“Honestly? Not good, unless someone can find a relative.”
“And I’m working on that. That’s your answer.”
I found Jeannie in her study sitting at her computer, and I handed her the portable phone. “Mr. Rusty Elliot is not going to be much help in the Save Solange project.”
“Typical bureaucrat.”
“I don’t know. I can’t figure him out. One minute he’s flirting and seems like he’s going to help me out, the next minute he’s Mr. Immigration drawing the line on ‘undocumenteds,’ as he calls them. Anyway, I’ve got to run around and see what I can find out about Solange’s dad.”
I hesitated before turning for the door, listening to the sounds of canned laughter from down the hall. “Collazo really thinks she’s in danger, Jeannie. Maybe we should just let the cops look out for her. Are you sure you’re all going to be okay here?”
Jeannie stood up to her full height and reached up to the top of the bookshelf in her den. She glanced at the door to make sure no kids were watching, then lifted up a shotgun. “I normally keep this baby locked up because of the kids, but I got it out last night. Nobody’s gonna touch that kid.”
I smiled at her. “And God help them if they try, right?”
Jeannie turned her head and winked at me. “Exactly.”
Martine Gohin lived in Victoria Park, where most of the homes had been built in the fifties or earlier, little cinder-block two-bedroom, two-bath, tile-roofed bungalows. Since the early 1990s when the area became very popular, those little homes had sold for well over $200,000. Martine Gohin’s house stood out on the street because of the color—a light salmon with cornflower blue shutters and a bright yellow door. She seemed to be making a statement with her colors, proclaiming her Haitian heritage in this mostly Anglo neighborhood. A minivan was parked in the driveway, so I assumed she was home from her radio job.
The girl who answered the door smiled shyly when I told her who I was. Her hair was plaited like Solange’s. She wore a simple white cotton shift, but her body had the ripe round-ness of budding puberty. I guessed she was about thirteen years old. She motioned me to come in and kept her head lowered.
“Are you Mrs. Gohin’s daughter?”
She shook her head and walked down the hallway, then pointed through the dining room to open French doors that led out to a wood deck. A very short black woman leaned over a glass table, arranging flowers in a vase, and she looked up when my sneakers squeaked on the dining room tile.
“Oh, allo. I did not hear the doorbell.” She gripped my hand hard with her fat fingers. “I am Martine Gohin, and you must be Miss Seychelle Sullivan. I thought we would eat lunch out here on the deck.” She swept her arm around in a 180-degree arc. “I love the fresh air.”
The wood deck was elevated a couple of feet above the green lush foliage of her backyard. Huge fronds of elephant ears arched over the water of a pond full of colorful fish. I recognized banana and papaya trees, heliconias, orchids, birds of paradise. Her yard looked like something out of a magazine. “Wow, it’s beautiful out here.”
“I enjoy gardening,” she said. She pointed to a cute little shed made to look like a cottage in the back of the yard. “I find it very relaxing to work out there. I have everything I need to pot and germinate many of my own seedlings. It is my passion.”
The girl still stood at her side with her eyes downcast. When Martine turned to speak to the girl, she had to look up at the child. “C’est tout, Juliette.”
Though Martine Gohin stood less than five feet tall, there was a sense of power about her. Her body was thick, and she wore dark glasses with heavy frames. I settled in the chair she indicated and accepted the tall glass of iced tea.
“So what can I do for you, Miss Sullivan?”
“I assume you know that I am the one who found the little girl they’re calling the Earth Angel.”
“Yes, the little Solange. I read about it in the paper.”
“Let me explain what I’m trying to do, and then maybe the rest will make sense to you. See, when I found that girl two days ago, I told her—promised her, really—that I would do whatever I could to help her stay in this country.”
“I wish more people felt as welcoming to Haitian immigrants.”
“I know what you mean. But now the Immigration people tell me that the only way she can stay is if I find a relative. And since the girl told me her father is American, I’m determined to find him.”
“She spoke to you? In English?”
“Yes.”
“That is very strange. I saw her at the hospital. Twice, actually. I guess you know I work for the police sometimes as a translator, but when I saw her, she refused to speak. No Creole, no English, nothing. The police need to interview her if she is speaking now.”
“Well, there’s a problem.” I told her there had been an incident at the hospital. “I’m afraid she’s not talking to anybody right now. She’s clammed up again. But that doesn’t change anything about her status with Immigration. I need to find her father as soon as possible.”
“How do you think I can help?”
“I want to talk to someone who came over on the Miss Agnes, the boat that sank off Deerfield. We know that quite a few people made it ashore, and we think Solange may have started out on that boat. Maybe one of the people who was aboard knows something about her or her family. I was hoping you could get my message out to the Haitian community on your radio show. If someone is willing to give some information, they can stay anonymous, I don’t care, I just want to find her father—if he is, in fact, here.”
She took a long drink from her iced tea, then called out, “Juliette.” The child came scurrying out of the house with a platter of fish in one hand and a bowl of rice and beans in the other. Martine pointed to the food and said to me, “Please, help yourself.”
For the next few minutes, she explained to me how Juliette had cooked the fish according to Haitian custom, and while this meal had been cooked on her electric stove, back in Haiti they had grown up eating the same food cooked over an open charcoal fire. As she spoke, the girl moved silently in and out, serving the food, clearing dishes, bringing more bread, filling our iced tea glasses. Through the French doors, I could see framed photos on the wall unit in the dining room. All were of two parents and a young girl about three years old.
“Is Juliette a relative of yours?” I noticed the girl shot a quick glance at Martine.
Martine wiped at her mouth and swallowed. “Yes, she is my niece. Her mother is still in Haiti, but I brought her here a few years ago so she could learn English and get an American education. I have a young daughter, Camille, who is away at her playgroup right now. Juliette is a great help with her, as well.”
“Is that Camille in those photos?” I nodded toward the dining room.
“Yes,” she said, and smiled broadly, showing very white straight teeth. “She just turned four last week.”
“You are very lucky to have such a family. Two beautiful girls. Why doesn’t Juliette pull up a chair and join us?” The girl slipped through the French doors into the house.
“That is not our custom in Haiti,” Martine said, and then took an enormous mouthful of rice and beans that made further explanation impossible.
The fish was excellent, flavored with lime and some fiery spices. I waited to see Juliette again, to compliment her on her cooking, but she never reappeared.
By the time I left her house, Martine Gohin had agreed to broadcast a request for more information from anyone who was aboard or who knew anything about the Miss Agnes and her fate. She would ask her listeners to call the radio station, and she promised to pass on to me any tips that came her way.
XIV
When I walked out the finger pier next to Outta the Blue, I saw Mike down in his inflatable dinghy off the stem of his boat, staring up at his outboard where it rested on a flatbed dolly on the dock.