by Julie Smith
“Mmm.” She chewed a fingernail, one of her most annoying habits. “I never quite buy revenge unless it’s the mob.”
“Well, ya do have a mob connection goin’”
The right side of her mouth went up in rejection. “Too far removed. But I’ll tell you one thing. That tape thing would have taken time and patience. And brains. The only two in this outfit who seem to me to have brains enough to do something like that are Adele and Lucy. And Lucy’s out.”
“Maybe out on the murder. But she could have helped with the tape—to protect someone else. Maybe that’s part of what’s bothering her.”
“As if she hasn’t already got enough trouble.”
Eddie could actually think of a scenario that made sense. “Ms. Wallis. Could ya precious Buddy have been an abuser?”
Shock showed in her face, and he couldn’t help feeling gratified. For once, he’d thought of something before she had. “S’pose he gropes Lucy—or worse—and Adele catches him and shoots him.”
“Then Lucy helps her makes the tape—to save her grandma. Jesus! That’s horrible. Omigod! And everyone knows—but Suzanne threatens to cave and go to the police. So then they whack her. The whole family could be in on it.”
“Naah. Ya lettin’ your imagination run away with ya. Buddy coulda been anywhere when he was shot.”
Eileen Fisher popped her head in. “Hey, Talba, ya got a call. Kristin LaGarde.”
“I’ll take it in my office. Thanks. Eddie.”
For what? he wondered, thinking theories were lots of fun, but Wesley had erased the voice-mail—there was absolutely no way to prove it hadn’t been Buddy talking.
“Talba. I’m scared.” Kristin sounded shaky, not a way Talba’d ever have described her.
“What is it?”
“There’s a gun in my car.” Her voice was shrill, the high-pitched keen that signals hysteria.
“What do you mean there’s a gun in your car?” Talba couldn’t figure out why she was so frightened. Was someone holding it on her?
“I’m on my way over. I’m almost there.” She hung up, but Talba rang her back.
“Kristin. Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t touch the gun, okay?”
In another ten minutes, the client clacked into the office dressed in the dark green suit she’d worn to the funeral, one with a built-in belt that fastened with a satin bow, the tiny skirt cut some clever way that made the hem seemed to flutter. But there was a run in her pantyhose and her hair was disarrayed, as if she’d been running her hands through it.
“Thank God you were here. I’m scared to death.” She looked it. Her skin was custard-colored.
“Let me get you some water,” Talba said, automatically moving toward the office door. But glancing again at her client, she realized water might not be enough. She stopped in alarm. “Kristin? Hang in there, baby. Do you need to lower your head? Feeling faint?”
Kristin didn’t need any more encouragement. She leaned her forehead on Talba’s desk, and when Talba returned with the water, she raised it, looking slightly pinker. “Jesus. I don’t know how I got here.”
“Take deep breaths.”
But Kristin shook her head. “No, I’m okay. I’d rather talk. Talba, what’s going on?”
Remembering Angie, Talba had thoughts on the subject. She said, “Can you start from the beginning?”
“I think so.” Kristin paused for breath, finally drank some water. “After I left the Champagnes’, I had to go out to the East to see somebody on business.” New Orleans East, she meant. “And since I don’t know that neighborhood, I opened my glove compartment to look for a map. And there was a gun there.”
“Whose gun?”
“Not mine. That’s all I know.”
“Do you think someone planted it?”
“How else would it get there?”
“Okay, then, who had access to your car?”
“Nobody. I never, ever leave it unlocked.”
Talba sighed. “Nobody? Did you give someone a ride and leave them alone?”
“No. Nobody’s been in it but me. How could this happen?”
“Do you keep an extra key anywhere?”
“I never lock myself out.”
She wouldn’t, Talba thought. “All right, then. Does anyone else have a key?”
“No. Why would—” She stopped in midsentence. “Well, my dad does. He gave me the car and insisted on keeping a key in case I did lock myself out.” She tried out an indulgent smile. “You know how you’re never grown up to your parents?”
LaGarde. The same LaGarde who didn’t mind assassinating his daughter’s character to a perfect stranger. Talba’s stomach flipped over, but she knew she had to keep her face and voice steady. How to approach this?
But Kristin said, “Okay, I know what you’re thinking—I can tell by your face.”
Talba smiled, wishing she had Eddie’s poker puss. “And here I thought I was hiding it. Okay. Let’s get into it. Just for the moment, let’s assume that whoever put that gun in your car is the person who killed Buddy—and maybe Suzanne. Any chance your father—”
“Suzanne? I never thought of that.”
“You never thought the two murders might be connected?”
“No. Of course that occurred to me. I never thought…my dad…”
Figuring she was trying to work something out in her head, Talba gave her a minute. Finally, Kristin said, “Suzanne and Dad were always flirting. I wonder if they could have been having an affair.”
“You tell me.”
“Buddy and I used to talk about it. We always kind of suspected it.”
“So what’s the part you never thought of?”
“Well—is that a reason for killing her?” Kristin lowered her head so that her hair hung upside down, ran her fingers through it, and raised her head again, brushing it back as she did.
“Did that clear your head?” Talba asked, thinking she sounded like Eddie, talking to her.
“Nervous gesture.” She offered a weak smile. “Look. Forget that idea. My dad wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
Talba doubted it, but she kept her mouth shut.
“What the hell am I supposed to do about this?” Kristin wailed.
“Have you touched the gun?”
“A little. I felt it when I opened the glove compartment.”
“I suppose you couldn’t tell whether it’s been fired or not?”
“Are you kidding? I don’t know anything about guns. I just closed up the glove compartment and called you.”
“So the gun’s still there.”
“I locked the car.”
“Look, if this is a setup, it’s not going to end here.” Someone, she thought, had to tip the cops to complete it. “The only advice I can give you is to take the gun immediately to Langdon—the cop who’s handling Buddy’s case.”
Kristin reared back, sucked in air. “A setup? I thought…”
“What? What did you think?”
“I thought…someone wanted me to kill myself.”
Talba was shocked. “Who, Kristin? Why the hell would you think that?”
“I don’t know who.” Her voice was barely audible. “I just…couldn’t think of another reason for it.”
“All right. Let’s phone Langdon.” Before someone else does.
Kristin nodded assent.
Talba called the cop’s pager, thinking that might be the most direct way, and then got Kristin more water while they waited for a call back. When it came, Langdon was impatient. “What’s up, Baroness?”
“I’ve got something for you.”
“Well, what?”
Talba wasn’t too sure how to say it. “A gun.”
“Oh, shit! I might have known.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Forget it. Just tell me how you got it, and where you are.”
“Look, I know you’re in a hurry, but let me guess—right now, you’re acting on
a tip, aren’t you? About a gun in the Champagne case.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I’ve got a hysterical client who just found a gun in her car.”
“And who might your client be?”
“Kristin LaGarde. We’re in my office.”
“Well, I’m in hers. Stay there. I’m on my way.”
Chapter 22
Langdon was by herself, but she more or less made two of Kristin. She wore two-inch boots, which made her two inches taller than her six feet, and her nubby tweed blazer added pounds she didn’t need. Her black slacks didn’t match the blazer, and looked as if she’d slept in them. Talba was amused, watching the petite, perfectly groomed blonde give her a mental makeover. Kristin’s expression was a virtual sneer. Clearly, she thought herself a superior race. Her composure returned almost immediately.
“Hello, Detective,” she said, with a confidence she hadn’t displayed before.
“Hello, Miss LaGarde.”
“You two know each other?” Talba asked.
“Oh, yes.” Langdon’s voice indicated she regretted it.
They must have met on Buddy’s case. And hated each other. “May I sit down, Your Grace?” Langdon didn’t wait for an answer, and didn’t waste time on pleasantries. She said to Kristin, “I understand you found a gun in your car.”
Kristin told the same story she’d told Talba, and then the three of them went to Kristin’s car to see if the gun was still there, and Langdon took it and Kristin back to Headquarters to give a statement. That alarmed Talba. It seemed a bit much for the situation, but there wasn’t exactly a way to horn in. All she could do was wait awhile and then pay Langdon a call.
She waited till Kristin phoned to say she’d been set free.
“I’ve been expecting you,” Langdon said. “Why didn’t you tell me you were working for that woman?”
“Couldn’t. Confidentiality.” Technically she wasn’t bound by it this time—she was just embarrassed to say she’d been working Langdon’s case. “Did Kristin tell you about it?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Okay, look, I’m an idiot. The great Skip Langdon can’t solve a case, nobody can. I just thought I ought to do something, that’s all.”
Langdon grinned. “Take it easy, Baroness. I can use all the help I can get. Have a seat. You’ve got something for me, right? Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here.”
Talba knew perfectly well how Langdon worked—had already made the decision to give something up. “Maybe,” she said. “A thought or two. Who phoned in the tip?”
Langdon shrugged. “A whisperer.” Meaning the caller could be either sex. “Pay phone.”
“I’m curious. Did Kristin say anything about her father?”
“No. Why?”
“She told me he had a key to her car—she tell you that?”
Langdon sat straight up and gave Talba a look clearly meant for Kristin. “Goddammit, no! She said she’d left it unlocked on the street one day. What’s up with Daddy dear?”
“Couldn’t say. But he took me to lunch and filled my ear full of poison about her.”
“Her own father?”
Talba shrugged.
“Well, if the gun’s registered to him, we’ll know soon enough.”
“The question is,” Talba said, “was it the gun used in either Buddy’s or Suzanne’s shootings?”
“Don’t know yet.”
“But you probably do know whether the same gun was used in both of them.”
“Yeah. I know. Why?” The cop barely paused, unable to wait for an answer. “She’s LaGarde’s daughter—why would he plant a gun on her?”
“He told rne she was a manipulator. But maybe he was setting the scene for a setup. Kristin mention she thought he was having an affair with Suzanne?”
“Christ, no!”
“Quite the dutiful little daughter, isn’t she? Maybe you ought to ask LaGarde. By the way, was Suzanne really pregnant—or was that just some story of hers?”
Langdon had evidently grown tired of being told how to do her job. “What was that you had for me?”
“I’ve already given you two things—LaGarde had a key and he went out of his way to trash his daughter. What do you have for me? Same gun or not?”
“Come on. More. And make it good.”
“I don’t know if it’s good,” Talba said honestly. “It’s just speculation. But I’ve got some reason to think it might have happened—and if it did, it changes a lot.”
Langdon sighed. “Dammit, Baroness. How do you always get around me? Yes. Same gun.”
“I thought so.”
The phone rang, and Langdon talked. She came back saying. “Great. The gun’s not registered. But then, neither are half the guns in this state. So what’s your big theory?”
Talba told her the tape idea, along with Wesley Burrell’s story, ending up with, “What do you think?”
“I think it’s a thought.”
“I thought I was being a big help.”
“Well, you told Kristin she had to bring the gun in. That was a help.” She shook her head. “I don’t know about that woman.”
“What’s wrong with her? Lucy loves her; so does Adele.”
“She’s a parakeet.”
Talba giggled. She’d coined the term herself—in a poem about skinny Uptown women. “Don’t be a sizeist, Skip.”
“Bad things come in little packages.”
Talba left feeling as if she’d somehow dodged a bullet—Langdon had been unexpectedly gracious about her hubris in tagging after her on a murder case. But then why shouldn’t she be? She was the expert. If it made Talba feel silly, it was her problem.
The tape thing bothered her. If there was anything there, there ought to be some way to prove it. Maybe there was something on Lucy’s Bacchus tape—words that Wesley might remember, that someone could have cut out and rerecorded.
The only version she’d seen was the one edited for Raisa, which focused mostly on the child. I wonder, she thought, and called Lucy before she talked herself out of it.
“Hey, Luce, how’re you doing?”
“Tired. I just took a nap and the damned nightmares woke me up.”
“I’m sorry, baby. You’re seeing a shrink, right?”
“Oh, please. Let’s not go there.”
“Listen, I need a favor. How is it over there?”
“Quiet. Royce is up in his room, drunk. Just about everybody’s left. Mommo’s probably still downstairs with whoever’s left.”
“Can you get something to me without anyone knowing?”
“Why?”
“I told you. I need a favor. I want to see the tape you made the night of the Bacchus party. Not the one for Raisa—I need the unedited version. And I don’t think we can look at it there.”
“Why?” she asked again.
“Just a thought. Nothing big. Indulge me, okay?”
“Where are you going to go look at it?”
“My office—why?”
“Let me go with you—I need to get out of here.”
Thinking about it, Talba didn’t see a reason why not. “Okay. Tell Adele I’m taking you to dinner.”
“No way she’ll go for it. Call me when you get here and I’ll sneak out the back door.”
Talba sighed. But she knew Lucy would be safer with her than anywhere else. “Just leave a note, okay? So they don’t worry. And say the thing about dinner—don’t say what we’re doing.”
“Why not?”
“Because that’s how P.I.s work.” Once again, she questioned her capacity for motherhood. All those damned “whys.”
It was nearly six and the office was dark when they got there, Eddie and Eileen having long ago left for the day. “Sorry,” Talba said, “we’ll have to look at it in the back room. The accommodations aren’t that good, and the equipment’s worse.”
“That’s cool.” Lucy was pale and looked tired. Talba wasn’t sure this was the greatest thing to be doin
g, but she was committed. She got the kid a soda and put the tape in to play.
Lucy had caught a lot of things Talba hadn’t seen, moments frozen in time, made more poignant by later events. In her role as serving wench, she couldn’t just stand back and look—Lucy could, and she did, concentrating on family members.
Not knowing who he was throughout most of the evening, Talba hadn’t even noticed Warren LaGarde. But it wasn’t LaGarde who caught her eye—it was Suzanne; Suzanne dogging his every step, tracking him with her eyes. Once, he brought her a drink and spent a few minutes. When he left, she stared after him as if her heart was breaking. Kristin, she thought, could have been right about the affair.
And the words she wanted were there in spades—so openly there it spooked her.
She turned up the volume when they came to the part where Buddy said, “Now that I have your attention.” She remembered how much it had annoyed her.
Next, he said, “I just wanted to welcome y’all all here and let you know that Zulu came early this year. Look what I got!” Here, he held up the coconut with kristin written on it and continued:
“Looks like this is for my good friend, Kristin LaGarde. Honey, would you come here and get your present?”
“Buddy, you shouldn’t have,” Kristin answered, and he said, “Hey, let’s make sure everybody’s here—Lucy, where are ya? Royce and Suzanne?
“And there’s Adele over there. Come here, y’all, and check this out. Lucy, ya got ya camera on?” He turned back to Kristin. “It’s a magic coconut, honey; it opens up like a box…. You’ve got to twist it.”
She got it open, and Buddy said, “Howya like that?” Then, “Kristin LaGarde, will you be my wife?”
Kristin had squeaked, “I can’t believe it! You mean it, Buddy?”
“Never meant anything more, sweetheart,” he answered. “It’s a cold world out there. I finally found what makes a house a home and I gotta make sure she’s gon’ stick around. By the way, you accept, or what?”
Talba looked at her notes on the message to Burrell and checked the words ain’t no need to, out there, home, have to, you, stick around, and I’m.
“Okay, folks! We got a meetin’ of the minds, and we’re headin’ for a weddin’! Want to try the ring on?”
These words leaped out at Talba:
