I pulled over to the side of the narrow road and parked so I wouldn’t block any access. The sound of another vehicle rumbling over the cemetery’s gravel lanes caught my attention as I exited my car.

  Two men got out of a white van. One of them walked around to the rear and opened the doors. A ramp automatically lowered with a whirring sound. Out of the back a woman emerged riding a motorized wheelchair. I knew immediately she was Claire Gallagher. The men must be her sons.

  I felt drawn to the scene. Was this coincidence or fate? Next I expected to see Miriam Baum show up here. I couldn’t imagine any connection between Celina’s murder and the Gallaghers. However, one never knows about a person’s private life.

  The Gallagher party stopped at a gravesite where I assumed their people were buried. I left them to grieve and continued to the mausoleum to do my own.

  My only consolation was that justice had been served in Jim’s case. All the participants in his murder were going to prison with no chance of leaving except in a coffin unless they’re found not guilty at their trials. Highly unlikely, so I’m told. The Gallaghers might never be able to find justice. Modern day Caribbean pirates were as elusive as their historical counterparts.

  Drug smugglers and human traffickers were about as hard to pin down as the pirates, so Celina’s killer might never be caught either.

  I stared at the wall that held the vaults of Jim and six other people. All the other names blurred as I focused on my husband’s neatly engraved in white marble.

  My dear sweet Jim, I miss you so much. I sniffed, willing the tears to stay put. I concentrated on exchanging the dusty artificial roses and replacing them with the live daisies. I’d need to return in a few days to check on the flowers’ condition.

  I didn’t want to leave, but knew staying longer wouldn’t contribute anything to my well-being. Matthew and Caroline would be home in a few days and they depended on me for support.

  Back in my car, I took a covert look at the Gallagher party. One of her sons leaned against their vehicle, an expression of animosity molded to his face. His sibling and mother Claire remained at the gravesite.

  As usual my curiosity went into overdrive. Did he have a problem with his deceased brother or father? Or was his hostility directed at his living relatives? I shook off my inquisitiveness about the Gallaghers and drove away.

  Visions of Celina’s murder scene crept back into my head. The image of her in a body bag angered me. I didn’t know if she was into some illegal activity or not, but no one deserved to be murdered.

  On my way home I thought about the couple from Martinique. Why would people from that island want to come to Louisiana? I shrugged mentally. Probably for the same reason any other immigrant wants to enter the United States…to start a new life.

  Maybe this was an idealized view, but Martinique seemed like the last place in the world someone would want to leave. Was it really an island paradise, or just a paradise for tourists and wealthy residents? Caribbean islands are noted for fancy hotels and beautiful beaches, but many island natives lived in dire poverty in places tourists never see.

  My inquisitiveness pulled me in the direction of Claire Gallagher’s home. Legitimately I would be checking up on a couple I helped out. I wanted to know how they were getting along.

  Yikes! I’m being drawn into another murder investigation. How could that be? The murder victim wasn’t even a member of the Gallagher family. Yet I still felt the force of curiosity luring me into what could turn out to be another dangerous situation.

  Seven

  I stopped the car at a security gate in front of Claire Gallagher’s home and peered through the windshield at the sign hanging on a wrought iron arch over the gate. The words Elena Plantation, written in flowery script, danced in mid-air as an erratic breeze swayed the wooden sign. My stomach felt queasy with anticipation, but I couldn’t imagine why.

  A female voice from a black box on the gate post startled me. I hadn’t even noticed the intercom. Too busy trying to decide whether I should be here or not.

  “Can I help you?”

  How did anyone know I was here? Of course, I’m such a dummy. A surveillance camera was attached to the fence post. The woman’s voice seemed pleasant enough. Why should I be nervous about coming here? Except for the fact I really didn’t have a legitimate reason for my visit…only my incessant curiosity.

  Clearing my throat, I answered with my name and my intent to see how Lucie Celestine and her husband Octave were getting along. There was no response for a few seconds. Maybe I should have waited until Claire and her sons returned from the cemetery.

  To my relief, the woman on the intercom permitted me to enter. Shortly, the gate opened with a soft whirring sound and I drove onto the grounds of Elena Plantation.

  Thick trunked oak trees lined the winding driveway, their gray beards of Spanish moss waving in the breeze. I spotted a group of large pecan trees to my right.

  The house was what’s known in architectural terms as an Italianate raised American cottage. I knew this due to recent research into the different styles of New Orleans area houses needed for my current work in progress about murder on a plantation. Hmm…could that be why I had the feeling of being drawn into a real life murder mystery?

  A gallery stretched across the front of the house with a center stairway leading to a recessed front door. I climbed the stairs and stepped onto the gallery. My gaze settled on the wheelchair ramp that emerged from the left side of the porch—Claire’s pathway to a future rolling around in a chair.

  I raised my hand to knock but stopped when I heard voices inside. A rather heated discussion about one of them allowing me into the compound was in progress.

  “I don’t understand why you object to her coming inside,” one woman said. “It’s not likely she’ll be staying long anyway.” Her voice sounded like the one on the intercom.

  “Maybe not, but you know how Claire gets upset with us for inviting people in the house when she’s not here.”

  “Oh for heaven’s sake, Marcie, you’re being ridiculous. She’s here now so drop it.”

  “Suit yourself. Don’t blame me if you get your butt chewed.”

  My goodness, I never thought my stopping by would be such an ordeal or cause any kind of commotion. I knocked, hoping my welcome would be a little warmer than the discussion indicated.

  A woman answered with a smile. It appeared genuine.

  “Hi, I’m Jill Doucet.” She waved me inside. “I’ll take you back to the kitchen where Lucie is right now.”

  I wondered about her last name. Maybe she wasn’t one of Claire’s daughters-in-law. She seemed pleasant enough, easy going. Actually I liked her, which was more than I could say for the other woman. And I hadn’t even been introduced to her. Something about her irritated me.

  Jill introduced her to me as Marcie Gallagher. She barely nodded. Her expression suggested her opinion of me was pretty low. Well, okay, guess that makes us even. Gosh, what is wrong with me? I don’t even know her, or for that matter, I didn’t know Jill either.

  Although monochromatic, Marcie’s apparel made quite a splash. She wore denim shorts, a tank top, and sandals all in hot pink. Even her nails were painted neon pink. A pink heart-shaped pendant hung at her throat. Matching earrings dangled from her pierced ears.

  The two women were a study in contrast—Jill, a friendly brunette to Marcie’s blond snobby persona. I could tell that Marcie’s clothes, while casual, were expensive; Jill dressed more like I would at home—blue denim shorts and a red tee-shirt.

  “Lucie is in the kitchen,” Jill said. “I’ll take you back there. O.J. helps with the yard work and other odd jobs.”

  “O.J.?”

  “That’s what we call Octave.”

  From the living room she led me through a formal dining room, and into the kitchen. Lucie stood talking to someone at the rear door with her back to us. She and the other person were totally engrossed in conversation. Not realizing anyone else had entered the room, the pair continued talking.

  Lucie spoke in a French patois so I only picked up a few words. I could have sworn she said ‘bad as Macoutes.’ Could she be referring to the Tonton Macoutes, the former paramilitary police of Haiti?

  Jill either didn’t know any French or she was a great actress. Her expression remained the same as it had been since she invited me inside the house. “Lucie? There’s someone here to see you.”

  Lucie turned to us, her eyes wide. Her companion, a light skinned black man, appeared equally startled and quickly walked away.

  I tried to sound relaxed and reassuring. She obviously was frightened. “Hi, Lucie. I don’t know if you remember me. I spoke to you at the food pantry when you first arrived in the area. I’m Susan.”

  Lucie managed a brief smile and said in halting English, “Yes, you helped me and my husband get food.”

  “I see you’ve learned some English since we last met. I wanted to see how you and Octave were doing.”

  “We are fine. Miz Claire and everyone here are good to work for.” She appeared relieved. Maybe she thought I was coming to arrest them for being in the country illegally. I was pretty sure they were. But illegal from where? Martinique? Or Haiti.

  Lucie and I made small talk for a short time, then I bade her and the Gallagher household good-bye.

  On the drive home I thought of several more questions concerning the presumably illegal pair. Mainly the queries had to do with my own future actions. Should I report my suspicions to law enforcement?

  Did the Gallaghers know Lucie and Octave Celestine had arrived in Louisiana with false papers? I have to assume they did know. From all accounts, Claire Gallagher wasn’t naïve or stupid. Did she believe she was helping them? I must feel the same way since I’m pretty sure a number of people we help at the food pantry are here without papers. I still want to help them.

  I have such mixed feelings about people who come into this country illegally. Many flee violence and poverty in their countries and escape anyway they can. Criminals prey on the immigrants’ dreams of a better life and transport these poor people here under horrific conditions. Quite a few die before they arrive. Yet they are breaking the law by sneaking into the country.

  I decided to keep my doubts about the Celestines to myself for a while longer. The possibility they were legal did exist, although the chances of that were pretty slim. I went over in my mind the information I knew about the Tonton Macoute.

  The Macoutes were a much feared and hated group of paramilitary police created by a nineteen sixties Haitian dictator known as Papa Doc Duvalier. His son Baby Doc Duvalier continued the group’s operations. I couldn’t recall this militia’s official moniker. Locals referred to the group as Tonton Macoute, meaning Uncle Gunnysack, a Creole bogey man, who reportedly kidnapped unruly children, catching them in a gunnysack and carrying them off, never to be seen again. I shivered at the thought.

  I didn’t know whether Macoutes still existed these days or if the group had morphed into another equally frightening organization. Regardless, whoever Lucie Celestine referred to as ‘bad as a Macoute’ must be a terrible person.

  Eight

  Pulling into my driveway, I spotted Rachel coming out of her house. She started walking toward me. She certainly seemed to be overly interested in the possibility of illegal Haitian immigrants.

  “Did you find out anything on the French-speaking couple?” she asked.

  A mixture of curiosity and suspicion came over me. “I did uncover a little information.” I purposely waited to see her reaction.

  She frowned. “And?”

  “Why don’t you come inside with me so I can relax a little bit.”

  Her shoulders sagged slightly. “I’m sorry. You probably went to the mausoleum after leaving the food pantry. No doubt that was a distressing visit.”

  I nodded. She followed me into the house.

  Shedding my shoes, I left them by the kitchen door. “I’ve begun to hate wearing shoes lately. They make my feet feel confined.”

  Rachel made a face. “I’ve seen your closet. For someone who hates shoes, you sure have a lot of them.”

  “Guilty as charged. I keep trying to find a pair that doesn’t smother my feet.”

  I ushered her into the family room and sank into my favorite chair, an overstuffed wingback which I consider my security blanket chair. She sat on the sofa across from me. “If I tell you what I discovered about them and where they ended up, you have to tell me the real reason you are so interested in them.”

  Reluctantly, she agreed.

  “This couple, Lucie and Octave Celestine, supposedly from Martinique, were hired by Claire Gallagher.” I noted Rachel’s surprised expression. “I dropped by to see them at Elena Plantation. O. J. as they call Octave helps with yard work and carpenter jobs around the house.”

  “What does Lucie do there?”

  “She cooks, cleans, and sometimes assists Claire with dressing or getting around.”

  Rachel frowned. “I can’t imagine Claire ever needing any help. She always acted like she could do anything she set her mind to. Being confined to a wheelchair after being such an active and independent woman prior to the incident on their boat must be horrible.”

  “It makes me feel bad for complaining about my feet feeling confined.” I studied Rachel for a short moment. “Do you know Claire personally?”

  “Several times over the years, I’ve met with her during social events. Those occasions were before her husband and son were killed. She still goes to the Gallagher Salvage office, so I’ve heard, but other than that she rarely leaves her estate except to go to the cemetery.”

  “Speaking of cemeteries, I saw her there when I went to the mausoleum. She was with two men I presumed to be her sons.”

  “Most likely. One has red hair, like Claire did in her younger days. His name is Rick Gallagher. The other man would be Mike Doucet, her son from a mysterious previous relationship. Did he have dark hair?”

  I nodded. “Why is the relationship mysterious?”

  “No one knows the identity of his father. Mike was adopted as an infant by the Doucet family. Thus his last name is legally Doucet. From what I understand he didn’t know Claire was his mother until recently.”

  “So Jill is married to Mike. Marcie must be Rick’s wife.”

  “What was her color du jour?”

  I laughed. “Hot pink. I gather her clothing is always color coordinated?”

  “Every time I’ve ever seen her she’s been dressed in different shades of the same color. Sometimes it’s the same shade, but never two different colors.”

  I wasn’t sure I should reveal my suspicions about the Celestines’ immigrant status, but she evidently suspected I knew more than I told her.

  “Did you have any inkling about the couple’s origins?”

  “If I tell you about my doubts, are you going to go to Danny?”

  “Not if you don’t want me to,” she said slowly. “I figured you had rooted something out about them.”

  “Don’t say anything yet. I’m not certain about what I overheard.”

  She agreed.

  “When I walked into Claire’s kitchen, Lucie was talking to her husband in a Creole patois. She had her back to me and Jill and didn’t notice us standing there. I thought she said someone was a ‘bad as a Macoute’.”

  “The Tonton Macoute of Haiti?”

  “They’re the only ones I know of.”

  Rachel looked thoughtful. “I doubt Martinique has the same group. That pair could be illegals from Haiti. I had hoped they weren’t.”

  “Okay now you tell me why you’re so interested in the Celestines.”

  “I’m not interested in those specific immigrants per se, who may or may not be illegals. My interest lies in something that happened day before yesterday. I returned home from shopping to find Danny on the patio talking to a man I’d never seen. I felt certain he was law enforcement by his mannerisms.”

  I chuckled softly. “After so many years fraternizing with law enforcement and being married to cops, we wives can generally spot them. Did Danny introduce you to him?”

  “That’s the odd part,” she said. “Danny was in his secretive police business mode with the guy, so I didn’t even go out there to see what was going on. I caught a few words like illegals, Mexico, and Haiti.”

  “Hmm, I would’ve at least stuck my head out the door and said hello,” I said. “But what’s so strange about Danny discussing confidential police business?”

  “Nothing as far as the police business goes. The newly elected or appointed department heads like Chief Ken Wallace and especially Brad often consult with Danny. This guy left around the back of the house, presumably as not to be seen. Another oddity—he must have parked his vehicle a long way from the house. None was in sight. ”

  “He might be an undercover officer. Maybe he’s with ICE”

  “That’s kind of what I figured. But it worries me as to why Danny might be involved.”

  “Maybe this guy was consulting with him. After all, he was sheriff for years and knows the area like the back of his hand.” I really didn’t quite believe that, but hoped Rachel’s worries might be calmed.”

  “When Danny came back inside, I asked who the guy was, but he told me it was a need to know situation.”

  I groaned. His words reminded me of statements Jim had made to me a number of times during our marriage. “Don’t you hate it when they say that?”

  She rolled her eyes. “It irks me to no end. He’s basically saying he doesn’t trust me. Or worse, he’s wants to protect me.”

  I decided to change the subject. “Tell me about Miriam Baum and her daughters.”

  “She adopted both girls together after the real killer of her husband Ellis was convicted for his murder…not my brother.”

  “I understand from Celina that she and her sister have some Native American ancestry and also Hispanic.”

  “That very well could be the case,” she said. “All I know is that Miriam’s paternal great grandmother was a full blooded Apache from New Mexico.”