Now You See Her - Michael Ledwidge [73]
“Wait in the car,” Charlie said, opening his door. “With the doors locked.”
“No way,” I said, following him out. “You’re not leaving me out here.”
We hurried up the cracked concrete path to Fabiana’s tiny house and rang her doorbell.
“Fabiana!” Charlie called, giving the door a couple of quick pounds for good measure.
A minute later, one of the larger corner “kids” rolled past on a BMX trick bike, alternately sizing us up and glancing at our rental.
“There doesn’t seem to be anyone home,” I said quickly as the kid rolled back toward his posse. “Why don’t we check for Fabiana at her mom’s restaurant?”
“That’s funny. I was just thinking the same thing,” Charlie said as we raced each other back to the car.
After Little Haiti, Fabiana’s mother’s restaurant, the Rooster’s Perch, was a happy surprise. It was half an hour away in South Beach, a block west of the trendy art deco hotels of Ocean Drive and the beach. Behind the eatery’s battered wooden sidewalk tables, a wall mural depicted cattle and chickens under palm trees, smiling black kids in plaid school uniforms, dark women in colorful dresses carrying wash.
“We do not open until lunch,” said a very dark old woman who was cutting open a bundle of tablecloths at the bar just inside the door when we walked in. She wore an expensive cream-colored dress, pearls, and a suspicious, sullen expression.
“Let me guess. You’re Isabelle,” Charlie said.
“Who are you? How do you know my name? What do you want here?” the woman said, her eyes gleaming as she came immediately around the bar.
Now I understood what the trailer park manager meant when he compared her to his paper cobra.
“We’re here to speak with Fabiana,” Charlie said.
“There is no one here by that name,” the old woman said, pointing at the door with her knife. “Leave, I tell you. Now.”
“It’s OK, Mama,” said a younger black woman in an apron who suddenly appeared in the swinging kitchen doorway.
Charlie and I looked at each other in happy surprise.
“It is not OK!” Isabelle insisted as she turned.
The younger woman barked something in French. The old woman’s eyes went wide before she reluctantly stepped out of our way.
“I am Fabiana Desmarais,” the young woman finally said as she waved us into the kitchen. “How can I help you?”
Chapter 92
FABIANA WAS PETITE with very light blue eyes and cinnamon-colored skin. Though she was almost in her fifties, she looked maybe half that. She wore a simple, wide-necked peasant blouse with a fuchsia cotton skirt that seemed much cheaper than her mother’s.
Behind her, several quartered chickens sat on a cutting board beside a pile of Scotch bonnet peppers. From an industrial-sized bubbling pot on the stove came the strong but comforting smell of chicken broth. Immediately hungry, I had to resist the urge to ask for a bowl.
“Hi, Fabiana. I’m Nina, and this is Charlie,” I said, taking the lead. “We’re really sorry to bother you, but we’re here about Justin Harris.”
A look of fear wafted through Fabiana’s blue eyes. Her mouth opened in a tiny O. “What about him?” she said, collecting herself after a moment.
“You mean you don’t know?” I said.
She shook her head. “Know what?” she said.
“Justin Harris is going to be executed, Fabiana,” Charlie said. “In two days, he’s going to receive the death penalty for killing that girl, Tara Foster.”
Fabiana pinched her chin as she stared wide-eyed at the tiled floor. “Are you from the police?” she said.
“No, we’re here to help Justin,” I said. “We’re his lawyers. We want to save him. But we need everyone to tell the truth once and for all so that he will not have to pay for a crime he didn’t commit.”
Fabiana walked over to a stainless-steel counter where a large mortar and pestle sat. “I loved Justin,” she said as she began violently