P.I. On A Hot Tin Roof

by Julie Smith

  “So all you have to do is find out who it was.”

  “Can’t be bothered. I’m too busy having lunch with hotel tycoons. Did you know the LaGardes have mob ties, by the way?”

  “With what mob? There isn’t one in New Orleans.”

  “Right. The Baptists run the video poker racket.” And she switched back to the subject on both their minds. “Look, I’m really sorry about the cat. I had no idea Raisa was going to be here.”

  “It’s okay. The worst that can happen, she’ll get her heart broken.”

  Walking into the Rembrandt Hotel, Talba was struck by how similar it was to the International House, where she’d been the night before. But whereas the latter was light and airy, done up in whites, this one went for a denlike effect, lapis with the occasional touch of black. Quite sophisticated, but it had about as much New Orleans charm as a toaster oven. Why not go to New York if you wanted that style? Practically feeling her way to the reception desk—on account of the dimness—she took in the sort of customer who frequented the place, and was surprised to see a lot of jeans, shorts, and T-shirts, as opposed to business suits. But the men who sported them had shaved heads and soul patches, very hip. Quite a few were Asian, with baseball caps. So it must be the kind of place that catered to the Hollywood and jet-set elite. She placed her order for the owner and snuck a look in a dark, sleek bar that probably filled up with little black dresses on the stroke of six.

  LaGarde tapped her on the shoulder. “Miss Wallis, I presume.”

  Talba turned around. “Ah. I see Kristin described me.”

  He was even handsomer than she remembered; very distinguished, in fact, with an aristocratic manner that was the exact antithesis of Buddy’s redneck act. Taking him in, she had a revelation: Jane’s theory is completely backwards. Kristin might be in the family business, but she’s rebelling like a teenager.

  LaGarde gave her a full-wattage smile. “She said you were a baroness.”

  “By night only. By day a humble P.I.”

  “Well, let’s go eat Chef André’s not-so-humble food.”

  He took her into the restaurant, where rich draperies and borders carried out the lapis theme, this time with touches of gold instead of black. Gorgeous abstract paintings hung on the walls, which were blessedly white, along with the tablecloths.

  “I’d recommend the mushrooms with goat cheese as a starter, followed by the salmon.”

  But Talba spied a fancy stir-fry on the menu and ordered that instead, preceded by a salad. “The baroness eats her veggies,” she explained.

  LaGarde, seeming slightly put out, went with his own suggestions, and offered wine, which she declined, feeling that if ever sobriety was needed, it was now. She noticed that her host passed as well. This was definitely a business lunch.

  It began with LaGarde quizzing her so hard on her life history that she finally said, “I should have backgrounded myself and brought a dossier.”

  He laughed. “Sorry. I’m just naturally curious, I guess. Interested in how people got where they are.”

  “My mama wonders about that, too. She thought she was grooming me to be the first African-American female president. Failing that, either Speaker of the House or a doctor. My brother did manage that one. Corey Wallis—maybe you met him at the Bacchus party.”

  “I did meet a black doctor. One with a beautiful wife—one of the Tircuits, I believe.”

  Talba made an inadvertent face. “That’d be Michelle. My sister-in-law.” The Tircuits were a big name in New Orleans.

  “You don’t like her?”

  “No, I do. But she’s one of those women who gets her nails done a lot. I’m more the ambitious type—though not according to the aforementioned mama. She doesn’t care much for the humble part of the profile.” Talba was getting tired of talking about herself. She said, “Kristin seems the ambitious type herself.”

  “That she is,” LaGarde said. He quirked an eyebrow. “Could be an understatement.”

  They were starting on their main course. Talba deemed it time to get down to business. “May I ask you something rude?”

  He laughed again, and wiped his mouth, replacing his napkin meticulously. Mr. Charm. “How rude?” he asked.

  “I was wondering what you thought of your prospective son-in-law.”

  “You mean did I dislike him enough to kill him?” He was still being Mr. Charm, but the question was serious.

  She feigned shock. “Mr. LaGarde! I’m not that rude.”

  “Why don’t you call me Warren? Shall I call you Talba?”

  “I prefer Your Grace.” She meant to be playful and hoped it came out that way.

  But he said, “Don’t we take ourselves seriously,” which threw her off her stride.

  “Sorry.” She was flustered. “Call me Talba. The baroness thing’s just, uh…”

  “It’s fine. Your Grace is good.” He smiled again, almost flirting. She was getting the impression he liked to keep people off balance.

  “Well?” she said. “You’re avoiding the question.”

  “Listen, nobody wants their daughter to marry an old crook. But it’s the sort of thing Kristin would do.”

  There were two good hooks there. Talba could barely decide which one to go with. Finally, she decided to take them in order. “Ah. So you knew he was an old crook.”

  “There was gossip.”

  “Had Kristin heard it? She doesn’t seem the naive type to me. But on the other hand, she genuinely seemed to love him.”

  The waiter had cleared the plates and asked if they wanted coffee. LaGarde used the moment to put his napkin on the table. Decisively; making a statement. “Your Grace, nothing about my daughter is genuine.”

  “I beg your pardon?” This was definitely not what she was expecting.

  “I think you’re in a bit over your head.”

  Talba kept silent.

  “It pains me to say this. I do hope you realize I wouldn’t do it if there were any other way.” He stopped, and again she held her tongue. “My daughter’s manipulating you, Talba.”

  So much for honorifics. “Manipulating me.” She thought about it. “She’s paying me to do a job. What more do you think she wants?”

  “I wish I knew, Talba. I really wish I knew.”

  She sat still, trying to wrap her mind around this one, but all she could think was how much she hated people who used your name in every sentence. “Why,” she ventured, “do you think she’s manipulating me, then?”

  “Because that’s what she does. She’s never had a straightforward thought in her life.” He was quiet himself for a moment, letting her absorb it. “I’m sorry to say it, but my daughter’s psychotic.”

  “Psychotic. What kind of psychotic? Schizophrenic? Bipolar?”

  “Sociopathic might cover it better. Even as a child, she was different. Never told the truth when a lie would do.”

  Talba wasn’t impressed. “Kids lie.”

  “Using drugs in high school. Selling them in college. Stealing. More lying. My God, you should have seen what she put that poor husband of hers through.”

  Talba waited, but no more was forthcoming. “Well? What?”

  “The gamut.” He stopped to sip coffee. “Other men. Spending all his money. Mind games.”

  “Let’s go right to mind games.”

  “She’d pretend to be obsessively jealous—cut up all his clothes; call him at the office and accuse him of having affairs.”

  Talba wondered how he could possibly know. “When Kristin was the one who was having them,” she said.

  “In fact, she’d accuse him of anything she could think of, including dishonesty in business.”

  She wondered if she dared mention the supposed mob connection, but decided to pass. As for the other things, she couldn’t identify anything any judgmental, old-school, extremely controlling parent might not say about his child. It might all be true, but none of it sounded psychotic. “Why,” she asked, “are you in business with her, then?
She’s an officer of your company.”

  He laughed, but this wasn’t the polite laugh of before; it was more like an astonished guffaw. “I’m not in business with her. You can be vice president of a company and do practically nothing. However, Kristin stays perfectly busy. She’s in charge of acquisitions, which means she looks at property we might want to buy. Spends the day making realtors’ lives miserable, then makes reports. And sure enough, sometimes we take her suggestions—certainly when it comes to decor, a field in which she excels. I never said she was stupid or talentless; merely crazy. But she has no real responsibility. Certainly no access to our accounts.”

  “Or she’d steal from her own father.”

  “You never know what she’d do. She’s unpredictable. And dangerous.”

  “Okay then. I’m going to ask you the million-dollar question. You don’t even know me—why are you telling me all this?”

  “Listen to me, little girl. I’d be best pals with the maître d’ here even if I didn’t own this hotel. Do you have any idea how many of these little talks I’ve had to have with people she’s gotten involved with?”

  In that case, Talba wondered, why doesn’t Kristin move out of town? She had a better question. “Was Buddy one of them?”

  “Buddy?” He snorted. “My first take was, he deserved her. But there was a child involved.” He thought about it. “Eventually I might have had to do it. Even with Buddy.”

  Talba remembered how patient and loving Kristin had been with Lucy. She was one of the few adults the girl seemed to approve of.

  “You still haven’t answered my question—why are you telling me all this?”

  “I don’t want to see you get hurt, that’s all.”

  That struck a chord. He’d said his daughter was dangerous. “It sounds oddly as if you’re talking about physical peril.”

  “Peril. Good word.” He fiddled with the tiny doily under his cup, buying time. “Anything’s possible, Your Grace. Anything at all.”

  The light was beginning to dawn. “You think she killed Buddy.”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t know. And I don’t want to know. I’m prepared to pay you to stop your investigation.”

  “Bribe me, you mean.”

  “Not at all. I’m trying to protect you.”

  “Look, if she’s dangerous, why not just go to the police?”

  For the first time he actually looked sad. As if having such a daughter weighed on him. “She’s my daughter, Talba. I’m trying to protect her, too.”

  There were lots of things Talba could have said to that, but she decided not to go there.

  He was dead serious now, no longer Mr. Charm. In fact, he was doing a fair impersonation of a distraught father. “Look, Your Grace. Nothing good can come of this. Only harm.”

  Talba was torn between insult and pity—there was at least an outside chance he was sincere. She was trying to think of something semi-polite to say, when LaGarde started in again. “You and I both know Buddy was a small-time crook. Accepting hams to set bail, for Christ’s sake! How the hell are you going to sink any lower than that? He was a lecherous old skirt-chaser who couldn’t leave the young stuff alone. You read the paper. Hell, you were there in the house—you’re the one who fed that reporter the information, weren’t you? You know what, I’ve always wondered what your motivation for that was, but I’ll forget about that for now. Champagne deserved to die and if anyone knows it, you know it. Can’t you just goddam well leave it alone?” He hadn’t raised his voice. It was his own restaurant, after all. But he’d spoken in a low growl that was even more frightening.

  Talba struggled to keep her cool, but in the end she was just too damn mad. She fished for her purse and pulled out a credit card. “Let me take you to lunch. I’ll put it on Kristin’s bill.”

  “Hell, you’re as goddam crooked as Buddy was.”

  She was signaling frantically for the waiter when suddenly someone did raise his voice. “Where the hell is that goddam bastard?”

  She swiveled her head to see the maître d’—a little dapper guy—struggling with a man twice his size, a man who didn’t look at all as if he belonged. He was deeply tanned and dressed in scruffy jeans and a baseball cap. “I want to talk to goddam Warren LaGarde,” he yelled.

  LaGarde got up and strode over to him, walking tall, every inch the intimidating aristocrat. “Let him go, Russell,” he told the maître d’, who didn’t actually have him at all. He spoke to the intruder. “What can I do for you, sir?”

  The restaurant had gone silent. Talba could hear every word without even straining. “Mr. Royce said to come talk to you. You know who I’m talkin’ about?”

  “Let’s go to my office, shall we? I’d be delighted to talk with you.” The guy was smooth, Talba had to give him that. The big guy was now more or less shuffling.

  She would have paid the bill and left, but the waiter declined to bring her one. She settled simply for leaving.

  By the time she got out to the lobby, LaGarde and the man were getting into the elevator.

  She stepped into the sun, shaking. It had been one of the most unnerving lunches of her life. The thing was, the man with the cap seemed familiar. She stood there a few moments, free-associating, trying to put his face in context—and finally, she had it.

  He was Bob, the shrimper who’d appeared at the marina in a flatboat the day she found the kitten, demanding money from Royce Champagne.

  Chapter 17

  She was dying to go back to the office to get Eddie’s take on the seeming madness of Warren LaGarde—not to mention the meaning of Bob’s visit—but duty called in the form of her guilty conscience. School was nearly out, and she didn’t have time before her scheduled visit to Lucy.

  She was a bit early, but fortunately her favorite bookstore, Garden District Books, was right across the street, so she took a few minutes to browse, thinking to pick up a book for the kid. She settled on one she figured no teenager could resist—especially a kid who’d just been orphaned.

  Lucy herself answered the door, still in her school uniform, an unprecedented occurrence in her experience. “Hi. Adele’s not home?”

  “We got a new housekeeper. I think Mommo’s upstairs showing her how to clean mirrors.”

  Talba hadn’t shared her mother’s mirror-cleaning theories with the Champagnes, but apparently they’d been noticed. She handed over her package. “Brought you a book.”

  Lucy took her to the sunroom, offering iced tea without looking at the book. Talba accepted the drink and noticed that the house looked a lot better. She was glad of that—the chaos had gotten her down the last time, and if it depressed her, she could imagine what it was doing to the family. She’d almost been tempted to offer to clean it one last time. But not quite.

  It took a long time for Lucy to return, but when she did, she’d changed into torn jeans and a skimpy T-shirt in a startling chartreuse. She served the tea on a silver tray that also held a manila folder, and picked up her package. Staring at the book, she looked puzzled. “Life of Pi? It isn’t about math, is it?”

  Talba smiled. “Nope. It’s not like any book you’ve ever read. You like animals, right?”

  “Sure. You already know I’d kill for a pet. Not even a dog. Just one little kitty-cat.”

  “Well, check the cover art.” It showed sixteen-year-old Pi in the lifeboat he shared with his friend and enemy, Richard Parker.

  “Is that a tiger?”

  “Uh-huh. Be careful what you wish for. See that kid? He spends nearly a year in that boat with his little kitty-cat there.”

  She turned up her nose. “Oh. A fantasy. I hate fantasy.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s so realistic it’ll curl your hair. It’s all about animals—and survival. You like metaphor, right? It’s like one big prose poem about your life.”

  “My life, or anyone’s life?”

  Talba felt smug. “Read it and see if you identify with it.”

  The kid put down the book. “
Whatever.”

  “So. How’re you doing?”

  Lucy didn’t answer immediately. She stirred her tea a lot longer than she needed to. “Well, at first I was afraid no one at school would speak to me because they thought my dad was crooked. Now they’re avoiding me because they don’t know what to say. And they feel sorry for me.” She spoke matter-of-factly, in that straightforward way children have of avoiding pain. Talba almost wished adults could do it. Lucy smiled. “I kind of think I’d rather be in a boat with a tiger.”

  “Baby, I’m sorry.” Talba pointed to the book. “Just get in that boat with that tiger. You’ve heard of escapism? That’s why God made books.”

  “The goddess.”

  “Oh, right. You’re a pagan.”

  The girl’s eyes widened. “How did you know that? I mean, I know you’re one—you put witch stuff in your poem. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to see you—because we have that in common.”

  Talba laughed. “I hate to disappoint you, but my mama says I’m a Baptist and I let her get away with it sometimes. But I know about pagans and I know you’re one because nobody has secrets from the housekeeper.” Instantly, she regretted the last part.

  “Well, not from you, anyhow.” Lucy’s tone had turned sullen.

  “If that’s a secret, it stays right here.” She tapped her chest.

  “You sure? I mean, I’m not going to read a headline that says, DEAD JUDGE’S DAUGHTER CAUGHT IN SATANIC RITES?”

  “Give me a little credit, okay? I didn’t see anything Satanic in your room. Just nice girly witch stuff.”

  “Girly! Jesus!”

  It seemed to Talba nothing she could say was right. “Look, I know how powerful magic is. I come from the ethnic group that brought you voodoo, remember?”

  “Voudoun.”

  Talba decided to ignore that one. “But Wicca’s warm and fuzzy, besides being powerful, right? Who’s the goddess if not your mama?”

  “You’ve got an answer for everything, don’t you?”

  “Uh-uh. I’m just smarter than most adults.”

  Finally, the kid cracked a smile. “Wouldn’t take much.”