Free The Honest Folk of Guadeloupe by Timothy Williams Page A

He returned the opaque bottle to its cupboard. When he stood erect again, he held out a blanket. “For the cold air,
madame le juge
.”
    An Air France blanket. It was bit grubby and could have done with cleaning but Anne Marie was grateful for the warmth it afforded her. Her damp shoes were now deformed.
    In a matter-of-fact voice, Bouton said, “I don’t envisage any real difficulties so perhaps you’d like to put on a mask now. And some of this beneath the nose—it can lessen the odor.”
    She took the stick of Vick’s vapor rub.
    Lafitte took another sip of Bouton’s spirit.
    “A few abrasions and bruises, particularly in the genital area and the thighs,” Dr. Bouton said.
    Lafitte looked up from the notebook. “You’ve already got an idea of how she was killed?”
    “Cause of death?” Dr. Bouton raised an eyebrow, and Anne Marie was reminded of the day he had told her she was pregnant with Létitia. He laughed a dry laugh and then turned as the assistant energetically wheeled the stretcher into the laboratory.
    There was a body bag in thin nylon, a zipper running down the front. Léopold opened the fastener and the sound grated on Anne Marie’s ears.
    Dr. Bouton rolled a fresh pair of plastic gloves over his dry fingers and he stretched his arms. Like a pianist, Anne Marie thought, before a concert.
    “I regret not having been able to get down to Saint-François. Sand samples fail to show the presence of blood. The amount of blood spilled can tell you a lot about the nature and the timing of a wound.” He faced Anne Marie, the percolator in a gloved hand. “Sure you wouldn’t like some coffee?”
    The laboratory assistant shifted the body from its bag onto the autopsy table. Bouton switched on the overhead light while with the other hand he refilled his cup of coffee. He drank thoughtfully, his eyes hidden behind the glint of his glasses. “Poor thing.”
    Léopold opened the evidence case and produced the seven Polaroid photographs of the body as it lay on the beach at Saint-François. He ordered them in two neat rows on the tabletop so that Dr. Boutoncould refer to them. Next Léopold set out a series of wooden spatulas, plastic jars, glass slides.
    Plastic bags for the internal organs.
    The laboratory seemed very chilly and Anne Marie sneezed behind the gauze mask.
    Looking up at her and smiling, Léopold said, “Bless you.”
    “Poor thing,” Dr. Bouton repeated to himself. He peered into the dead face before testing the microphone of his recorder.
    The body was no longer human; it was a dark grayish blue and the inert limbs had nothing to do with the young woman who had once been alive and well and healthy.
    Twenty-four years old and still alive last Sunday. Until around midnight.
    Dr. Bouton finished his coffee. “A white girl?” He checked the label attached to the large toe of the cadaver.
    “I beg your pardon, doctor.”
    “Coarse hair, dark nipples.” He bent forward. “And prominent, rounded buttocks. Are you sure that Evelyne Vaton’s a white woman?”
    Anne Marie stepped forward hesitantly. She looked down at the round face. It was grey. The two breasts, pretty and firm in the photograph, now sagged slightly to either side of the body. Coarse hairs around the nipples. “She was born in Paris.”
    “Less white than you are.” The doctor glanced at her, before turning back to the corpse. “There’s West Indian blood—or perhaps North African.” He turned on the cassette recorder. He coughed before announcing, “Docteur Jean Louis Bouton, at the University Hospital of Pointe-à-Pitre, pathologist to the
parquet
, in the presence of the investigating judge Madame Laveaud and police officer Geoffroy Lafitte …”
    Léopold was carrying a circular saw. The teeth of the blade were sharp and spotless. He grinned brightly as he plugged the lead into the wall socket.

20
Lipstick
    “I can’t stand him.”
    “Who?”
    “I’m sure he’s a nice man. That’s what’s so awful.