The Honest Folk of Guadeloupe Read online

  “Perhaps Monsieur Dugain was murdered.”

  “Nobody liked Dugain.” She folded her arms. “I’m glad he’s dead.”

  “Not a nice thing to say.”

  “Dugain was not a nice man.”

  “Did you sleep with him?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Nobody deserves to be murdered, Marie Pierre. Not even Dugain.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to leave.”

  “How did you meet him?”

  Marie Pierre breathed deeply before answering. “Through a contact.”

  “What contact?

  “A friend.”

  “Who, Marie Pierre?”

  “A man who runs a restaurant near the Pointe des Châteaux.”

  “Desterres?”

  The African princess did not try to conceal her surprise. “You know him?”

  34

  Neurosis

  “I’m very angry.”

  “Of course you’re not, Arnaud.”

  “Don’t tell me whether I’m angry or not.”

  She held up her hand. “I don’t see how you can be angry with me.”

  “For God’s sake, Anne Marie. I’m not going to come looking for you again. Don’t you realize?”

  “I was about to call for a taxi.”

  “My blasted phone hasn’t stopped ringing in the last four hours. I’ve just been speaking with the préfet’s secretary.”

  “So?”

  “The préfet is out for blood.”

  “You look anemic enough.”

  “I find you amazing.” He lit a cigarette, his hand trembling. “Where’ve you been all day?”

  “I’ve just got back from the Grands Fonds.”

  “Where?”

  “Bouliqui.”

  “What on earth were you doing there?”

  “Arnaud, there’s not much I could’ve done in Pointe-à-Pitre.”

  “I gave you the murder case—the préfet insisted—and you’re traipsing in the Grands Fonds. The wrong corpse, the wrong name and you go off into the boondocks. The island is in crisis, a collective neurosis about a murderer at large on our beaches, murdering the tourists, and you go wandering off into the Grands Fonds.” He banged his hand against the steering wheel. “Bouliqui? Tell me I’m dreaming.”

  “Wake up, Arnaud.”

  “You’re in charge of the whole enquiry and you can stop being flippant. Your attitude’s far from helpful.”

  “No need to shout, Arnaud. Sign of moral weakness—and I’m not deaf.”

  “I’m not shouting.”

  “You’re shouting, Arnaud.”

  “I’m very angry.”

  “You have no right to be angry. Parise and Lafitte—”

  “Anne Marie, you’re responsible. You shouldn’t have allowed any autopsy before identification.”

  She turned away, looking out of the car window. “Madame Vaton lives in France—there wasn’t time and the body had started to decompose. There could have been sperm, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Was there?”

  Anne Marie shook her head. “It was lucky Bouton was back from France …”

  The procureur placed his hand against his forehead. “Are you serious?”

  Anne Marie turned to look at him. “Melodramatic gestures don’t become you, Arnaud.”

  The procureur was a tall man, with sandy hair and stooped shoulders. There were beads of perspiration on the freckled forehead. He said, “I thought I could count on you.” He put a cigarette to his mouth while the other hand remained on the steering wheel. “Why are you wasting your time and mine in the Grands Fonds?”

  “I’ve got a cold coming and the morgue …” Anne Marie let her head drop back onto the upholstered rest. “I took Madame Vaton back to her hotel. And then went to Tarare beach.”

  “In the Grands Fonds, working no doubt on the Dugain dossier.”

  “You gave me the Dugain dossier, Arnaud.” A smile she could not hold back.

  Very slowly he inhaled on the cigarette. “It’s not a joke. We’re talking about your career—and mine.”

  “What do you expect me to do? The only thing we can do now is go back to the beginning.”

  Smoke came from his nostrils. “Bouliqui,” he muttered under his breath.

  “I’m not at my best in the morgue, Arnaud … Twice in less than a day.”

  “Three times.” The procureur grimaced. “We’re going to the hospital now, Anne Marie.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Anne Marie said under her breath.

  He frowned. “I thought you were Jewish.”

  “Not the first time you’d be way off base. Send Parise or Lafitte.”

  “You’re coming with me, Anne Marie.”

  “No.”

  35

  Préfet

  “I need an arrest, Anne Marie.”

  “I don’t see how we can arrest anybody without knowing who the victim is.”

  “Arrest Desterres, for heaven’s sake.” He nodded and the reflected afternoon sunlight of a passing car illuminated the angular face. “We’ve got to be seen to be doing something.”

  “Did you know that Desterres and Dugain were friends?”

  “Don’t talk to me about Dugain.”

  Anne Marie used her schoolteacher voice. “There’s no way I can connect Desterres with the death of the unidentified girl who’s now in the morgue.”

  “There’s the bikini—follow it up.”

  “Ninety francs in any Prisunic.” She went on, “We were assuming the victim was Vaton. We were wrong.”

  “Where is this damned Vaton girl if she’s supposed to be alive?”

  Anne Marie shrugged. “She hired a car, left it at the Pointe des Châteaux last Sunday and hasn’t been seen since. Because the victim’s more or less of the same age, I assumed the dead girl was Vaton. I also assumed the dead girl was white.”

  “She’s what?”

  “You’re just as much to blame as I am.”

  “The corpse isn’t white?”

  “Next time, Arnaud, I’d like you to come to the autopsy.”

  “What color, Anne Marie?”

  “Mixed blood, probably a local woman—pale skin, but she’s not European. Docteur Bouton thought she might be from North Africa.”

  “That’s your fault, Anne Marie.”

  “There are times, Arnaud, when you are truly pathetic. When you sent the helicopter for me, you told me the girl had been identified as Vaton.”

  “That is absurd.”

  Anne Marie caught her breath. “Arnaud, there’s no point in arguing. We’re checking with Air France, Air Guadeloupe and the other airlines to see if a Vaton has left the département over the last four days.”

  “Good.”

  “By the way, we found Richard, the Indian.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “I hope you’re not being sarcastic. Richard was probably the last person to see the dead woman alive—that is, if it is the dead woman in the picture and not Evelyn Vaton. According to Desterres, the woman in the photo left Tarare beach with him.”

  “Where was your Richard?”

  “At Tarare, at the Pointe des Châteaux. He was wandering around in a bit of daze.”

  “I thought you were in the Grands Fonds.”

  “Your worst problem is you never listen, Arnaud. I don’t think Richard’s slept for several days. Or washed. He came up to me and I recognized him from the photograph. He was completely naked.”

  “I hate to think what you recognized.”

  “Name’s Ferly and he works in a bank. I can’t get a straight answer out of him.”

  “Now you know how I feel, Anne Marie.”

  “He seems to be amnesiac. Trousseau ran him back to the hospital.”

  The procureur clicked his tongue. “It’s not the Vaton girl I’m concerned about. It’s the dead woman.”

  “For all you know, I’ve found the murderer,” Anne Marie replied hotly. “I needed
to talk to the woman who has a snack bar at the Pointe des Châteaux.” Anne Marie added, “The murder and the disappearance of the Vaton girl are connected. If we can get hold of Vaton, then we’ll have an answer.”

  “Find her, Anne Marie.”

  “What do you think we’re trying to do?”

  “A little less than nothing.”

  “I never asked for this job.” Anne Marie could feel the blood rising to her face. “We’ll be a lot closer to closing this case once I’ve spoken to this Richard.”

  “Don’t go prancing off into the Grands Fonds again.”

  “You don’t know what I was doing in the Grands Fonds, Arnaud.”

  “I know you weren’t looking for the murderer.”

  “Perhaps Richard’s the murderer. What more do you want?”

  “I want the préfet off my back, Anne Marie. There’s a dead tourist whose name I don’t know lying in the morgue.”

  “You want a miracle?”

  “The préfet wants a miracle, the public wants one. I want a miracle and beatification.”

  They had reached the edge of the city. “You want my resignation too, Arnaud?”

  “No need to overreact.”

  Anne Marie folded her hands on the Texier bag. “I’m beginning to get fed up.”

  “You’re the only one who’s fed up?”

  “Fed up with you.”

  “Stop acting the temperamental female.”

  “Fed up with you, fed up with the SRPJ, with the gendarmerie. I’m fed up with the honest folk of Guadeloupe and if you want me to resign, you only have to say the word.”

  There was a long silence.

  “Say the word, Arnaud.”

  The Volkswagen slowed and the procureur clumsily changed gear. It was not until after the sharp curve near the university that he glanced at her. His face had softened. The line of his eyebrows was raised in sympathy. “I need you, Anne Marie.”

  “I can do without your bullying me.”

  He touched her knee. “Anne Marie, I must have an arrest.”

  “That’s not my job.”

  “When are you going to interrogate this Richard?”

  “That depends on the doctors, Arnaud.”

  “Then haul Desterres in again. That’s not much to ask you, is it? Haul Desterres in again but without his lawyers. With a bit of luck, perhaps you can get a confession out of him.”

  36

  Courtesy

  Yet again Anne Marie was impressed by Trousseau’s courtesy. He was polite and thoughtful. He did everything to help the old gentleman. Trousseau proffered his arm for Monsieur Lecurieux to lean an unsteady hand on.

  The woman smiled and shook her small head. “In his own time.”

  Madame Lecurieux had a thin face, grey hair hidden beneath a madras scarf and bright hazel eyes. She must have been over seventy years old, but she walked erect. She moved slowly, her shoulders held back. She gave the impression of dignity, a retired schoolteacher who had lost none of her authority or her desire to set a good example.

  (Anne Marie was reminded of her husband’s grandmother, who had been so kind to Anne Marie in the early years of their marriage, who had gone out of her way to help the young outsider feel at home in a West Indian family. M’man Jeanne herself had given birth to five children but had never been married; Gaston, the man she had shared her bed with, the man who was Jean Michel’s grandfather, had gone on to marry Ondine, a light-skinned mulatto from Martinique.

  M’man Jeanne had died the day after Hurricane Hugo at the age of ninety-two. Anne Marie had not been invited to the funeral—Jean Michel’s family still held Anne Marie responsible for the divorce. When Anne Marie had belatedly heard M’man Jeanne’s obituary over the radio, she had sent a wreath, lit a candle and cried.)

  “This way, madame.”

  Madame Lecurieux was followed by her husband.

  The man wore a suit and in the same hand that held a walking stick, grasped a cream colored panama hat. It looked new, with its longitudinal crease and its broad black band. A necktie and a stiff wing collar, the formal wear of his youth. A pair of rimless glasses were perched on the ridge of his nose. With the passage of time, the unforgiving steel had carved a niche into the golden flesh. His skin was now creased by age and freckled with cancer. His head was ringed by a crescent of white hair. The dome of his head was bald.

  He followed his wife toward the observation window, leaning on Trousseau’s arm.

  The procureur had been sitting beside Anne Marie. Arnaud now stood up and approached the elderly couple. They shook hands.

  The procureur ran a hand nervously through his hair. “Most appreciative, Monsieur and Madame Lecurieux.”

  On the other side of the window, Léopold nodded toward Anne Marie and gave his conspiratorial grin. He was holding an Akim comic book in his hand and Anne Marie wondered if it was the same as yesterday. A slow reader.

  Yet again the corpse on its gurney was hoisted into view.

  “This is where we came in.” Anne Marie this time controlled her emotion. Forewarned, she had sprayed her wrists with van Cleef and Arpels and placed a shawl over her shoulders. She did not sneeze but kept her eyes on Madame Lecurieux, whose taut features were brightened by light from the far side of the thick glass.

  The eyes did not blink; they stared at the corpse as Léopold pulled back the covering sheet.

  “Monsieur and Madame Lecurieux, do you recognize this body? Is this the young woman who was staying with you in Basse-Terre?” The procureur hesitated, very embarrassed. He said less formally, “Please take a careful and close look. Do you know this young woman?”

  Monsieur Lecurieux tapped his wife gently and reassuringly. Behind the glasses, his old, weary brown eyes were damp with tears.

  37

  Ylang ylang

  It had been raining in Pointe-à-Pitre and the tarmac glistened.

  “I will get somebody to run you back to Basse-Terre.”

  “There’s no need.” Madame Lecurieux shook her head. “We’re staying with my brother.”

  “It’s very kind of you to have driven up from Basse-Terre. You’re quite certain it’s Evelyne Vaton?”

  The old woman bit her lip. “She’s my daughter’s friend. We didn’t see very much of her—other than at meal times. Most of the time she was off visiting places or in her bedroom. But yes, that’s her.”

  “Evelyne Vaton?”

  Madame Lecurieux nodded. “In death …” She did not finish her remark.

  “In death a corpse gets darker,” Anne Marie explained. “We failed to notice she was West Indian—everybody thought she was white.” Apologetically, she added, “Docteur Bouton thought she was from North Africa.”

  Anne Marie had sent Trousseau on to wait at the main entrance. She wanted to be alone with the couple; there were questions she needed to ask.

  Night had fallen and the wind was cool and pleasant. It rustled through the high palm fronds.

  “The dead woman probably stole Evelyne Vaton’s driving license.”

  “She’s not Evelyne Vaton?”

  “No.” Anne Marie said. “She was pretending to be. She stole the driving license and credit card that she used to hire her car from Hertz.”

  “Pretending to be my daughter’s friend?”

  “I don’t know how else to explain it.” Anne Marie shook her head. “Did she talk about your daughter to you?”

  “She didn’t talk very much at all.”

  “But she did talk to you?”

  “About Guadeloupe. About her holidays here.”

  “You ever sense she didn’t know your daughter?”

  “Not really.”

  “You realized she was of mixed blood?”

  Madame Lecurieux laughed. “Her backside’s not a white girl’s.”

  “Steatopygous.” Anne Marie smiled. “The sort of backside that men like.”

  “I don’t have to tell you why.”

  “Evelyne Vaton’s mother was h
ere this morning.” Anne Marie gestured toward the hospital behind them. “It’s not her daughter.”

  “If it’s not Evelyne, who is it?”

  “Somebody pretending to be Evelyne Vaton.” Anne Marie paused. “As a result of her pretense, she got herself murdered.”

  Monsieur Lecurieux had difficulty in walking and they made their way slowly down the hill toward the boulevard, now busy with the weekend traffic. The hospital rose up like an illuminated castle behind them. There was the heady perfume of ylang ylang in the wet air. Monsieur Lecurieux leaned on his tipped walking stick.

  “When will you return to Basse-Terre, Madame Lecurieux?”

  “Why was the poor thing murdered?”

  To her surprise, Anne Marie found herself relieved—even pleased to be in their company. There was something reassuring about the old couple, human and authentic. Madame Lecurieux reminded her of M’man Jeanne.

  “Why was the poor thing murdered? You didn’t answer my question, madame le juge.”

  “Because I don’t know the answer.”

  “A nice girl, very friendly. Well-behaved even if she was pretending to be someone else.”

  “Madame Vaton’s convinced her daughter Evelyne—the real Evelyne—is somewhere in Guadeloupe.” Anne Marie was between the two old people. From time to time she guided the man’s elbow.

  “She didn’t recognize the body? It’s not a friend of her daughter’s?”

  “No, Madame Lecurieux.”

  “So who is this poor girl?”

  “If I knew, I wouldn’t be here asking you questions.”

  “I never dreamed she was lying to me.”

  “She was lying to you or Madame Vaton’s now lying to me.”

  “Madame Vaton must have a photograph of her own daughter.”

  Anne Marie said, “The victim seems to have looked like Evelyne Vaton.”

  “You can smell the ylang ylang, mademoiselle?”

  Anne Marie smiled, turning back to Monsieur Lecurieux. “I am forty-two years old, Monsieur. I am madame, not mademoiselle—I have two children.”

  “A bit louder,” Madame Lecurieux said. “My husband is going deaf.”

  “The ylang ylang,” the old man repeated.

  “I can smell the ylang ylang, yes.” Anne Marie raised her voice. She turned, addressing the woman. “I’ve been promising myself an Azzaro perfume for months—with an ylang ylang base.”