Chapter 9

"So," Detective Charpentier said as he stood at the foot of the bed, "there were two men, no? Just as I thought. Did you hear their names?"

I was sitting upright in bed against the headboard. If I slouched any, my ribs hurt, so I made sure to sit ramrod straight. "Yes. One was called Rager and the other was Suwannee. He was the dark-skinned Creole. Sounded like he came from the islands."

I watched as the detective wrote in a small notebook. Then he said in a patronizing tone. "And how would you know if this Suwanee had come from 'the islands'?"

"From my previous visit to New Orleans as a boy. Miss Linda Lawrence explained the various accents to me and their origins; she was quite the snob and judged everyone by the way they spoke, especially me. I learned quite a bit from her."

"I see," the detective said. "I will accept that."

"Oh, thank you," I said with a touch of sarcasm which the detective ignored.

"And did the men have any distinctive markings? A scar or such by which either could be identified?"

"Just look for two men with badly bruised fists."

Detective Charpentier chuckled but my father didn't think I was amusing; he told me to take things seriously. Didn't I know how badly I'd been hurt? I could've been killed.

"Mr. Cartwright," Detective Charpentier said, "if you wouldn't mind, I would like to question your son alone."

I was impressed with Detective Charpentier. He was a bit haughty, true, but tall, nice looking – maybe even handsome - and exceptionally well-dressed. In another age, he might even have been called a dandy. I wondered how he had risen through the ranks to become a detective. Had he started out as a simple constable who policed the waterfront, arresting drunken sailors, dragging them to the lock-up and striking them with a cudgel if they become too disorderly? Or had he been one of those who, when they came upon a sodden man lying in his own piss on the docks, rolled him into the harbor and then walked on?

But despite how Charpentier had risen to the position of detective, he seemed clever and effective as I had heard most of his conversation with my father on his earlier visit. And he was beautifully garbed, as I said. I paid close attention trying to discern what it was that gave him a certain grace as his slender figure moved about, his clothing unwrinkled and crisp; if he was sweating from the heat, it didn't show.

"He's my son; I think I should stay." My father stood determined.

"Pa," I said, "It's okay. I don't mind." I wanted to talk to Detective Charpentier alone; I was pretty sure I knew exactly what he had learned from Mrs. Prejean, what he wanted to discuss with me and I still was unsure just how I was going to tell my father about Arnaud and Marie.

"Adam I don't….I mean I know you feel well enough to talk and you're able to sit up and really talk, but."

"The resiliency of youth," Detective Charpentier said, "and I assure you, sir, I won't trouble your son for long. You have my word."

My father glanced at both of us. Then, in a defeated tone, he said, "I'm going down to get a paper. I'll read in the lobby for no more than a half-hour. That's it, Detective, 30 minutes." And as if to punctuate his statement, my father pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. He slipped it back into his watch pocket and with one last look at me, left the room.

The detective and I stared at one another. He began.

"Well, Adam…I may call you Adam, yes?" I nodded. "I am glad to see you are so much better than yesterday. I had come by then and you were still in, what your father said, was a drug-induced sleep. This morning you weren't yet awake, but now you are so much better, so much more alert that even just a few hours ago." He smiled but it was a forced, polite smile.

"I felt like hell this morning and I feel like hell now. That's not much of a change."

The detective smiled and hung his hat on a bedpost. Then he pulled one of the chairs, a small wooden chair from the writing desk, to my bedside and sat. I had eaten lunch earlier, part of it, anyway, and the tray and dishes still sat on the nightstand.

"Perhaps you would like to finish your lunch?"

"No, I've had enough…thank you. Did Mrs. Prejean tell you about my stepmother and her husband?" I couldn't see us dancing around the subject and I was certain I wasn't telling him something he didn't already know. I also wanted to cut the visit as short as possible.

Charpentier sat up straighter and crossed one leg over the other, his hands folded in his lap, holding his small notebook and pencil.

"Yes, she did. She also told me that you confirmed her suspicions about the reason of her husband's trip – wanting to see your stepmother. Your father, he does not know about them, correct?"

"Not yet. He knows that a man chased my stepmother into our front yard where she had her accident, where the horse rolled over on her. I told him that because I saw it, but the man, he rode away. Until that meeting with the Prejeans at the lawyer's, I had no idea who the man was. I wanted to tell my father right away but then, well, he deeply loved my stepmother, was broken-hearted when she died and I was afraid my father might…"

"Do something…rash, perhaps?"

"Yes."

"You had witnessed the trysts between your stepmother and Arnaud Prejean? Mrs. Prejean stated they must have…met."

"Only once. I assumed there was more than one time since she went out riding alone every afternoon. But I could be wrong."

"I see. And you kept this from your father." It was a statement, not a question, a confirmation.

"I told you already, yes, I kept it from him."

"You spied on your stepmother."

"Only that once and I wasn't spying. I was just checking out voices, two voices, a man's and a woman's. I didn't know it was my stepmother until I got close enough to see the two people. It was a coincidence – I didn't follow her out; I was heading home, heard voices and went to investigate. I saw them. After that, since she left for her 'ride' at the same time each afternoon, I only assume she was meeting with Arnaud Prejean but I don't really know."

"I see. Did you hear what they were saying?"

"No. I wasn't that close." I paused, weighing what I should say. "But I waited a few seconds only – maybe a half minute or so – out of curiosity and saw my stepmother kiss the man, Arnaud Prejean, willingly. And I wish I'd never seen that kiss. But it's too late now. Then, when I found out who the man was, like I said, I was waiting for the right time to tell my father."

"Why haven't you told him yet?"

"I told you. I don't know how my father would react, what he would do and right now, I can't stop him, go along with him to help him, and…I just don't…it would only hurt him all over again. And what has that to do with anything anyway and why do you keep asking me the same questions over and over?"

"To see if you answer the same way over and over and if you are being truthful or if you are motivated by revenge perhaps, to lie. But it is important to know thyself, Adam, for a man to know what motivates him, why he does what he does. A man should always be honest with himself and I need to know if I can trust your answers or not. If you are honest with yourself, you will be honest with me."

" 'To thine own self be true and it must follow as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.' Is that it? "

"Ah, yes. The Englishman. A playwright, correct?" He smiled wryly and this time I chuckled at his intentional understatement, well, until my ribs convinced me nothing was that funny. "Yes, Adam. That is the basic idea."

"Well, I think it's more important for me to know if I can trust you. How do I know you're not in D'Arcy's or Prejean's hip pocket?"

He laughed. "Because, my dear boy, Prejean does not have a pot in which to piss, as they say, so much as any money to bribe me and Edoard D'Arcy, well, I believe he owns a judge."

"Oh, so you might be able to be bought if the price was high enough. Is that it?"

"Peaut-ȇtre. Perhaps." Detective Charpentier smiled and I did as well. At least he was truthful. I decided I would be the same.

"All right. In the beginning, I hoped that if I could prove somehow that Marie was unfaithful, my father would toss her out. I didn't like her in the house; she was, in my mind, an interloper and she was flighty and had expensive tastes, sending off to New York and France for fine furnishings, gowns, trinkets. I also felt she'd used my father to escape New Orleans where her reputation was…sullied. But after seeing her and Prejean together, I decided to keep quiet.

"You said to know myself and I think I do. I wanted to hurt my stepmother but not at my father's expense. So, I never followed her again and that day she died, I was working in the yard when she came racing in. And Arnaud Prejean was close behind her. He didn't cause her to fall, cause her to die-it was an accident-her horse fell over a wheelbarrow my brother left out. But my father wouldn't see it that way – I know that. He'd head off to kill Prejean in a jealous rage or for revenge. I know my father and he's a man of deep passions."

"I see. Did Prejean see you in the yard?"

"Yes. We locked eyes."

"Do you think he recognized you when he saw you again?"

"Absolutely."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because he went pale and then wouldn't meet my eye again."

"Do you think he had you taken and beaten?"

"Isn't that your job?" I asked. "Aren't you supposed to find that out?"

He smiled again. "Tell me what you think, Adam; I am interested in your opinion."

"No, I don't think he did – okay, maybe he did, but to keep me from telling anyone about seeing him, I'd have to be dead. But even if I had accused him of seeing my stepmother on the Ponderosa, he could deny it, say I was mistaken or just a liar. And it wasn't a crime – Prejean wasn't responsible for killing my stepmother. Besides, from what my father told me about my abduction, someone arrived with one of my cufflinks and a letter with instructions to abnegate Joe's claim to his inheritance at the next meeting. If my father promised to do that, I'd be released. I think it said, 'unharmed'. So much for that. The other option, that is if my father said no, was that I would never be seen again. If he agrees and reneges in the lawyer's, then all of his sons' lives would be in danger no matter how long it took. My father swore he'd abnegate and here I am. And that's about it. Whether Prejean was in Nevada means nothing as to who inherits. Legal is legal. The only person – the only people who would care about Arnaud and my stepmother are my father, Madame Prejean and then me."

"You have good grasp on the situation, Adam. I asked both the Prejeans about the threat, the extortion, but they claimed no knowledge."

"Did you expect them to admit it?"

"It would have made my job tres facile, but no. Monsieur Prejean did seem greatly pleased to hear of your unfortunate 'accident,' for lack of a better word. And when I asked Monsieur D'Arcy if he had any foreknowledge, he laughed. He said that he may have suggested that your father could be convinced to give up his youngest son's inheritance claim if his oldest son's safety was put in jeopardy, but he claims that's all it was – just talk. D'Arcy also claims your brother Joseph's paternity is in question, but I am dubious of that statement, not that it matters. All that matters is that Marie DeVaille-DeMarigny was his mother."

That struck home. Not about Marie being Joseph's mother but about Joseph being Pa's son. What if Marie had taken lovers? Pa was often gone on business during their marriage or on cattle drives. Marie, fancying herself an outstanding horsewoman, was often gone on rides over the Ponderosa or to town. I told myself no, Marie loved my father and he loved her. She wouldn't have seen another man, she loved my father – she did.

"Do the Prejeans have the right to ask who was present at Joseph's birth to verify he came from Marie's body?" I was thinking back on the night Joseph was born. Hoss had come into my room, only being about 6 years old, and was afraid because "Momma" was crying and sounding like she was going to die.

"Don't worry, Hoss. She's having a baby and Pa's with her. He's helping her."

"But, Adam, why's she cryin' like that? I seen the sow have piglets and she just done grunted some while they was bein' born – and last time she had eight."

"Well, people are different." I wished Hop Sing was home, that he hadn't gone to play fantan. He could take care of Hoss and leave me to my own worries. "C'mon, Hoss. Let's go have some leftover cake and a glass of milk. I bet the baby's born even before we finish." And I took Hoss into the kitchen but it ended up being a long night and Little Joe wasn't born until before sunrise.

"By the way," Dectective Charpentier asked, "I forgot to ask your father…just how did Marie's relatives hear of her death? And when?"

"When the letter came from the lawyer informing my father of Marie's inheritance. We wrote back and then a few days later, another letter about Joseph inheriting…." I stopped. I couldn't believe I hadn't put things together earlier – the letters must have crossed one another. "The letter about Joseph arrived too quickly - they must have known of my stepmother's death before we informed them."

"By 'they', I assume you mean the Prejeans and D'Arcy."

"Yes. Now that I know the man who chased her to her death was Arnaud Prejean, it changes my thinking on the whole matter. I don't know why it hadn't occurred to me earlier."

Detective Charpentier rose and took his hat off the bed post. He smiled. "Perhaps it was your brush with death; it tends to make a man think mainly about staying alive." He put on his hat. "Thank you, Adam. You have helped clarify many things—mainly my thoughts on this matter. Yes,'they' were prepared, at least for your father's arrival. You must have been a boon, leverage to be used against a grieving man. Or as a threat. Either way, I hope you are soon well. Now I must go and ask on the waterfront about two 'gentlemen', one named…." He glanced at his notebook, "Rager and one called Suwannee. Both with bruised knuckles, n'est pas?"

We smiled at one another and with a slight bow, Detective Charpentier left. I sighed and felt a twinge in my ribs so I struggled to lower myself back down without causing too much pain, wrapping one arm about my rib cage. All I wanted to do was sleep but this time, it wasn't a drugged sleep; I dreamed again of Marie, of Marie riding her horse, her horse pulling up short and rearing, and Marie laughing down at me but her face wasn't pleasant – and neither were my dreams. And I woke up in a sweat in the middle of the night, unable to find rest again.