Haitian Graves by Vicki Delany Read Free Book Online Page A

back. “I’ll have a word with the housekeeper, okay? Ask if she found it.”
    He hesitated.
    Never hesitate, I teach my students.
    I pushed my way past him and dashed up the steps. The gate was unlocked. I rattled it and called out. The housekeeper came out of the back. She saw me standing there in my uniform, waving and smiling. She did not smile back. “Mr. Hammond is not at home.”
    “That’s okay. I’ve lost a key. Did you find it when you were cleaning?” I pushed the door open and walked in. Bold as brass.
    “No.”
    “I might have lost it when I was in the laundry room the other day. I’ll check. You can come with me.” I went into the kitchen. She followed. In the family room, the TV was on. I glanced in. The girl was sprawled across the floor, a doll cradled in her lap. She turned to face me. Her dark eyes were wide. She stuck her thumb into her mouth.
    “Kids not at school?” I asked.
    “They have been taken out of the school,” Josephine said. “They are going to America soon.”
    I would have thought school would be a better place for them, after the death of their mother. Better than being at home alone with a stranger. Watching TV .
    But I wasn’t here to give parenting advice.
    I made a thorough search of the laundry room. No key was to be found. Which wasn’t a surprise, as I hadn’t lost one.
    “Did you know Paulette?” I asked.
    “No.”
    “Do you know why she quit?”
    “No.”
    “So the family’s moving to the States, eh? That means you’ll be out of a job.”
    “Yes. Are you finished here?”
    “I guess I am.”
    We went back to the kitchen. Marie’s son had his head buried in the fridge. He turned as we came in. I sucked in a breath.
    The boy’s right eye was the color of an approaching storm. Purple and dark blue. His lip was puffy and split. A drop of blood had dried on his hairless chin.
    “What happened to you?” I said.
    “Nothin’.”
    “Obviously something. Have you been in a fight?”
    “None of your business,” he said. He grabbed a can of Coke and marched out of the room.
    I turned to Josephine. “Who hit him?”
    “His father,” she said. To her, it was no big deal. “He was weeping over the death of his mother. It is time he became a man. Men do not weep.”
    He was eight years old. In Canada, I would have reported it. Here? I didn’t know.
    In the other room, Jeanne-Marie started to cry. Josephine hurried out. I followed. The boy had grabbed his sister’s doll. He was swinging it by the hair over his head. His laughter was harsh, taunting. The girl jumped up and down, missing it by a couple of feet. She begged him to let the doll go.
    “Give that to her now !” I shouted.
    He dropped the doll. The girl fell on it, weeping. She gathered it to her skinny chest. “Don’t cry,” she whispered. “Mommy’s here. The bad man won’t hurt you.”
    The boy stared at me. He was just a kid, but the black eye and the split lip made him look mean. “Stupid girl,” he said. He dropped to the couch and picked up the remote.
    “You must leave now,” Josephine said.
    Voices from the garage. Footsteps on the stairs. Gail Warkness marched down the long verandah. “What are you doing here, sergeant?” she snapped.
    I gave her the story about the key. She didn’t seem to believe me.
    “I think you’d better leave,” she said.
    “I assume Nicholas called you.”
    “Mr. Hammond was in a meeting and unable to get away.”
    “Is it part of your job to check on casual visitors? Must keep you busy.”
    “Not so casual. Seems to me a death took place here recently.” She didn’t remove her sunglasses. I couldn’t read her eyes.
    “That it did,” I said. “I’m glad you’re here. I want to talk to you anyway. Privately.”
    We left. Nicholas gave me a hard stare. “You are not to come back,” he said. He shifted the Escort 12ga in a warning. Or a threat.
    “On my way over,” Warkness said when we were standing in the street, “I called Agent