by Julie Smith
“I know you want to believe that…”
“Look, don’t you think I’ve been through hell in the last two days? I loved her. We were going to get married. I cheated on her and she’s dead. I’d like to kill myself for what I did.” He wouldn’t meet her eyes now, looking at his lap, speaking in that low, depressed, chastened voice.
Talba was at a loss. She wanted him out of her office, so she could think about all this, let the shock wear off.
“Well, I appreciate your letting me know.”
“I didn’t come here to let you know. I came here to hire you. I want you to find the murderer.”
“Me? Of all people! Why me?”
“Because you knew her. You cared about her. She talked about you. She even read me some of your poetry. She admired you a lot.”
“But you have reason to hate me.”
“I don’t hate you.” He changed position, seeming uncomfortable. “The person I hate’s myself.”
I can see that, Talba thought, but didn’t say. It looked as if a long, unpleasant morning was about to get a lot worse; she was going to have to humor him, at least for awhile. “Well, tell you what,” she said. “Why don’t we get some coffee and get comfortable. Would you like some coffee?” She got up and went to get some, mind racing. At least he didn’t seem dangerous, she thought. Who and what he was wasn’t clear to her, except for one thing—he was a very depressed, very chastened young man. She could at least hear him out.
When she returned, he took the coffee without thanking her, hardly seeming to notice its existence. “I hate myself for what I did. But I’ll tell you something—I did it out of… well, sadness. Babalu was distant. She was moody; she wouldn’t tell me what was wrong. I felt she was trying to move out of the relationship. She wouldn’t even…” He stopped, a kicked-puppy look descending onto his features as if blown there by the wind.
Remember, Talba said to herself, he's an actor. She said, “She wouldn’t even do what?”
“She kept putting me off about the wedding date. She wouldn’t set a date.”
She shrugged. “She thought you were cheating on her.”
“No. I mean, I wasn’t then. This whole Valerie thing was a reaction—do you understand that?”
“I understand it makes you feel better to think that.” He was making her impatient.
He sighed. “Listen, I swear—the whole thing started with her.”
She heard Eileen start back down the hall and didn’t bother to reply until the other woman arrived. “Everything all right?” Eileen asked.
“Fine.” Talba nodded, reassuring Jason, she hoped.
He looked embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to speak so loudly.”
“I guess I was harsh. I’m sorry.”
“No. You’re right. I guess I sound like every asshole who ever cheated. But look here. Babalu’s dead. I think something was going on with her, something she wouldn’t tell me, and”—he swallowed—“I think she got killed for it.”
Yeah. Something was going on. Like she was doing heroin. But that didn’t ring true for Talba—she couldn’t see Babalu doing heroin any more than Jason could. “What do you think it was?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You must have some idea.”
He was finally drinking his coffee, taking huge gulps purely for the caffeine. “No. I don’t. Babalu was a very mysterious person.”
Talba sighed. “You’re not kidding. Anybody who calls themselves Babalu Maya’s got something going on. Do you even know her real name?”
“Sure. Clayton Robineau.”
“Well, there’s two names that don’t go together.”
“Why?”
“Clayton sounds like she owns the town. Robineau probably pumps gas.”
For the first time, Jason cracked a smile. “You’re probably right. She’s from a town named Clayton. Near Baton Rouge. Robineau’s her married name.”
“She was divorced?”
“Yeah.” His face closed down with sadness and defeat.
“But I don’t know much about the ex-husband. She wouldn’t talk about him.”
“Well, I’m intrigued about this town thing—her having the same name, I mean. What kind of family did she come from?”
He’d known that was coming. He all but winced. “She hadn’t introduced me to them.”
“You sure y’all were engaged?”
“You know we were. It was in your client report. I read it.”
“You’re not describing a person who acts like they intend to get married.”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. She was distant. And a lot more so lately.”
“All right.” Talba was taking notes now. Maybe he really was a potential client. “You must have known something about the family.”
He nodded and crossed his legs, apparently grateful she’d asked him a question he could answer. “Her father was a banker. I guess that makes you a big deal in Clayton.”
Talba’s mind ran a movie: “You’ve got that deb look… ‘Carefully cultivated. We were trailer-trash, actually.’”
“And her mother was some kind of beauty queen once upon a time.”
Talba frowned. “That’s a weird way to describe your mother.”
“I don’t think so. The way Babalu told it that was the important thing about her. Look, there was a reason she didn’t introduce me to her family. She didn’t get along with them.”
“She was estranged from them?”
“I guess so. Partially, anyway.”
“Okay. What’s their name—Babalu’s maiden name?” Jason was easy to read—or else he was such a practiced actor he made you believe what he wanted you to. He looked utterly amazed. “Patterson.” He set down his coffee cup on her desk. “I swear to God, I didn’t even know till after her death. I had to get her best friend to tell me.”
She raised her eyebrows. This was getting ridiculous.
“Where were you planning to get married? The bride’s home town?”
“She wouldn’t discuss it.” His voice was clipped, his eyes vacant.
Talba put down her pen. “Okay, she was mysterious. But when you get right down to it, who’d want to kill her? Any ideas?”
He shook his head.
“Well, I’ve got one,” she said. “How about your girlfriend?”
“Valerie? Are you kidding? She was just having a fling.”
“Is that what you were doing?”
“Sure.”
Talba pursed her lips. How like a man to assume that, because he had no investment in a relationship, the woman didn’t either. “Well, how well do you know her? Maybe she’s nuts.”
He leaned back in his chair, putting his right foot on his left knee. “Okay, maybe I deserved that. I don’t know, it wasn’t that I didn’t want to know Babalu, it was just that…”
That mostly you wanted to have sex with her. She said, “Mind if I ask what you two talked about? It doesn’t seem to have been family history.”
“Music,” he said. “Poetry. Acting.” He paused. “Religion. Babalu was a very spiritual person.”
“What kind of religion?”
“All kinds. She had her own beliefs.”
“Were they the same as yours?”
“No, I… I guess I’m not religious at all. And she liked everything—Hinduism, Buddhism; Santeria, even. She taught me what it was.”
“Was she a devotee?”
“Oh, no. She wasn’t part of any group—she went to a Catholic retreat last weekend and she wasn’t even Catholic.”
“What did you two have in common? It seems as if you hardly knew her. What did you see in her?”
He looked Talba in the eye and spoke with dignity. “She was a healer,” he said. “I admired her so much. She was gentle and wise. And fine. And she seemed so alone—I wanted to take care of her.”
For the first time, Talba understood what Babalu saw in Jason, other than a pretty face. When he spoke like that, he e
xhibited a gentleness and a fineness himself. Despite what she knew about Valerie, Talba thought this was a man who was capable of seeing Babalu for who she was and loving her for it.
He’s an actor, she reminded herself. Still, her instincts said he was on the up-and-up.
“If I take the case,” she said, “I’ll need a retainer.”
He nodded. “Of course. That’s not a problem.”
She recalled that he did have a decent credit rating.
“Look, is there any way we can get into her house? You must have a key.” It was probably illegal to use it, but she figured now was no time to research the law.
“I do and I left some things there—you know, clothes and stuff. I’m supposed to meet Mary Pat tonight to get them.”
“Mary Pat?”
“Babalu’s best friend. The family left her in charge until they can clear the place out.”
“Think Mary Pat would mind if I came along with you?”
“I think she’d be delighted. She’s destroyed about this.” When he had gone, Talba called the coroner to confirm Babalu’s death. And then she went out and walked for awhile, trying to get the thing to sink in.
Babalu dead.
Babalu and heroin.
That didn’t compute at all—Jason was right about that. On the other hand, it was an absurdly cumbersome way to kill someone. For one thing, it would probably take two people. For another, it would take heroin. If Babalu was murdered, why choose such an offbeat method?
Well, anyway, now she had a good enough name for a background check. But about all she learned was that Clayton Robineau had lived at Babalu’s address and owned Babalu’s car.
Chapter Six
When she arrived at Babalu’s house that night, Jason was alone. “Mary Pat couldn’t face it,” he said.
So is this breaking and entering? she wondered. Had he really had an appointment with Mary Pat?
But, in truth, she didn’t care that much as long as Jason wasn’t dangerous, and since he’d hired her, she figured that at least she was in his good graces.
He opened the door to the stairway that had seemed such a hurdle on Talba’s last visit. It seemed merely forlorn now. Talba realized there were details she still didn’t have. “Who found the body?” she asked.
“I did. I usually came over after work. She didn’t answer when I called, but I didn’t think anything about it. The place was dark when I got here.”
He flipped the switch as they reached the top of the stairs.
“I did this, and there she was.” His eyes flicked to the narrow living room off to the right, to the sling chair right in their line of vision.
“In that chair?”
“She was half falling out of it, and she had foam on her mouth. I could see the hypodermic, still in her arm.”
“What did you do?”
He had stopped at the top of the stairs, apparently unable to go any further. His hand half-covered his face. “I went over and held her. I knew she was dead. Have you ever seen a corpse?”
“Yes.”
“Well. You know then. Her eyes were open, and when I touched her… Never mind. I can’t go there.. But I did hold her. I had to hold her.”
“What about the syringe?”
“The syringe?”
“Didn’t that dislodge it?”
“Maybe. I don’t even know. I just backed away and called nine-one-one and then everyone else I could think of. Mary Pat wasn’t home—she was the one I really wanted to talk to. You know who I finally ended up with? You’re going to laugh.”
“Who?”
“My mother. I called my mother. She kept me talking till the cops got there.”
“I thought the nine-one-one operator was supposed to do that.”
“Is she? I hung up on her. I was bouncing off the walls.” The apartment was very stark. Talba had noticed that on previous visits. The walls were white and the furniture tended to the crisp rather than the cozy. There were books, though, in two tall cases.
“Mind if I walk through the place first, just to get the feel?”
“Of course not. Do whatever you need to do.”
She walked down the hall, peeking briefly into the familiar appointment room. It was also a stark room, rather Japanese in flavor.
A small back bedroom was a little more cheerful. Painted yellow in contrast to the white of the rest of the place, it contained a bed with flowered duvet cover, Victorian dresser, and white rug.
The apartment was out of keeping with the New Orleans philosophy and lifestyle, which was something along the lines of too-much-is-not-nearly-enough. But, then, Babalu was no good-time Charlene. She probably had some spiritual reason for wanting things simple.
Still, Talba had always found the apartment, even in happier times, a bit on the depressing side. Even if Babalu were poor—and Talba imagined she made quite a decent living—there were small luxuries she might have permitted herself. Things like flowers, for instance. Inexpensive decorative items. Talba ought to know—she’d turned Miz Clara’s cottage into something out of the Arabian Nights.
Should she go through the dresser? She didn’t have the stomach for it—at least not now. She retraced her steps, and when she got to the living room, with its small dining area, stepped into the adjoining kitchen, which was spacious and old-fashioned. There was a desk here, and a file cabinet. Clearly, Babalu hadn’t wanted the clutter in any of the other rooms.
Wincing, Talba noticed her client report on the desk. She grabbed the Rolodex next to it. “Okay if I take this?” There was a datebook too—that was even better. “And this?”
Jason was hovering awkwardly in the background, drinking a beer—probably one he’d bought and stored in the fridge himself. Talba didn’t see Babalu as a beer drinker.
“Sure. I mean, I don’t think Mary Pat would mind. We’ve just spent two days calling every name in it—to let them know. I don’t guess anyone needs it right now.”
“The family didn’t do the calling?”
“They haven’t even been here yet—just had the body shipped back to Clayton.”
“That seems cold.”
She watched his Adam’s apple as he took a good long sip. He seemed to be self-medicating. “She didn’t get along with them worth a damn.”
“Still, this seems extreme.”
“Yeah.” He put down the can. “Yeah, it does.”
“You don’t know what the problem was?”
He shrugged. “Maybe the tattoos. Listen, I’m weird by my parents’ standards and I don’t have a crazy name like Babalu, a profession that sounds like woo-woo to the average American, and some kind of weird chain going up my arm. And my parents probably aren’t half as conservative as Babalu’s. Her folks probably hate her for not being a little Hog-Calling Queen clone; or whatever it was her mama was.” He turned away from Talba and opened the refrigerator door again. “I mean, hated her.” He was obviously trying to get used to the past tense. He looked for another beer and finally gave it up. “You about finished here?”
“Sorry, I’m not. I need to look at her files.”
“Oh.” He was clearly going stir-crazy.
“Why don’t you go down to Whole Foods and get a snack or something? I’ll be fine by myself.”
He hesitated, knowing he shouldn’t go, but one more look around the sad little apartment clinched his decision. “Okay. Meet you there?”
Talba nodded but realized he probably didn’t see her. She was already bent over the files, and he was on his way down the stairs.
Babalu hadn’t kept a file on each patient, but she did have certain accounting records in the top drawer and a file marked “Important Stuff.” Other than that, she seemed to have kept mostly magazine articles about breakthroughs in alternative healing. There were also plenty of catalogues offering vitamins, nonallergenic pillows, incense, fengshui equipment, and other New Age staples.
Talba pulled out “Important Stuff” and opened the second drawer. Here
was poetry, files and files of it. So much of it that it would take weeks to go through. She thought, I hope the family isn’t so stupid they just throw it out.
There were probably clues in here, if not to Babalu’s death, at least to her life. There might be whistle-blowing poems—real reasons for her family to hate her. She couldn’t take them now, there were too many. But maybe Mary Pat and Jason could pack them up for safekeeping—and possibly Talba’s perusal—before the family found them and destroyed them.
For now, she closed the poetry drawer and opened the file marked “Important Stuff.” Ha! There, along with a passport and other papers, were Babalu’s marriage license and divorce decree. She’d been Clayton Patterson in her single life, and, according to her passport picture, a brunette. She had married a Robert Xavier Robineau.
There was one more item of interest in the file: a typed document on legal letterhead identifying itself as the last will and testament of Clayton Robineau. In it, she left all her professional equipment to Mary Pat Sutherland (also named her executor) and everything else to her sister, Hunter Patterson of Clayton, Louisiana. Odd, Talba thought, that so young a woman had thought to make a will—especially someone who lived as if she hadn’t a penny. She compared the dates on the will and the divorce decree. Odder still that she was married at the time and hadn’t named her husband her beneficiary. She plucked the will from the file for Mary Pat, someone she hoped to meet very soon.
Finding nothing else in the files, she made herself go back to the private areas of the house—go through the dresser drawers, the medicine cabinet, the closet. And still she found nothing—most notably no drugs, prescription or otherwise, except birth control pills.
She took a final spin around the living room, gazing idly at the bookcases, noting that Babalu sure didn’t go in for cheap escapist reading. There were several shelves of poetry, and nearly everything else was some kind of Jungian tome or health-related paperback, many published by presses unknown to the general public. A whole shelf was devoted to religion—every kind you could name. How on earth, Talba wondered, did people live without fiction? She was about to pick up her things and leave when a book caught her eye that seemed very different from the others—much bigger, more important and a little tattered. A Bible? she wondered. She pulled it from the shelf.
