by Julie Smith
“I would.”
She nodded and stood again. “Got you. Will do.”
One thing about her, she was up for anything.
***
Talba figured she could ask Adele whether Brad had a boyfriend, but that could wait. She hated to admit it, but Eddie was right about the shot. She hadn’t even asked Ben Izaguirre about it.
She phoned him first. Nope, he hadn’t heard anything. But he’d been at the restaurant. His wife, who was home, hadn’t heard a shot.
So that meant another trip back to Venetian Isles. She tried Izaguirre’s next-door neighbors on the marina side first. They’d been out that night, but maybe their babysitter had heard something. Mrs. Stern, a white woman in shorts and a halter top despite the cool weather, invited her in and called the girl. Nope, she hadn’t, either. Stern suggested trying the Dobrescus next, across the street—Mrs. Dobrescu had an elderly mother who didn’t miss a lot. “Can she hear?” Talba asked.
“If she was a cat, she could hear a mouse squeak at fifty paces.”
But old Mrs. Matocha hadn’t heard a peep—but then she’d been watching The Wild Bunch on television, which had involved a whole lot of shots.
And so it went, up and down the street, and the next one, and even the next one. No shots heard, just one teenaged girl who said she thought she might have heard one, though at the time she’d thought a raccoon had simply overturned a garbage can. There’d been some kind of strange noise, anyhow.
The best thing she got was a man who’d taken his dog out shortly after midnight, and he was adamant that he’d heard nothing and would have if there’d been anything to hear. But Talba didn’t think the coroner could fix the time of death within the half-hour period he’d have been out. She’d have to ask.
If the judge had been shot at the marina, someone had to have heard it. So you had to wonder if he’d really been shot there.
Yet he’d called Wesley Burrell and announced he’d be there soon. What to make of that? It was a distinctly unsatisfying exercise.
But one good thing—about halfway through it, Jane Storey called and asked her if they could meet for a drink. She had big news.
And Talba could really use a drink.
They met at the Loa Bar at the International House, a pretty fancy watering hole for Talba’s taste, but Jane had a date there later. She seemed to have a pretty active social life these days.
Indeed, the reporter seemed to have taken more care with her appearance than usual. Her highlighted hair was piled on her head and she had on a crisp white blouse with silky black pants.
“Hey, you look great. What’s going on behind my back?”
“You’re the detective.”
“At first glance, I’d say true love.”
“Try a second glance.”
Talba thought a minute. “Okay, you’re not wearing a slinky dress, and you’re having a drink, not dinner. So, first date, maybe. And you had a date the other night that obviously wasn’t a first date. So more than one guy. Lots of dates. Elementary, my dear—Match.com.”
“Actually, no. But you’re close.”
“Okay, okay. I got the idea right but not the right service. What kind of guy would you want to meet? Someone smart, that goes without saying. And creative. So, a specialized service.”
Jane was laughing. “One for writers. Writeyourheartout.com.”
“Damn, I’m good.”
“Uh-uh. It is elementary. If you’re not Internet dating, you’re not cool.”
“And I’ll bet it’s really easy to get dates—because every writer on it’s doing a story about it. You work for the T-P, your date probably works for Gambit—or one of the TV stations. Better be careful—you might be about to find out what it’s like to be a source.”
The reporter blushed. “Omigod, I never thought about that!”
“You are doing a story.”
“I’m a reporter, right? Of course I am. It’s a great assignment—what the old guys call a four-bagger.”
“A baseball term, I presume—so what’s a home run?”
“You get fed, get drunk, get laid, and then boot the story.”
“Boot the story? You mean you’re not going to write it?”
Jane sighed. “Well, I was until you mentioned that counterespionage thing.” She sipped her cosmopolitan. “Gives one pause. Maybe I ought to quit while I’m ahead.”
“Oh, go through with this one anyhow. Might turn out to be true love.”
“Yeah, and it might turn out to be George Clooney.” She tried looking world-weary, but it didn’t fly on her girl-next-door face. “What are you drinking?”
Talba looked around at the sleek surroundings. “Campari and soda.”
“What? Not Chardonnay?”
“Doesn’t go with the decor.”
“Cool place, huh?”
“Damn near cold. But I like it, I like it. What’s this really big news you’ve got?” The bartender brought her drink.
Jane said, “Did you know about the lawsuit over one of Warren LaGarde’s otels?”
“Before Buddy, you mean. Old news, girlfriend. Two suits, by the way.”
Jane leaned back and widened her eyes, showing a lot of sparkly eye shadow. “Okay, I take it back. You are good.”
Talba shrugged. “With Buddy’s record, it figures, right? I knew it had to be there and I found it.”
“But this is big. How can you be so cavalier? It argues for some kind of merger. Or at the very least, a strategic alliance—between a huge corporation and a judge. Meaning Kristin and Buddy’s ill-fated nuptials.”
“You journalists talk like you write.” Talba tasted her drink. “I forget how good these things are. But about Kristin and Buddy—I just don’t see it that way. I was there when Buddy proposed, remember? And so was Daddy Warren. Believe me, he looked anything but pleased. Couldn’t wait to get himself first a stiff drink and then out of there, all in the space of five minutes.”
“Well, how would you expect him to feel? Buddy was his age. At least.”
“Well, you should see Warren’s wife. Still in training bras. But you can’t have it both ways—either it was some kind of arrangement or it wasn’t. Anyhow, the cases have already been settled. What’s to be gained now?”
“The romance obviously didn’t start now. Maybe it’s some kind of payoff.”
“What, the king offers the princess to his most faithful vassal? You’re getting medieval on me.”
“Okay, okay. But these people aren’t like you and me. You’ve heard the LaGardes are connected, haven’t you?”
“Mob? The LaGardes? No, I haven’t heard that.” Some things, alas, just couldn’t be looked up on the Internet.
Jane nodded smugly. “Oh, yeah. And guess how they’re connected? Through Kristin.”
“You’re losing me.”
“Okay, listen. You know she was married before, right?”
“Right. To a Daniel Truelove.”
“The son of Patrick Truelove and Victoria Mancuso Truelove, who happens to be the granddaughter of Joseph Mancuso. Surely you’ve heard of the Mancusos?”
Talba was flustered. “Oh, come on,” she said. “Old Joseph’s long dead.”
“Nonetheless, he had three sons, who own half the bars in the French Quarter, and most of the video poker machines in the state. Victoria’s on the board of every one of the operative corporations.”
Talba was about to say something, but Jane held up a finger. “Wait. And, upon graduation from Loyola Law School, young Dan joined his dad’s law firm, which represents the Mancusos.”
“Oh.” Talba tried to digest the news, annoyed that she hadn’t thought to background Truelove. “So what do you think it means? He and Kristin are divorced.”
“I’m working on it,” Jane said. “Now get out of here. My date’s due in ten minutes.”
Talba grinned. “Happy hunting,” she said, and left for her own date.
Chapter 16
The thing about
the kitten was that Talba was going to rescue it whether Raisa existed or not. The kitten needed rescuing, and it was a cute little thing, and who’d notice one more at home? No problem with Miz Clara—she was already in love; Blanche and Koko were bound to be next, if worse came to worst. But she was 90 percent sure this thing with Raisa would work out, and if it did, the kid would be indebted to her forever.
Plus, she had an ace in the hole—she was seeing Darryl that night, and Raisa wouldn’t be there. So, in the event Darryl had some major objection, it would be as if it had never happened.
And so, with all the confidence in the world, she wrestled the cat into a cardboard box, gathered up the feline supplies, and set off for the West Bank. Everything went swimmingly until Raisa answered the door.
Seemed her mother had had some kind of emergency. Damn. Wish I’d known so I could have canceled, was Talba’s first thought, but the kid was unexpectedly friendly. “Hey, you gotta see the Mardi Gras stuff. Come on, let’s look at it.” And then: “Whatcha got in the box?”
“I brought you a present,” she said, looking guiltily at Darryl. “A kitten.” she mouthed at him, and he began shaking his head, turning, she could have sworn, slightly pale.
But by now it was way too late. Gumbo had begun to protest the box, both vocally and physically—the animal was scratching at the top and sides of the box, finally managing to get a paw through the top.
Raisa stood back in awe, unable to believe her good fortune. “Is it…what I think it is?” She looked anxiously at her father.
“I think it might be,” he said, trying to recover.
“Careful,” Talba said. “I rescued it. It’s about half wild.” She opened the box and without further ceremony, Raisa reached in and grabbed. Talba had a bad moment, terrified the animal would take the skin off the kid’s arm. Instead, it relaxed into her hand, purring loudly.
“Oh. Daddy, look! A kitten! It’s really a kitten! I thought you said I couldn’t have one.”
Darryl was gaining poise by the moment. “Do you think you’re old enough to take care of it?”
“Yes!” And then, “I don’t know—how old do you have to be?”
Gumbo struggled to get loose. Raisa let the kitten go, and immediately it began an extended inspection tour of the Boucree residence. It looked adorable, poking its spotted nose into all the corners, making sure all the smells were kosher—no lions or goats in the vicinity. “We’ll see,” Darryl said. “We’ll see.” And then he sneezed.
“Uh-oh,” Talba said, but Raisa didn’t notice. Her attention was so thoroughly fixed on the kitten that Talba and Darryl were able to whisper unnoticed.
“I didn’t know she was going to be here—I was just going to try it out on you.”
“It might be okay—I’m only allergic to some cats.”
“Omigod, I’m sorry!”
“Maybe it could live outside.”
But Raisa heard that one, and had her own opinion: “No!”
Darryl busied himself making dinner, apparently not ready to deal with it. Meanwhile, Raisa asked for its provenance (though not exactly in those words) and Talba told the story of finding it starving at the marina and luring it home with shrimp. And its name—Gumbo.
Raisa asked, “Do I have to call it that?”
“No, you can name it anything you want.”
“Gumbo!” she said. “I love that name.” She was in heaven. Darryl was sniffling. She fixed up the cat box, and fed the little beast, and then took Talba and Gumbo into her room to see her Mardi Gras Indian tape. It was the first time Talba had ever been invited in.
By the time Darryl called them to dinner, they were a happy family unit for the first time ever—except that Darryl’s eyes were getting redder and redder.
Raisa was alarmed. “Daddy, what’s wrong? Are you crying?”
“Honey, I’ve got a little bad news.”
“Is that why you’re crying?”
“Sort of. Gumbo is making me cry. I’m allergic to him.”
“Her,” Talba said automatically. “All calicos are female.” She hadn’t bothered to mention this to Royce.
“Oh, Daddy, she’s a girl cat!” Raisa’s face was a montage of pleading and disappointment.
Darryl patted her. “Honey, we’ll try to work with it. Could we put her in your room for now?”
Raisa did that, and Darryl got up to get an allergy pill, but even as they ate, Raisa chattering, uncharacteristically happy throughout the meal, his face continued to swell.
Having finally exhausted the subject of the wondrous thing that had come into her life, Raisa moved on. “Hey, Talba, have you seen the tape Lucy took at the Bacchus party?”
Darryl and Talba looked at each other, silently deciding to ignore the elephant in the room. “Haven’t had a chance yet,” Talba said.
“Is it okay for me to have a white friend, Daddy? I really like Lucy. Could I see her again?”
“Sure you can have a white friend, if Lucy’s willing. But that’s kind of up to Lucy right now.”
“Good. I already know she likes me. She called me her precious little angel. Can’t we call her, Daddy? Talba, you could call her.”
Again, the exchange of glances. Finally, Talba said, “Honey, Lucy’s kind of going through a hard time right now. Something bad happened to her daddy.”
“Her daddy? What happened to her daddy?” Raisa looked anxiously at Darryl, as if she’d never considered that anything bad could ever happen to a daddy, even though something bad was happening to hers right now.
Suddenly Darryl made a decision. Before Talba could speak, he said, “Sweetie pie, let’s not talk about it right now.” And Talba doubted the girls would ever get together again. Darryl would probably do anything to protect his daughter from learning about the death of a daddy.
“But, Daddy, I want to know.”
On the other hand, he’d also do anything to keep her from going into a full-on pout. “When you’re old enough, baby doll. How was school today?”
Lame, Talba thought. No kid was going to fall for that.
But Raisa bit—for once, something unusual had happened. “Kyra’s taking ballet lessons. Do you know what ballet is?”
“I think I’ve heard of it—something to do with dancing?”
“Yeah, it is. They wear these really cute skirts and stuff—she showed me pictures of her recedure.”
Both adults took a moment to ponder. “Recital?” Talba ventured.
“Yeah! Recital. Hey, Daddy, can I take ballet lessons? I really want to. Can I do it, Daddy?”
Oh, God, just say yes, Talba thought. This kid’s never in her life wanted to do anything but watch television and torture adults—and not in that order.
“You really want to, huh?”
“Yeah! I really want to!”
“Well, what are you going to do for me if I say yes?”
“I don’t have to do anything for you.” The pout was starting.
“Yes you do. You have to eat your soup.”
“Hate soup!”
“No soup, no ballet.”
And Raisa knew she had won. Talba felt she had, too—she barely recognized this child. Was it possible that so simple a thing as a day with a camcorder had begun to pry open her world? But things happened that way. She could recall learning to read as if it were yesterday—how for the first time she understood that she could make sense out of all those squiggles by herself, without adult assistance.
And the time a poet had come to talk to her sixth-grade class, and it was a black female poet. She had had no interest in poetry up till that moment. But here was a woman who was her color and she could make words sing as if they were birds. And more, she’d taken an interest in Talba—in some stupid classroom poem she’d written. That woman had changed Talba’s life forever. Come to think of it, her first-grade teacher had also taken a shine to her, given her special attention. Maybe Lucy could play that role in Raisa’s life—or maybe she already had. Maybe the k
id was destined to be a great cinematographer just because an older girl—a teenager, however geeky—had called her a precious angel and showed her how to work a camera.
Or maybe miracles didn’t happen.
They were clearing up the dishes when her cell phone rang. Normally, she would have ignored it, but things were hot enough at the moment that she checked her caller ID. None other than Warren LaGarde was on the line.
She clicked him into her life.
“Miss Wallis? We haven’t met, but I’m Kristin LaGarde’s father. I wonder if you’d have lunch with me tomorrow. I have some things to talk to you about.”
Talba asked no questions. This was definitely a man she wanted to meet. “Sure. I’d be happy to.”
“Good. The Rembrandt Hotel at noon. Have the desk call me.” He rang off without waiting for an answer.
As she hung up, she saw that she’d just missed a call from someone else. Speak of the devil, she thought. There was a voicemail from Lucy: “Talba, I wrote a poem I want to show you. Could you come over tomorrow?”
Every kid, she thought, wanted an older friend: Raisa wanted Lucy, Lucy wanted Talba. Well, that was fine with Talba—in fact, it was the least she could do. She wondered if she’d be working off her guilt about the Champagnes for the rest of her life.
Later, when Raisa was in bed, she told Darryl about the two calls. “Pursue that Lucy thing,” he said. “I smell a great little babysitter here.”
“Think you can keep Raisa from finding out about Buddy forever?”
“Damn, that was close! Wonder why she didn’t pursue it? You know how she can be.”
“She’s changed, Darryl. Has Kimmie been giving her Nice Pills or what?”
“Don’t get too excited. When I put her to bed, she asked if we could ever have a night without you.”
“That’s my girl. But you know what? She might really be turning a corner.”
“Oh, sure. And it just snowed in the Amazon. What’s new in the case?”
“Well, I finally know what happened that night—or what I think did. Buddy apparently called the night watchman and said he could go home because Buddy had to meet someone at the marina.”