The Gates of Evangeline Page 6

As I approach in my car, movement in a nearby branch catches my eye. I look up and spot a camera. I’m being watched.

  I pull up slowly to the gate, where a man in a beige uniform steps from a small wooden guard shack. “You got ID?” he asks, and proceeds to inspect my license and quiz me about the purpose of my visit like a customs official.

  Thankfully, Jules Sicard warned me about all of this. I’m prepared for a little Deveau paranoia. What I’m not prepared for is Jules himself.

  The estate manager, I quickly discover, is handsome. Too handsome. The kind of handsome you’re afraid to look directly at because it might leave you flustered and tongue-tied. I expected Evangeline’s beauty, its precise symmetry: the white pillars, the row of French windows opening onto the second-floor balcony, the sculpted hedges and stone cherub perched atop the fountain out back. Although the home seems a bit misplaced in an area so remote—who exactly are they showing off for?—it’s as picturesque as I’ve imagined. Jules, on the other hand, is entirely unexpected. When he greets me on the front steps, all I can think is, Where did they find YOU?

  He’s thirtyish, tall, and dressed impeccably in a slim-fitting brown suit. Clean-shaven, with brown-blond hair that has been strategically tousled to counterbalance the formality of the suit. Not my type—too pretty, too groomed—but intimidating in his physical perfection. I can’t meet his eyes. I think they’re hazel.

  “Welcome to Evangeline.” Coming from anyone else, the oh-so-French pronunciation of “Evangeline” would be pretentious. “I’m Jules Sicard, the estate manager. Pleasure to meet you.” He lacks any trace of a Southern accent.

  “Charlotte Cates. Thank you for having me.” Already I can feel my brain vaporizing. This always happens to me around really attractive men. An instinctive response left over from junior high, I guess.

  Jules, thankfully, barely registers my existence. “This way, please.” He moves briskly up the stone steps and to the door, which he holds open for me. There’s no gallantry in the gesture, just businesslike efficiency.

  Jules doesn’t bother to flip on the lights as I enter the expansive foyer, which feels surprisingly drafty for a home that surely has central heating. An intricate plaster frieze painted in gold leaf draws the eye upward to a dizzying crystal chandelier. Otherwise, the tasteful furnishings show both sophistication and restraint: a grandfather clock, a mirror, and two matching wine-colored settees. Gold-framed paintings depict a battle scene, a bird standing in tall grass, and a very serious, bearded soldier. As I move through the shadowy room, I have the odd sensation of wandering through not a home but a showroom.

  Four rooms adjoin the foyer through large, embellished archways, and a staircase leads to the upper floor. I follow Jules into a room on the right. Light streams in through two massive windows, illuminating dark wood furniture, a fireplace, a desk, and an impressive liquor cabinet and serving area. For a moment I feel like I’m in a game of Clue. Charlie Cates, in the study, with a—

  “Sit,” Jules says. “There are some things we should discuss straight off.”

  I sit on a green armchair that is more fashionable than comfortable and fight the urge to fiddle with my hair.

  “First off, security.” He seats himself opposite me, legs crossed, lacing the tops of his fingers. “Obviously you saw the guard station as you came in.”

  I nod. If I didn’t know what happened to Gabriel, all the security measures would’ve appeared downright pathological.

  “There are cameras throughout the grounds,” Jules informs me. “We have an on-site guard who monitors the cameras and patrols the area. I’ve notified our team that you’ll be here, but you’ll want to introduce yourself.”

  “Of course,” I murmur.

  “If for some reason you need to bring a guest to the estate, please inform our security personnel so that they can be logged in. And make sure they have appropriate identification.” From the look on Jules’s face, I understand that guests are discouraged.

  Not a problem, I want to tell him. I didn’t come here to improve my social life.

  “Now let’s clarify the terms of your project.” He cocks his head to one side.

  Here it comes. I knew there would be strings attached.

  “Brigitte informed me that you’ll be writing a history of the Deveau family.”

  “I wouldn’t call it a history,” I say, finally looking him in the eye. “You and I talked about this on the phone. The book is primarily about their brother’s disappearance.”

  Jules continues as if I said nothing at all. “Of course they intend to provide you with complete access to the family genealogical archives. I think you’ll find many fascinating stories about the Deveaus over the last two centuries.”

  I can only assume he’s representing the wishes of the sisters with this genealogy business, which sets off alarm bells. I sincerely hope this doesn’t turn into an ugly tug-of-war, Isaac pressing for a dramatic true-crime tale on one hand, the Deveau twins expecting some storied family chronicle on the other.

  “You promised me interviews,” I remind Jules, already getting a headache. “They’ll be crucial to the book’s success.”

  “Certainly. Sydney and Brigitte are eager to speak with you.”

  I wait for the catch; he delivers it.

  “The sisters do have one stipulation. I’ll need some assurance of your cooperation.” He glances at the doorway and lowers his voice. “You know, of course, that their mother is very ill.”

  “Yes, I’d heard that. Is she . . . lucid?”

  “For the time being. But given her condition, her daughters are asking that you not discuss the book and its subject matter with her. They see no need to upset her at this stage.”

  I lean forward in my chair, incredulous. “You mean Hettie doesn’t know I’m here?”

  “Oh, Mrs. Deveau is expecting you.”

  “Then what exactly am I hiding?”

  “Her daughters told her that you’re writing a book about plantation homes. I think we can agree there’s no reason to tell her otherwise.” His tone has a smooth politician quality that rubs me the wrong way. I’m no longer awed by the pretty face.

  “Plantation homes? I don’t know the first thing—”

  “She’s ill, Ms. Cates. Dying. I don’t think the subject will come up, and if it does, I trust that you’re equipped to handle it gracefully.” He sees me about to protest and adds, “This really isn’t negotiable. Brigitte made their wishes very clear.”

  “So I can’t interview Hettie about Gabriel?”

  He shakes his head. Good-looking or not, this guy is seriously starting to piss me off. I’m tempted to ask who he works for, anyway. Neville Deveau must have left his estate to his wife. As estate manager, Jules should be answering to Hettie, not her daughters. Obviously he’s decided to ingratiate himself with the women who will be in charge once Hettie dies. Job security.

  I gnaw on a fingernail. Jules may be a traitor, but what about Sydney and Brigitte? Hettie’s own daughters, scheming behind her back. I have no doubt she would nix the project if she knew anything about it. Gabriel was her son, not some trashy, sensationalist piece of journalism. Her son.

  Don’t make this about you.

  I take a deep breath. “Hettie Deveau is the single best resource I have going into this project, Jules, and you’re telling me she’s not on board.”

  He stiffens when I address him by his first name. “Hettie Deveau won’t live to see the summer,” he says. “We’re all trying to make her final days as pleasant as possible.”

  “The story of Gabriel’s kidnapping is her story. She has the right to know what’s going on.”

  “If you have an ethical objection, we can contact Meyers Rowe and find another writer,” Jules tells me evenly. “Otherwise, work around it.” He stands up to signal that our chat has ended. “Would you like to see the grounds?�
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  I’ve invested too much to just walk away now. I bite my lip and nod, but the expression on my face plainly says, Prick.

  For the first time since I’ve met him, Jules smiles. The smirk is short-lived, though. He smoothes a lock of hair back in place and his face becomes expressionless, plastic, yet still so infuriatingly handsome I want to punch him.

  7.

  Charlie?” Rae picks up on the second ring. “I’m so glad you called!”

  She really does sound glad, and I miss her suddenly, her gossip and her sass. It’s half past five, and I’m sitting cross-legged on a pastel bedspread, hoping someone can convince me this book thing was not a mistake. “Hey, you,” I greet Rae with more pep than I feel. The sun is gone, and the radiator hasn’t quite kicked in yet. “Is now a good time?”

  “I’m on my commute. Now’s perfect. So . . . wow, are you in Louisiana?”

  “I’m here,” I confirm.

  “How was your drive down? No, wait—” Rae interrupts herself before I can reply. “I want to hear about the house first. Is it insane?”

  I climb under the quilted bedspread to get warm. The mattress squishes beneath me, promising a long and uncomfortable night. “Evangeline is—what you’d imagine. Very elegant.” That much is true. Every room that Jules showed me was exquisite, and with the exception of the well-equipped contemporary kitchen, each retained its Old South charm.

  “How many rooms?”

  I grilled Jules for this kind of information on our brief tour, taking notes as he dispensed factoids about the estate. “Sixteen rooms total,” I recite. “The place was built in the 1840s, but the family has made a number of additions and updates.”

  “Dang. Do they have a cook and a butler and all that?”

  “No butler,” I report, “but an estate manager. And definitely a cook. I met her today.” Her name is Leeann and she looks impossibly young to know her way around all those gorgeous stainless steel appliances. A plump, pink-faced girl, Leeann strikes me as someone who probably still rises with breathless delight at five a.m. on Christmas morning. “I think she cooks more for the staff than the family,” I explain to Rae. “She said they have a chef come on weekends and for guests or parties.”

  “You don’t count as a guest?”

  From my crater in the squishy mattress, I eye my ugly pastel room. “Uh, no. I think I’m on par with the hired help.” I don’t tell her that Jules explicitly urged me to eat meals with the staff. In some weird way, I find it embarrassing.

  “How many people does it take to run a place that big, anyway?” Rae asks.

  I try to remember everyone that Jules mentioned. A housekeeper, groundskeeper, part-time landscaping crew. Security. Nurses for Hettie. The cook, a chef, and of course, Jules himself. “I’m guessing they have about fifteen people who work here full- or part-time,” I say. “And the mom, Hettie, is the only one who lives here. Her kids and granddaughter just stop by for visits.”

  Rae sighs, out of envy or disapproval or maybe both. “Is it crazy gorgeous?”

  “I only got to see the downstairs, but yes.”

  “Wait, your room is downstairs?”

  I laugh dryly. “More like in the backyard.”

  “Say what?” I figured Rae wouldn’t be thrilled by this development, and in point of fact, neither am I. Before I left, Rae spent hours selecting a wardrobe for me that she deemed appropriate mansion-wear, and now I’m not even living in Evangeline. In fact, the house gets alarmed at eight p.m. each night to keep me and all the other employees out.

  “It isn’t that bad,” I say, picking at a square on the quilt. “They put me in a guest cottage. I have a mini kitchen and a bathroom.” I omit the details of the flowered wallpaper, lace curtains, and excessive use of lavender. I think they were going for homey, but the space reminds me of a giant girly Easter egg.

  “So the guest cottage is a separate house out back?” Rae asks.

  I try to describe it for her. “You walk five minutes from the main house and there are four little cottages, where some of the staff live. They used to be slave quarters, like from plantation days.” I know that will get her going.

  “Are you kidding me? They invite you over and stick you in a slave house?” She whoops indignantly. “That’s disrespectful to you and all the black folk who were enslaved on that plantation. Seriously, that’s like making a motel out of Auschwitz.”

  According to Jules, the original slave housing was demolished early in the twentieth century. The cottages as they stand now were built about fifteen years ago. They’re modern to the point of having key-coded doors, but I don’t tell Rae that. I find her outrage oddly comforting.

  “Evangeline actually has Confederate memorabilia in the sitting room,” I offer.

  Rae whistles. “You really gonna stick this out for three months, Charlie-girl?”

  “Gonna try.” Three months sounds like a long time right now, so I change the subject. “Did my renter show up?” For a while, it didn’t look like I’d be able to find a short-term renter, but a couple of weeks before I left, a divorced mom whose home had been damaged in a fire materialized.

  “She moved in yesterday,” Rae says. “She’s got two daughters. Teenagers.”

  “Oooh, our dream come true. Babysitters!”

  The second the words leave my mouth, I’m shocked. You forgot, I realize. For a minute, you actually forgot.

  “Maybe they can sit for Zoey,” I add lamely, but the empty space in my chest is already burning. Guilt blazes through me in a quick fire. How could you forget your child, forget he’s gone?

  Rae and I talk for a few more minutes, but I’m guarded now. I hold my loss close, pressing it against my chest, my lungs, until it hurts to breathe. Maybe I’m punishing myself. Maybe I’m protecting myself, from forgetting and having to remember all over again. Either way, my absent little boy hovers between us. Without him, what do Rae and I really have in common?

  Finally her train pulls into the Stamford station, and we say a quick good-bye.

  “Take care of yourself,” Rae tells me. “Make sure you eat, promise?”

  “Promise.”

  After we hang up, I don’t know what to do with myself. I can’t just lie here sinking into this monstrous bed, so I do something useful and look up the contact Isaac gave me in local law enforcement: Detective Remy Minot. Although Gabriel’s abduction was originally handled by local, state, and federal law enforcement agencies, the cold case has fallen to the parish sheriff’s department—a solid indication the investigation is dead in the water. If there were anything promising to go on, I have no doubt the FBI would be all over it. Still, Detective Minot will have access to files from the original investigation. He’s worth talking to.

  I call the Bonnefoi Parish sheriff’s department and am quickly transferred to Detective Minot’s voice mail. I leave a message, knowing the chances of this guy returning my call are slim. Cops like journalists when a cold case needs exposure, but the one thing Gabriel’s kidnapping never lacked was publicity.

  It’s six o’clock. Leeann, the cook, said she puts out a spread for the staff every weeknight between six and seven. If I want to eat tonight, it’s that or drive back to town in the dark. There are definite advantages to meeting the staff. Maybe there will be some old, faithful caretaker who has been working for the family thirty-some years and remembers Gabriel. At the very least, I can get quotes for the book—an insider’s view of the family.

  I slip on a jacket and step into the night. The moon is just a sliver as I follow the dirt path back toward Evangeline’s distant lights. Why couldn’t Hettie spring for some outdoor lighting? The garden, with its tall and spindly shrubbery, has become a jungle of strange shapes and unidentifiable shadows, and the solemn cherub who presides over the empty fountain looks better suited to a headstone. I can feel the swamp not so far away, ready to swallow up anyt
hing, anyone. I quicken my step. Whoever took Gabriel probably stood in this very garden, watching the house that night, waiting. That person could still be out there. Could still be close.

  I weave along the path, eyes darting around for some unknown danger, and jump when a low-lying plant brushes my ankle. At the height of my paranoia, I hear something. A male voice, almost immediately to my right.

  “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for you?”

  I freeze. There’s a figure, partially obscured, standing on the other side of a hedge. I think that my heart will fly out of my chest. Who the hell—

  “Three weeks. It’s been almost three weeks now. So don’t tell me to be patient.” It’s Jules, I realize. Jules is talking, but not to me. He must be on a cell phone. “Yes, I am aware of your busy schedule, thank you. You reminded me of it both times you canceled our plans last week. Are you aware of the sacrifices I make to keep our relationship even remotely functional?”

  I’m about to continue walking when he steps into the path ahead of me, still absorbed in his conversation. I stand in the darkness of the hedge, not six feet behind him, debating whether or not to reveal my position. Will it look like I’ve been spying on him if I burst suddenly from a bush? Is it worse to look like I was eavesdropping or to actually eavesdrop?

  “No, you listen. I lie for you, I sneak around like some guilty teenager, I change my plans for you at a moment’s notice—” Jules paces around, tilting his chin up to the sky so I get a good look at his perfectly proportioned silhouette. If he turned around, he’d see me lingering in the bushes. But he doesn’t.

  “So you’ll be here? That’s a promise?” His voice sweetens when it appears he will get his way. “Good. Don’t forget my cuff links this time. They should still be on your dresser.” He pauses. “No, the Louis Vuittons. They’re black.” He pauses again, then chuckles as if the caller has said something amusing. I wonder what kind of joke one can make about designer cuff links. “Right. I’ll see you this weekend, then.” He takes off for the house, too pleased with his domestic victory to notice me, thank goodness.