The Honest Folk of Guadeloupe Read Online Free PDF Page B

name and your date of birth please, Monsieur Desterres. And your mother’s maiden name.”
    “You know my name but do you know my social security number?”
    Trousseau chuckled from behind the typewriter.
    “Yes, I know who you are, Monsieur Desterres.” Anne Marie raised her hand and gestured vaguely to beyond the roofs of the city. “You own a small restaurant near the beach Tarare, a few kilometers from the Pointe des Châteaux.”
    The eyes remained on Anne Marie. “Five kilometers from the Pointe des Châteaux—and a kilometer from where the girl’s body was found.”
    “I’ve seen your posters, Monsieur Desterres. You’re an ecologist, I believe, and you’ve run in various municipal elections.”
    “Unsuccessfully.”
    “The crowd is fickle, Monsieur Desterres.”
    “
Mobile vulgus
. Fickle and very stupid.”
    “Tell me about the unfortunate girl.”
    He picked up the leather case and unzipped it. “She came to my restaurant on Sunday morning. At Tarare.”
    “At what time?”
    “Mid-morning—about ten o’clock.”
    “You’re certain it was the nurse you saw? Evelyne Vaton?”
    “Tarare’s a nudist beach.” The sallow face was motionless. “She was very pale.”
    “Lot of pale women about.”
    “I can recognize a tourist.”
    “Not very brown myself.”
    “You are not getting the most out of your Caribbean posting.”
    “I never get time to get out of the office.” Anne Marie glanced through the window. “How d’you know it was Evelyne Vaton?”
    “We talked. She called herself Véli—but I know it was her.” He took a square photograph from his bag and slid it across the table. “And because of this.”

12
Mère Nature
    She had been to Tarare several times, accompanied by her husband. It was not far from the Jacuzzi Beach, but on the other side of the Pointe des Châteaux isthmus. Jean Michel enjoyed swimming naked in the blue, translucent water, yet he had never managed to persuade Anne Marie to remove all her clothes. “That’s what comes from growing up in a Muslim country,” he would say, laughing.
    “That’s what comes from being an investigative magistrate.”
    Despite the entreaties, her husband would have never accepted her skinny dipping in the turquoise waters of the Caribbean. Anne Marie picked up the photograph.
    She had not been back in years—Fabrice insisted on going to good windsurfing beaches; Tarare was too sheltered—but she recognized the shack-like lean- to that had been converted into a restaurant. It was made of half-timbers and was painted white. The roof of corrugated iron was in need of fresh paint. There were several wooden tables and plastic chairs on the open, concrete apron.
    The restaurant was called Mère Nature and specialized in fresh fish or seafood.
    No diners were visible in the photograph, and to judge from the harsh light and the short shadows, the photograph must have been taken toward the middle of the day.
    Anne Marie wondered whether Desterres was able to make a decent living from the restaurant. She knew that he came from arich mulatto family that had made money by importing agricultural machinery from England at a time when English engineering had a reputation for reliability.
    As if reading her mind, Desterres said, “Low season at the moment. On weekends, customers turn up around midday. In a couple of months there’ll be all the
Négropolitains
 …”
    “
Négropolitains
?”
    “Blacks living in the
métropole
, who come back from the mainland for their summer vacation.”
    She studied the three people in the photograph. “This is Evelyne Vaton?”
    Desterres stood staring at the camera, with his arm over the shoulders of the girl, a possessive smile on his narrow face. Evelyne Vaton wore a pair of plastic sandals and a pink bikini bottom. She was short but had a pleasant well-formed body, narrow hips and large breasts. She smiled cheerfully at the camera, her face partially concealed beneath a baseball cap. Because