Paradise Interrupted

by Penny Mickelbury

  Carole Ann’s total puzzlement prevented an immediate response. She was aware of the tremendous trust being placed in her care, and she did not want to do or say anything that would jeopardize it, but she simply did not understand. “From whose idea?” Carole Ann asked. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

  “The ‘dea’ people,” Louise insisted. “The people from the States who do the drugs,” she said with such vehemence that Carole Ann flinched. “And whatever they did, they caused Henri LeRoi to go away.”

  “The D-E-A?” she asked. “Is that what you mean?” And the sight of the four nodding heads caused dismay to spread throughout her entire body. She hadn’t wanted to believe Denis St. Almain’s charge that the DEA somehow was tainted, and she didn’t want to believe these women. Denis was questionable. These women were not. “And what exactly did the DEA do?”

  “They did something to Andre,” Louise answered, “and Madame learned of it and was furious! She said he must never tell his father.”

  “Then she became frightened,” Henriette added, when the ‘dea’ man came to visit Andre. Oh, he was horrible!” And she shivered at the memory. “It was early in the morning. Monsieur le president had just departed and Madame was eating her fruit and she had just said to me that when she was finished, she would awaken young Andre. ‘He cannot lay about all day,’ she said, and there was a pounding at the back door, the back door, you must understand, where never do visitors enter! And there was pounding that frightened me and angered Madame. ‘What insanity is that?’ and she rushed to open the door and then she was thrown back into the room— yes, thrown! And then he came in...” And Henriette shuddered again.

  “How did he look, Henriette? Can you remember?”

  “Oh, oui, Madame, I will never forget! He looks like a god and behaves like a monster!” And she described in perfect detail the man Carole Ann had seen at the Aux Fruits de Mer bar with Denis St .Almain, and whom Andre Collette had met at Le Bistro, and with whom she had seen Marie-Ange Collette leaving the north coast restaurant. His name, said Henriette, is Osborne, and he is from Trinidad.

  Carole Ann chose her next words carefully. “You mentioned the ugliness also has ties and connections to France?”

  Four heads nodded in unison. Henriette spoke. “His name is Christian Leonard and he came from Paris. Madame herself brought him and he treats her so!”

  “Madame? You mean Marie-Ange? She brought him here?” Carole Ann was incredulous.

  Louise sucked her teeth in disgust and picked up the story. “To be in charge of the bank and to be in charge of the business affairs of old Hubert. And do you know what he did?!”

  Henriette chimed in: “He cut off her stipend! Told her there would be no more money from the de Villages!”

  And for the next hour, the four women shared with her the intimate details of the de Villages and Collette households, of a mentally incapacitated Hubert de Villages unable to protect the rights of the granddaughter who had cared for him, an increasingly distraught Marie-Ange Collette suspended between a lazy, no-good, possibly drug addicted son, and a husband whose career and image must be protected at all costs, and mounting debts she was unable to meet because Christian Leonard had terminated her stipend.

  As she listened, Carole Ann recalled David Messinger’s glee at relating how the government of Trinidad and Tobago had hanged nine drug dealers. She knew that Trinidad and Jamaica were the principle drug trafficking centers of the Caribbean and, based on Denis’ account, she knew that the DEA used island-born agents to infiltrate the island drug trade. She tried on a scenario: Osborne, a Trinidadian, was the DEA agent in charge when Denis was stationed here, and when an angry Henri LeRoi set up the DEA by having the Coast Guard intercept a shipment of cocaine bound for the streets of America, Denis St.Almain was not the only DEA agent blamed for that fiasco; Osborne, too, took a share of the blame, and either was fired or, like Denis, demoted. To retaliate, Osborne, making use of his Isle de Paix contacts, either now was a rogue DEA agent operating an illegal sideline in Isle de Paix, or he no longer worked for the DEA. Either way, he had ensnared both Andre and Marie-Ange Collette. From what Carole Ann had seen of him, Osborne was the kind of man who would use them until there was nothing left and toss them aside like garbage. Then the thought expanded itself, taking on a new dimension: The DEA knew about Osborne and his activities, and thought Denis St. Almain was part of the game. No wonder they were after him.

  Her hostesses had sat quietly while she thought, though they had watched her carefully and, she knew, shrewdly, waiting for her to process what they’d told her. “Has he ever returned, Henriette? This Osborne?”

  Henriette nodded, fear and hatred blending in her eyes. “He comes often, always just after Monsieur le president has departed. Sometimes he comes to see Andre, and sometimes to see Madame. And...and...”

  “He gives her money,” Louise interjected, finishing the sentence that Henriette could not. “You see what has happened, yes? Because of Christian Leonard, she is forced to choose between her son and her husband. Not a happy choice, Madame.”

  Not happy at all, Carole Ann thought, as she sat on the edge of the Aux Fruits de Mer parking lot waiting for a space to become available, a potentially futile exercise on a Saturday night. But she would wait, and she surprised herself with that decision. She had had no plan, leaving Little Haiti, to stop in at Aux Fruits de Mer, but she was too unnerved to be at home alone with her thoughts, and even the sardine-tight parking lot did not deter her growing desire to talk to Viviene and Odile. She heard an engine start and saw taillights glow red in the darkness and, with the agility and speed of New York City driver, she propelled the Jeep forward and had eased into what was a very tight squeeze before the other car was even out of sight.

  The restaurant was, of course, packed to the rafters, and the noise level so intense that she barely could distinguish the Ray Charles on the jukebox. She scanned the room and realized that she was looking for Osborne; that’s why she was here. Instead, she saw Odile hurrying toward her, the forced half-smile on her face an obvious mask.

  “You have brought news of Henri!” Odile exclaimed, kissing Carole Ann’s cheeks in the normal way of greeting, her eyes dark with worry.

  Carole Ann’s own smile was genuine, as was her relief at being able to deliver good news. “He’s fine, Odile. He will recover slowly, but fully.” She had received that news from Jake just moments before leaving for dinner in Little Haiti.

  “You must go tell Viviene tout suite. She is rigid with worry. I’ll join you at my table momentarily.”

  Carole Ann made her way across the packed dining room and entered the kitchen through the private door and immediately spied Viviene. Shocked at the furrows in her face and the tautness of her carriage, she rushed to her, speaking words of assurance as they embraced, repeating what she’d said to Odile. She felt the older woman relax, heard her whispered thanks, and left her to her work.

  Back out in the dining room, Carole Ann made her way to Odile’s table in time to see a couple leave and Eliane arrive with a bottle of wine in a bucket. The change in Odile in those few moments was remarkable. Her smile was wide, her face was open and clear, her eyes sparkling. Carole Ann wished that she had ignored Jake and come immediately to tell these women that their brother was alive, though, before today, she could not have added “well” to the description.

  “I’m glad to see you smiling, Odile, and I’d like for you to keep that smile in place while I share some information with you.” And she described Osborne and warned of his danger. She saw the flicker of recognition in Odile’s eyes, who had busied herself opening the wine.

  “I know exactly who he is. He pursues Helene. I took an instant dislike to him, and Helene accused me of being an over-protective mother.”

  Carole Ann now had reason for the wide grin on her face. “But Odile, everybody knows mothers are never over-protective, they just are always right about everything!”

  “Ha! Tell t
hat to my daughters!”

  “You’re a daughter yourself, Odile, so you know: Either we learn that mother is always right about everything, or we learn to pretend that she is without argument.” Carole Ann laughed gently, envisioning her own mother who still dispensed advice on a regular basis.

  Odile clutched her ample bosom in mock horror. “But I was thirty-five before I realized that! Must I endure for so much longer?”

  They shared a laugh before turning serious again. Carole Ann told her in the broadest of terms why Osborne was dangerous. “I wouldn’t worry too much about Helene at this point if you’re certain she doesn’t do drugs. But if you see Denis, tell him to stay well away from the man. Osborne, I think, is the reason for Denis’ trouble, and for Denis to be seen with him would be dangerous.”

  “But I thought Denis was with you?” Odile quickly wiped the alarm from her face but remained tense.

  “He left,” Carole Ann replied without explanation. Then, “Odile, I need to ask you something and I cannot elaborate on my reasons for asking, and I need as honest an answer as you can give.” And when she nodded, Carole Ann asked, “If Marie-Ange were in trouble, to whom would she turn? Who would help her?”

  “Why, Philippe, of course!” Odile exclaimed without hesitation.

  “And,” Carole Ann asked carefully, “if she could not turn to Philippe, then where?”

  Odile gasped. “Not turn to Philippe?! What are you saying? Of course she could turn to...” Odile froze and her face became a mask. “Andre,” she whispered. “Mon Dieu, he will destroy them.”

  Questions asked and answered. Any other time would have found Carole Ann’s spirits elevated by such a productive evening. Not tonight. She took only slight comfort in the fact that Yvette Casson had instituted around-the-clock police presence at the Collette residence, and at the front and rear entrances of Government House. Her khaki-clad bicycle cops were no match for Osborne’s assassins with their assault weapons; if they wanted to get at one of the Collettes, they could do so, taking out the cops in the process. Beside, Yvette now was worried that her ten-person force was stretched to its limits; any emergency would take it to its breaking point. Carole Ann shared her worry.

  Not that shared worry was necessarily comforting, she thought as she parked her Jeep on the roadside behind the president’s sedan Monday morning and sat inside the car for a moment watching Yvette’s hunched shoulders as she paced up and down the road. Once again, the scene at the New Government Road construction site resembled nothing so much as a celebration, and perhaps it was. The new mini-paver sat in tiny silence beside the lumbering dump truck, both of them surrounded by the two dozen men and women whose job it would be to clear the forest in the absence of suitable machinery to do that grueling work. Toussaint Remy stood in the middle of the crowd, an arm draped proprietarily across the paver. Philippe stood stoically in the shadow of his police protector, chatting with David Messinger and Roland Charles, shaking the hands of the several residents bold enough to cross the cop’s path to greet their president. Carole Ann kept her eyes on the police chief, whose eyes alternated between the president and the road. The reason for that became apparent as three bicycle-riding officers emerged from the forest and pedaled over to their boss. Yvette’s face relaxed a bit as she listened to the cops, then she joined the president’s group, said something to them, and moved away, into the crowd of workers.

  Carole Ann followed and listened to her ask that they keep off the road, that they exercise extreme care and caution with their scythes and hoes and sling blades, and that they drink plenty of water. “Not beer, water,” she stressed, and she laughed with them at their appreciation of her understanding of who and how they were, finally getting around to telling them that one of the officers would be on hand all day, “just in case somebody didn’t listen to me and needs a ride to the hospital.” They laughed again, then set about the business of conquering a forest. Carole Ann followed Yvette across the road.

  “Masterful,” she said in admiring tones.

  Yvette raised her eyes heavenward. “And useless if they don’t listen.”

  “They’ll listen. They like you. Probably the first time in their lives they’ve liked a cop, but they like you, and they like what you’re doing for them, Yvette.”

  “Yeah. That and a buck won’t get me a ride on the New York City subway,” she replied sarcastically.

  “So you’re pissed off at me, why?”

  “What were you doing in Little Haiti yesterday?”

  Carole Ann laughed. “Having dinner with Anne-Marie St. Georges and a few of the girls, if it any of your business. Which it’s not, but just in case you need to know, I’ve also been a guest at Odile Laurance’s home, and at Philippe and Marie-Ange’s I’ve had a few beers at Armand’s with Toussaint Remy and Paul Francois, and a couple of gallons of coffee at Le Bistro, usually alone. Though I’m duly impressed, Yvette, at the eyes and ears you already seem to have all over the island. You’re the top cop, you should know what’s doing in your domain. So, to save you the trouble: I’m going home from here. Then, I’m going to Government House for a meeting with Jackie LaBelle.” She tossed the chief a salute, then strolled over to the group of men, to whom she sang the chief’s praises in both major and minor keys. Their agreement was total and unqualified.

  “So you’ll agree that she needs a second vehicle as soon as possible,” Carole Ann added.

  “Already working on it,” David Messenger snapped.

  She smiled at him and turned to Roland Charles with a question. “If this is dumb, Roland, please don’t laugh at me in public, all right?”

  “You sometimes say outrageous things, Carole Ann, but never dumb ones. Go ahead and ask your question.”

  “Would it be productive to drive the dump truck through the foliage? Is the truck large enough to knock down and trample the underbrush—?”

  Roland made a sound and rushed away. She saw him grab Toussaint Remy’s arm and whisper excitedly to him. The old man looked at the truck, rubbed the back of his hand against the stubble of beard on his face, looked at Roland, said something to him, and both men quick-stepped over to the big truck.

  “Good thinking, Carole Ann,” Philippe said, sounding hopeful.

  “Our biggest concern is not getting shot at,” David said testily, “not knocking down foliage.”

  “I think we’re all agreed on that point, David,” Carole Ann replied drily. “So, assuming that nobody gets shot— nobody else, that is— my concern is getting that road in before it gets cloudy. Getting the road in and the foundation poured. By any means necessary,” she added darkly, knowing that the oft-used Malcolm X admonition would rankle the law-and-order lawman. And since there was no one else deserving of her ire, and because she didn’t want to inflict it upon the innocent, she took her leave with a wave that encompassed and included everyone, including Yvette. Perhaps especially Yvette, who had every right to be suspicious of Carole Ann.

  They both knew that Carole Ann was withholding information, and Carole Ann believed that they both knew why, though they obviously differed on the rightness of the reason. Yvette was a cop with a cop’s sensibilities and responsibilities; the fact that she was less of a bull in a china shop than her boss didn’t lessen that reality. Cops thought short-term: Remove the immediate danger immediately, no matter that the immediate problem may not be the ultimate problem.

  Carole Ann climbed into the Jeep thinking that short-term solutions could only be temporary solutions and wondering whether that fell into the ‘something’s better than nothing’ category. The two-minute drive home didn’t allow much time to formulate an answer. She parked in front of the house instead of in back, since she’d be leaving in a couple of hours for her meeting with Jackie. Across the street, a new crop of tourists had just arrived at two of the guest houses to replace those who had departed on Sunday. They stood in the grass surrounded by their luggage, looking up at the palm trees, and at the magnificent blue sky, perhaps pinchi
ng themselves, assuring themselves that they were, in fact, in paradise. These arrivals were younger than those who had departed, and just as pale of complexion as any Americans or Europeans beginning a ten day or two-week Caribbean visit. But forty-eight hours on Isle de Paix will cure that problem, Carole Ann thought as she opened the front gate and stepped into the canopy of coolness provided by the overhanging tree boughs.

  Movement to the right caught her eye as she walked down the path, and as she turned to look, a figure shot from behind a stand of monkey grass and toward the gate. Without thinking, she turned around and lunged toward the figure, grabbing a handful of shirt. And then she saw the gun. She brought the side of her right hand down hard on the hand holding the gun and heard, simultaneously, bones cracking and the gun clattering to the stone walkway. He cried out in pain and she increased the need for it as she twisted one arm up behind his back while she kicked his feet from beneath him. Then the scream of the alarm shocked them both, and she released him.

  He scurried away from her on his knees, cradling his injured hand, then rose to his feet and sprinted to the front gate. She picked up the gun and ran to the second gate, through it, and around the side of the house. The bullet whizzed by her head, missing her by inches. She dove into the shrubbery hugging the house and lay still. The screaming of the alarm prevented her from hearing anything else, so she lay there, counting: One-one thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one thousand. Before reaching ten, she rose into a crouching position and poked her head out of the shrubbery. She couldn’t stand the wail of the alarm for another ten seconds and neither, she ventured to guess, could whoever was trying to break into her house. She looked at the gun in her hand— some kind of automatic thing. She pulled back on the clip, dropping a round into the chamber, and released the safety. Then she stood up and, keeping close to the shrubbery, inched her way forward. She reached the door unchallenged and surmised that she was alone in the back yard. Her keys, thankfully, were in her pocket, and not in the purse she’d dropped in the front yard. But she found she didn’t need them. The lock had been jimmied and the door stood open.