothes him. “Mike just come in? Put ’im on da phone.”

  A low male voice replaces the little-kid whine.

  “What’s goin’ on ova dere, boo?” Leeann listens intently. “Mais, he says he sick. Says he got mal au ventre.” Mike doesn’t sound too happy, and soon Leeann is stuck soothing him as well. “I know you could handle it, but he’s pretty worked up. Chilren always want dere mama when dey feel bad.”

  I stare at the wood floor. She’s right. Kids do want their mama. But I wasn’t there for my son when he needed his mama most.

  Even if I’d left work when Keegan’s teacher first called to say he had a headache, I wouldn’t have made it back in time. But I didn’t leave after that first call. I told her that he could have some Children’s Tylenol and resumed composing an angry e-mail to our web page designer. I could’ve asked to speak with Keegan, could’ve told him I loved him, but I didn’t. I went back to work because, like Leeann, I thought work mattered. Fifteen minutes later, when they called to say he’d been rushed to the ER, I knew that it didn’t.