“You saw correctly. I am not married. I was widowed when I was twenty-three.”
“I’ve enjoyed our talks and meeting you,” he said. “Three or four times a year I go fishing thereabouts. South of Jennings, I mean.”
“Are you trying to tell me something, Mr. Purcel?”
“I was wondering if you like movies.”
“I love them,” she said.
“There’re some good ones playing in Lafayette. There’s a dinner club close by that I’m fond of, too.”
“I think I know the place.”
“Miss Carolyn, could I motor on by your home this evening?”
“I’d like that very much, Mr. Purcel.”
* * *
THEOLOGIANS CALL IT the calculated testing of others’ charity. By some it’s considered a serious sin. But for someone who is manipulative or morally insane, it’s not a big obstacle.
Early that same morning, Alafair entered the grounds of the Shadows-on-the-Teche, an enormous pillared twin-chimney two-story brick home built in 1834, and today a National Trust historic site that tourists file through seven days a week. But for Alafair, the Greek revival splendor and the magnificent oaks and gardens and piked fence and bamboo borders had another meaning. Regardless of the time of year—even in spring, when the petals of the azaleas were scattered on the grass and the sunlight was transfused into a golden-green presence inside the canopy of live oaks—the rooms of the house remained cold and damp, the lichen on the trees and flagstones and birdbaths and even the tombs of the original owners a testimony to the decay and slow absorption of man’s handiwork on the earth. As Alafair sat on a stone bench in the coldness of the shade, she wondered why the glossy brochures at the entrance said nothing about where the slaves were buried, all 164 of them, nameless souls who at best were spared the lash and fed on a daily basis in the same spirit that one feeds chattel.
The house was occupied by General Nathaniel Banks’s command in 1863 and figured prominently in Levon Broussard’s novel set during the Civil War and Reconstruction. Farther down Main Street stood the Episcopalian church that served as a battalion aid station for Confederate wounded, then was commandeered by General Banks and the pews pushed together to form troughs f
or Yankee cavalry. The partial remains of at least two gunboats still lay under the quiet surface of the bayou. The locale was a postcard snipped right out of a history that, for good or bad, you could place your hand on and feel its heart beating.
Alafair looked up from her notebook and saw a woman in a brocaded white suit and black pumps and an arterial-red necklace walking toward her. She carried a slender box wrapped with satin paper and a purple ribbon.
“I parked between Porteus Burke’s law office and the Shadows, and was walking to your house and looked through the gate, and there you were,” the woman said.
“Hello, Emmeline,” Alafair said.
“May I sit down?”
“To be honest, I’m working right now.”
“On the screenplay?”
“That and a couple of other things.”
“I’ll take just a minute,” Emmeline said, sitting on the bench. She put the box in Alafair’s lap. “A little chocolate to make up for the tennis ball in your face.”
“That’s thoughtful of you, but I don’t handle sugar very well.”
“Oh, Alafair, I do want us to be friends.”
“No, I’m sorry,” Alafair said, returning the box.
“I understand.” She took a breath and smiled self-consciously. “I need a favor. It’s about Jimmy. He thinks the world of your father.”
“Is this about the rape?”
“No, absolutely not. Jimmy bears terrible guilt for an event that happened years ago, one he had little control over. Your father is a war veteran. He’ll understand.”
“Dave is investigating your cousin for rape.”
“I don’t believe a rape ever took place. But that’s not why I’m here. You don’t understand Jimmy. He wants to be Levon Broussard. Now, thanks to his wife, Levon hates Jimmy.”