Louisiana Lament

by Julie Smith

  “Uh-uh. I ain’ undressin’ no white man.”

  “Just the shirt. I’ll do the pants.” He held up Austin’s limp torso, cajoled Janessa into slipping off the shirt, then he wrestled the shorts off himself.

  After that, he covered Austin up and he and Janessa left.

  “He kill ’em?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so. But he corroborates ya story. Says ya were gone when he left.”

  All she said was, “What he say about Rashad?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Talba was getting ready for work when Eddie called. It was Friday morning, she’d found Rashad’s nest, she had a new lead, and she had a reading that night. She was in a great mood. “EdDEE!” she squealed. “You must have found Austin.”

  “I need ya to pick me up.” His voice was grim. “And bring that little laptop of yours.”

  “Okay. Sure.” She took it with her everywhere. “Be there in twenty minutes.”

  “I’m not home. Come get me at Allyson Brower’s house.”

  “What on earth are you doing there?”

  He hung up without answering.

  He was waiting outside. He picked up the laptop on the shotgun seat and got in the car, settling it on his lap. “This thing charged up?”

  “Sure. Why?”

  “I need ya to find my car.”

  He meant he wanted her to activate the GPS in Audrey’s Cadillac. “Uh-oh.”

  “Bastard stole my wife’s car.”

  Talba asked no more questions. She took the laptop from him, clicked on the GPS program, and showed him what it indicated—the Cadillac was traveling down the Belle Chasse Highway toward the Gulf.

  “He’s goin’ back to Port Sulpher. Let’s go get him.”

  “You want to drive?”

  “Yeah.” That seemed to calm him down a little.

  Each of them got out of the car, walked around it, and changed places. When they were traveling south on the other side of the river, Talba said, “You want to tell me what happened?”

  “I got him, brought him home, and he stole my car. End of story.” His features were set so tight he could have been a statue of himself.

  She shut up and wondered if it was safe to change the subject—she was dying to talk about Rashad. But maybe it was better to let Eddie cool down by himself. She waited about an hour before she spoke again. “Looks like Austin’s almost there. Could you fill in a detail or two, maybe?”

  Eddie shrugged. “Says he went fishin’ after he left Monday night—you believe that? Came back in his boat yesterday afternoon.”

  “Fishing in a hurricane?”

  “Yeah, right. But he didn’t know about his sister and mama, unless he’s the best actor since De Niro.” Eddie sneaked a look at her computer screen. “Which he could be—he could be. He got real drunk when I told him and leaped overboard—couple of fishermen hadn’t been coming in, he coulda drowned. He was more or less unconscious, so I said I’d take him to the hospital. But then he came around, so I took him to his mama’s instead.”

  “You what? He could have died of hypothermia.”

  “Ah, it’s October. Water’s still pretty warm.”

  “Okay.” She wasn’t going to argue—obviously, the man hadn’t died. “So then what? How’d you get in the house?”

  “Ya sister. She even helped me undress him. He corroborates her story, by the way. So I stayed with him just in case, let him sleep it off, and when he got up, he couldn’t remember who I was. I was in the kitchen making coffee for him, the sonofabitch. (’Scuse my French.) See, I made the mistake of leaving my keys on the counter. I was tryin’ to refresh his recollection, and right in the middle of it, he grabbed ’em up and stole my car. Like I said, end of story.”

  And a pretty hard story for you to tell, Talba thought. She said, “Makes him look pretty guilty. So why aren’t we calling the police?”

  “’Cause we got the damn GPS.”

  Something was bothering Talba. “Eddie, could I ask you something? Was your gun in that car?”

  He shook his head vigorously. “Ya think I’m crazy? Hell, no. I got it right in my pocket.”

  She felt better, but it still didn’t make sense. “I just don’t get it. This seems like a job for the cops.”

  Eddie had an odd, stubborn look on his face that she hadn’t seen before. “It was my fault, Ms. Wallis, I pressed him too hard. Kinda tried to strongarm him into going down and talkin’ to the cops.”

  “Okay. I get it.”

  “No ya don’t.” He looked as grim as she’d ever seen him.

  But she was pretty sure she understood what was going on. Eddie prided himself on being the ultimate people person. He was the only PI in town who could tame the bureaucrats at City Hall, who was owed so many favors he could even get a cop to run a list of names through NCIC (a $10,000 fine if the cop ratted him out, plus criminal charges for the cop). Once, he’d even tricked a racist sheriff into letting Talba out of jail.

  This was a matter of pride with him. It must have cost him a lot just to tell Talba he’d screwed up. If he’d made a misstep in psyching somebody out, he was going to correct it himself or die trying.

  Except that he wasn’t stupid. If he really thought there was a chance of dying, he’d call the cops in a heartbeat—and he certainly wouldn’t endanger Talba. At least that was what she hoped.

  She said, “You don’t think he did it, do you?”

  “Let’s put it this way—the guy’s not dangerous. If he did kill his sister and mama, he’s not gonna kill anybody else. He’s too messed up. And I’m the one who messed him up. He’s not angry, he’s depressed. It hasn’t sunk in what happened yet—what’s gotta be done. He’s in denial.”

  Talba almost laughed—Eddie might fancy himself a great manipulator, but psychology wasn’t his usual thing.

  She glanced at her screen. “He’s there! You were right. He got to Port Sulphur and stopped.”

  They arrived about forty-five minutes behind him, to find Marie Broussard walking toward the parking lot. “Hey, Mr. Valentino. Here’s ya keys. I was just gonna return ya car.”

  “Hey, Ms. Broussard. This is my associate, Ms. Wallis. Austin around?”

  “No, uh-uh. He got here a little while ago, signed the payroll checks, and took off on his motorcycle. It was real nice of you to lend him ya car.”

  “Did he say where he was going?”

  She shrugged. “Just said to return ya car—he’d be back when he got here.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Somethin’ wrong?” She was suddenly anxious. “Uh-oh. Ya didn’t lend him ya car, did ya?”

  “Ms. Broussard, ya gotta help me. He’s had a real bad blow, and he did somethin’ stupid. Ya want to make sure he stays out of jail?”

  Her eyes got watery. “Mr. Valentino, you may not believe this, but I love that boy like my own son. He don’t mean no harm. I know him. Look, he came back all this way just to sign those checks. What does that say to you?”

  Eddie patted her arm. “I’m not gon’ report this. You can rest easy on that. But ya gotta help me.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out his wallet. “Ya think ya can give me a call if he shows up again?”

  “Uh—sure.”

  Eddie handed over a couple of twenties. She took them without hesitation, but there was something noncompliant in her face. “I sure would appreciate it,” Eddie said. “Say, ya think he went home? Can ya give me his address?”

  “Sure. Give me ya card. I’ll write it down for you.”

  “Much obliged.” Eddie gave her a business card, and when she’d written the address, took it back from her. “You take care of yourself now.” He turned to Talba. “I’ll go see him, Ms. Wallis. You go on back to the office.”

  Talba understood that he didn’t want to say more in front of Broussard. “Okay. See you there.”

  He called her on her cell phone before she was out of the parking lot. “No way that woman’s gon’ help. She saw my gun
yesterday. She’ll call his house and warn him, but I’m gon’ check it out anyway.”

  “And then what?”

  “If he’s not there—and he won’t be—I’ll check around here for biker bars, see if I can turn him up. Meanwhile, you keep on Rashad.”

  “Eddie, I need to tell you something. I went back to the wharf.” She told him what she’d found.

  “Ms. Wallis, Ms. Wallis. Ya shouldn’t have gone back by yaself—ya know that, don’t ya?” He sighed. “Call the hospitals, see if anybody’s got him.”

  This was what she’d meant to do, anyhow. “How about the cops? I left his stuff at the wharf. Should I tip them?”

  “Naah, let me have the pleasure. I’m gon’ tell Sergeant Crockett my associate figured it out from poetry—be a lot of fun.”

  “Should we check it out later—see if Rashad comes back?”

  “Whatcha think cops are for?”

  “I was hoping you’d say that. Sure you’ll be all right?”

  “You kiddin’ me, Ms. Wallis? This is Eddie Valentino ya talkin’ to.”

  “Just be careful.” She pulled into the first fast-food joint she came to, went in, got a Coke, and sat at a table with her computer. No sense wasting the drive time back to New Orleans. She made a list of hospital phone numbers, got back in her car, and started dialing, wishing to hell she could e-mail. At least her pretext was easy—she was the sister of a man she’d seen shot—yep, actually seen it, and her brother had fled the scene and he hadn’t been home. Did they have a Rashad Daneene with a gunshot wound? Or any other young black male with a lot of curls and a pretty face?

  Nope. They didn’t. Had she called the police? Of course she had—what the hell did they think she was, crazy?

  Rashad might know a doctor somewhere. Or he might not be shot. Or he might be dead. Lots of options.

  But no Rashad.

  She’d double check the phonebook when she got back, make some more calls, but that was all she could do for now. To stave off boredom, she went over the case in her head.

  Okay. Nobody liked Allyson Brower, even her own daughter. Her son might have done it, but Eddie didn’t think so. Which left whom?

  There was Arnelle, of course. And Janessa. And Rashad. But no one else seemed close enough even to want her dead. She wondered if Allyson had a boyfriend no one knew about. Or an ex.

  Maybe Burford Hale was a possibility, the man she’d met at the birthday party for Hunt—the one in the white linen suit. Talba remembered that the invitation had come from Hale, via Mimi Dirr.

  Mimi was a doctor’s wife, like Arnelle, not to mention Michelle. Come to think of it, that was quite a little profession in New Orleans. Mimi was on the board of one of the literary festivals and was someone Talba knew only from parties. But she had a great sense of humor, she loved to gossip, and she always sought Talba out when they turned up at the same events. And Talba hadn’t touched base with her. What was her problem?

  She got Mimi on the phone. “Hey, girl. Can you keep a secret?”

  “No, ma’am. Everybody knows that.”

  “Really. This is important.”

  “Okay, but don’t ever ask me again. One’s my limit.”

  “Well, Eddie and I are working on the Allyson Brower murder. Uh, suicide. Whatever it is.”

  “Wow. You said ‘murder.’ Who did it?”

  “That’s not the secret. I just told you the secret.”

  “Oh.” Mimi made no effort to conceal her disappointment. In her world, it was such poor gossip she’d probably forget it, which was good.

  “I called to get the skinny on Allyson.”

  “Well, don’t ask me. She was your basic Woman of Mystery. Moved into town, started throwing parties—that’s all I know. We called her The Girl Gatsby over at the festival office.”

  “There’s a resemblance.”

  “I don’t think she was a bootlegger, though. Got her money from an ex-husband.”

  “Don’t they all.”

  “Maybe she killed him.”

  “The ex-husband?”

  “Maybe he was mobbed up, and the mob came and got her. It wouldn’t explain Cassie, though.” Mimi paused a moment, sobering herself up. “Poor little Cassie.”

  “Did you hear what you just said—‘poor little Cassie’? Wish I had a dime for every time I’ve heard it. Nobody cared about Allyson—everybody cared about Cassie.”

  “Honestly, I don’t think anyone knew much about Allyson—except maybe Burford Hale.”

  “Ah. That’s what I was wondering. Who is he, anyway?”

  “He’s in real estate. From Kentucky, I think. He gives fantastic parties, too, but he goes in more for the social crowd. He found Allyson her house; then he kind of took her under his wing—showed her the ropes, I guess. How to meet everybody in town she thought was worth knowing.”

  “Was he Allyson’s boyfriend?”

  “Oh, yeah. They were engaged for a while. But here’s the weird thing about that—I always thought Burford was gay.”

  “Oops. There’s a man I’d love to talk to.”

  “I’ll give you his number if you promise to tell me absolutely everything you know about all this.”

  Talba laughed. “Mimi, you’re crazy, girlfriend. If he’s in real estate, how hard can he be to find?”

  “Just thought I’d try.” Talba heard her flipping cards. “Here it is. It’s his cell phone.” She recited seven plump, delicious numbers, which Talba dialed immediately.

  The thing about real estate guys, they always answered. Burford didn’t disappoint.

  “Hey, Burford,” she pronounced. “It’s the Baroness.”

  Dead silence, just as she’d suspected. He didn’t have a clue who she was. “The Baroness de Pontalba. Remember? You got my picture in the paper.”

  “Ah. At poor Allyson’s.”

  “Well, I wanted to thank you for that.”

  He chuckled politely. “You’re welcome, Baroness. It was good of you to call.” He hung up.

  Talba hit redial. “Not so fast, Burf. That wasn’t the only reason I called. I need to talk to you about Allyson.”

  His voice changed subtly. “I’m showing a house right now, but—”

  “Afterwards then.”

  “I’m curious. What’s this about?”

  “It’s about her death. I’m involved with the investigation.” She was well aware it might have sounded more or less nuts coming from the average black female poet, but Talba had had so much publicity that most people who were aware she existed knew she was a PI.

  “Oh!” It was the kind of “oh!” that people blurted when they were really, really interested. “Have you had lunch?”

  Yes! Talba thought. “Not yet,” she said. “I’m on the road, but I ought to be back by two o’clock, latest. Would that work for you?”

  “I’ll make it work. Where, though? We need somewhere quiet, if you know what I mean.”

  “How about Hooters?”

  He burst out laughing. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Uh-uh. What are the chances of running into someone you know at Hooters?”

  Hale was still chuckling. “Slim to impossible,” he said. “Two it is.” He had an accent that was vaguely British, while remaining so Southern you could sop it up with a biscuit. Interesting trick, Talba thought.

  Eddie had taught her the Hooters dodge long ago. Nobody local, “black, white or green,” to quote the master, would be caught dead there. Talba arrived first and scanned the menu, knowing perfectly well she was going to have a burger in the end. Her previous excursions here had illustrated the wisdom of this—when in Rome and all that. She ordered iced tea and spent a little time feeling sorry for the poor waitresses—in their pantyhose, shorts, and high-riding hooters—before a casually clad Hale slid into the chair across from her.

  “Oh, hi. Didn’t recognize you without your linen suit.” He still looked dapper, though. It was that neat little moustache.

  “You’re the on
e. I thought you were famous for looking outrageous.”

  “That’s real life. This is my day gig.”

  The waitress appeared, pad in hand, generous bazongas mounded over a neat white, mostly unbuttoned shirt, tied at the waist for greater neatness still. The management probably made them wear Wonderbras. “Something to drink?” she asked.

  “Scotch and water,” Hale answered. Talba restrained herself from raising an eyebrow. Even in New Orleans, people went easy on the booze in the daytime. Hale said what she was thinking. “I think I need fortifying.”

  He took a fortifying gulp. Talba sipped at her iced tea. “Ready to order? The burgers are good here.”

  “Sure. I’ve got the strangest feeling this lunch isn’t about eating, anyhow.” He looked the waitress in the eye, something Talba thought not many men would be able to do. “Two burgers.”

  “Dressed?” the woman said. She meant with lettuce and tomato, but now Hale did let his glance stray to her chest.

  “Preferably,” he said. She nodded, not catching the irony, and pirouetted away in her sneakers and pantyhose.

  “Fat chance in this place,” Talba said.

  Hale gave a theatrical shudder. “God, this is a strange country!”

  “Yep. A little piece of America, smack in the middle of civilization.”

  Once again, Hale gulped scotch. “It’s no weirder than the rest of my life. For the last year, anyhow.”

  “I take it you’re referring to your relationship with Allyson Brower.”

  “That woman was… was…”

  “Evil incarnate?”

  He considered. “Could have been. Could definitely have been.”

  “I hear you were engaged to her.”

  “God! How could I have been so stupid? Who killed her, Baroness? And who killed poor little Cassie?”

  “Aha, another one.”

  “Another what?”

  “Another of her dear friends who won’t miss her at all.”

  “Oh, I’ll miss her. I’ll miss her crazy phone calls in the middle of the night; I’ll miss her impossible demands and her searing insults. I’ll miss her all right. And it’s going to hurt so good.”