Lies Agreed Upon (17 page)

“Oh, I suppose I could go tomorrow or maybe Saturday. I have meetings on Thursday and Friday,” answered Tess and waited to see if he would suggest accompanying her.

“Well, let me know when you decide, and I’ll give Uncle Joe a heads-up. Here’s my card,” said Remy and pulled a sedate black and white business card from his pocket and offered it to her. “Why don’t you at least sit down for a few minutes and have some coffee?  I’ll make it a freebie, even without the coupon. Fuel up on caffeine and tell me the next installment of the family epic. It’s slow now so I can take a few minutes without getting LaVerna on my tail. How about it?”

It was an irresistible temptation. What woman in her right mind would pass up the chance to sit with an attractive young man
in a sunny sidewalk café in New Orleans? Tess obediently sat down. Remy brought her a “small coffee with cream, no sugar” and then slid into the chair next to her, propping an elbow on the table and raising an inquiring eyebrow. “Now what’s the latest on your Southern roots?”

Thinking of what Sam Beauvoir had revealed, Tess hesitated. These were
not just Cabrera secrets; they were Beauvoir secrets. She also wondered if telling Remy about her mother’s suicide might be too intimate and put a premature damper on friendship. Yet Tess still felt a compulsion to share her story. Of all the people she’d met, Remy was the one with no involvement in her family history. Even Mimi had a connection through the portrait and Lillian. Remy at least did not personally know or care about her cast of characters, living or dead.

“You want him to like you.”

Tess bit her lip.
She admitted to herself that she liked Remy although she knew the relationship would be necessarily short-lived, bound by the limited time frame of her inheritance discussions. Still, she was relieved to have the prospect of friendly support while she was here, and she didn’t want to chase away this potential friend by revealing dark family issues right off the bat. .

“
If he runs, he runs. By sharing your secrets, you are asking for nothing more than ordinary compassion. If he can’t handle that, well, good riddance.”

“Hey, you look upset.” Remy’s concerned voice broke into her thoughts. “You don’t have to tell me anything. Relax and enjoy the coffee.”

“No, I want to tell you, but it’s sort of heavy, you know,” apologized Tess. “You barely know me, and I’d have to tell you some things that might freak you out.”

“I can handle heavy,” said Remy, putting a warm, reassuring palm over Tess’s hands, which were clenched tensely around the coffee cup. Tess took a deep, slow breath and began an expurgated version of her lineage.

Since the story of Antonio, Thérèse and Ben rested on the mystery of Solange, Tess soon found herself explaining the discovery of her hidden nonwhite ancestry. Her feelings about the ghost story of Josephine in its many incarnations rested on her own experience with suicide, so she found herself sharing that more personal secret, too.

There were so many questions she still had to pursue, she explained to him: The Cabrera-Donovan feud,
the reason that her grandmother and mother had fled New Orleans, the cause of her grandfather’s murder, and now some “surprise” in her inherited acres.

She looked into Remy’s
warm brown eyes to gauge his reaction. He clasped her clenched hands gently again. “I think you’ll maybe find out more and less than you came looking for,” he said. “Any way that I can help, let me know. It might be good to get away from this city for a while. Make use of that swamp tour ticket. And why don’t you plan a ‘Cajun Country’ tour? When you decide to get out to Lafayette, let me know. It’s my home town, and I can recommend a good mix of tourist fare and real Acadiana. You got my card, so call me. OK?”

“Oh, thanks. I’ll get in touch once my plans firm up,” said Tess. She felt relieved and di
sappointed at the same time. Remy was reaching out to her, but he was only going halfway. She was going to have to risk bridging the gap from acquaintance to friendship.

“Relationships are two-way streets, dear. You both have to risk.”

Remy wrapped his arm around her shoulder in a brief one-sided embrace. It was not romantic, but it still kindled warmth in the pit of her stomach. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you,” Remy said. They parted with smiles and waves.

Tess indulged in a tourist agenda for a few hours. After more coffee and beignets at the Café du Monde, she wandered over to the Cabildo and walked up and down the wide museum staircase, studying exhibits that ranged from the ubiquitous Katrina story to the role of women in the old South and New Orleans’ long struggle with civil rights.

But she found that the impersonal history revived thoughts of her personal history, and she cut short her visit to call Gloria Donovan. Sam Beauvoir had suggested getting in touch with the old lady, and Tess assumed he was not a man of frivolous advice. After all, he had kept a stupendous secret for 70 years.

Contacting Miss Donovan, age 94, turned out to be more challenging than expected. Tess’s first two calls rang until an automated answering machine picked up. She hesitated to leave a message since the machine did not identify the resident as Miss Donovan. Tess began
to suspect the old woman had moved, gone to a nursing home, or died. An old lady would surely be home during the day, or at least a caregiver would answer. Was it even worth the effort to keep trying?

In frustration, Tess strolled to
nearby Tujagues restaurant, one of the oldest eateries in the city. As she dined on spicy shrimp remoulade and classic bread pudding, she mulled the stubborn persistence of the city’s places and traditions. The past was omnipresent here. If she wanted to chase her family’s past, she needed the same persistence; she needed to renew her efforts to reach out to Gloria Donovan as the only living family witness to its history.

On her final call attempt, Tess had
resigned herself to leaving a message when a woman’s brusque voice answered. “Hello? If ya da fool been drivin’ me crazy callin’, I tell ya right now we ain’t buyin’, we ain’t sellin’, we already got some, we don’t need none—”

“Excuse me,” Tess interrupted hastily. “I’m trying to speak with Gloria Donovan on a family matter.”

“Well, Miss Gloria don’t got no family livin’. Ya callin’ from a cemetery?” Tess could hear an unintelligible squawking in the background. The woman on the phone covered the receiver yet shouted loud enough for Tess to still understand. “No worry. Jus’ some salesman.” The woman came back on the line and began dismissively, “Now stop pesterin’—”

“Please, tell Miss Donovan that Guy Cabrera’s granddaughter would like to speak with her,” Tess interrupted, speaking swiftly but with what she hoped the other woman would recognize as firm authority.

“What guy? Who?”

“I am Guy Cabrera’s granddaughter. The Cabreras are
relatives of the Donovans,” Tess repeated slowly and clearly.

“Cabrera? Never hear
d Miss Gloria talk about no Cabrera—” the voice stopped and Tess could hear a muffled but agitated conversation in the background. “Well, ya got Miss Gloria all het up. Looks like Cabrera’s a dirty word for her. She’s carryin’ on so much, I gotta settle her down ’fore she die of stroke. Now don’t call back.”

Well, that was a dead end, Tess thought with a mental shrug. Gloria Donovan was doub
tless senile and under the thumb of a tyrannical caregiver.

Tess was moseying back toward her hotel, window-shopping, when she n
oticed an Internet café and bookstore. It occurred to her that she could do some online research. Before coming to New Orleans, she had searched in vain for additional stories on her grandfather’s murder, but now she knew of another tragedy that might have been reported: the Donovans’ fatal boat accident in 1957. Sam had mentioned it and linked it with her grandmother’s stay with the Donovans. As with the mention of Gloria, Tess sensed a hinted significance. It was at least worth a try, she decided.

With minimal expectation of success, Tess began an Internet search for “boat accident 1957 Donovan.” She was surprised to immediately find a brief mention on a site about boat pr
opeller deaths and injuries. The site was put together by a private interest group documenting annual propeller-related accidents as part of a campaign for propeller safety. The Donovans had earned a brief notice in a list of bulleted items for the year 1957:

20 November 1957 Accident Date, Louisiana—“One Dies, One Injured in Boat Accident,” from a report in
The
Times-Picayune
: A 20-foot runabout boat was traveling in Alligator Bayou near its intersection with the Blind River at about 5 a.m. The boat was piloted by Noah Cabirac, 24, of Manchac, and also contained passengers Desmond Donovan and Dylan Donovan, 23-year-old twin brothers, of Reserve. The boat piloted by Cabirac, who is described as a family friend of the Donovans, entered the Blind River and swerved sharply to avoid collision with a 30-foot cabin cruiser. The sharp turn, combined with a glancing blow from the cruiser’s bow, caused all three men in the runabout to be ejected into the water. Passenger Desmond Donovan was then struck by the propeller of his own boat and suffered severe injuries. Cabirac was able to swim clear and was uninjured. Passenger Dylan Donovan was missing after the accident. The crew of the cabin cruiser, owned by George Dunn of Baton Rouge, called the U.S. Coast Guard for rescue and pulled Cabirac and the injured Desmond Donovan from the water. Desmond Donovan was airlifted to a hospital, where he underwent emergency surgery. He survived with the loss of his left leg above the knee and the loss of his left arm below the elbow. Coast Guard search teams later recovered the body of Dylan Donovan. He had a fatal wound to his head, apparently from the propeller. According to witnesses, the boat powered by Cabirac was traveling at an excessive speed for the conditions and water traffic.

Tess shook her head grimly. It sounded as if a fatal accident had resulted from stupidity and recklessness. Did “family friend” Noah Cabirac, the speeding helmsman, have a role in the saga of the Cabrera branch of the family? Tess dredged a piece of scrap paper from the bottom of her purse and jotted down the small amount of information provided about the accident, including Cabirac’s name, just in case she decided to follow up.

Enough drama for today, she co
ncluded and strolled to the bookstore section. Tess decided to buy a paperback and return to her hotel for a quiet read. She hoped it would help her relax enough to present a pleasant nonchalance at the upcoming dinner with Jon Beauvoir and his friend Anthony Mizzi. She purchased a crime-forensics best seller and departed.

Tess was lying on the hotel bed in air-conditioned comfort, three pages into the pape
rback, when her cell rang. She looked at the caller ID and recognized in surprise that the call was from Gloria Donovan’s number.

“Hello. This is Charmaine Rogers. You called to talk to Mi
ss Gloria Donovan about some family bizness,” said a crisp voice.

“Yes, I thought Miss Donovan didn’t want to speak with me,” answered Tess, wondering if it was the same person given the changed tone.

“Well, she been thinkin’ and now she wanna talk. Sorry for bein’ rude at firs’, but I get all kinda useless calls, so I try to get shed of the harassment quick. I ’specially got to keep Miss Gloria off the phone. A month back, she got hustled by some timeshare in Florida. Last week, a life insurance man was on the porch axin’ for her.”

“How did you get my number? I didn’t leave a message,” asked Tess curiously. Regar
dless of the answering machine, she pictured Miss Gloria’s phone as an upright black 1930s antique with cradled receiver and round dial.

“Oh, I got the latest phone here. I got speed dial, caller ID, call waitin’, call history, you name it. Mi
ss Gloria’s old as sin, but I don’t let her keep the whole house like the Flintstones,” chuckled Ms. Rogers. “I’m callin’ to tell you Miss Gloria axed you to come by. I’m thinkin’ it’s best you come for 10 in the mornin’. She naps by 11, and then she wakes up peckish, so she’ll be too busy gobblin’ to pay attention. Then she gotta nap again. Next, she lookit TV, and nobody dare disturb that. By evenin’, she’s like to get confused and tell you she been kidnapped or somethin’ crazy. I can call now ’cause she’s down for a nap.”

“Well, I guess I could come tomorrow at 10.”

“You got the address? You need direction, or you got GPS?” queried Charmaine.

“Don’t worry. I have the address, and I’ll call if I get lost,” said Tess.

“Well, don’t count on bein’ here long. Miss Gloria can only pay attention and think straight for a half hour or so.”

“Thank you, Ms. Rogers. I will drop by at 10 tomorrow.”

“What in the world do you think you are going to accomplish talking to a confused old woman?”

“Well, I’m committed to finding out, so zip it,” retorted Tess
and returned to her book.

Yet d
espite her determined effort, Tess kept losing her focus on the novel’s gruesome story line. Her thoughts refused to stop worrying at the incomplete melodrama of the Cabreras. Was there some pattern emerging, some indication of why the family saga would end in murder, exile and years of lies? She nibbled at an index finger cuticle and stared down sightlessly at the typed details of imaginary mayhem.