Paradise Interrupted

by Penny Mickelbury

  Roland dropped the assault weapon and it clattered loudly and slithered across the deck as he hurried to restart the boat’s engine. The smaller craft took off in the opposite direction, in just as much of a hurry, seeming to skim along the surface of the ocean, bouncing, occasionally, like a skipping stone. Neither of them spoke until they could see, in the distance, the Ville de Paix harbor and the comforting sight of the luxury craft moored there, including an enormous cruise liner which dwarfed everything else. “It is here just for the day,” Roland offered casually. “Once a week they will come just for the day, until we can convince them to—”

  “Stop the boat, Roland. Please.” She was too shaken to pretend that nothing unusual had happened, that they just barely missed being shark snacks.

  He complied without hesitation and as the boat slowed, with the engines cut, a calming silence prevailed. That’s when Carole Ann noticed that Roland’s hands were shaking, that his lips were quivering, that he was swallowing over and over again, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down like the boat. And in recognizing his terror, she recognized her own, and along with it, the fact that she had reason for it.The pirate ship gave definition to the vague feeling she’d had that something ugly and potentially dangerous lurked beneath the surface of Isle de Paix, something uglier than the possibility that Denis St.Almain was a drug dealer; uglier than a field full of healthy marijuana plants; uglier, even, than a wealthy man’s ego trip, because she was certain that the intimidation tactics they’d just experienced had little to do with Hubert de Village’s property line. She also was certain that she recognized the leader, that he was the man she’d seen with Denis at Aux Fruits de Mer and that he was the man she’d seen with Marie-Ange Collette. Ugly didn’t begin to describe what this was shaping up to be.

  “They will be punished, won’t they?”

  Carole Ann looked at him, squinting. The boat had rocked and bobbed and shifted direction so that they now were facing away from the harbor and toward the sun and the open sea.

  She contemplated which of the numerous responses that leapt into her mind to give him, and shrugged. “I suppose that’s possible. Does our police department have a boat?”

  He nodded vigorously. “Just like this one, though with a more powerful engine, I think. And, of course, it has lights and a siren.”

  Carole Ann smiled slightly. “One boat, one cruiser, and a dozen bicycles.” She shook her head sadly, the feeling genuine and inspired by the look of utter defeat on Roland’s face. Then she brightened. “And two automatic assault weapons.”

  Ville de Paix was teeming with tourists when they slid into Roland’s assigned space at the dock, and she felt buoyed by the festive air. This is what island life should be, she thought, bright and festive and noisy, not dark and ugly and menacing. Her mission of the moment should not be fetching the chief of police to take possession of guns. She’d much rather be able to stroll along, like the tourists, in and out of shops, buying a trinket here, a bauble there, stopping now and again for rum punch and conch fritters. She realized she’d stopped walking and gave herself a nudge. Roland was waiting.

  She was momentarily startled by the crowd in front of the police station until she realized that it was the tourism office drawing the attention. Two officers emerged from the station door and the crowd parted, pleasantly, to allow them to pass. The officers smiled and greeted people and their greetings were returned in kind. This is how life should be in paradise, she thought, cops in khaki shorts and shirts smiling and waving at the citizenry, which feels safe and happy. The two cops noticed her and simultaneously lifted their hands. She waved back, not remembering their names but knowing that one of them was from New Orleans and the other from Miami and both were now in Isle de Paix because they’d sickened of random, inexplicable violence of those cities, violence fed and fueled by drugs and perpetrated by idiots with automatic assault weapons. The kind she was about to present as gifts to their chief.

  “I’ve heard that the old man is an arrogant fool, but this is too much!” Yvette Casson was seated behind her desk in the office that she’d so thoroughly imprinted that any visitor would believe she’d lived here for years instead of days. She’d added three plants, a woven mat rug that covered half the floor, a rattan window shade, a framed poster of a Romare Bearden painting, and a half dozen family photographs, but the real change in the room was Yvette’s persona. She was a tough, no-nonsense cop. This was her domain and there would be no confusion about that fact. She picked up the phone, punched a button, and summoned whoever was on the other end. Almost immediately there came a knock on the door and it opened to admit Officer Garrison, whose name she remembered because he was from D.C.

  “M’am,” he said, saluting sharply. His eyes widened a bit when she directed him to get two pillowcases from the supply closet and then told him what to do with them, but his only response was a barked, “Yes, M’am” and another crisp salute. He closed the door silently behind him.

  “You seem certain that I can and should keep those guns.”

  “I am certain, Yvette, on both counts. I’m as certain as I can be without proof that there will be no serial numbers on those guns, and I’m certain that as long as there are people on this island with them, you should have a couple, too. Besides,” she added wryly, “they can afford to buy new ones a lot easier than you can.”

  “No shit, Sherlock!” the chief exclaimed. “Of course, I wouldn’t have a problem if I could convince Monsieur le Presidente to shift his cabinet ministers around. Give me Roland in place of David, and we’ll go intimidate the hell out of them! We won’t need to shoot ‘em or torch ‘em or outgun ‘em or out run ‘em. We’ll scare the hell out of ‘em!”

  They shared the humor of the moment then got down to business. Carole Ann answered all of Yvette’s questions and knew that she’d yielded precious little useful information: She’d seen no registry listing on the pirate boat; she didn’t know what kind of boat it was, though she’d recognize a similar one if she saw it; she would not be able to identify any of the assailants except the leader, and then not if he grew a beard or a mustache or changed his hair; and she could assign specific ethnicity to none of them.

  “This has the makings of a perfect crime, carried out by the perfect criminals,” Yvette said, “so, I’m guessing that you met some of the guardians of the pot field,” she added in a musing tone, then sat up straight when Carole Ann did not respond. “You don’t think so?”

  Carole Ann was thinking of Marie-Ange and her assignation with a pirate but she couldn’t admit that to the chief of police. “I honestly don’t know what to think, Yvette, but I do know that whoever they are and whatever they’re doing, we can’t fight them and win, and we can’t stop them from doing whatever it is they’re doing. All we can do, it seems to me, is collect information and prepare to defend ourselves should that become necessary.”

  Yvette shook her head. “I’m not sure anymore. If that’s what we’re up against, and if you’re still planning to go ahead with that road, I’m not inclined to send my people out to defend against an army. They’re good cops and they’re well- trained, but none of ‘em did duty in the Middle East, and I’ll bet David and I are the only ones who know how to use that damn AK-47.” She stood up and shook her head some more, more vigorously this time. “I don’t know, Carole Ann. This thing stinks. We need to talk some more before you send Roland’s people back into that forest.”

  Carole Ann nodded and Yvette scrutinized her, studied her face, looking for something to read, finding nothing. But she’d been a cop a long time in a tough environment and knew how to read nothing in a face. “You know something that I don’t know and I don’t like that, Carole Ann. Why don’t you tell me what it is so we can both know what I’m up against?”

  So Carole Ann told her about Denis St. Almain, told her everything. She made one comment: “No wonder you didn’t want to call in the DEA.” And she asked one question: “Why are you convinced that he’s not a mur
derer or a drug dealer or both?”

  “Because he broke into my house in the middle of the night to tell me he wasn’t,” she said and she wanted to add, ‘And because Hazel Copeland said so,’ but that was a story she didn’t intend to tell.

  “Do you think he’s Henri LeRoi’s son?”

  “I think he thinks he is.”

  “But your gut tells you that Odile Laurance is correct?”

  Carole Ann nodded. “She was truly horrified when I told her what Denis said. And besides, Yvette, you know as well as I do that in any community where everybody knows everybody else’s business, if Henri LeRoi had fathered Simone St. Almain’s child, Henri’s sister would know about it.”

  “No shit, Sherlock,” Yvette said again. Then she asked Carole Ann to come see her at nine o’clock on Monday morning to report on her meeting with the LeRoi sisters. She asked, but there was no room for Carole Ann’s refusal. The chief wanted and expected a full accounting of her Sunday tete a tete with Odile. They walked together through the sun-filled squad room and C.A. noticed that it, too, had begun to assume an identity and a personality. There were coffee mugs and water bottles on desks, and a large potted palm in one corner of the room wearing a single Christmas ornament, and three different screen-saver patterns flashed across the operational computers. As they reached the door, it opened, and Officer Garrison entered, a strangely bulging pillowcase in each hand. He raised his arms and shot his boss a questioning look. “My office,” she said, and followed Carole Ann out the door. “You watch yourself, Carole Ann. And call me if anything else weird happens.” And she went inside, closing the door, heading immediately, Carole Ann knew, to inspect the two weapons.

  The crowd was still thick in Government Square, the air still festive. Carole Ann stepped out into the street and found herself caught up and swept along, and decided to go with it. After all, dressed as she was, in a tee shirt, bell-bottomed slacks, and deck shoes, she couldn’t very well present herself at her Government House office. Besides, she knew what awaited her: The preliminary autopsy reports on Paul Francois and the drug dealer David Messinger found in the marijuana field, but she already knew what they contained because Messinger had called her at six-thirty that morning to tell here that both men had been killed by bullets to the head. She didn’t need to read the words in medicalese. So, why not enjoy an early dinner, watch the sunset, and go home and watch a movie?

  She was following the crowd, looking for a likely place to stop, when someone caught her eye...Denis! But she knew that it was not Denis. She craned her neck, peering over the heads of tourists for a glimpse of the man. Was that him, in the green and white striped polo shirt? Yes! She followed, craning for a good look. But this man was half a foot taller and, judging from the back of his head, he was white. ‘Get a grip,’ she heard Jake snap at her, and she marveled at his absence in her subconscious before now. Given the events of the day, he should have been barking orders at her all day. Then she realized why he hadn’t: It hadn’t been necessary because she hadn’t been the one to disarm the pirate. She hadn’t put herself in danger. She hadn’t even considered it, consciously or unconsciously. he had, she realized, stood open-mouthed and flat-footed and terrified, staring at the men who were holding her at gunpoint, thinking absolutely nothing.

  The black and white striped awning of Le Bistro caught her eye and she angled through the crowd to the sidewalk. She stood before the cafe, deciding whether to venture inside or take an umbrella-covered table outside, and watch the world go by. The decision was made for her when a waitress approached and informed her that there was an interior courtyard with a view of the harbor. Despite the early hour, most of the tables inside the restaurant and in the courtyard, already were filled, and Carole Ann assumed that spoke well of the food. Either that or tourists got hungry early. Without reading the menu, she asked for a large salad, a bottle of Chardonnay, and an appetizer of conch fritters. “If you have them,” she added hopefully.

  “They are a house specialty, Madame,” the waitress replied.

  “Then bring a double order.”

  Sunday dinner at the home of the proprietors of Aux Fruits de Mer would not be fish. That was clear half a mile down the road that led to Odile’s house— the scent of roasting meat wafted on the breeze, causing Carole Ann to salivate. She glanced at Odile’s expertly-drawn and detailed map and noted that her destination was at hand, and when she made the final turn on to the road that would lead her to Odile’s house, it also was clear that Sunday dinner would be a well-attended affair. There must have been thirty people of all ages, shapes, and sizes ambling about in the clearing where the road terminated, and Carole Ann was momentarily confused: There was a swimming pool surrounded by a large patio, which, in turn, was bordered by a wide border of lush, green grass and brightly colored tropical flowers, and it seemed to be the front yard of the three large houses behind it.

  Still following directions, Carole Ann parked left of the pool, on a paved deck where half a dozen other cars were parked. Before she could get out and close the door, a gaggle of children, all chirping her name, appeared and demanded that she follow them. She did, in the direction of the pool. She saw Odile rise from a chaise lounge, drop the book she’d been reading, and walk toward her. The children hopped up and down, chirping “Tante Odile, Tante Odile, Grandmamma, Madame Carole Ann c’est arrive!”

  Odile introduced her to each of the children by name, and each grinned and shook her hand. Then they allowed themselves to be shooed away as Odile identified them as nieces, nephews, and two grandchildren. And laughing at the look in Carole Ann’s eyes, she explained that, yes, all were part of the LeRoi family. They lived in separate houses in what could only be described as a compound— a settlement of a dozen or more structures of various shapes and sizes on what Carole Ann realized was a private road, which is why it hadn’t appeared on any of her maps. These three houses— the beginning or the end of the compound?—were larger than all the others, and were built on a slight rise which, she realized as she followed Odile up the hill, commanded a stunning view of the sea. She also realized that the fronts of the houses faced the sea and pool/garden area was the backyard. Which is where pools and gardens usually were...

  Just beyond the parking deck was a stand of trees that Carole Ann learned was a fruit orchard. Odile’s husband was a horticulturist who experimented with fruit trees, providing Aux Fruits de Mer fruit of rare and exquisite kind for the sauces, jams and jellies that enhanced the restaurant’s fame. The setting was lush and elegant without a trace of ostentation, like the LeRoi sisters themselves, causing Carole Ann to wonder again what Henri LeRoi was like.

  “First you must meet Mother,” Odile said, after having explained the lay of the land, and she led Carole Ann up the flagstone walkway and into the largest of the three houses on the knoll. They entered a kitchen that smelled of cinnamon and nutmeg and cloves and which made Carole Ann’s mouth water. “Mother made the dessert today.”

  “And I wager it will be the best bread pudding you ever ate,” spoke a voice from behind her.

  Carole Ann turned to see exactly how Vivien LeRoi would look in...how many years? For the old woman, the doyenne of the LeRoi clan, was so old that she made Toussaint Remy seem young. She had once been tall and straight like Viviene, but now she was bent with age. She was thin and the skin hung from her, and her hands, when they took Carole Ann’s were gnarled and crooked. Her eyes, however, were clear and sparkled with the energy and mischief that filled Odile. This old woman had doled out equal

  measures of herself into her daughters, and Carole Ann wondered even more fervently what Henri LeRoi was like.

  “I am honored to meet you, Madame LeRoi, and of course the bread pudding is magnificent. You would not allow it to be otherwise.”

  The old woman cackled and waved them away as she shuffled down the hallway. Carole Ann followed Odile outside and across a brick walkway to the house next door. They entered another kitchen, huge and bright and s
melling of herbs instead of spices. Viviene was seated at a table tucked into a window nook. She looked up from the paper before her and smiled. She was standing when Carole Ann reached her, and she received kisses on both cheeks.

  “Please sit down. I hope you don’t mind the kitchen. I can’t seem to get out of one or the other.”

  Carole Ann smiled and sat across the table from Viviene and Odile placed a bottle of red wine without a label and three goblets on the table, then sat next to Carole Ann. Viviene poured wine for all of them. Then she looked directly at Carole Ann, her gaze clear and steady. She was her mother’s daughter, in all ways, for it now was apparent, watching the two sisters together, that it was Viviene to whom Odile deferred, not the other way around; it was Viviene who would, if she had not already, inherit her mother’s place as head of the LeRoi family. And it was Viviene who would answer Carole Ann’s queries.

  “Denis St. Almain is not our brother’s son,” Viviene said in her gentle but strong voice. “though we love him as if he were. And Henri loves him as a son. But Denis is the son of Philippe Collette. Denis is the President’s son.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Sunlight streamed through the windows, making rainbows as it refracted through the deep red of the wine in the crystal goblets. The voices of the children at play wafted in on the breeze, both breeze and children light and carefree and unfettered by ugliness or complexity. Carole Ann delighted in the rainbow and the children and felt strangely comforted in the presence of the LeRoi sisters though she remained alert and on guard. This place and these people reminded her of another extended family who had first fed her and then shared with her their family secrets, secrets she ultimately used to destroy members of that family. Would that happen in this situation, with this family? She hoped not; but like that other family in that other time and place, she might have no choice. And so, she remained on guard.