Louisiana Lament

by Julie Smith

  The Halstons’ street was a perfect place to raise kids, lined with pretty (though not grand) houses with nicely kept lawns, some with toys and bicycles scattered randomly on them. A Lexus was parked in the Halston driveway.

  Tentatively, Talba rang the bell, wondering if it was too soon to visit someone whose mother had just been murdered. But the woman who answered looked a good deal more harried than bereaved. She wore neat cotton bell-bottoms (from Banana Republic, was Talba’s guess) and a tight-fitting white cotton shirt nipped in at the waist. It was a good outfit for making funeral arrangements—brisk and efficient. And not unlike Talba’s own. Arnelle’s highlighted hair was shoulder-length and parted on the side. Like Lynne’s, her face was slightly pinched, perhaps with grief, yet her makeup wasn’t smeared. If Arnelle had cried for her mother, she’d moved on.

  “Mrs. Halston?” she said, and introduced herself, adding, “I knew your mother, and I’m terribly sorry for your loss. I really hate to bother you today, but I’m trying to help find Rashad.”

  Halston seemed puzzled. “Rashad? He isn’t here.”

  “No, ma’am, I didn’t think he would be.” It was against Eddie’s principles, but she decided to tell the truth. She absolutely couldn’t think of a plausible lie (poor lying was her worst failing as a PI). “I’m a private investigator hired—well, to look into the deaths of your mother and sister.”

  “Really? Who are you working for?”

  “E. V. Anthony—it’s a very old and respected firm. My boss is a former Jefferson Parish deputy.”

  “I was actually wondering who your client is.”

  “I’m sorry, but that’s confidential. But I know you want to get this cleared up and I wonder if I could ask you a few questions.”

  Halston’s face changed—from what to what, Talba couldn’t be sure, but she thought something like determination was what she saw now. “Come on in,” Halston said, and stepped out of the doorway. “It’ll be a break from making phone calls.”

  Talba entered a cool room painted a soothing khaki green, with framed prints of two huge magnolia blossoms hung over an ivory sofa that looked expensive—and a little too fussy. A glass-topped coffee table was surrounded by chairs covered in a gold-and-ivory stripe. Two handsome long-haired cats were taking their ease on the sofa—one black, one white. A very restful room, she thought—and one that took no chances. The carpet was beige.

  “Koko! Blanche! Off that sofa now!” Halston gave each a little nudge on the rump, and each dropped grumpily to the floor. “Cassie’s and Mom’s cats,” Halston explained. “You wouldn’t want one, would you?”

  The animals made Talba smile. “Somehow, I’d expect Koko to be brown.”

  “No, the black one’s named for Koko the talking gorilla. Whoever heard of a brown cat? And you can guess who Blanche is named for—she was Cassie’s.”

  Remembering that Cassie had been an actress, Talba wondered if she’d ever gotten to play Blanche Dubois.

  Halston had already lost interest. She offered coffee.

  Talba realized suddenly that the Montjoys hadn’t offered any. But Arnelle was a “nice lady,” according to Marlon. “If you’re having some,” she said.

  When Halston had returned with a silver tray incongruously bearing two hefty mugs, she said, “I just called a friend and checked on your firm.”

  “I hope he or she gave us a good reference.”

  “He not only gave the firm one, he singled you out—said you’d been in the news quite a few times.”

  “Eddie’s the brains—I’m just a junior-grade detective.” She was trying to establish rapport before starting in on her questions, but Halston had an agenda of her own.

  “You’re working for my brother, aren’t you? He’s probably trying to put this thing on Rashad.”

  Talba was nonplussed. “I can’t say who I’m working for.”

  “It’s just like Austin to do something like that.”

  She could only mean one thing. “You think he did it?” Talba blurted. “I mean, you think he, uh…” She couldn’t bring herself to say, “killed your mother and sister.”

  “Isn’t it obvious? He’s disappeared, hasn’t he? But you know where he is, and you’re going to tell either me or the police.” She picked up a cell phone lying on the coffee table. “Which will it be?”

  “Mrs. Halston, I have no idea where your brother is. I can tell you this—” She wasn’t sure she should. “We’re not working for him.”

  “Good. Then work for me. I was going to hire a PI anyway. I need to find Austin.”

  “I’d like to find him too, but—”

  “Why are you looking for Rashad?”

  “We think he may know something about what happened that night.”

  “Well, if he does, he’s in danger. Austin’s not a very nice man. He’d sell him out as soon as look at him. I never understood what Rashad saw in him.”

  Talba remembered her suspicion that Rashad was gay. She said, “Are you saying Austin and Rashad have a relationship?”

  Unexpectedly, Halston laughed. “Not like you mean, I guess. My brother’s not gay and I don’t think Rashad is. But they’re friends—or they were.”

  “I understand Austin said some rather insulting things—”

  “That’s what I mean—that’s the kind of person Austin is. Do you want the job or not?”

  Talba was flabbergasted. The woman was a powerhouse. “I’m a little overwhelmed.”

  Again, Halston laughed. “Am I coming on too strong? Old habits die hard. Before my marriage, I was in television.”

  “Oh, yeah. You were a station manger.” Talba remembered it from her background check, but Halston had quit twelve years ago.

  “I never got over having authority.” She sat back, trying to make herself look less threatening. “If I had kids, I’d probably treat them like employees. But I couldn’t have them—so for the past few years, I’ve been a really hardworking volunteer. I can put together a fund-raiser like nobody’s business, and I love doing it. It was time.”

  “Time for what?”

  “To give back.” It was a phrase Talba hated. That, and “make a difference.” She hoped Halston wasn’t going to trot that one out.

  But the other woman had already moved on; she was a veritable mistress of forward motion. “Look, the reason I’m jumping on this is I’m in danger.”

  “You mean from your brother? Because he wants your mother’s money?”

  “He’s desperate for it.”

  “Well, he can’t think he could get away with it. Wouldn’t it be just a little obvious?”

  “I’m not the kind of person who takes chances.” Talba had seen this before—a machinelike efficiency combined with a near-paranoia. The woman would make a fantastic detective.

  “Well, I really don’t know if we can take the case.” She knew perfectly well they couldn’t. “Of course I’ll talk to my boss about it. But frankly, maybe you don’t need to hire us. I think you and my client have the same aim here. They want to find out who… uh…”

  “…killed my mother and sister.” Apparently Halston, for all her pushiness, wasn’t an iceberg. Her face pinched in just a little more, and she seemed to wince as she said it.

  “I couldn’t say it,” Talba said. “You’re a brave lady.”

  “Not really. I didn’t care much for my mother, and my sister was lost to me anyway.”

  Talba revised her opinion: maybe she was an iceberg. But then she saw silent tears running down Halston’s face. As if in sympathy, Blanche jumped up on her lap. Absently, Arnelle stroked the cat. “I don’t know why I said that. It’s true, but they were my family, and I guess I loved them. I mean, Cassie, anyway. She never had a chance, the way Mom treated her. But Austin’s scum. I’m sorry—I just feel so disoriented. You’ll have to forgive me.”

  “Of course. But what did you mean about your mother? How did she treat Cassie?”

  “Like dirt. She tried to control Cassie’s whole l
ife. She thought Cassie existed for nothing but doing her bidding… and poor Cassie didn’t have any resources. She didn’t know how to protect herself. With Mom, it was all about her. She had to have everyone’s attention all the time, and she was completely ruthless. She’d do anything to get what she wanted. She was jealous of Cassie. She hated her. In my heart, I really believe she hated her.”

  “Jealous of what?”

  “Of Cassie’s beauty. The way people liked her. The attention she got. Mom wanted that for herself. And so she denigrated her. She told her she was ugly and worthless… I should know. She told me the same things. But I’m the oldest. I knew how to stick up for myself.”

  “One of the scenarios the police are playing with is murder-suicide. From what you’re telling me, it sounds possible.”

  “Mom would have never killed herself. It’s that simple. If she killed Cassie in a fit of rage—and believe me, she was capable of it—she’d rationalize it. She’d sit on Death Row for twenty years proclaiming her innocence.”

  “I’m wondering why you said Cassie was lost to you.”

  “Mom had ways of turning people against each other. She’d say things to Cassie like, ‘Your sister says you’re disgracing her—ruining her stick-in-the-mud Metairie life with your sluttish behavior.’ You see what I mean? That way she got us both at once. A few zingers like that and Cassie didn’t trust me. Wouldn’t have a real relationship with me at all. And it wasn’t only a few zingers. She did that right to the end.”

  Talba was so greedy for answers to the questions Big Sis was bringing up, she hardly knew where to start. “What sluttish behavior?” she finally asked.

  “You’re not getting this. I don’t even know what Cassie’s life was like, except miserable. It was Mom who said that. She said I called Cassie a slut by calling her one herself. Do you know how evil that is?”

  It occurred to Talba that two could play at that game. Maybe Halston was running the same con on her. For the moment, she decided to play it as if Halston were straight. Who knew? She might be.

  “And she never paid people what she owed them. She was always getting them to work for free.”

  “I’ve heard that once or twice already.”

  “From Lynne and Marlon, I bet. She owed both of them boocoos of money. And of course, she just cultivated Lynne to get to Hunt.”

  “Hunt?”

  “She fancied herself Ms. Literary Belle of the Ball. All that help for writers—what did it cost her? Nothing! But she thought it made her look like a hero—and boy, did she want to look like a hero.”

  “But… why did she do it? Did she want to be a writer herself? I know she had a master’s in English. Did she think Hunt could help her get published?”

  Halston heaved a massive sigh. “Who knows? With my mother, nothing was ever simple. Mostly, I think, she was just a groupie; an arts groupie.” She spoke as if that were worse than being a thief.

  “Okay, let’s recap here. You think Austin killed your mother and sister. Why?”

  “To get our money, of course.”

  “But Cassie’s murder was a crime of passion.”

  “Or it looked that way.”

  “Look, Mrs. Halston. It’s obvious you don’t like your brother.”

  “My half brother. Cassie was only a half, too—but I’d claim her.”

  “Let me be blunt—what’s so bad about him?”

  “He’s a bum. A motorcycle bum. And a druggie.”

  “He’s never had a drug arrest.”

  “Maybe not in this state.”

  That stopped Talba. “You’re saying he has been arrested?”

  Halston shrugged again, impatiently this time. “I really don’t know. I’ve barely seen my brother in ten years. Family occasions; small talk—that’s it.”

  Talba did the math—Austin couldn’t be older than thirty. “You mean since he was twenty?” she said.

  “My mother kept me up to date.”

  Yes, but she was an unreliable reporter, Talba thought. That is, if you’re telling the truth.

  “Well. If you weren’t in touch with Austin, how did you know he and Rashad were friends?”

  Here, Halston softened. “From Rashad. He thought we should reconcile. He’s such a sweet boy. He and Marlon painted my house for me.” She swept an arm to indicate their work, startling the cat on her lap.

  “Well, at least we’re on the same team here. Can you help me find Rashad? Where should I look?”

  “You could talk to his grandfather. He loves his grandfather. And his aunt.”

  “I didn’t know he had an aunt.”

  “Oh, yes, she raised him.”

  “His mother didn’t raise him?”

  “No, I think she abandoned the family or something.”

  “His father did, too, if you can believe his poems. But they don’t say anything but nice things about his mother.”

  “Well, you know boys and their mothers. He probably worships her image or something.”

  “Do you know the aunt’s name?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t.” She looked at her watch, as if she were ready for the interview to end.

  Talba was, too. “Okay, I’ll look for your brother,” she said, figuring she’d have to, since he was a friend of Rashad’s. “But not for money—just as a part of my investigation. Do you have any idea where I should start?”

  Halston thought about it. “What I don’t know is where he lived or what he did for a living, if anything. I got the impression from Mom it was pretty much nothing. Why don’t you try biker bars? Or opium dens? By the way, you didn’t say whether you want Koko or Blanche.”

  “I’m thinking about it,” Talba said.

  When she saw Talba to the door, she got close enough that for the first time, Talba realized something she hadn’t before—Halston had been drinking.

  Chapter Nine

  Oh, man, oh, man, oh, man.” Ms. Wallis had her hand on her forehead as if it hurt. “These people are screwing with my head. I think I need a drink—they’ve all had one.”

  She had just outlined her three morning interviews—not a bad day’s work, Eddie thought—but he wasn’t sure he made more sense of it than she did. The redneck biker was friends with the sensitive African-American poet whom he had insulted; Allyson Brower could have killed her daughter, but not herself; Rashad was pretty much a saint, but his biggest supporter thought he didn’t have a lick of talent. Allyson reminded people of some character in a book. And on and on. He wondered if he should check out that book.

  “Ms. Wallis, you might be better off sticking with your infernal damn machines.”

  “Yeah, Eddie, I’m starting to think so, too.”

  “Oh, cheer up. Let’s go get a po’ boy.”

  “I’ll gain ten pounds.”

  “Well? Did ya have lunch?” Women, he thought. All they ever thought about was their weight. Ms. Wallis sure as hell wasn’t getting a drink—not in the middle of the work day. Not until he had this thing with that poor kid Janessa straightened out. “Ya like shrimp, right? Seems like I remember that.”

  So she went with him to Mother’s for a po’ boy, while they planned out how to get this thing off their backs. He had a Ferdie (roast beef and ham), she had shrimp. For someone worried about her weight, she was doing all right for herself.

  “Ya got mayonnaise on ya chin,” he said. “Look, I’m gonna help ya out with this thing.”

  “Eddie, what is wrong with you? Are you planning to cut my salary or something?”

  “We got other cases to work on. Kinda thing pays the rent, know what I mean? Takes both of us to get rid of this loser, we both gonna work it. Ya heard from ya sister?”

  “Oh, yeah. I forgot to tell you. She fired us.”

  “Whaddaya mean she fired us?”

  “I mean she tried. I told her she couldn’t.”

  “Ah, well. Guess ya right. We don’t straighten it out now, they’ll arrest her and we’ll have it on us for years. Now, listen
to me. We gotta figure out who’s the key to this. Not necessarily who the shooter is, but who knows something—who can get us there the fastest.”

  “It’s not like I didn’t spend half the day trying.”

  “Don’t be petulant. It’s unbecoming.” At her look of surprise, he said, “Caught ya, didn’t I? Ya didn’t know I knew that word. Okay, ya tried. Who is it?”

  “Well, it could be Arnelle. That one’s the biggest can of worms I’ve run into in a long time.”

  “She’s tellin’ the truth about her mother, it could explain everything.”

  “What kind of everything?”

  “Everything about her. The mom’s a fruitcake, the daughter’s a worse one.” He shrugged. “Don’t worry about her for now. If she’s it, Austin’s gonna know. That might be why he split. Tell ya what. I’m gonna take him on as my personal project. He’s a biker, right? I got a feelin’ you’re not the right person to send into biker bars.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of entering one. I am a baroness.”

  “Yeah, and I’m George W. Bush. Tell ya what else I’m gonna do—I’m gonna work on this Hunt Montjoy character. I don’t mean to be sexist or anything, but that one’s a man’s job.”

  “You got that right,” she grumbled. “He thinks women belong in the bedroom unless they’re his wife. In which case, they’re supposed to be out making a living to support him.”

  “Ya think Lynne’s the one bought the big house in the Garden District?”

  “If poets made any money, would I be a PI?”

  “You know you love it,” he said “He hangs at Pete’s, right?”

  “He said he was going to Pete’s. I thought he meant a friend’s.”

  “Maybe. My guess is the bar—fireman’s hangout. His kind of place, right? I’ll check it out. And maybe I’ll go see Marlon, too.” Her face had settled into something like a pout. “What’s wrong?”