None of this surprises me. “Look, I did what Kaiser wanted. That’s all I can do right now. I’m an expert on bite marks, but they’ve got somebody else doing that job. There’s nothing I can do to alter events. I’m done. I’m going home.”
Sean shakes his head as though trying to sober himself up. “Last night you asked me if I could give up everything for you. I told you I could.”
I nod but say nothing.
“Well…we can be together now. Right now. No waiting.”
I’ve dreamed of hearing him say this for more than a year, but now that he has, I feel only sadness. “You didn’t make that choice freely, Sean. You got caught. That’s a different thing.”
He looks incredulous. “Are you serious?”
“On top of that, you’re drunk. You don’t know how you’re going to feel when you sober up. For all I know, you’ll be begging Karen’s forgiveness and trying to sleep at home by tonight. I don’t want to sound like a bitch, okay? I love you. But I have something important to do, and I can’t put it off because you happened to get caught last night.”
“You do sound like a bitch.”
My laugh is a short, harsh bark that surprises even me. “Thanks for making it easier.”
Chapter 21
At Malmaison, I find the wrought-iron gate standing open. Could the house be on tour? It’s the wrong season for that. Carefully negotiating the blind curves of the high-banked lane that leads to the main driveway, I circle around to the rear drive and pull into the gravel lot behind the two slave quarters and the rose garden.
Mother’s Maxima, Pearlie’s blue Cadillac, and my grandfather’s Town Car are in the lot. There’s also an Acura I don’t recognize. The Town Car is running. My grandfather’s driver is sitting behind the wheel. Billy Neal gives no semblance of a greeting, but stares at me with a strange malevolence.
I’m about to walk over and ask him what his problem is when Grandpapa marches through the trellis at the rear of the rose garden. He wears a stylish suit cut by the Hong Kong tailor who travels through Natchez twice a year and takes measurements at a local motel. The dark fabric sets off his silver hair, and he wears a white silk handkerchief prominently in his pocket.
Billy Neal gets out of the Lincoln and opens its rear door, but by then my grandfather has seen me and turned in my direction. Neal leans against the trunk of the Town Car and lights a cigarette, his posture radiating insolence.
“Catherine?” Grandpapa calls. “Two visits in three days? What’s going on?”
I’m not going to lie about my reason for being here, even though it might upset him. “I came back to finish the work in my bedroom.”
He stops a couple of feet from me, his blue eyes twinkling with interest. “You mean the blood you found?”
“Yes. I want to check the rest of the room for blood and other trace evidence. Probably the rest of the slave quarters as well.”
The twinkle goes dead. “What kind of evidence? Evidence of what?”
“Evidence of what, I’m not sure. But I’ll find whatever is preserved after twenty-three years.”
He glances at his watch. “You’re going to do this yourself?”
“I don’t think so. I wanted to. And my forensic equipment is packed in my trunk. But if something I discovered ultimately involved the courts, that could-”
“The courts?” He’s giving me his full attention now. “What could possibly involve the courts?”
Why is he forcing me to say it? “Look, I know you told me that you and I probably tracked that blood into the bedroom from the garden that night, but…”
“But what?”
“It was raining that night, Grandpapa. Hard.”
He nods as if only now remembering. “You’re right.”
“It’s not that I don’t believe you. But I can’t stop thinking about that rain. How could anybody track enough blood over thirty yards of wet grass to make those footprints?”
He smiles. “You’re as obsessive and tenacious as I am.”
I can’t help but smile back. “As far as me doing the work, the problem is objectivity. If any kind of legal proceeding involved me-and if I alone had discovered the evidence-that evidence would be suspect. I know people who work at the state crime lab in Baton Rouge. They do some moonlighting. Reconstructing crime scenes, testifying as experts in criminal trials-”
“Mississippi or Louisiana?”
“Louisiana.”
Grandpapa gives a perfunctory nod, as though suddenly preoccupied with something else.
“They could work up my bedroom in half a day and videotape the whole thing. Any evidence they discovered would be beyond reproach. Honestly, I can’t even pretend to be objective about this.”
“I understand.” He glances over at his driver, then back at me.
“Do you have any problem with me doing this, Grandpapa?”
He seems not to have heard me. The stroke he had a year ago wasn’t supposed to have affected his conscious thought processes, but sometimes I’m not so sure.
“Whose car is that?” I ask, pointing at the Acura.
“Ann’s,” he replies, his eyes distant.
Aunt Ann rarely visits Malmaison. Her stormy personal life long ago alienated her from my grandparents. It’s my mother who makes the effort to exert a positive influence in Ann’s life, but her efforts mostly go in vain. Diagnosed as bipolar in her midtwenties, Ann-the beautiful and favored child of the family-became a cautionary tale in local society, an example of how great wealth doesn’t necessarily confer happiness.
“Is she visiting Mom?” I ask.
“She’s with Gwen now, but she actually drove up to see me.”
“What about?”
Grandpapa sighs wearily. “What’s it always about?”
Grandpapa’s face tightens, and I sense the slow-burning anger of a man who judges men by his own strict code. “If she asks me for help with that problem, I’ll intervene.”
I want to ask if he gave Ann the money she requested, but I don’t. He probably wouldn’t tell me.
He’s looking at his watch again. “Catherine, I have a meeting with a member of the Mississippi Gaming Commission. It’s about Maison DeSalle. I can’t be late.”
I suddenly remember the architectural model he showed me in his library, his plans for federal certification of a Natchez Indian Nation. “Oh, right. Good luck-I guess.”
Across the parking lot, Billy Neal holds up his wrist and points at his watch. Grandpapa waves acknowledgment, then gazes deeply into my eyes, as though trying to communicate something important. Through his hypnotic blue eyes, he’s brought the full weight of his considerable charisma to bear on me. His mental capacity hasn’t diminished at all.
“Catherine,” he says, his voice grave, “I’d like you to postpone your plans until I get back from this meeting. It won’t take more than an hour or so.”
“Why?”
He reaches out and takes hold of my hand. “It’s a delicate matter. A personal matter. Personal for you.”
“For me?” A strange buzzing has started in my brain. “Then tell me now. I was about to call the crime lab and get things moving.”
“This isn’t the proper place, dear. We should talk in my study.”
