When I reached the end of the film I turned off the projector and thought about what I had found. Leon Williams, a fourteen-year-old African-American male, had been murdered, and the murder was unsolved. Nothing in the articles indicated a connection to the Johnson family, or to any other principal in my investigation. I had thought there might be, but there you go. Nada. Jimmie Ray Rebenack was very likely the guy who had stolen the May microfiche film from the Ville Platte Library. I didn't know that, and I hadn't found it at his home, but it made sense. Jimmie Ray had found some significance in Leon and had made note of him. Since Jimmie Ray had done all right with the other stuff, further investigation was in order.

I brought the film back to the bald guy, then went to a bank of pay phones at the side of the building. There were three names on the list of Leon Williams's siblings: Lawrence, 17; Robert, Jr., 15; and Chantel Louise, 10. Thirty-six years later, Lawrence would be fifty-two and Chantel Louise forty-six. Chantel Louise would very likely have a different last name. I called Ville Platte Information and asked for numbers and addresses for Lawrence Williams and Robert Williams, Jr. There was no listing for a Robert Williams, Jr., but they had Lawrence. I copied his number and address, thanked the operator, then dialed Lawrence Williams. On the third ring, a woman with a precise voice answered. I said, "May I speak with Mr. Lawrence Williams, please?"

There was a pause, and then she said, "I'm sorry, but Mr. Williams is deceased. May I help you?" Deceased.

"Is this Mrs. Williams?"

"Yes, I am Mrs. Lawrence Williams. Who is calling, please?"

I told her my name. "Mrs. Williams, did your husband have a younger brother named Leon?"

"Why, yes. Yes, he did. Leon died, though, when they were boys. He was murdered." Maybe this was going to work out after all.

"That's why I'm calling, Mrs. Williams. I'm a private investigator, and I'm looking into the murder. Did Mr. Williams speak about it with you?"

"Mr. Williams did not. I'm afraid I can't help you."

"There was another brother and a sister."

"Robert, Jr., died in 1968. Over in that war."

"How about the sister? Do you know how I might reach her?"

Her voice became crisp. "She's working right now. She works for a Jew in that damned sausage factory, and you shouldn't be calling her there. When you call, that Jew answers the phone and he doesn't like that. You'll get her in trouble."

"Please, Mrs. Williams. It's important."

"Feeding her five children is important, too. That job is all she has, working for a Jew." Oh, man.

"I promise I won't get her in trouble, Mrs. Williams." Like a kid, cross my heart and hope to die.

"How do I know you're who you say you are? You might be up to no good. I assure you that I am not to be trifled with."

"There's an attorney in Baton Rouge named Lucille Chenier. I can give you her number and you could call her office and speak with her about me."

That seemed to mollify her. "Well, perhaps that won't be necessary. I take pride in knowing a sincere voice."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Chantel lives right over here in Blue Point. She has lunch soon. Why don't you see her at lunch. Her name is Chantel Michot now, and she always goes home for lunch. She has to put dinner on for those little ones."

I looked at my watch. "That's fine, Mrs. Williams. I'm coming from Baton Rouge." It was a quarter before eleven. I could get there/by twelve-thirty.

"Well, then, I guess this must be important, all the way from Baton Rouge."

"Yes, ma'am, it is."

"We'll be expecting you." We.

"Yes, ma'am, I'm sure you will."

I copied the directions as she gave them, and then I went to see Chantel Michot, Leon Williams's younger sister.

CHAPTER 15

B lue Point, Louisiana, was a wide spot in the road five miles south of Ville Platte at the tip of Bayou des Cannes. You had to go to Ville Platte first, then take a little state road that wound its way over narrow steel bridges and sluggish channels of water and sweet potato fields. It was rural country, with a lot of barbed wire fences and great live oaks bearded with Spanish moss, and the air was heavy with pollen and bees and moisture.

Chantel Michot lived in a clapboard shotgun house at the edge of the road that backed upon a wide green pasture. The pasture was fenced and the fence ran behind her house as if a little square had been cut from the owner's pasture so that the Michot family might live there. The house looked old and poorly kept, with peeling paint and a green shingle roof that was missing tiles and a wooden front porch that was cracked and splintered. There was a screen door like every other house in Louisiana, but the screen was cruddy and stretched, and little wads of pink Kleenex had been stuck into holes to keep out the mosquitoes. Martha Guidry would have a field day. Tire ruts ran down from the road past the house and the rusted chassis of a very old Dodge and across the pasture. Maybe a dozen chickens pecked in the dirt around the chassis. Yard birds. A late-sixties Bel Air sedan was parked beneath an elm tree, and a newer Pontiac Sunbird was parked behind the Bel Air. I pulled in behind the Sun-bird and got out. The engines of both the Bel Air and the Sunbird were still ticking. Couldn't have gotten here more than ten minutes ago.

The screen door opened and a little boy maybe four years old came out and looked at me from the lip of the porch. He was barefoot in shorts, with a little round belly and a runny nose and an ocher complexion. Hair more curly than nappy. His left index finger was stuffed up his nose to the first joint. I said, "My name's Elvis. What's yours?"

He pushed the finger in deeper and didn't answer. I often have that effect on people.

The door opened again and a light-skinned woman in her forties came out, followed by an older, heavier woman with skin the color of burnished walnuts. The younger woman was wearing a thin cotton smock over faded Bermuda shorts and open-toed sandals. Her hair was piled on her head and held there with a broad purple band. It wasn't particularly neat, but she didn't have it like that for style; she had it like that for work.

Keep the hair out of the sausage. The older woman was in a light green rayon suit with a little white hat and white gloves and a crocheted purse the size of a grocery bag. All dressed up to meet the detective. The older woman said, "I am Mrs. Lawrence Williams.

Are you Mr. Cole?"

"Yes, ma'am. I appreciate you and Ms. Michot agreeing to see me."

Chantel Michot said, "I got to see about these children and I got to get back." Not exactly thrilled to meet the detective. She was holding a filter-tipped cigarette and kept one arm crossed beneath her breasts. I offered her a card, but Mrs. Lawrence Williams took it. "Ada say this about Leon." Ada was Mrs. Williams.

"That's right. I know you were only ten when he was killed, but I thought we might speak about it."

"Why?"

"I'm working on something and Leon's name came up, and I don't know why. Maybe you can help me with the reason."

Chantel Michot sucked on the cigarette and blew smoke. Trying to figure me. There were children's voices behind her in the house, and another little boy came to the door, this one maybe five. He pressed against the screen and looked out. She said, "Anthony, get on in there and eat that lunch." Anthony disappeared. "Ada, would you make Lewis sit at that table, please?"

The little boy with his finger up his nose said, "No."

Mrs. Lawrence Williams pulled the big purse in closer and raised her eyebrows. Not liking the idea of being inside with the children and left out of all the great stuff on the porch. "Well, if I must." Snooty. She took Lewis by the arm and brought him inside. Lewis yelled bah bah bah bah as loud as he could.