Haitian Graves

by Vicki Delany

  “Children at school?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Paulette not here today?”

  “Who?”

  “The housekeeper.”

  “Oh. She quit.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged. “You know how superstitious these people are. Bloody Vodou. She thought Marie’s ghost was haunting the place or something. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have calls to make. The laundry room’s through the kitchen. Across the courtyard.”

  We found our way easily enough. The room was large, with a modern washing machine and dryer. A row of laundry detergents was neatly placed on a high shelf. An ironing board was propped in a corner beside the iron. School uniforms, clean and folded, were stacked on a table. Alphonse stood against the far wall. He rubbed his hands together, and his eyes darted between us.

  The interview did not begin well.

  “Why did you kill Mrs. Hammond?” LeBlanc asked.

  Alphonse’s skin was very dark. But I swear he almost turned pale. “I…I…,” he stuttered.

  “Did she reject your advances? Did she threaten to tell her husband?”

  “Hold on here,” I said.

  “Don’t interfere,” LeBlanc snapped at me.

  I ignored him. “Alphonse, did you get on well with Mrs. Hammond?”

  “Yes,” he said. “She was very nice. She was a kind woman.”

  “Kind,” LeBlanc snapped. “How kind?”

  There was nothing I could do to turn this into a fair interview. I’d written up a report the previous night on what Hammond had said and sent it to the judicial branch. My report had been a recitation of the facts as Hammond told them to me. Clearly, LeBlanc had taken it as gospel. His assumptions had then been reinforced by Nicholas.

  By the time the interview was over, Alphonse was trembling. His dark eyes filled with tears. “Please,” he said. “I would never hurt her. She was a good woman.”

  “That’s what you say,” LeBlanc said. “You are under arrest.”

  “Can I have a word, agent?” I asked.

  LeBlanc looked like he was about to say no. But he nodded. We walked into the courtyard. The floor was cement. It was surrounded by concrete walls. Heat rose in visible waves.

  “You can’t arrest a man on rumor and hearsay,” I said.

  “If I let him go,” LeBlanc said, “he will disappear into the countryside. Perhaps over the border. We do not have the resources to find him. This is not like Canada.”

  He was right. But I didn’t like it.

  “If he is innocent,” LeBlanc said, “then he has nothing to fear.”

  That I doubted very much.

  We returned to the laundry room. The gardener hugged his arms. His head was down.

  “You will come with us,” LeBlanc said. He turned and walked out, leaving me to bring the prisoner. I took Al’s arm and led him into the house. I could feel him tremble.

  We found Gail Warkness sitting at the kitchen table, tapping on her phone. A tall glass of iced tea was at her elbow.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “Protecting the interests of an American citizen,” she said. “Hammond called my office. He said you were here, asking questions.” She stood up and thrust her hand toward LeBlanc. “Gail Warkness. United States Embassy.”

  LeBlanc shook.

  Warkness glanced at Alphonse. “Did he do it?”

  “Being brought in for questioning,” I said.

  LeBlanc marched out of the kitchen. Warkness followed. I was left to bring Alphonse.

  Hammond did not appear. Nicholas smirked as he opened the garage door to let us out. Alphonse kept his eyes fixed on the ground. His shoulders were slumped. He looked like he’d given up already.

  Pierre stuffed the gardener into the back of our truck. LeBlanc said he’d meet us at the police station. Warkness shook his hand again. She smiled and said she’d fill Hammond in. She didn’t give me another glance.

  “Did he confess?” Pierre asked when we pulled into the street.

  “Nowhere near it,” I said.

  SIX

  When 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?”
<
br />   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.

  SEVEN

  Thursday 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.