SIX MONTHS LATER
MARTINIQUE
Ellie felt like she was riding a bongo stick as she and Quinn bounced around in the back seat of the ancient Peugeot taxi. From the rearview mirror swung a purple voodoo doll. Beyond the voodoo doll, stood the 5,000-foot Mount Pelee volcano, steady as a rock, unlike 1902 when it shook and exploded, spewing burning lava down on the town of Saint-Pierre, killing 30,000 men, women and children.
Their taxi driver, Antoine, an elderly mulatto with an eye patch, raced along the narrow mountain road, hugging curves like a Grand Prix driver.
Their American Airlines flight landed at Martinique Aimé Césaire International Airport near the capital city, Fort-de-France. She’d read that Martinique was an integral part of France that had evolved over the centuries into a mixed salad of French, British, Asian, Indian, African and indigenous people, a charming blend of people …
… like my charming, beautiful mother, Jacqueline Moreau.
In minutes, I’ll meet her parents, my grandparents and my extended family now. Ellie could barely contain her excitement and prayed they understood her rusty high school French.
They drove past colorful homes: yellow, pink, white, tan. Beautiful shades, like the islanders themselves. She smelled curry and wondered if someone was cooking Colombo, the island’s famous chicken curry spiced with Indian masala. It smelled delicious.
Ellie’s cell phone rang. She saw Jessica Bishop on Caller ID.
“Hey Jessie, what’s up?”
“I just got back your father’s genetic test results, the test to determine early-onset Alzheimer’s.”
Ellie felt her stomach clench.
“You want the results?”
“I’m not sure -”
“ – it’s good news, girlfriend!” Jessica said. “Your father did not have the Presinelin 1 or Presinelin 2 genes, nor did he have the APOE-4 gene, or the other genetic markers for early-onset Alzheimer’s. So your memory should remain sharp!”
“That’s great news … Bernice.”
“Smart ass! Call me when you get back.”
“I will, Jessie, and thanks.”
They hung up. She told Quinn the wonderful news and he hugged her.
Antoine drove around a sharp turn as Quinn’ phone rang. He answered, listened a few minutes, nodding some, looking serious, then pleased, then flat out amazed. Finally, he hung up and looked at her.
“That was your fantastic probate attorney.”
“What’d Mr. Delacroix say?”
“That justice has triumphed!”
“How?”
“Fletcher Falcone, Huntoon Harris, and Heinrich de Groot have been convicted for the murder of Mary Louise Breen, the woman who knew your mother well at the House of Grace.”
Ellie again felt sickened by Mary’s death.
“De Groot and Falcone ordered Huntoon Harris to suffocate Mary in her sleep because she knew Leland Radford was your father and they feared she’d tell someone. Police lifted Huntoon’s fingerprints from Mary’s bed frame.”
“Also, Falcone, Huntoon, and De Groot were convicted of the attempted murders of Irene Whitten and the U of L student whose name is spelled similarly to yours. By the way, both the student and Irene are fully recovered.”
“That’s wonderful news.”
“Bottom line – Falcone, Huntoon, and De Groot were sentenced to life without the possibility of parole.”
“Justice served.”
“Yeah, but many jurors and Mary’s relatives felt Huntoon and Falcone deserved the death penalty.”
“Understandable.”
“And prophetic.”
“What?”
“Their wish was granted. As police led Falcone away from the courthouse, a sniper fired several bullets into his throat and chest. Falcone rolled down into a large drainage ditch face first and sank in three feet of oily sludge. Before they could hoist him out, he’d gagged and choked to death on the muddy gunk!”
“Jesus! Who shot him?”
Quinn shrugged. “The sniper escaped. But the police suspect it’s a mob hit. Falcone had refused to pay his massive horseracing and gambling debts. Not smart. But it’s also possible Fletcher’s own cousin hired the sniper.”
“His cousin?”
“Guy named BoDeene. Years ago Fletcher gave cousin Bodeene the money to start a methamphetamine lab beneath BoDeene’s fertilizer store. When Bodeene found out that Uncle Fletcher had embezzled over four million dollars from him, cousin Bodeene swore revenge.”
Ellie shook her head, amazed again at how badly she’d misread Falcone.
Antoine slowed the taxi to let some goats cross the road.
“Falcone also lied to the court about Nafeesa Hakim. He knew her marriage claim was fraudulent, but petitioned it as though legitimate. He promised her some money, while he would retain control of the estate money. She went along, because her family was starving.”
Ellie nodded. “Where’s Nafeesa now?”
“Back in Iraq.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Barely surviving. Henri Delacroix learned that she and Rick Radford had been very close. Rick supported her and her war-impoverished family. They were talking about marriage when he was killed.”
“I feel sorry for Nafeesa.”
“Me too. She’s a victim of a crazy war.”
“Our war,” Ellie said. “A war that killed her family and destroyed her family’s business and savings and then forced her onto the streets to feed her family.”
“War is hell, Ellie.”
“But she didn’t start this one. And she obviously cared deeply for Rick, my half-brother, who obviously cared for her. I’d like to talk to her about Rick. Maybe get to know him through her. And I’d like to help her. You said her family business was ruined?”
“Totally ruined. Furniture store. Direct hit by a bomb aimed at an al Qaeda weapons garage one hundred feet away. The insurance company refused to pay.”
“Why?”
“The Act of War exclusion. Left her family penniless.”
Ellie couldn’t begin to imagine the suffering and pain Nafeesa and her family had experienced.
“Let’s rebuild her business. And set up a trust fund for her and her family. I’d like to get to know her.”
Quinn nodded and placed his hand on hers.
“I’ll ask Henri Delacroix to handle it.”