'Feeding her five children is important, too. That job is all she has, working for a Jew.' Oh, man.
'I promise I won't get her in trouble, Mrs. Williams.' Like a kid,
'How do I know you're who you say you are? You might be up to no good. I assure you that I am not to be trifled with.'
'There's an attorney in Baton Rouge named Lucille Chenier. I can give you her number and you could call her office and speak with her about me.'
That seemed to mollify her. 'Well, perhaps that won't be necessary. I take pride in knowing a sincere voice.'
'Yes, ma'am.'
'Chantel lives right over here in Blue Point. She has lunch soon. Why don't you see her at lunch. Her name is Chantel Michot now, and she always goes home for lunch. She has to put dinner on for those little ones.'
I looked at my watch. 'That's fine, Mrs. Williams. I'm coming from Baton Rouge.' It was a quarter before eleven. I could get there/by twelve-thirty.
'Well, then, I guess this must be important, all the way from Baton Rouge.'
'Yes, ma'am, it is.'
'We'll be expecting you.' We.
'Yes, ma'am, I'm sure you will.'
I copied the directions as she gave them, and then I went to see Chantel Michot, Leon Williams's younger sister.
CHAPTER 15
B lue Point, Louisiana, was a wide spot in the road five miles south of Ville Platte at the tip of Bayou des Cannes. You had to go to Ville Platte first, then take a little state road that wound its way over narrow steel bridges and sluggish channels of water and sweet potato fields. It was rural country, with a lot of barbed wire fences and great live oaks bearded with Spanish moss, and the air was heavy with pollen and bees and moisture.
Chantel Michot lived in a clapboard shotgun house at the edge of the road that backed upon a wide green pasture. The pasture was fenced and the fence ran behind her house as if a little square had been cut from the owner's pasture so that the Michot family might live there. The house looked old and poorly kept, with peeling paint and a green shingle roof that was missing tiles and a wooden front porch that was cracked and splintered. There was a screen door like every other house in Louisiana, but the screen was cruddy and stretched, and little wads of pink Kleenex had been stuck into holes to keep out the mosquitoes. Martha Guidry would have a field day. Tire ruts ran down from the road past the house and the rusted chassis of a very old Dodge and across the pasture. Maybe a dozen chickens pecked in the dirt around the chassis. Yard birds. A late-sixties Bel Air sedan was parked beneath an elm tree, and a newer Pontiac Sunbird was parked behind the Bel Air. I pulled in behind the Sun-bird and got out. The engines of both the Bel Air and the Sunbird were still ticking. Couldn't have gotten here more than ten minutes ago.
The screen door opened and a little boy maybe four years old came out and looked at me from the lip of the porch. He was barefoot in shorts, with a little round belly and a runny nose and an ocher complexion. Hair more curly than nappy. His left index finger was stuffed up his nose to the first joint. I said, 'My name's Elvis. What's yours?'
He pushed the finger in deeper and didn't answer. I often have that effect on people.
The door opened again and a light-skinned woman in her forties came out, followed by an older, heavier woman with skin the color of burnished walnuts. The younger woman was wearing a thin cotton smock over faded Bermuda shorts and open-toed sandals. Her hair was piled on her head and held there with a broad purple band. It wasn't particularly neat, but she didn't have it like that for style; she had it like that for work.
Keep the hair out of the sausage. The older woman was in a light green rayon suit with a little white hat and white gloves and a crocheted purse the size of a grocery bag. All dressed up to meet the detective. The older woman said, 'I am Mrs. Lawrence Williams.
Are you Mr. Cole?'
'Yes, ma'am. I appreciate you and Ms. Michot agreeing to see me.'
Chantel Michot said, 'I got to see about these children and I got to get back.' Not exactly thrilled to meet the detective. She was holding a filter-tipped cigarette and kept one arm crossed beneath her breasts. I offered her a card, but Mrs. Lawrence Williams took it. 'Ada say this about Leon.' Ada was Mrs. Williams.
'That's right. I know you were only ten when he was killed, but I thought we might speak about it.'
'Why?'
'I'm working on something and Leon's name came up, and I don't know why. Maybe you can help me with the reason.'
Chantel Michot sucked on the cigarette and blew smoke. Trying to figure me. There were children's voices behind her in the house, and another little boy came to the door, this one maybe five. He pressed against the screen and looked out. She said, 'Anthony, get on in there and eat that lunch.' Anthony disappeared. 'Ada, would you make Lewis sit at that table, please?'
The little boy with his finger up his nose said, 'No.'
Mrs. Lawrence Williams pulled the big purse in closer and raised her eyebrows. Not liking the idea of being inside with the children and left out of all the great stuff on the porch. 'Well, if I must.' Snooty. She took Lewis by the arm and brought him inside. Lewis yelled bah bah bah bah as loud as he could.
I said, 'They never caught Leon's killer. No arrest was made.'
'You the police?'
'No.'
'All these years, you gonna find the guy done it?'
'That's not what I'm after.'
'But maybe?' All these years, she was still hopeful.
'I don't know, Chantel. I found Leon's name in a place it doesn't fit and I want to find out why it was there. I don't want to lead you on. I know you've got to get back to work.'
'Least you ain't lyin' about it.' She stared at me a minute, motionless, a thin trail of smoke drifting from her cigarette, barely moving in the still air, and then she made up her mind. 'You want some lemonade? I put some up this morning.'
I smiled at her and she smiled back. 'That'd be fine. Thanks. If you've got the time.'
'I got a few minutes.'
We sat in the shade of the little porch on a sofa that was covered with crocheted bedspreads. Mrs. Lawrence Williams came to the door every few minutes, still pissed about being inside, always with the big purse. She probably had something in there in case I decided to trifle with them. 'This is good lemonade.'
'I put honey in with the sugar. That's clover honey. A man down the bayou keeps a hive.'
I said, 'The newspaper reports said that the sheriff believed that Leon was killed by a transient over a gambling dispute.'
'Leon was fourteen. What he know about gamblin'?'
'What'd your parents think?'
'Said it was silly. Said it was just the sheriffs way of shinin' us on. A black man gets killed, they don' care.'
'Did your parents have an idea of what happened?'
She squinted out at the road. Trying to remember. A truck pulling a natural-gas tank rumbled past and made the thin glass in the windows rattle. 'Lord, it's been so long. Daddy died in seventy-two. Mama went, oh, I guess it was eighty-one, now.'
'How about Lawrence or Robert, Jr.? Did they ever say anything?'
