An Unquiet Grave

CHAPTER 6

Nine miles. That’s all it was. Louis had clocked it on the odometer as he drove north from the broken buildings of downtown Detroit to the manicured mansions of Grosse Pointe. Nine short miles from hell to heaven with a quick trip through the purgatory of Phillip’s Cabbage Patch.

It was strange how little he really knew about his foster father. He had been thinking about it almost constantly since his talk with Phillip out on the patio. This was a man who had always seemed so grounded but at the same time so emotionally transparent. Yet now, Louis felt like he barely knew him.

Louis turned the Impala onto Jefferson, cutting down toward the Detroit River, as Phillip had directed him. He had never been to Grosse Pointe before-or the Pointes as some rich snot back at the University of Michigan had once told him it was called. The Pointes-a refuge of privilege and money rimming Lake St. Clair, the place where Detroit’s auto magnates staked their claims and built their castles, where their sons and grand-sons still held sway over their rust-belt kingdoms. The new money had long ago fled to the far suburbs. But in the Pointes, just nine miles from Detroit’s decaying core, the old ways still lingered like the last moments of a fading dream.

His thoughts went back to Phillip. He knew that his family didn’t have much money, that Phillip had worked hard to put himself through college but had never graduated. He guessed that meeting Claudia had interrupted that. Maybe that was why Phillip had been so insistent that Louis graduate from U of M, despite the fact that the Lawrences had made big sacrifices to keep him there.

Louis was on Lakeshore Drive now. He had expected the DeFoes to live in one of the mansions facing Lake St. Clair, but Phillip’s directions were taking him away from the water to some place called Provencal Road. It turned out to be a winding private lane shaded by towering old trees. Louis slowed as he passed a sign with a picture of a person on horseback. He saw another discreet sign for the Country Club of Detroit but didn’t see an entrance. There was a guard shack ahead, but when Louis saw no one inside, he continued on without stopping.

He had seen the homes of the rich before, the gleaming modern manses of the lawyers on Sanibel, the Spanish-style villas lining the Caloosachatchee River back in Fort Myers. But none of it compared to this.

Rambling old Cape Cods sprawling over acres of land. Hulking Tudors hiding behind towering walls of hedges. Aging art deco palaces peering out from behind iron gates. Then, suddenly, there it was, 41 Provencal Road.

It was an old red brick monstrosity with a steep-pitched slate roof and two double chimneys thrusting into the gray sky. Compared to the other homes, it had a gothic aura about it, the bare trees fronting windows of all shapes and sizes, from attic slits to a set of bay windows that stared out like dark eyes inspecting anyone who dared approach.

He pulled up in the half-circle drive and killed the engine. He was miles from the lake now, but a cold wind coming from the west made him pull up the collar of his jacket. At the massive carved wood door, he ignored the small plate that said SERVICE IN REAR and rang the bell.

There was an intercom near the bell and he waited, expecting to hear some servant’s voice. Nothing. He rang again and waited. He was about to give up and leave when the door opened.

It was a man in a yellow sweater and gray slacks. He was tall and reed thin, in his midfifties, with straight thinning gray hair hanging over a dour face reddened by too much sun or too much time in the shower. Or maybe the bar, Louis thought, seeing the crystal tumbler in the man’s hand.

“Yes?” the man asked. His unfocused eyes were a diluted pale brown, like the liquid in the tumbler. In the man’s subtle raise of his chin, Louis could read the question: What is this black man doing at my door?

“I’m looking for Eloise DeFoe,” Louis said.

The man leaned against the door frame, dangling the glass in his long fingers. “That would be my mother,” he said. “If you’re from Chavat’s, you can just leave the flowers out here.”

He started to shut the door, but Louis thrust out a hand. “My name is Louis Kincaid. I’m an investigator. I need to speak with Mrs. DeFoe, please.”

The man’s eyes took Louis in with one sweeping glance, lingered on his shoes, and came back to his face. “What are you investigating?”

“My business is with Mrs. DeFoe. Is she here?”

The man stared at Louis for a moment, then pushed the door open wider. “Oh, all right, come in, then.”

He sauntered away, leaving Louis to close the door. Louis followed the tinkle of ice cubes through the cold foyer, down a dark paneled hallway, to a room on the left, set off by leaded-glass double doors. The room was lit only by two small table lamps and the soft glow of spotlights arching over the oil paintings, but Louis had a sense of dark paneling, heavy drapes, and plump chairs.

The man in the yellow sweater had faded into a shadowed corner. Louis heard the kiss of ice against glass as a refill was poured. The man came back toward Louis, the old wood floors groaning softly under his slippered feet.

“Wait here,” he said. And he was gone, trailing scotch.

Louis stood in the center of the room. It smelled of furniture polish, must, and smoke from the dead fireplace. It made him remember that time when he was working on the force in Black Pool, Mississippi, and had gone to the funeral home to retrieve some evidence. The owner had made him wait, and Louis had sat there, listening to the weeping of a grandmother’s mourners in the next room, listening and taking in the dusty perfume of the old woman’s dissipating spirit.

He tried to imagine Phillip in this room. Tried to imagine him as a young man in love with a woman whose hair smelled like lilacs.

“My son said you wanted to see me?”

Louis turned. Eloise DeFoe was tall and brittle thin in a dark blue wool dress with a high collar. Her hair was white and cut in a severe chin-length bob with a slash of bangs. There was another slash of bright red at her lips. She had a silver-tipped ebony cane, but as she came into the room it appeared more an ornament than a necessity.

“Louis Kincaid,” he said, coming forward with an outstretched hand.

She gave him her cold dry hand as she stared at him. She had the same pale brown eyes as her son, who had come up behind her and was leaning against the door frame.

“Rodney said you’re an investigator,” she said.

“Yes, I’m here about your daughter, Claudia.”

She blinked. “My daughter is dead. She died in 1972.”

Rodney came toward Louis. “I can’t imagine what business you might have-”

“Just a moment, Rodney,” the old woman said sharply, holding up a hand. She looked back at Louis. “What exactly do you want, Mr. .?”

“Kincaid. Something else has come up, ma’am,” Louis said. “In the process of relocating the remains-”

“Relocating?” she interrupted. “What do you mean relocating?”

Louis hesitated, his confusion echoing Eloise DeFoe’s. “Well, as part of Hidden Lake’s closing down, they have to move the graves and your-”

Rodney pushed forward. “Mother, the hospital called about this a couple weeks ago. You haven’t been well lately and I just didn’t see any reason to bother you with something routine.”

Louis stared at the guy. Routine?

“I wish you had told me, Rodney,” Eloise DeFoe said.

“Everything is taken care of, Mother.”

Louis watched them carefully. Eloise DeFoe was probably in her eighties, but she looked anything but feeble. There was a steeliness in her eyes that was disarming. She seemed mildly upset, but Louis couldn’t tell if it was because he had brought up her dead daughter or because her son had left her out of the loop.

“Look, Mr. Kincaid, we can take care of this,” Rodney said, taking his arm and leading him toward the door. “If there is something else I need to sign-”

Louis pulled away. “No, my business here isn’t quite done. I came to tell you something else.”

Eloise DeFoe was looking at him expectantly. Rodney had retreated behind the rim of his glass. Louis watched their faces carefully as he spoke.

“When we opened your daughter’s casket, it was filled with rocks.”

“Rocks?” Eloise DeFoe stared at him for a moment, then sank into a chair. “Good Lord,” she murmured.

Louis looked at Rodney. He had gone pale.

A clock chimed out in the foyer three times before Eloise DeFoe spoke again. “Well, where are my daughter’s remains then?”

There was nothing in the woman’s face to read, not surprise, horror, or grief. Louis realized she was assuming he was working for the hospital and he decided to use this assumption to his advantage. “We haven’t been able to locate them,” he said.

Rodney set the glass down with a thud. “You’re saying you’ve lost my sister?”

“We don’t know,” Louis said carefully. “We are looking into it and-”

“This is outrageous,” Rodney said. “You can just go back to that hospital and tell your boss to expect a letter from my lawyer.”

Louis glanced at the mother. She was just sitting there, stunned. He knew he was about to get thrown out and that he wasn’t going to get any information about Claudia’s past. He decided his best chance was to keep up the pretense of working for Hidden Lake.

“Now calm down, Mr. DeFoe,” Louis said to Rodney.

“You can help us out. Surely when your sister died, you were given some paperwork, a death certificate. Anything you have might help us.”

“You lost all her records, too? I want you out of our house. Now.”

Louis turned to the mother. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“Please, just go,” she said softly.

Rodney followed him to the door and waited stone-faced as Louis stepped outside.

“My mother isn’t well,” Rodney said. “Don’t call her, don’t come back here.”

Louis started down the steps but then turned back. He couldn’t let this go. “You don’t care, do you?” Louis said. “You don’t care at all where your sister’s remains are. What kind of brother are you?”

Rodney slammed the door.