the good Lord watches after my baby."
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