P.I. On A Hot Tin Roof

by Julie Smith

  “No. Why do you care?”

  The last thing Talba wanted to mention was the fact that she’d been hired to mop up after the police. “You won’t believe this—”

  “Try me.”

  “I’ve gotten close to the family.”

  “You? Brutus and Judas all wrapped up in one? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I resent that. Brutus was a murderer—Judas is hard enough to live with. What I really meant is that I got close to the kid.” Langdon had no children, but she was a virtual aunt to a girl about Lucy’s age. Her expression softened a little.

  “Poor kid. Two in one family.”

  “Think it’s a coincidence?”

  Langdon hit her with a hard stare, then gave it up and sighed. “Offhand, I’d say no.”

  “What kind of progress are you making on Buddy?”

  “Why do you care, Baroness? I don’t get it. And anyhow, you know I can’t talk about an open case.”

  “Okay, forget Buddy—I was out of line. I’m here for the family. Can you give me details about Suzanne? Like, do the police have anyone in custody?”

  “Nope. That much I can tell you. No witnesses so far.”

  “I was afraid of that,” Talba said. “Suzanne was at odds with the rest of the family—did you know that?”

  “More or less,” Skip said wearily.

  “And she was pregnant.”

  “Shit! How do you know?”

  “She told me.”

  “You’re getting around, aren’t you, Your Grace? I smell a little rat here.”

  “Yeah, well, nothing wrong with your nose. But it’s not my place to tell you about it.” Meaning her own embarrassing status. “You’ll have to ask the family. But I have a bad feeling about this.”

  Langdon gave her the stare-sigh routine again. “You think her death is connected to Buddy’s?”

  “Yes, somehow or other. I just don’t know how.”

  “Okay. I’ll take that as a tip. What else do you know about it?”

  “I’m not sure, if you know what I mean. I know a lot about the family, but who knows at this point if any of it means anything?”

  Langdon sighed without the stare. “Fair enough. What do you want from me?”

  “Just don’t let them treat it as a routine mugging, that’s all.”

  “It’s not routine; it’s murder.”

  “You and I both know—”

  “Let’s not get into that, okay? She was the daughter-in-law of a prominent judge, however crooked. Also of a murder victim. Nobody’s going to let it slide.”

  Talba stood. “Let me know if I can help you.”

  “Can you help me?”

  “Maybe. Depends where this leads.”

  “Baroness. Listen to me—if you know anything, give it up.”

  Talba was slightly offended by her tone. “I will when I do, okay?”

  “Immediately. I mean that.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And lose the ‘ma’am’ routine.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Talba said, and left. She’d gotten the last word, but she felt unsatisfied. She had what she came for—as much information as the cop was going to give her—but it wasn’t going to make anyone feel any better.

  There were a few things she could do to make Lucy feel better, though. She stopped at the F&F Botanica on Broad Street and bought a St. Expedite candle for swiftness in solving the case, plus an orange candle for healing. It might or might not be the right color, but it would probably do. Adele had had Kristin order food, so maybe it wasn’t necessary, but she went home to fry some chicken and put together a salad just the same.

  Miz Clara was already busy frying. “Figured you’d need somethin’ for the family.”

  Her mother could be a pain, but on this case she’d been a peach. “Thanks, Mama. I really appreciate it. I’ll make a salad.”

  “You read the Bible with that girl?”

  “Yes’m. It helped her a lot.” Thank God for Eddie’s lying lessons.

  “Hmmph. Probably didn’t hurt you none either.”

  “No, ma’am.” She freshened up, loaded her food, and drove back to the Garden District, where she found the kitchen full of women fussing over still more food, and the living room filling up with friends. Lucy was nowhere in evidence.

  “She’s upstairs,” Adele said. “With the cat. Talba, thank you for that. I don’t know how she’d have gotten through without it.”

  “I’ll see how she is.”

  She found Lucy cuddled up with Rikki, staring blankly at the television, which was playing Buffy reruns—maybe a tape or DVD.

  Talba sat on the bed and stroked the cat, not touching Lucy but trying to lend a little warmth. “I’m so sorry, sweetness.”

  “I didn’t love her. I didn’t even like her. I don’t know why I feel like this.”

  “’Cause you’re human, that’s why. She was here and now she’s not, and it’s not fair.”

  Lucy made a sound like a whimper.

  Talba brought out her candles. “Look. You’re a witch. Why don’t we do a little magic?”

  “I don’t believe in magic,” the girl snarled.

  “Okay, then, I’ll read you the Twenty-third Psalm.”

  “I don’t believe in God, either.”

  Talba was irritated, making her wonder what kind of mother she’d make, but she kept her voice gentle. “Lucy, that’s what everyone says when they’ve lost someone. You don’t have to believe in God right now. But the beauty of magic is that you don’t even have to believe in it—you just do it.”

  Lucy gave an ironic snort. “You sound like me. Thought you weren’t a pagan.”

  “Maybe I’m not—but you know what they say about atheists in foxholes. Isn’t that what we’re in? How about a mourning ritual?”

  “Naah. The funeral’ll have that covered.” She was getting interested.

  “Healing, maybe?”

  “No. But that foxhole thing—let’s do protection. The rate people are getting killed, what we need is a warding.”

  And Talba realized for the first time that the girl was frightened. And that she was right. There was way too much violence in the air to ignore. She nodded. “Let’s do it, whatever it is.”

  Lucy told her what a warding was: To do it right, they should walk around the house chanting and charging the building with the four elements, thus creating a circle of protection, and then they should paint pentagrams on the windows with ashes, for protection, having first banished all the old energy with brooms and shouts. But no way were they going to get away with any of that.

  So they made a floor plan of the house and improvised. The girl explained first what they were going to do—cast a magic circle in which to work, call in the four directions and invoke protection deities (that one would have curled Miz Clara’s hair, had she had any), so they could do a mini-banishing within what Lucy called the “sacred space,” then, finally, cast a miniature protective circle around the floor plan. “We can use the St. Expedite candle to make it work fast,” Talba offered.

  “Naah.” Lucy answered. “It works right away. Automatically.” And then she changed her mind. “Forget it—can’t hurt,” she said.

  The stage had to be set first, with candles and altar cloths and various artifacts representing the elements, after which they meditated for a moment before beginning. Her mind quiet, Talba got a great idea. Breaking the silence, she commanded, “Wait! What about if we drew a lifeboat around the floor plan?”

  “Yeah! Let’s put Rikki in it—like you-know-who.”

  Talba drew a boat that looked more like Noah’s ark, except that it had only one animal, which sat on the bow with its paws over the side. And then Lucy cast the circle.

  As they worked, Talba was once again impressed with the girl’s stage presence and her focus, once she had something to focus on. When the ritual was done and they had celebrated with what Lucy called a “feast” (consisting in this case of chicken that
Talba fetched from below and some water to represent wine), she was surprised at how calm she felt. No question, the magic had worked—if only to make them both feel better.

  “I get it,” Talba said. “The whole thing’s about metaphor.”

  “Of course,” Lucy said. “Why do you think I like it?”

  Chapter 21

  The funeral was two days later. Talba had skipped Buddy’s, due to temporary ostracization, but there was no missing this one.

  It was held in a Catholic church, and it was a by-the-numbers service as far as Talba could see. No one spoke except the priest, who appeared not to have ever met Suzanne, whom he described as “a bright and innocent spirit” who would be missed by “all whose lives she touched.” It seemed to Talba the last indignity of an undignified and undistinguished life to be “remembered” in front of God and everybody, as Miz Clara would say, by someone who’d never met the woman.

  Talba made a mental note to tell Miz Clara and Darryl to please skip the church formalities if she went before them—a secular memorial, maybe with Lucy there to cast a circle, ought to do nicely.

  Brad and his partner, who was definitely the guy in cutoffs at the Bacchus party (but who now wore a black shirt and pants) sat with the family. Talba didn’t, though Alberta did. Kristin sat with her father and the woman to whom she referred as “Tootsie-pop,” which must have galled her. She was dry-eyed, but Warren, to her surprise, actually wiped a tear at one point. What on Earth could that mean? The music, she decided. It always got to her, too.

  Alberta was the only one of the Champagne family who actually wept, though Suzanne’s parents, a short-haired, suburban-looking couple who seemed utterly bewildered, shed tears enough for everyone.

  Lucy was stoic and expressionless in a black dress that looked awful on her. Redheads ought to wear brown, Talba thought, or some deep wine color. But Adele’s taste had probably carried the day, and Lucy wouldn’t have fought it.

  Afterward, Talba dropped by the house, mostly to make sure her young friend wasn’t coming apart. Lucy as usual had retreated to the solitude of her room and the comfort of her kitten. She’d changed to her torn jeans and a man’s T-shirt, maybe one of Royce’s.

  Talba entered without knocking. “You two okay?”

  “Oh, please. You don’t have to talk to me like I’m a kid. ‘Tiggers don’t like funerals.’” She singsonged the Tigger part, mocking the sentiment. “But now I’ve been to two.”

  The kitten jumped off the bed and toddled over to sniff Talba’s toes.

  Lucy seemed eager to distract herself. “Hey, listen, I’ve got a present for Raisa—want to see?” She held up a tape, which she inserted into her VCR.

  “Sure.”

  It was her own version of the poetry reading, the tape Darryl made, in which Raisa, predictably, figured as prominently as the poets. The surprising thing was that Rikki was in it, too—not actually in the scenes at Reggie and Chaz, but in new ones taped in Lucy’s bedroom, which she had cut in. The kitten chased a ball, turned on her back and disemboweled a toy, sniffed and explored, groomed, and sometimes stared expectantly, after which the scene shifted back to the reading as if Rikki were watching it.

  “Cool!” Talba exclaimed. “How’d you do that?”

  Lucy shrugged. “I just intercut it.”

  Talba felt a strange quivering in her stomach, the beginning of an idea. “You intercut it? Can you do that with audiotape?”

  “Sure, if you’ve got the patience. Why?”

  “Just curious.” But she couldn’t wait to run her idea by Eddie. In her head, the whole case had just turned itself upside down.

  ***

  Ms. Wallis had on a suit today. It was a pantsuit, but she wore it with high heels, which she never wore to work, and she’d added jewelry for a change.

  “Lookin’ halfway professional,” Eddie said, accepting the coffee she brought him. “What’s the occasion?”

  “Funeral clothes. Did you forget?”

  “Oh, yeah—Suzanne. How’d it go?” He was big on funerals. The whole city was, for that matter, but Eddie particularly liked them on the theory that murderers never missed them, like pyromaniacs always went to fires. Of course, his theory had never actually borne fruit that you could take to court, but what the hell, it was still a good theory.

  “Eddie, I’ve got an idea.”

  “Oh, Jesus. Here we go.” He pushed his glasses down his nose.

  “Can we go in the other room? I want to show you a tape.”

  They had a television in there, with a VCR hooked up for viewing surveillance tapes.

  “Dammit. My leg hurts today.” He had an old injury, but it wasn’t bothering him. He just wanted to give her a hard time.

  The room in question was actually more like a closet where they kept their surveillance equipment, the coffeemaker, and a little refrigerator. Ms. Wallis already had the tape set up along with a chair for Eddie. When he had made a sufficient production of limping in and settling himself, she proceeded to treat him to a recorded poetry reading interspersed with stupid cat tricks. Fortunately, he was only required to watch about ten minutes before she said, “See what she did with the cat? Fourteen years old.”

  He didn’t get it. “What, ya think it should get an Academy Award or something? Anybody could do that. Oldest trick in the book.”

  “My point exactly.” She turned off the tape. “And you could do it with audiotape.”

  “Yeah? So?”

  “So, what if that recording on the marina phone was done that way? Suppose you got a word here and a word there from various voicemails Buddy left—or even called him and asked a leading question that required him to say stuff you wanted—or picked stuff up from Lucy’s home movies—and you strung them together to say he was coming to the marina and the night watchman could go home? And then you recorded it and played it on the marina voicemail?”

  He finally saw where she was going. “Yeah, I getcha. You’d just hook up the audio lines from the videotape onto an audiotape and press ‘record.’ There’s even a counter on the videotape. You could figure out when the word starts and stop it when the word stops. Yeah. All there is to it. A child could do it. Let’s go back to my office.”

  “I’m glad your leg’s better,” she said when they’d repotted.

  He realized he’d forgotten to limp. “The exercise musta done me good. So whatcha sayin’ is, maybe he never made that call. And if he never made that call, he wasn’t planning to come to the marina.”

  “But maybe somebody was bringing him. What was left of him.”

  “Yeah.” Eddie was taking it in. “Ya sayin’ he coulda been killed somewhere else. Well, first thing’s to call the night watchman and ax him what he thinks.”

  “May I do the honors? I’ve got his number programmed into my cell phone.”

  Of course she did. “Which ya just happen to have in ya pocket. Sure. Give him a holler.” The only surprise was that she hadn’t already done it.

  She pulled out the phone and pressed a button, not even dialing. One day he was going to have to figure out how to do that. “Hey, Wesley. It’s Talba Wallis.”

  And then, “Great, thanks. How’re you?” Her manners were improving. “And how’s Mary Ann?” Better still. Eddie’d probably have asked about the garden next, but he’d have bet his last dollar she wasn’t going to.

  “Listen, I was wondering something,” she said. “Can you think back to that voicemail you got from Buddy? Yeah, that’s right. The night he died. Was there anything strange about it? Uh-huh. Garbled. You mean you couldn’t understand the words? Uh-huh. I see. Was the intonation strange? Ah. Yes. Okay, thanks a lot, I really appreciate it. Can you tell me again what he said?”

  She made a writing motion, and Eddie put a pen in her hand. She wrote as she repeated the words. “‘Hey, buddy, this is Buddy—I’m heading out there right now for a meeting and there’s no need to stick around. You can go ahead and go home.’ He didn’t use your name? You sure
about that?”

  Eddie waited a while longer. “What?” he said when she rang off.

  “There was static and background noise and the words seemed kind of halting—like maybe Buddy was drunk—but he wasn’t slurring, more like he just wasn’t paying attention. Then I asked that question about intonation and he said that was right—I mean, that was one thing that was wrong. Wesley hadn’t thought of it before, but it just sounded kind of odd. I didn’t press him—I didn’t want to put ideas in his head. But no question, something was funny about it.”

  “So what’s ya theory?” He was sure she had one.

  “Well, maybe a family member killed him and Kristin suspects that. Maybe that’s why she hired me. Listen, if this happened, it couldn’t have been a stranger. It had to be someone with access to Buddy’s voice, and someone who knew when Wesley went on rounds. That kind of narrows it down, don’t you think?”

  “I’ll grant ya the first, but I don’t know about the second. Maybe they were already at the marina with a cell phone, and they just watched till he was gone. And then phoned.”

  She thought about it. “Okay, yeah. That could have happened. But they had to know Wesley’d be there in the first place.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe,” he said. “But they didn’t use his name—maybe they just saw him. Still, ya got a point. But it’s been awhile since then. How do we know Wesley remembered the message right?”

  “I asked him about that. He said he has a fantastic memory for things like that, and anyhow, he’s been over it a million times with the police, much closer to the time it happened. He’s pretty sure he’s not off by more than a word or two—and knowing Wesley, I’d trust him on that.”

  “If ya say so—sounds like a pretty smart guy. So if somebody did it, then who? Did Suzanne have a motive?”

  “To kill Buddy? I saw him hit on her once. Maybe he went too far and they had a fight, and they…oh, you know.”

  “Or maybe Royce found out and he fought with Big Daddy.”

  “Big Daddy. That’s funny—that’s my nickname for him. Okay. But either way, what about Suzanne? Why kill her?”

  “Two possible motives. Revenge or to keep her quiet.”