The Honest Folk of Guadeloupe (17 page)

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.

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 here 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.”

“You like perfumes?”

Anne Marie nodded. “I just never get time to go shopping.”

“I like the perfume you’re wearing now.” Monsieur Lecurieux smiled. “It’s nice.”

“Ideal for the morgue.”

“A lovely tree, the ylang ylang—but its roots break everything that gets in the way.” Monsieur Lecurieux’s face was dark beneath the brim of the panama hat. “You remember the ylang ylang we had in Basse-Terre, Gerty?”

The woman squeezed Anne Marie’s arm, and whispered, “I’ll have to get him a hearing aid. He’s getting worse.”

“We had to cut it down, because it was bringing down the wall of the garage. You remember?” Monsieur Lecurieux chuckled to himself. The rimless glasses glinted in the reflection of the overhead lights.

“My husband’s seventy-eight,” Madame Lecurieux said, not without pride.

“You both look very young.”

“My husband worked for forty years in the customs and I was a
schoolteacher.” Another squeeze of Anne Marie’s arm. “I’ve had a good life—a job I loved and a good husband.”

“How old’s your daughter, Madame Lecurieux?”

She did not reply and Anne Marie repeated her question.

“Geneviève is thirty this year.”

“Your only child?”

The woman nodded thoughtfully. “Thirty at the end of July.”

They had reached the entrance of the hospital. The parking lot was filling up with evening visitors. Rain glittered on the roofs of the cars. Women along the sidewalk were selling flowers and roasted peanuts. A crowd had formed around a Toyota truck where, in the yellow light of a butane lamp, a man was slicing green coconuts with a neat movement of his machete. He was doing brisk business.

“Your daughter’s a lot older than Evelyne Vaton—six years older.”

“They worked in the same ward … before my daughter started doing the lab work.”

“What sort of girl was she?”

“Who?”

Anne Marie gestured again toward the hospital. “You never noticed something strange about Evelyne? Something that might explain why she lied?”

Two men were working the red and white striped barrier at the main gate of the hospital entrance.

“Where do you have to get to, Madame Lecurieux?”

“My husband and I would rather walk. It’s not far—my brother lives in the Assainissement. The exercise is good for us.”

“I’ll accompany you.”

“You are a kind person.”

Anne Marie laughed. “After the mor—the hospital, this warm air’s like a tonic.”

“And to think my daughter spends most of her time with dead bodies.”

Anne Marie disentangled her arm and walked to where Trousseau sat waiting in the Peugeot. He had left the door open, and he was reading a copy of the Bible propped on his attaché case in the wan circle of light of the ceiling lamp. He had put on his half-frame glasses. When he raised his head from his reading—he reminded her of her law professor at university—she told him that he could leave.

“Won’t be needing you this evening, Monsieur Trousseau.”

“You don’t need me,
madame le juge
? I can go home? Cook myself a meal?”

“Where’s Richard?”

Trousseau smiled at her toothily. “They gave him something to make him sleep. On the journey back, he got very talkative. Couldn’t get it all out fast enough. Seemed to think somebody wanted to kill him.”

“Kill him? Why?”

“He even asked me if I had a gun. He’s in the prison section with Docteur Lavigne.” Trousseau went on, “Richard Ferly works at the Crédit des Outremers. Everybody thought he was on holiday, seeing his son in Italy. None of his colleagues associated him with the photograph in the
France Antilles
.” Trousseau lowered his voice. “He has a history … been seeing a psychiatrist for years.” He sniffed. “You know what these blacks are like.

“I don’t think I do.”

“Schizophrenia among blacks is more frequent than among other social or racial groups.”

“Where on earth did you get that statistic?
The Watch Tower
?” Before he could reply, Anne Marie said, “
Palais de justice
, seven thirty tomorrow morning. Now hurry home before you starve to death.”

“Tomorrow’s Saturday.”

“Seven thirty, with Lafitte and Parise.”

“Saturday,
madame le juge
?”

“Without fail.” Without another word, her
greffier
turned off the ceiling lamp, put the car into gear and made his way out of the parking lot.

Anne Marie rejoined the couple. Madame Lecurieux was smiling at her while her husband watched the passing traffic, the car lights dancing on his the lens of his spectacles.

“You really don’t have to accompany us. I imagine you want to return to your family,
madame le juge
.”

Anne Marie looked at the older woman and smiled. “How do you manage to look so young?”

“I obtained my
certificat d’études
in 1929,” the woman replied with pride.

“If Geneviève is thirty, you must have had her fairly late in life.”

Monsieur Lecurieux said, “Geneviève is our adopted daughter.”

“Her company was agreeable. I spent my working life with children and it’s still a pleasure to have young people around. We live a very quiet existence in Basse-Terre, my husband and I. There are times when the television …” She paused. “It’d be nice if one day Geneviève could return but I understand she must think about her career.” Madame Lecurieux smiled reassuringly. “This girl was used to being with old people. We all got on very well. My husband liked her a lot. Didn’t you, Clamy?”

“You didn’t, Madame Lecurieux?”

She smiled. “Female intuition.”

“What?”

“In the evening, she would go off to her room. The maid’d already cleared the table and my husband was already in bed. Before going off, Evelyne once or twice sat and talked but I bored her with my questions.”

“In what way?”

“Clearly she didn’t want to talk about my daughter.”

“What did the girl talk about?”

“It’s true we adopted Geneviève—but that was heaven’s blessing. I like to hear about her, hear about her job, hear other people telling me how my daughter’s getting on.” An apologetic shrug. “I’d ask questions.”

“What did the girl reply?”

“That Geneviève’s a doctor, and that she was only a nurse.”

“What did she tell you about your daughter?”

“She didn’t tell me anything I didn’t know.”

They were returning to the city along the Boulevard Hahn. The yellow headbeams of Friday night traffic danced on the wet pavement and the spinning tires swished by. Anne Marie walked between the old couple, their arms now linked in hers, and she was reminded of the evening promenades with her family in Oran, before the violence put an end to innocent pleasures. “She talked about the hospital?”

Madame Lecurieux shook her head. “She’s not an intellectual girl. Sweet and kind. And thoughtful. But her conversation tends to be limited. You must excuse me if I sound a snob …”

“What did she speak about?”

“Clothes—that sort of thing. Music—she was interested in
zouk
and all the modern music.”

“Nothing about her life in Paris?”

“She has a boyfriend—I asked her about that. I think she’s an only child.” The woman tugged gently at Anne Marie’s arm. “She’s not really the sort of person I imagine being the friend of my girl.”

“Because she’s not the real Evelyne Vaton. What can you tell me about your daughter, Madame Lecurieux?”

“An avid reader. Geneviève has the combined curiosity of her two parents, even if she doesn’t have our blood.”

“When did you adopt her?”

“That’s really not important. We brought her up as our child. It wasn’t until she was twelve we told her the truth. She loved us too much to be upset.” For a moment, the old woman was lost in recollection. “My greatest joy—you have your children, I am sure you can understand. Always brilliant at school. Geneviève went to the
lycée
in Basse-Terre and won all the prizes. Got a scholarship. The youngest qualifying doctor in her year. She spent a couple of years in Africa with Medecins sans Frontières.”

“She has a specialty?”

“She hopes to be a hematologist—which now of course means that she does a lot of work in the lab. A shame, because Geneviève enjoys working with people and she loved doing the wards during the internship, but then the professor offered her a lab job—and what with AIDS and hepatitis and so on …”