P.I. On A Hot Tin Roof

by Julie Smith

  “Kitchen or dining room?” Talba asked.

  Adele looked at her as if she’d asked what a cat or a dog was. “Why, dining room for lunch and dinner. Just the two of us today, I b’lieve.”

  Talba thought, what a little tête-à-tête that ought to be, but then, maybe not. These people seemed so used to drama, they hardly seemed to notice it. She found some leftover chicken and vegetables for a stir-fry, to be preceded by a lovely salad complete with hearts of palm, a can of which Talba found in the pantry.

  Things went swimmingly until she set the second course in front of her employer and target. “What the hell is this?” Pronouncing it hail.

  She was disconcerted. To her mind, it was the best lunch you could have. “Uh, chicken stir-fry?”

  “Female food. Adele, she’s givin’ me goddam female food!” He looked up at Talba, furious, definitely not kidding around. “I look like a woman to you?”

  “Umm…stir-fry isn’t unisex? I know I’ve seen men…” But had she seen a man eat it?

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Francis,” Adele said, “you could stand to lose a couple of pounds.”

  Frantically, Talba searched her memory for a substitute. “Omelet and home fries? Hamburger?” Nope, no sandwiches. “I know”—she’d seen a microwave—“stuffed potato.”

  To her surprise, he boomed out a laugh. “Honey, you’re all right. Quick little thinker. Omelet and home fries’d be great. Take this slop away, will ya?”

  Talba left to cook the third meal of the day. The omelet came out so perfectly that all might have gone well after all if Royce hadn’t walked in the door the instant she served it. By now, Adele had finished her veggies and excused herself.

  “Royce? That you?” his father called. “What you doin’ home in the middle of the day. Get ya ass in here and have lunch with me.”

  His son came in looking disheveled and smelling, once more, of strong drink.

  “You been drinkin’?” Buddy asked.

  “Daddy, I’ve got something bad to tell you. I got fired.”

  Buddy’s face flashed pink. He threw his napkin down on the table. “Fired? What the hell ya mean fired? Tell me you ain’t sayin’ Jesse Partee fired ya. How in the name of fuck does a man’s son get fired by his best friend?” By the time he finished his speech, his pink face had turned deep red. Talba might have feared a heart attack if she’d had the slightest sympathy for the man.

  Royce shrugged, hunching his shoulders and looking deeply embarrassed. “I didn’t understand the rules, that’s all. I thought I was just there on a fill-in basis. All I ever did was watch other people, what they were doing. I didn’t know I had to keep nine-to-five hours.”

  “It’s a job, son. J-o-b as in w-o-r-k. That means nine-to-five to me, or something close to it—whatever hours Jesse works. What’d you think it meant?”

  “Well, I was religious about it for the first month or so. Then, after that, there just wasn’t that much to do—I mean it ain’t shrimp season! So I started going in a little later—I mean, not real late—I just wasn’t all that careful, but I swear to God, I always stayed eight hours. Every day of my life.”

  “How late?”

  Royce shrugged again, looking ever more uncomfortable. “’Bout nine-thirty usually.”

  Maybe sometimes, Talba thought. But definitely not yesterday.

  “You know what I think? I think he was trying to get rid of me. I begged him for something to do! Swear to God, Daddy. He kept sayin’ I had to learn the business before he could give me any real responsibility. ‘Real responsibility.’ Like that was different from any responsibility at all. I mean, I could have broken heads or shoveled ice, come to that. You know I’m willin’, Daddy. He just wouldn’t give me a damn thing to do.”

  “You tellin’ me the truth, son?”

  “Have I ever lied to you?” Royce’s voice had risen to match his father’s.

  Talba stole a glance at Adele, whose face told her that if he was lying, it wouldn’t be the first time.

  “Are you lying now?”

  “No!” Royce was outright yelling.

  “’Cause I’m gon’ kill ya if ya are.” Buddy’s voice was much lower now, cold and dangerous.

  “Daddy, I swear to God.”

  “Jesse Partee, you are on my enemies list!” the judge roared. “I will ruin the man. I will destroy his business and I will destroy him. I can promise ya that, son. No two-bit shrimp seller’s gon’ treat my son like shit. Meanwhile, I’m gon’ do what I shoulda done in the first place. Ya gon’ work for me. Out at Venetian Isles. Ya definitely gon’ shovel some ice. I’m gon’ let Brad teach ya the business.”

  Royce let his shoulders relax. Casually, he drew out a chair and sat on it, drawing it up close to the table across from his father. “Daddy, I just don’t know if I’m cut out for this business.”

  “Well, what the hell are ya cut out for? Tell me that, will ya? Every job ya ever had, ya lost. And ya always got some excuse. The boss didn’t like ya, ya didn’t understand the rules. The boss had it in for me, and he was takin’ it out on you. Just what the hell ya think ya gon’ do? Live off ya wife’s fluffer earnin’s?”

  “Feng shui.”

  “Fuck shui! What am I gon’ do with ya, son?”

  “I was thinkin’ I might go to law school.”

  “Law school! With a straight C minus average from one of the worst universities in the country? What law school’s gon’ have ya?”

  “What law school’s gonna turn down Buddy Champagne’s son?”

  Unexpectedly, the judge laughed. Laughed so hard you’d have thought his son was Billy Crystal. “Only every law school in the country. I’m tired of cleanin’ up ya messes, boy. This time ya gon’ stand up and be a man—if I have to tan ya hide to make ya do it.”

  Royce turned as red as his father, got up, and walked out of the room. Talba thought possibly a pattern was forming.

  She cleared the table and busied herself in the living room, having decided to eat an elephant one bite at a time, as Eddie would say. She started at the ceiling, with the cobwebs, chandeliers, and ceiling fans, teasing the dust off with a feather duster, and there was plenty of it. Evidently, Alberta didn’t use Miz Clara’s system.

  Next, she applied herself to the pictures, mirrors, wall sconces, and finally the furniture, to which she also applied the special polish prescribed by Adele, eschewing supermarket products, which, she was assured, left an ugly buildup and ruined the wood.

  She was vacuuming the upholstery when Buddy came down from his office to go back to work. “Hey, Sandra, what’d ya do to my office?”

  “Not nearly as much as I wanted, but I was afraid to move your papers around. I know a lot of people don’t like their desks touched.”

  “Whatever ya did, keep doin’ it. Place looks like ya shined it up with car wax.”

  “Really? I did a good job?” Thank you, Mama, she was thinking. She made a vow to get to Adele’s mirrors before the day was over.

  “I may have to fire ya aunt. But ya right—don’t touch any of my papers.”

  Wouldn’t dream of it, Talba thought. Certainly not me.

  She couldn’t wait to see what was on her tape. She figured he’d come home for a reason—most probably to make private phone calls.

  Chapter 6

  Once again, she cancelled out on Darryl. She wasn’t quite as tired as the day before, but if she’d had to go out, she’d still have fallen asleep over dinner, and besides, she had a lot of catching up to do.

  First, she listened to the tape, and there was one good thing on it—a conversation between Buddy and Evan Farley:

  Farley: Hey, Buddy, thought you’d like an update. Sorry we couldn’t run a story about that bust the other day. The city editor didn’t think it was really a story. At this point, anyhow.

  Champagne: Evan, I really need you here. These scum are ’bout to run me out of business—along with about half the remaining shrimpers in Louisiana. You know how bad it is
for the shrimpers, boy?

  Farley: Well, that’s the story they want to focus on. I appreciated your tip, but the powers that be here just don’t think what the lawyer does in her spare time has anything to do with it.

  Champagne: This is about integrity, Evan. This is an example of the kinda people out to get me. Druggies and lowlifes. That bitch ought not to even be practicin’ law in this state. Probably loaded half the time and incompetent as hell.

  Farley: Well, I’m working on it. Just wanted to let you know I appreciate what you’re trying to do for me here.

  Champagne: I’m expecting great things outta you, boy.

  Now this was fantastic intelligence. It didn’t prove Buddy had Farley in his pocket—that “what you’re trying to do for me” could be construed as helping with a news story—but it was provocative. It confirmed a connection between Farley and Champagne, and it implied the connection might be based on tit for tat. The only problem was finding the tat. Maybe Eddie was having luck on the Farley beat.

  Next, she had to background everybody but Buddy, whom she’d already run through her personal wringer.

  To her dismay, Adele and Royce had pretty much managed to stay out of the papers, though she was able to find out a reasonable amount of Adele’s story. Suzanne had been no newsmaker, either, under her married name, but there was a wedding announcement for her and Royce. She’d been Suzanne Gautier, and there wasn’t much on the former Miss Gautier, either—just one story about feng shui becoming popular in New Orleans. She’d had a few things to say about the proper flow of chi, but that didn’t do much for Talba.

  Lucy had never hit the paper once.

  The one she was interested in was Kristin LaGarde, who was quite a little mover and shaker, and who was also living proof of the commonly held belief that love is blind. What a young, gorgeous, smart, reasonably wealthy woman saw in a crude old snake like Buddy Champagne Talba had no idea. Father figure, probably, although Kristin had a very much alive and not only kicking but ass-kicking father. The lovely Kristin was the daughter of Warren LaGarde, a wealthy developer who built hotels, and she’d gone into the family business, working her way up to vice president in charge of development. She was only thirty-two, but she’d been married and divorced—to and from a lawyer named Daniel Truelove. Evidently, there wasn’t all that much in a name.

  Still, Truelove was a great moniker—Talba could only imagine the inner struggle the woman must have gone through trying to decide whether to remain Kristin Truelove—who could resist that?—or going back to being Vice President Kristin LaGarde of LaGarde, Inc.

  Pragmatism seemed to have carried the day.

  Just for the fun of it, Talba did a little work on Daddy Warren, though most of the city already knew his story. His father had started with the flagship Hotel LaGarde, and when he died, sonny had expanded the business. He now owned four hotels, and he was always building more. Not a day went by that his name wasn’t in the paper—getting yet another height variance, speaking out on the need to support tourism (more or less the city’s only industry), collecting civic awards, announcing new chefs at his hotels’ various restaurants.

  Talba just loved that height variance thing—all the hotels did it, and it went like this: They applied for a permit to build a hotel to be ten stories, maybe; and then, halfway through the building of it, they said they’d go bankrupt if they couldn’t go to fifteen. And, not wanting to lose the business, the powers that be usually went for it. Why on Earth the city kept falling for such a simple con was one of life’s great mysteries.

  Warren was divorced, too, and Kristin’s mother now ran a little antiques store in Covington, which had more than once made it into some kind of local story.

  Adele was from Texas, which explained, to Talba’s mind, why her manner and accent were somewhat more bluff than that of the average Uptown lady. Her husband, Hollis, who’d founded a company that sold supplies for oil rigs, had died a few years back. That, Talba thought, might explain the fancy house.

  She added the background files to the one she’d made on Buddy, which was unremarkable (law school, law practice, judgeship) except for the fact that his wife hadn’t died a natural death. Celeste Champagne had been killed in a hit-and-run accident, which might or might not be suspicious.

  Talba couldn’t yet piece together how Buddy and Adele happened to live together, but her bet was that it had something to do with Celeste’s and Hollis’s wills—especially since Celeste had died suddenly. Or maybe it was simply an accommodation for Lucy’s sake.

  She would have done a little work on Farley, to help Eddie out, but that was as far as she could go for one night, and anyway, Miz Clara was calling her to supper. Once more, Miz Clara’d taken pity on her and made her a hot meal—red beans and rice, with some leftover greens on the side. Since Miz Clara hadn’t been able to stew them forever, she’d decided to sauté them in bacon grease after steaming. But this was no time to register a heart-healthy protest.

  “Thanks, Mama,” Talba said as she sat down. “Listen, what can I make for lunch tomorrow? Judge Champagne wouldn’t eat my famous chicken stir-fry.”

  Miz Clara all but curled her lip. “Mmph. Cain’t blame him. Why don’t ya take the leftover beans for tomorrow? Meanwhile, I be thinkin’ o’ some things that make up easy.”

  “Really? You got enough?”

  “What I’m gon’ do with those beans? Can’t feed ’em to the rats—give ’em gas.” She bent over to pet the black cat. “Idn’t that right, Koko? Ya want some chicken, baby? I berled some up for you and that white gal.”

  Once again, Talba was in bed by eight, rattling pots and pans eleven hours later.

  Once again, Kristin took Lucy to school after a couple of sassy exchanges, and the morning’s fight took place between Adele and Buddy, who said he couldn’t see a reason in hell why the kid was so bratty, but maybe if somebody just paid her a little attention once in a while…Adele said okay, she’d take the kid shopping, maybe some new clothes would help, and Talba rejoiced.

  With luck, she’d be alone in the house that afternoon.

  She tidied the kitchen, getting ready to make the second-floor bedrooms look like they’d just come back from the laundry, while Adele worked the phones in her kitchen office—ordering liquor from Martin Wine Cellar and checking up on an order from a caterer. No surprises there, she thought, with the Champagnes practically on the Mardi Gras parade route. A party was no doubt in the offing.

  When Adele had finished, she confirmed it. “Whew! Bacchus party Sunday. I’ve got a million errands—you be okay while I’m gone?”

  “Sure. Anything I can do?”

  Adele sighed. “We’ve got food for a hundred coming in two days, but in the meantime, I guess the rest of us have to eat. Could you look around, see what we need, and run out to Langenstein’s for me? I hate to make you do that, but they just will not deliver any more.”

  “Sure; be glad to. Anything else?”

  “Work on Buddy’s bedroom, will you? He loved the job you did in his office. Anything to keep him happy.”

  “Glad to, Miss Adele.” Just get the hell out and let me rifle some files. She had a new cell phone with a camera in it; if she found anything good, she could photograph it.

  Adele left, but Suzanne was still around, Royce having left early for his brand new job at his daddy’s marina. Talba made her grocery list and went upstairs to clean Adele’s mirrors, a casualty from the day before. No sooner had she gotten into a rhythm than the doorbell rang. She found the intercom and spoke to it: “Who is it?”

  “Delivery from Langenstein’s.”

  “I’ll be right down.”

  Puzzled, she descended and opened the door, already talking. “I don’t get it, I didn’t order. Anyway, I thought Langenstein’s didn’t deliver.”

  The delivery guy smiled. He was a white guy, a little shabby, but maybe a bit old for this kind of work—and he carried two things only, both of them hams. Beautiful hams. “This time t
hey do—picked these babies up myself. Champagne residence, right?”

  “Right, but—”

  “You new or something? Where’s Alberta?”

  “Family emergency.”

  “Oh. Well, these are from Mr. Nicasio. He said to be sure I got them over here before the party.”

  “Okay, thanks.” Talba tried to tip the guy, but he assured her it wasn’t necessary. She found the gift card, and photographed it: “A little something from the God of High Living. Happy Mardi Gras—Harry.” Bacchus, he must mean. The hams were for the parade party. And Harry Nicasio was the same bail bondsman who’d posted Angie’s bond. Was there some kind of connection? Talba’s skin crawled.

  She looked at her watch, sighed, and decided she just had time to shop before lunch—she had Miz Clara’s beans, but the lettuce was too tattered to serve. She stowed away the hams, went out to procure the items on her list, then put on the beans to heat, started rice, and built a salad, which she dressed with her mama’s famous lemon vinaigrette (only Miz Clara didn’t call it “vinaigrette”). She set the table for three, thinking Suzanne might smell the beans and get tempted, and no telling who else would show up.

  Adele and Royce, as it turned out. Adele ate only the salad, the other two only the rice and beans. Fair enough, Talba thought—I’m getting better. To her amazement, the three ate in relative peace, except for a few cross words between Suzanne and hubby-dear.

  “For Christ’s sake, Royce, do you have to chew with your mouth open?”

  “Do you have to sleep all morning while other people work?”

  That kind of thing.

  Royce caught her eye as she cleared, “Hey, Eddie, I got a pure-D mess down at that marina—you got a few minutes to help me out?”

  Adele fixed him with a steely eye: “Are you crazy, boy? We’ve got a party here Sunday night. She can’t take time off now.”

  Wrong, Talba thought. She was itching to get a look at that marina. She broke out in smiles and nods and made her voice high and feminine—by nature, she wasn’t much of a pleaser, but she’d seen other people do it. “Oh, yes, ma’am, I could do that. I didn’t know you had a party here, or I wouldn’t have been working so hard on the upstairs. I could work Saturday if you like, get the dining room and sun room ready. The living room’s already coming along.”