The Feast of St. Joseph Holy Trinity Church sat on the south side of Lessard Street. Caren remembered it from the photograph, the one Detectives Lang and Bertrand displayed in her office, the snapshot of Inés Avalo and the dark priest, she in a bright dress, those star-shaped earrings catching the sunlight. She was smiling then.
The church was small and built of shale stone and painted wood. Its one front-facing window was a high arch of colored glass set in beveled panels, displaying the image of a cross beneath a yellow sun. Caren sat quiet for a moment, staring at the color and light, the way the shifting clouds made play of the sacred scene. She didn’t see Owens’s car, not on the street or in the parking lot next to the church, which was paved with crushed oyster shells and outlined by a rusting chain-link fence, the gate of which was propped open with a loose brick. She’d lost him somewhere on the drive. He was nowhere in sight. But as she sat now, alone in her car, he almost felt like an afterthought. Strange as it seems, she felt as if the church itself had called her here.
St. Joseph’s was not particularly pretty, but it was quaint and welcoming. The front lawn was dotted with wet, fallen leaves from a pecan tree overhead. The double doors were made of arched wood, with twin cast-iron knockers on either side. And just to the right, beside the church’s two front steps, sat a tiny, bare-limbed birch tree, its branches adorned with glass bottles of cobalt and sea green, red and ginger brown, all of them in the shape of old soda bottles. It was an unexpected sight, nestled here at the threshold of a Catholic church; it was the kind of thing you could still find in the back swamps, in the desolate, rural haunts of deep Louisiana, parts of which seemed untouched by time and the march of history. The origins of the bottle tree were African, Helen had once told her; it was a folk tradition brought to this country by slaves, who, working with whatever materials were at hand, devised a crude method of catching and trapping malevolent spirits, to prevent their passage through human doors. The colored glass chimed in the light afternoon wind, its empyreal music calling. Caren answered the sound by opening her car door.
She crossed Lessard on foot, stepping into a cold wind that wrapped itself around her arms and legs. Her cheeks flushed, and she felt a dull ache in her chest the closer she got to the front steps. She hadn’t been inside a church since her father’s funeral—a cold February morning during Morgan’s second year. After the church ceremony, she and Eric had stood awkwardly in the family home, where she finally met her brother and sister, and six of their kids, one of whom looked remarkably like Caren. They’d left before the food was served, when it was clear that her presence was making everyone uncomfortable. She had tried, at least. She had tried to do right by at least one of her parents. Missing her mother’s funeral was something Caren never got over.
She was careful to wipe her boots before going inside the chapel.
The doors opened directly onto the sanctuary, so that there was no place for Caren to gather herself, to prepare for what she saw when she stepped inside. Down the center aisle, just below the velvet-draped pulpit, was a casket. It was made of bleached pine, with rose stems carved on all sides. The coffin’s top was open, and inside, peaceful as a sleeping child, lay Inés Avalo. She was in a white lace dress that buttoned to her chin, covering the injury that took her life. She looked stiff in white, like a nervous bride, unsure of what awaited her on the other side of this one life-changing day in church. She was nearly swallowed up by the layers of pale satin lining the casket. But even from here, Caren could see her naked earlobes. The sight of them made her knees weak. She reached for the nearest pew to steady herself. She lowered her body onto the wood, hearing it creak beneath her. She sat perfectly still, as if she were afraid she might wake her.
“I thought you said you didn’t know her.”
Caren turned sharply.
She saw Lee Owens, sitting in the pew directly behind her. Like a good Catholic, he had removed his hat in the church sanctuary. With his free hand he swept a rogue forelock of his sandy curls off to one side. He had a nice face, kind for the most part. At least she could tell he felt a tinge of guilt for sneaking up on her like this.
“I didn’t know her,” she said softly.
Not really, she thought.
“You want to tell me why you’re following me, ma’am?”
“It’s Caren . . . my name.”
“I know,” he said. “I was just being polite.”
He leaned back against the rise of the church pew, smiling sociably, as if they were old friends. “Caren Gray, general manager and caretaker for the Belle Vie Plantation since 2005. Before that, you held a similar position at the Grand Luxe Hotel in New Orleans.” Then he added, “I knew all this last night.” He pulled an iPhone from his pocket, briefly checking the time before sliding it back into his khakis.
“Who’s following whom?”
Owens smiled. “Aw, touché.”
Then, sizing her up, he said, “You one of those who never went back?”
He was speaking of New Orleans, of course, and Caren sensed an unspoken criticism, a judgment that she, like so many others, was a fair-weather friend, a woman whose fidelity was only for the good times. He turned and stared solemnly down the center aisle.
Softly, he said, “She’s pretty.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Why? You’re not armed, are you?” With a wry smile, he raised his hands in mock surrender, showing his open palms. Caren didn’t think any of this was funny. “What happened in Florida?” she said.
She still had Inés’s earring in her pocket, the one she’d found in Hunt Abrams’s trailer.
Owens just sat there, chewing on his bottom lip.
“Last night, you said Groveland moved Hunt Abrams from Florida to Bakersfield and then Washington State. What happened in Florida?” she said, remembering what little she’d found on the Internet. “There was a girl who was hurt?”
“Wasn’t ‘hurt,’ ma’am,” he said. “She was beaten.”
“By Abrams?”
“That’s the way I heard it. He beat a woman for not clearing a row fast enough.”
The thought made Caren’s stomach turn.
“There were others, too,” Owens said. “Was a field-worker in Bakersfield just laid down in a tangle of grapevines one day and never got up. He’d been working ten hours in hundred-degree temps without a water break.” He glanced again at his phone, checking the time. “No one I talked to ever accused Hunt Abrams of being kind. But the company looks the other way because he’s made those guys a shitload of money. And, hell, he’s never been charged with anything. So, you know, they just keep moving him around if they have to. It’ll be interesting to see how they play this one, though. The problem for Groveland now is the timing,” he said, shaking his head.
The words had a strangely familiar ring.
She’d heard Raymond Clancy assert nearly the exact same thing, the day the body was found. The timing couldn’t be any worse, he’d said.
“I mean, they’ve got their eye on building a real deal sugar business for themselves down here. And I don’t imagine they want a murder investigation cropping up right now. They’ve already successfully passed phase one, buying up nearly every sugar mill in Louisiana. I mean, they’re about this close”—holding his right thumb and index finger about a hair’s width apart—“from controlling all the cane manufacturing in the state.” He sat forward then, rolling the bill of his cap between his hands. “Phase two, that’s coming, you watch. It’s all just a matter of time.”
Here he’d lost her. “What is?”
He smiled, cocking his head and regarding her as a skeptic might, as if he thought she was putting him on. But she genuinely had no idea what he was getting at.
“What’s a matter of time?”
“Oh, come on, ma’am,” he said. “You telling me you never wondered why a big ag corp like Groveland is bothering with five hundred acres in central Louisiana?”
“No,” she said flatly.
It was hard, actually, to imagine anything she’d spent less time thinking about.
“That farm back there behind your place, that’s just the start.”
“Of what exactly?”
“Well, ma’am, this parish sits at the center of a billion-dollar industry. That’s the bare-minimum value of sugar in this state. And Groveland wants it. They’ve been looking for a way in for years now. But Louisiana ain’t ever been too keen on corporate farming. That’s Florida’s deal, Texas and California. And so far, no family’s ever been willing to sell to them. But then they took over the Renfrews’ lease back there and pushed them out . . . and, see, that’s how it starts. ’Cause wait, just wait, one of these days some other family that’s broke and desperate, they’ll sell their land to ’em, and then all the rest of the farms will start to fall like dominoes. It just has to start somewhere. But no one wants to be the first asshole to sell to a company from out of state.”
Raymond Clancy, she thought.
A few moments passed before she realized she’d said the name out loud.
So it was true, she thought. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t put it together before. But now it seemed perfectly clear. Clancy was planning to turn Belle Vie over to the Groveland Corporation. That’s why the repeated admonition that she was not to mention a thing about a Groveland worker being killed. Not a word to the press, he’d said. He was on the verge of a sale. Owen leaned forward in his seat. “I’m sorry . . . what did you say?”
He lied to me, she thought.
The son of a bitch lied to me.
“Raymond Clancy,” she said. “He’s selling the plantation.”
“To Groveland?”
Owens already had a hand in his pocket, was already reaching for a pen and pad. He yanked off the plastic pen cap with his teeth, pressing her for more details. “Raymond Clancy isn’t exactly hurting for anything. Why is he selling the plantation now?”
“Why don’t you find out what Larry Becht was doing in Clancy’s office yesterday?”
He lied to her.
Hadn’t Bobby warned her?
She didn’t owe Raymond any loyalty, she told herself. She didn’t owe him anything. Owen was scribbling fast. “Becht?” She could tell the name meant something to him, had triggered some reporter’s instinct. A political consultant would have only one reason to be in Raymond Clancy’s law office. “Are you sure?” he asked, still writing everything down.
There were footsteps behind them.
She turned first, then Owens.
The black priest had emerged from a side hall, one that appeared to lead to the church’s small suite of offices. He was walking directly toward them, a few loose sheets of paper tucked under his right arm.
“May I help you with something?”
Owens stood, holding out a hand. “Lee Owens, Father Akerele. We spoke on the phone.”
“Yes, yes,” the priest said, receiving the man’s handshake warmly. “I remember, sure.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “I have some time now. We can chat in my office. Ginny is not available, I’m afraid. She’s the woman who heads our ministry for the farmworkers, the migrants and their families. She’s been out in the fields, making rounds, checking up on everyone, the ones who worked the Groveland farm especially, the ones who knew Inés. A few of them are having a particularly hard time, as you can imagine. They come from all over, Oaxaca and Chiapas, Durango, even Zacapa, south of Mexico. But here, they’re family. Ginny is doing what she can to help. There have been a lot of frayed nerves, and a great deal of fear. She’s out this morning seeing about an attorney for some of the men on the Groveland farm.”
“An attorney, Father?” Owens said.
Akerele gave the reporter a curious look, as if he wondered whether Owens was deliberately playing dumb, baiting him in some way. “Well, surely it comes as no surprise to a man who covers the sugar business for a newspaper that a good deal of the men and women in the fields out there are lacking proper immigration papers. We are keeping no secrets here. The men simply want assurance that they won’t be put in jail just for speaking with the sheriff’s men. The church has encouraged everyone to tell what they know. But they need protection, Mr. Owens, in every way. People take advantage, you know. We’ve had to consult lawyers in the past, even in regards to wage disputes, times the workers haven’t gotten paid. It can be a danger for them to speak up.” He shook his head to himself, bowing slightly, so that Caren could see a part in the center of his close-cropped hair, like the plow line of a well-kept field. “I’ve been in this country for almost eight years now, and in all the years I’ve been ministering to the migrants, I’ve never seen it like this. I am afraid for them in a way I’ve never been.”
He sighed, shifting his papers from one arm to the other.
“Luckily,” he said, “Mr. Orellana has been cleared. He was working in town that day, at a second job, cleaning up a construction site. He had a very strong alibi.”
“Orellana?”
“Gustavo Orellana, Mr. Owens. He is a worker on the Groveland farm. I’m told that he and Inés had developed something more than a casual relationship.” Akerele pressed his lips together, declining, without being asked, to say more on the subject.
Caren remembered the name Gustavo.
He was at the candlelight vigil, leaned against the fence, weeping.
Owens wrote the priest’s words on his notepad, writing in the margins every detail he could gather about Akerele himself. “You’re from Africa, Father?”
“Nigeria, son.”
“You mentioned wage disputes and the like,” Owens said. “Did Inés Avalo ever have any problems out on the farm, any troubles with the manager out there?”
Up to this point, Akerele had not looked directly at Caren.
But he knew she was there, of course, and he declined to say more in her presence. Remembering his manners, he finally turned to address her. He nodded his head and said, “Good morning,” his accent like seashells on a string, sharp and melodic. “If you would like to pay your respects, there will be a memorial service here in the sanctuary this coming week. We welcome all who wish to honor her.” He smiled warmly at her, and she felt strangely embarrassed. She was telling a lie, wasn’t she? She didn’t know Inés, she wanted to say. But even that no longer felt like the truth.
“She’ll be buried here in town?” Owens asked.
“That has yet to be determined, I’m afraid,” the priest said, his expression growing long. “We are still trying to locate her family in San Julián. We know she sent money home, at least once a month. She had two children, you should know.”
The money order, Caren remembered.
The pink ribbon and the hairbrush and the white teddy bear with the red bow.
She’d been standing in that small grocery store, arguing with the cashier just to get these gifts, large and small, home to her kids . . . only to walk away empty-handed.
“We can’t find a proper phone number for her family. I have sent two telegrams to the parish church nearest her village. But as of yet there’s been no word, no way of knowing if her family there understands she’s gone.”
“That’s in Mexico?” Owens said, still writing.
“El Salvador.”
“Quite a long way from home.”
Akerele nodded solemnly.
“Her husband was injured on a job some time ago, badly enough apparently that he can no longer work. And so I suppose she did what she felt she had to. She left her kids, a boy and a girl, the youngest not even two years old, with her mother’s people and came north for work.” He looked at Owens and Caren, as if they’d loved her, too, as if the three of them shared that much. “It was only meant as a temporary stay, to send money home, to get out of a hole. She was supposed to be going home.”
He sighed.
“I have given myself until Monday,” he said. “If I cannot find a relative, someone to claim the body, we will make a final home for her here. She will not be alone. She will have a proper resting place.”
He neatened the sheaf of papers in his hands.
Then he looked at Owens. “Shall we, then?” he said. “We can speak more in my office.” As they turned to leave, Akerele again smiled at Caren. “Good day, ma’am.” Owens followed the priest to his office, leaving the two women alone in the church sanctuary. Caren stood eventually, walking the length of the center aisle to stand at the edge of the pine casket. From her jacket pocket, she pulled out the tiny, star-shaped earring, a thing she had no business holding on to. It would only cause her trouble every minute she kept it in her possession, the effects of a dead woman, a murder victim. She leaned forward and tucked the earring into the folds of satin.
She stood there for a long time, gazing at Inés Avalo, at the heart-shaped face and the half-moons of her sleeping eyes, the clasped hands still marked by work in the fields. Somewhere, Caren thought, there are two children, a boy and a girl, who nightly dream of that face, two kids who have no idea their mother is never coming home.
When Caren walked through the front door of the library, Eric was alone in the house. He had his back to the door, and he was on the phone.
She took off her jacket, left her keys on the antique writing table, and waited. “I don’t know,” Eric was saying into his cell phone. “I’ll see what’s available tomorrow.” He turned, noticing Caren for the first time. “I’ll call you as soon as I know when I’m coming home.” He paused there, his voice growing soft. “You, too, honey.”
He ended the call, shoving the cell phone into his pocket.
He turned to Caren and said, “I missed my flight.”
She was already walking toward him, her arms hanging helpless at her sides. She walked right up to him, standing so close that their torsos were almost touching. “What are you doing?” he said, sounding at first confused and then alarmed, as if he were retreating from an electric charge. She wanted him to touch her, for someone to please hold her. But she knew it was not her place to ask, not anymore. She simply stood there, pressing herself closer to him, until she could feel the heat coming through his clothes, until she could feel the outline of his body against hers. “Don’t do this,” he said. She wasn’t playing fair, she knew. But she couldn’t stop herself either. She laid her head on his chest, hearing his voice above her, whispering a plea. “Don’t do this to me.”
Finally, she cried.
For Inés, those two kids.
For Belle Vie, slipping away.
And for her mother, already long gone.
And she cried for this man standing in front of her, yet another loss. He finally relented and put his arms around her, holding Caren up in all the ways she no longer could. She felt a warm kiss on her forehead, and when she looked up, their eyes met, and it was Eric, she would always remember, who put his lips on hers. His breath was sweet and hot, his hands rough across her skin. She cupped his face in her palms, kissing him tenderly. Eric pulled away first, staggering slightly, like a drunk on two legs for the first time in as many days. He lowered his eyes, shaking his head in self-reproach, or else surrender. Then he took her by the hand and led her through the parlor and the empty kitchen and up the narrow stairway to her bedroom.