slavery in Haiti. The survivors mostly assimilated into other Indian tribes, but that doesn’t affect my venture. If the federal government certifies their descendants as an authentic Indian nation, every law that applies to the Cherokee or the Apache will apply to the descendants of the Natchez.”
“How many of these people are there?”
“Eleven.”
“Eleven? Is that enough?”
He taps the model with finality. “Absolutely. Tribes have been certified with fewer members than that. You see, the fact that there are so few left isn’t the Indians’ fault. It’s the government’s.”
“The French government, in this case,” I say drily. “And by the way, they’re called Native Americans now.”
He snorts. “I don’t care what they call themselves. But I know what they mean to this town. Salvation.”
“That’s why you’re doing this? To save the town?”
“You know me well, Catherine. I’ll grant you, the cash flow from this operation could run twenty million a month. But no matter what you may think, that’s not my reason for doing this.”
I don’t want to listen to one of my grandfather’s righteous rationalizations for his ambition. “Twenty million a month? Where will the people come from? The gamblers, I mean. The nearest commercial airport is ninety miles away, and we still have no four-lane highway from it.”
“I’m buying the local airport.”
“What?”
He laughs. “Privatizing it, actually. I’ve already got a charter airline committed to coming here.”
“Why would the county let you do that?”
“I’ve promised to bring in ongoing commercial service.”
“It’s like Field of Dreams, isn’t it? You believe that if you build it, they will come.”
He fixes me with a pragmatist’s glare. “Yes, but this isn’t a dream of foolish sentimentality. People want glamour and stars, and I’ll give them that. The high rollers will fly into the cotton capital of the Old South on a Learjet and live Gone With the Wind for three days at a time. But that’s all window dressing. What they really come for is the age-old dream of getting something for nothing. Of walking in paupers and walking out kings.”
“That’s an empty dream. Because the house always wins in the end.”
Now his smile shows pure satisfaction. “You’re right. And this time we’re the house, my dear. But unlike that abomination floating under the bluff, which fleeces local citizens of their Social Security checks and sends the profits directly to Las Vegas, Maison DeSalle will keep its profits right here in Natchez. I’m going to rebuild the infrastructure of this town. A state-of-the-art industrial park will be first. Then—”
“What about the Indians?” I ask bluntly.
The cool blue eyes lock onto mine, silently chastising me. Grandpapa has grown unused to interruptions in my absence. “I thought you said they were Native Americans now.”
“I thought you might answer my question.”
“Those eleven Indians will become some of the richest people in Mississippi. Naturally, I’ll receive fair compensation for spearheading the venture and laying out the initial capital.”
I see it now. My grandfather will be hailed as the savior of Natchez. Yet despite the stated nobility of his goal, I feel uneasy at the way he’s going about it. “Can anything go wrong at this point?”
“Oh, something can always go wrong. Every old soldier knows that. But my Washington contacts tell me that federal certification of the Natchez Nation should come within seven days.”
I walk away from the poker table, my eyes on a bottle of Absolut on the sideboard.
“Sure you don’t want a drink?” he asks.
I close my eyes. I’d hoped to wean myself off the Valium today, but I’m going to need one for the drive to New Orleans. “Positive.”
He takes a last look at his model, then carries it back to the gun safe. While his back is turned, I take a pill from my pocket and dry-swallow it. By the time my grandfather returns to his chair, the Valium is in my stomach.
“Tell me about the night my father died.”
Grandpapa’s eyelids seem to grow heavy. “I’ve told you that story at least a dozen times.”
“Humor me. Tell me once more.”
“You’re thinking about that blood you found.” He lifts his Scotch and takes another swallow. “It was late. I was reading here in the library. Your grandmother was upstairs with abdominal pain. Pearlie was with her. I heard a noise behind the house. A metallic sound. A prowler had knocked over a metal drum on the patio in the rose garden.”
“Did you see that happen?”
“Of course not. I found the drum when I went outside.”
“Were you armed?”
“Yes. I took a Smith and Wesson .38 out with me.”
“What was in the drum?”
“Pesticide for the roses. It was a heavy drum, so I figured a deer had got spooked while eating the roses and knocked it down.”
“Why didn’t you call the police?”
He shrugs. “I thought I could deal with it myself. Your father was standing outside your house. I thought he’d left for the island, but he’d been down in the barn, working on one of his sculptures. He’d heard something, too. Luke was holding the old Remington rifle he brought back from Vietnam.”
“The one that hung over our fireplace?”
“That’s right. The 700.”
“So he went into the slave quarters to get that?”
“Apparently so.”
“And then?”
“We separated. I went to look behind Pearlie’s house, while Luke circled around yours. I was on the far side of Pearlie’s house when I heard the shot. I raced around to the garden and found Luke lying dead. Shot in the chest.”
“Are you sure he was dead then? Did you check his pulse?”
“I spent a year in combat in the Pacific, Catherine. I know a gunshot death when I see it.” His voice has the kind of edge that closes further questions in that line.
“Did you see the prowler?”
“You know I did.”
“Please just tell me what you saw.”
“A
