Louisiana Bigshot

by Julie Smith

  “No, it won’t. Nothing will, I’m afraid.” He heaved a deep, impossibly sad sigh. “I’m sorry, Ms. Wallis, our son is no longer with us.”

  Could she be hearing right? “I beg your pardon?”

  “He was killed in an accident a few years ago. I’m very sorry I can’t help you.”

  Even if it was the wrong Calvin Richard, Talba’d meant to ask lots of questions—how to find the other black students, for one thing; who the Pattersons’ maid was, for another—but she was so shocked she could only stare open-mouthed.

  Finally, she said. “I’m so sorry to have disturbed you.”

  “That’s all right,” the man said. “I know you didn’t know.”

  What was the deal here? Everybody she went to see was already dead. At least Calvin had been for years—with luck, his death had nothing to do with the case.

  It was starting to be too late to catch anyone at home, but she drove to Ebony Frenette’s house anyhow, only to discover it was no house at all, but a large apartment complex. She had no apartment number for the woman.

  She buzzed the manager, secured one, tried it, and got no answer.

  Damn!

  She sat down and tried to think what to do next. Maybe if she could just talk to somebody…

  Slowly, she concocted a plan. She went out, bought a big bouquet of flowers, came back with them, and buzzed each of Ebony’s neighbors till she found someone home.

  “Yes?” A woman’s voice.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you. I have some flowers for your neighbor, but she’s not home.”

  “What neighbor?”

  “Ebony Frenette.”

  “Ebony? Ebony at work.”

  “Oh. Well, I wonder if you’d mind taking the flowers for her?”

  There was a long silence, while the woman weighed the virtue of being a good neighbor against the lazy comfort of blowing it off.

  Finally, virtue won out. “Awright. I got to get some clothes on.”

  Talba waited till the woman came downstairs, a much younger woman than she expected. She smiled as she handed over the flowers. “I knew an Ebony Frenette once. She was a nurse at the county hospital.”

  “Ain’t this one. This one work for an insurance company.”

  “Oh, yeah. Which one?”

  “I don’t know. Just an insurance company’s all I know.” She pronounced it “insherntz.”

  “Well, thanks for taking the flowers.”

  Back to the phone book. How many insurance companies could there be in Clayton?

  Quite a few, it developed. Talba called fourteen before she found Ebony. She decided to take a chance on a phone conversation. She had no qualms about saying who she was—she’d already planned it out. For once, she saw no reason to lie. So far as she knew, Ebony had nothing to hide, nothing to lose by talking to her. And how else to justify the kind of questions she wanted to ask? She asked to be transferred to Miss Frenette.

  “Ebony? Hi, my name’s Talba Wallis. I’m a private investigator and I think you might be able to help me with a case I’m working on.”

  “You got to be kidding! Me?”

  “It wouldn’t take more than five minutes or so. If you’re going out for lunch, maybe I could meet you outside your building.”

  “Okay. Sure. Yeah. I’m wearing a tan suit and my lunch hour’s noon. Oh, and I’m African-American.” The woman sounded flattered, as if a TV game show had called her.

  “I figured that from your name.”

  “Oh, yeah. That’s kind of a giveaway.”

  It was going on eleven now. Talba had plenty of time to go to the courthouse and order the Troxell transcript before meeting Frenette.

  The woman who got off the elevator at noon was quite smart-looking, kind of in the Michelle vein. Despite her name, she was about as ebony as a paper bag.

  “Ebony Frenette? Talba Wallis.”

  Frenette did a double-take. “You’re a sister!”

  Talba had to laugh. “You know what? I am.”

  “You’re black and you’re a woman—and young. You’re young and you’re cute too. They oughta do a TV show about you.”

  “Oh, yeah. I’m really interesting—you know it.” Talba liked this woman. Well, maybe she was flattered by her, but there was something about her ingenuousness that was easy to take, and that might prove useful. This was a girl who blurted.

  “You free for lunch by any chance?” she asked.

  Frenette said, “You want to have lunch with me? Sure, I’ll have lunch with you. You just tell me some stories.”

  “Maybe you’ve got one for me—did you ever think of that?” They ended up going to a nearby sandwich place. Frenette was really quite pretty, seeming much younger than her thirty-two or so years. Though Talba herself was the younger, the woman was making her feel like some big-time city slicker. It was kind of fun.

  Talba drew her out for a few minutes (as Eddie always advised), learning that she’d gone to college for two years, gotten pregnant, gotten married, loved her kid to death, but always regretted not finishing college, especially after the husband dumped her and she ended up being the breadwinner. She wanted to go back to night school, but little Tawana needed a babysitter, and Ebony hated to ask her mama, so maybe in a few years… and now she was dating a nice man who worked as a mechanic, but there was no financial future in it. It was really a very ordinary life, Talba thought. No wonder she seemed exotic to Ebony. On impulse, she asked, “Do you ever get bored?”

  Ebony seemed astonished. “Bored? No, ma’am, I don’t get bored. I work way too hard to get bored.” She bit into her white toast BLT so hard she almost broke a tooth.

  Not for the first time, Talba wondered what it was like not to ever get bored. What did people think about when they painted houses or filed? Why did some minds have to twist themselves around poems, and others could stand at parade rest? Sometimes she envied ordinary people.

  But what the hell, she thought. I am a baroness.

  Ebony said, “You must have a pretty interesting life, huh?”

  Talba described surveillance to her.

  “Now I b’lieve that would bore me,” Ebony said.

  “Yeah, it probably would. It does me.”

  “So tell me—what you want to talk to me about? I’ve been turning it over and over in my mind, trying to think, and I can’t think of nothin’.”

  “This goes back a long, long way—you ever know a girl named Clayton Patterson?”

  “Clayton! Yeah, I been knowin’ Clayton. She died last week or something.”

  “Tell me about her.”

  “What for? What you working on?”

  “Well, to tell you the truth, I can’t tell you. You know how it is when something’s under investigation? You’re not supposed to talk about it. But I’ll tell you one thing—it’s about something that happened back when y’all were in high school.”

  “Ya mean when Donny Troxell scalped her? Oweee, that was awful! I couldn’t b’lieve Donny’d do a thing like that.”

  “Really?” Talba pretended deep interest in her salad.

  “I gotta be honest. I never did like Clayton all that much. She just had… somethin’ about her attitude. I just didn’t like her. Now Donny Troxell—he treated me nice. I had a math class with him, and he even showed me how to do problems sometimes. Just as nice as pie. Wonder what Clayton did to make him mad enough to go after her like that?”

  “I was hoping you knew.”

  They both laughed. “No, I don’t know. Always did wonder. Let me see—Donny must be out of jail by now. I sure haven’t thought about him in a long time. Wonder what ever happened to him?”

  “Well…” Talba let time go by. “He died too, Ebony. About the same time Clayton Patterson did.”

  The woman came alert. “No! What happened to him?”

  “He got killed in a mugging.”

  “I just can’t believe it! It’s a shame, you know that? I never thought he had a mean bone in his body.”
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  “Well, I was just glad to find you alive. An awful lot of people from your class are gone already—you realize that?”

  “Who?” Ebony looked wary, like she was about to get some bad news.

  “Clayton, of course. Then Donny.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “Calvin Richard. That’s three.”

  Ebony’s hand froze, her sandwich halfway to her lips. Her eyes turned to quarters. She was silent, perfectly still for a moment, and when she spoke, it came out in a whisper. “Calvin?”

  Talba was starting to think she’d stepped into quicksand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you didn’t know.”

  Ebony dropped the sandwich completely, lowered her head, and began fumbling in her purse. Tears were already starting to splash.

  Talba handed her a handful of napkins.

  “Calvin’s dead?”

  “I’m sorry, Ebony. I thought it was old news.”

  “I haven’t seen him in years.”

  Ebony sobbed for awhile, Talba crossing and uncrossing her legs, hugely uncomfortable. Finally, Ebony closed her eyes, gathering up the cool to speak, and asked, “You know how he died?”

  “His daddy told me he was killed in an accident. That’s all I know.” Talba was about to ask why Ebony was so upset when the other woman said, “I gotta run.”

  She picked up her purse and raced out the door, leaving Talba taken aback and stuck with the bill.

  New Orleans was a small town in some ways—you couldn’t go anywhere without tripping over your next door neighbor—but Clayton was a whole different animal. Extremely wearing on the nerves.

  Nothing to do but push on. She decided to give Marshannon Porter a call—probably no one would be home, and there was no point paying a visit to an empty house.

  But you just never knew. To her surprise, a woman answered. “Yeah?”

  Talba thought fast. “Um. Mrs. Porter?”

  “Yeah. This Miz Porter.”

  “This is Ms. Winters at Continental Bank. I have a credit application from your husband, but I see he forgot to fill in his employment. I’m calling to verify that he is employed.”

  Mrs. Porter was pissed. “Yes, he’s employed. Of course he’s employed!”

  “The application seems quite complete other than that. May I have the name and address of his employer, please? We’ll be happy to open an account for him.”

  “Sure.” She was mollified. “It’s the Gulf South Elevator Company in Baton Rouge. I don’t know the street address, but he’s got a cell phone—let me give you that number.”

  Dear sweet loyal spouse, Talba thought. Marshannon’s sooo lucky to have you. It’s just a good thing I’m not an assassin.

  “What does he do for that company?” she asked. “I had an uncle who was an elevator repairman.”

  “That’s what he does. He’s always having to rescue people.”

  “Ooh. Interesting job.” It would keep him on the run too. Probably that cell phone was going to be the best bet.

  She tried the same thing she had with Ebony: investigator working on a case; confidential; could she have five minutes?

  “Lady,” he said, “you sound downright interestin’. I’m gon’ take a break in about thirty minutes. You want to meet me for a cup of coffee?”

  She looked at her watch. “I’m in Clayton now. Can I make it that fast?”

  “Oh, yeah. Easy. I’ll just wait for you if you’re late.” They agreed to meet at a Burger King he knew, and as she turned back onto the Interstate, a silver Lincoln Continental followed and stayed with her all the way. She might have thought nothing of it, except that she made it to the restaurant with five minutes to spare, five minutes during which she amused herself by looking out the window. The Lincoln pulled into a Wendy’s across the road. Even then she only noticed in passing.

  She hadn’t thought about what Marshannon was going to look like, but somehow, the minute he walked in the door, she knew him. He was heavy-set and broad across the back, with a fuzz of hair that he probably shaved off every few weeks, unlike her natty brother, Corey, who kept his own pate shiny as a button. He had a broad smile and he wore sloppy, ill-fitting jeans with a shirt that had probably been clean that morning but definitely wasn’t now. She liked him on sight, before he even said a word. There was something jolly and benign about him. He seemed a simple person, at peace with himself, the kind you were supposed to meet in small towns; they seemed in short supply in Clayton.

  He didn’t give her time for her famous schmoozing, just blew in, shook hands, and said, “Whatcha got?” She wasn’t all that sure how to answer.

  Oh, well, she decided, answer a question with a question. “Back in high school,” she said, “did you know a girl named Clayton Patterson? White girl?”

  “Clayton Patterson.” He smiled without showing his teeth and rocked himself a little. “Shame about Clayton. Well, sure I knew her. Everybody knew her. It wasn’t all that big a school—and she did get herself scalped. What kind of case you workin’ on?”

  She hated that question. She made a mental note to start saying she was a reporter. “Can’t say now, but I’ll tell you one thing—you’ll be hearing about it when it breaks. I can promise you that.”

  He nodded and gave her a grin. “Guess that’s good enough.”

  “How well did you and Clayton know each other?”

  He leaned over confidentially. Talba wondered if this was his way of flirting. “I’ll flat tell you somethin’, lady. You can believe it or not believe it, but I’m gon’ tell you somethin’. Clayton had the hots for me.”

  “Well, who wouldn’t, Marshannon? You’re pretty cute.” She figured that qualified as schmoozing.

  He laughed, twisting his whole upper body toward the table to show his modesty. “No, I mean it. She did. Now I wouldn’t date no white bitch, that never was my style, but man she could flirt!”

  “I thought her boyfriend was Donny Troxell.”

  He nodded. “She led him around by the pecker. She sho’ did that. But she ran after—don’t take me wrong here—but what she liked was licorice sticks. You understand what I’m saying?”

  Maybe, she thought, I don’t like him so well. Yet he seemed eager not to give offense—it was just the way he talked.

  “Look here, maybe I got a little braggy just now—my wife says I’m always doing that. But I swear to God Clayton Patterson hit on me. And not just once, either. You think I kidded myself it was for my great charm and good looks? Hell, I wasn’t the only one. I probably wasn’t even in the top five.”

  There weren’t five, Talba was thinking. This guy’s full of shit.

  But he pulled it out at the last second. “Well, really, there weren’t but three—Reggie Oliver and Calvin Richard and me.”

  “I know,” she said. “I looked at your yearbook. Where’s Reginald Oliver now? I know Calvin Richard’s dead, but maybe Reggie…”

  Marshannon stared as if she’d switched to another language in midconversation. “What you talking about? Calvin ain’t dead.”

  “I don’t understand what’s going on here. This is such a small town—how come no one knows Calvin’s dead?”

  “Calvin ain’t dead, lady. Not unless he died over the weekend. I got a cousin still goes fishin’ with him. He just brought me some fish they caught Saturday.”

  Talba said, “You sure?” and then realized how stupid she sounded.

  “What makes you think Calvin’s dead?”

  Something told her to keep quiet on that issue. “I should have realized. I told Ebony Frenette he was dead and she bawled all over the restaurant. If it was true, she’d have already known.”

  “Ebony! She cried over Calvin?” He laughed. “Serve her right. Just serve her damn well right. Wooooeee! It nearly killed him the way she fooled around on him. They were high school sweethearts—’cept when she left him for somebody else. Which was often.”

  He laughed louder and larger. “Depended which day of the week it was. Could of been anybody.
Usually was.”

  Sure, he was a big cute teddy bear, but his attitude was making Talba irritable. She spoke more brusquely than necessary. “You know where Calvin Richard is now?”

  Her harsh tone seemed to sober him. “ ’Course I do. He’s in New Orleans. He’s a cop.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Talba sucked in her breath, thoughts all a-jumble. Whatever answer she expected, it wasn’t that one. This was so shocking it made her cordial again. “Is that so?”

  “He’s a sergeant.” Marshannon spoke with pride: local boy had made good.

  Why on earth would his parents say he was dead? She decided to risk a subtle inquiry. “Bet his parents are proud of him.”

  “Wooo. You know it.” Okay, it was nothing to do with the job.

  “Well, looks like I made an ass of myself about Calvin.”

  “You wouldn’t be the first woman.”

  “The ladies like him?’

  “I don’t know what it is that guy’s got.” He guffawed again. “ ’Ceptin’ for good looks and brains. Few little things like that.”

  “Were he and Clayton Patterson an item?”

  “Naw. Calvin had too much sense for that. Now she tried. You can bet on that. But Calvin wouldn’t have none of that. Nooooo. Way too straight-arrow.”

  Talba smiled at him, ready to get out of there, chomping at the bit to get to Calvin. “Can I ask you one last thing? Who’s the Pattersons’ maid?”

  He looked at her suspiciously. “Now, why’d you think I’d know a thing like that?”

  “ ’Cause Clayton’s a small town—everybody knows everything.”

  “Tell me something. This thing you’re doing—this investigation—it’s got something to do with Clayton, don’t it?”

  “It might. She came from money. She had money to leave.” A leaf from Eddie’s book.

  A slow smile came over him. “Oh, I get it. I’m startin’ to get it. She left something to somebody. Awright, I’ll he’p ya. I can find that out for ya. I don’t know who works for those people, but I got an aunt who will.”

  He pulled out his cell phone and spoke unceremoniously. “Who work for the Pattersons? You know, King and them. Yeah, I know her. Where she stay at? Okay.” He put the phone away. No hello; no good-bye; no need to identify himself. It wasn’t Talba’s style, but she sure knew a lot of people who talked on the phone like that. He pocketed the phone. “Ontee say the lady name Betty Majors. She stay over on Pearl Street.”