Mr. Clarinet

Max paused the tape. Francesca had upset herself with the recollection. She was biting her lip and trying hard not to cry. He wanted to hold her and let her loose the grief on his shoulder, but it didn't feel appropriate. He was interviewing her, gathering evidence, not acting as her counselor or confessor.

"Explain the dress," he said after she'd blinked away the tears. He already knew the answer but was easing her back into the Q & A.

"Charlie's hair was never cut. It got unwieldy. We tied it in bunches and bows, and finally we braided it. It was easier to put him in a dress and present him to the outside world as a girl than to explain why his hair was that way. It worked, you know. He wore a dress the whole time," Francesca said.

"How did you find out about the voodoo priest?"

"One day, out of the blue, Rose brought me a handwritten message from him. It mentioned things about me and Charlie that no one—and I mean no one—could have known."

"Care to elaborate?"

"No," she said bluntly. "But if you're as good as Allain says you are, you'll surely find out."

Max continued with his questions.

"How did Rose know the priest?"

"Her mother, Eliane, works for him."

"I see," Max said, already lining up potential suspects. "Could Rose have known about these 'things' you won't tell me about?"

"No."

"Not even in a place as small as this?"

"No."

"OK. So you and Charlie went along to see the priest? What happened there?"

"He talked to me, and then he talked to Charlie, separately, in private."

"How old was Charlie then, two?"

"Two and a half."

"Had he started talking by then?"

"No. Not a word."

"Then how did they communicate?"

"I don't know because I wasn't there, but whatever it was, it worked, because Charlie changed toward me. He opened up. He looked at me. He even started smiling—and he had such a lovely smile, the sort that really made your day when you saw it."

Francesca's voice had gone down to a whisper, all her words dwarfed by a mounting grief.

She blew her nose loudly, honking like a seal, and then she lit another cigarette, the last one she had. She crushed the packet in her fist.

"How often did you and Charlie see the priest?"

"Once a week."

"Same day and time?"

"No, it always varied. Rose would tell me when."

"I'll have to see this guy."

Francesca took a folded piece of paper out of her breast pocket and slid it across to him.

"Filius's address and directions. He's expecting you at around two this afternoon."

"He's expecting me?"

"He saw you coming. He told me two months ago."

"What do you mean he 'saw me coming' two months ago? I didn't know I was coming two months ago."

"He sees things."

"Like a fortune-teller?"

"Something like that, but what he does isn't the same."

"How come you acted that way at dinner?"

"I didn't realize it was you."

"So you've talked to Doofoor since?"

"Yes."

"Which is why you came down here?"

She nodded.

"He must have some hold on you."

"It's not like that."

"Did you tell my predecessors any of this?"

"No. I only told them about the kidnapping."

"Why?"

"Emmanuel was a nice guy, but he was indiscreet, a gossip. I hated Clyde Beeson and I didn't care too much for Medd either. They were only here for the money."

"It's what they do for a living, Mrs. Carver," Max said. "Same as anybody else doing a job. Could be in an office, could be pumping gas, could be a cop, could be a fireman—most people do what they do for money. Those that don't are either lucky or stupid."

"Then you must be stupid, Max." She smiled, looking him straight in the eye. "Because you're not lucky."

* * *

She had little else to tell him after that.

Max walked her to the gate. She shook his hand and apologized for her outburst at dinner. She begged him to find Charlie. He said he'd do his best and watched her head up the path at the end of which, she'd told him, a car was waiting for her.

Dawn had broken and a grayish blue light hung about the courtyard and garden, which was noisy with birds no doubt breakfasting on sluggish insects. Beyond him, the street was starting to come alive.

As he went back to the house, he heard a car start up in the driveway. A door opened and closed and the car drove away.

Chapter 15

MAX WASHED HIS face and shaved and made more coffee.

He sat out on the porch with his cup. The sun rose and in seconds his surroundings were flooded in brightness, as if a searchlight beam had been pointed down on the country.

He sipped his coffee. He wasn't tired anymore, not even hungover.

Max checked his watch. Six-thirty a.m. Same time in Miami. Joe would be up, setting the breakfast table for his wife and kids.

Max went to the bedroom and called Joe's home number. The phone was an old, rotary model.

"Joe? It's Max."

"Hey wasshappenin' man?!!? I was jus' thinkin' about you."

"That ole-time voodoo's starting to work," Max said, thinking of Charlie's priest.

Joe laughed.

"You in the kitchen, Big Man?"

"No, my home office. Soundproof. That way my wife says she don't have to listen to Bruce. She hates him as much as you do."