Louisiana Bigshot

by Julie Smith

  She waited to approach until the kid had found some more kids to play with, and more or less sneaked up as Hunter was watching them.

  “Hunter?” Her first name; last names put people on the defensive, told them the speaker was a stranger.

  The woman whirled, a pleasant, expectant expression on her face. “Yes?” Instantly, her eyes widened.

  Fear, Talba thought. Not what she expected. “Busted,” she said.

  “What?”

  “You sure recognized me fast.”

  “I recognize you, and I want you to leave.” Cold anger now. That was more like it.

  “Your sister and I were close, you know.”

  “I said leave me alone.” Hunter turned her back.

  This was going nowhere fast. Eddie wouldn’t have this problem, she thought. But what the hell would he do?

  He’d somehow get Hunter on a subject she was interested in, nothing to do with her sister. And Talba knew one, but it needed a good introduction. “ ‘Unbidden guests,’ ” she said, “ ‘are often welcomest when they are gone.’ ”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said don’t send me away too fast—you might change your mind the minute I leave.”

  “Not even slightly likely.” But there was a softening in her eyes.

  “And I quoted Shakespeare because I know you’re an actress. I’ve been wondering what it’s like for a person in the arts, living in Clayton.”

  “Well, it’s no picnic.” Hunter looked almost startled, as if she’d surprised herself.

  Talba was struggling wildly for rapport. Not sure whether it was make-or-break, she blurted, “Tell me. Were you as upset as I was by your sister’s funeral?”

  Hunter, watching the children, turned again toward Talba, and stared. “Oh, God. They hate her so much.”

  “Even you?”

  “No. I didn’t hate her. She was the only big sister I had.” Her eyes brimmed. “That son of a bitch is the one I hate. Your client.” Her face turned back toward her child.

  “I did too, at first. Remember, I was the one who got the goods on him. It took a lot of courage for him to come to me.”

  “He might as well have shot her.”

  “Look here. Every story’s got two sides. You know that. I can’t tell you Jason’s story—he’s my client; but I can tell you, he loved your sister.” Hunter turned angrily toward her again. “Oh, yeah, he cheated on her; and oh, yeah, it was ugly. But what I can tell you is that he was unsure of her. That he did it out of frustration.”

  “Now that I can almost believe.”

  “You can?”

  “Oh, she could freeze you. She even did it to me sometimes. And I was the only one in the family she spoke to. She hated us worse than we hated her. She hated the whole town. And the whole damn town hated her.”

  Talba thought, This is big. I can’t lose it. She paused for a moment so as not to seem too eager. She spoke softly, almost whispering: “Why? Why did they hate her?”

  “Omigod! Lily! Lily!” Hunter ran toward the children. One of the kids had smacked hers with a plastic shovel.

  Talba looked on helplessly as Hunter soothed the kid and negotiated with the two other mothers, whose kids were also in tears by now. Hunter stuck around and talked to the moms after the kids had settled down. It was probably a good fifteen minutes before she came back to Talba.

  “Where were we?” she said, perfectly cooperative. That meant she must have decided to talk, rather than just fallen into it. That was good. But the moment was gone.

  Talba said, “You were telling me how much they hate her.”

  Hunter shrugged. “Oh, yeah. They do.”

  “But why?”

  She shrugged again. “Because she’s such a crybaby, I guess.”

  Talba noticed vaguely that they were still talking about Clayton in the present tense. She’d be doing it for months, she suspected. “You mean about the scalping thing?”

  Once again, Hunter took her eyes off her offspring, and once again they were angry. “You know about that?”

  Talba nodded.

  “Sure you do. Everybody that knew her knew about it. It was the defining fucking moment of her whole fucking life. Look, I know it was a terrible thing and all that, but it turned her into Clayton-the-victim. That’s all she was. Expected everything from everybody every second just because she got her precious self hurt.”

  “Like what? Give me an example.”

  Talba could have sworn a tiny flicker of surprise crossed Hunter’s face, as if the question hadn’t really occurred to her, but she just said, “You didn’t know her. It’s just the way she was.”

  She wanted to say, I did know her. She wasn’t that way. But the last thing she wanted was an argument.

  “May I tell you about my last experience with her?”

  Grudgingly, Hunter nodded. “I hurt my back in an accident. I could barely walk, no kidding. I just got the tow truck to drop me there. She practically carried me up the stairs, Hunter. I arrived in a heap and I left walking. She could work miracles, almost. You could feel something very unusual in her fingers.” Talba meant love, but she didn’t quite have the courage to say it. “You could feel it, do you know what I’m talking about? Does that sound like someone who’s a victim? Who only cared about herself? Wasn’t she ever kind to you when no one else was?”

  “Yes.” Hunter’s voice was choked. Tears rolled down her cheeks. “Lou Ann always took up for her. She talked about that too.”

  “Lou Ann?”

  “Lou Ann Ferris. Her best friend in high school. She made me remember that. How sweet Clayton was when my marriage broke up; how she said I could come visit her anytime I wanted and stay as long as I wanted, and bring Lily. Mama and Daddy tried to make me stay with the bastard, even though he was cheating on me. And other times, when I was in high school, Clayton took up for me. When Mama got on me.”

  “She had a side to her no one in town saw. Why was that, do you think?”

  “I don’t know. I guess ’cause she was always so hateful to Mama and Daddy.”

  “Was she really? Or was that the family myth?”

  Hunter wrinkled up her nose. “What?”

  Talba dropped it; she could feel herself start to get argumentative.

  “Tell me something. Do you think she was using drugs?”

  “I sure didn’t think so. But how else do you explain… it?”

  “Why didn’t you think so?”

  “Oh, you know. She was so pure. So holy.”

  “So completely the opposite of what the preacher said.”

  Hunter winced. “I was real upset about all that,” she said softly.

  “It must have been a hard night for a little eight-year-old,” Talba said. “The night she got attacked.”

  Hunter’s blue eyes got bigger and bigger as she saw where Talba was going, as if she just couldn’t believe what was coming out of the black woman’s mouth.

  “Do you know? The weirdest thing. Nobody’s ever asked me about it.”

  “Oh, come on. You never had a college gabfest, and every one told secrets?”

  The girl’s eyes strayed back to the children. “I didn’t go to college. I married a boy I grew up with. We went to school together, church together, swimming at the country club together, camp together. He probably knew more about me than I knew about myself.

  “He knew me, but I sure didn’t know him.”

  There was something so hurt about her Talba ventured a guess. “Mean streak?”

  “Mean, drunk streak. Oh, yeah. I could put up with it when it was me, but when it was that tiny innocent child…” Her eyes flooded again.

  “I’m sorry.” Talba paused long enough to give the words some weight. “So you never met anybody who didn’t know your sister got scalped in her own bedroom with the whole family at home?”

  Hunter tossed her head from side to side, as if trying to shake something off. Talba could see that the girl profoundly wanted her to shut u
p. She wasn’t about to. “That kind of thing could stay with you forever. They didn’t even take you for counseling or anything?”

  “Well… no. I don’t guess they thought about it.”

  “Do you ever dream about that night?”

  “Oh, God! I used to. I used to all the time. And I started wetting the bed—at eight! Can you imagine? And Mama used to shame me for it.”

  Mama sounded like even more of a piece of work than Talba’d imagined. “I’m curious. Did you dream about what really happened or just some generic nightmare?”

  Hunter just shook her head, her face a study in sadness.

  “I’m asking because something real bad happened to me when I was a kid, and I dreamed about it. Even as an adult. Sort of waking dreams.”

  “What were the dreams like?”

  “Blood,” said Talba. “There was so much blood…”

  “Oh, shit.” Hunter collapsed in loud, rolling sobs. So loud Lily heard, burst into tears herself, and came running. Hunter picked her up and held her, and each, the child and the child-woman, tried to comfort the other.

  Talba murmured that she was sorry and slunk away, disturbed that she’d upset an entire family unit, but thinking it a poor time to continue the interview.

  She drove to the nearest gas station, found a phone book, and turned to “Ferris,” amazed at her good fortune in unearthing a high school friend—apparently one who was still loyal to Clayton.

  There were four Ferrises, and she started at the top.

  “I’m calling Lou Ann Ferris… .”

  “Sorry, you got the wrong number.”

  “Hello, I’m calling Lou Ann Ferris.”

  “Lou Ann Ferris, or Roxanne Ferris? My grandmama was Lou Ann Ferris, but she’s been dead for eight and a half years. No, seven and a half. Harry, what year did Grandma die?”

  Why did people love details like that? Talba wondered. She got lucky on the third phone call.

  “Lou Ann Ferris? You must be an old friend.”

  “Yes, ma’am, Lou Ann and I…”

  “ ’Cause Lou Ann, she got married seven years ago. Married Dr. Fletcher Dumontier.” Talba suddenly realized that the woman she was talking to must be the Ferris family’s maid. “Yes, Lord. And two little girls, too.”

  “No! Well, I can’t wait to catch up with her. I’m visiting from Baton Rouge, and I thought I’d call. You wouldn’t have her phone number, would you?”

  The woman did, and an address. Talba thanked her stars she hadn’t gotten some more suspicious soul.

  Dr. Fletcher Dumontier lived in a development on a hill outside of town, with plenty of land around it and a Lexus in the driveway. Lou Ann’s, with any luck.

  Talba mounted the steps of the mini-mansion, figuring there was probably a view of a golf course at the top; that was the kind of neighborhood it was. The woman who came to the door had short hair that fit her like a helmet. She was dressed in tennis clothes—plain sleeveless T-shirt and some sort of garment that appeared to be a skirt in front and shorts in the back. Her face was twisted up like she’d eaten some thing bitter. Talba wondered if it was a piece of her life.

  Or maybe she was late for her tennis game.

  “Hello, I’m Talba Wallis… ”

  “I know who you are.” Ferris’s face twisted tighter. “I remember you from the funeral.”

  Talba smiled, as if she didn’t even realize she was being frozen out. “I just talked to Hunter Patterson. She sure is a nice girl, isn’t she?”

  This was a trick Eddie had taught her—never cut to the chase. Make them like you first. Say whatever you have to to get them on your side.

  “All alone with that little bitty baby. I feel so sorry for her… .”

  Ferris didn’t change expression, didn’t join in the conversation, and didn’t ask what she could do for her visitor. Talba looked around, appreciating her surroundings. “This sure is a beautiful place you have here.”

  “If you don’t leave by the time I count to five, I’m calling the sheriff.”

  Talba stepped back, acting out being shoved, and it wasn’t that much of an act. In every way but physically, she had been.

  “But… I thought you of all people. Being Clayton’s best friend…”

  Ferris reached over to a table, picked up a cell phone, and began punching in numbers. “One,” she said. “Two….”

  Goddammit, Talba thought. I need some black people.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Now where would you find black people in a town like Clayton?

  They’d be working, she figured. Anywhere there was work getting done, they’d be doing it.

  She tried the high school first and sure enough, the principal was black; so was his secretary.

  This was more like it.

  Here, they politely directed her to the school library, where the librarian—who was white, but apparently not a Patterson crony—quite helpfully pulled out the yearbooks for the years in question. The late eighties, Talba figured. Anyone who’d been in school then probably knew Clayton.

  There were five African-Americans—Ebony Frenette, April Mullett, Reginald Oliver, Marshannon Porter, and Calvin Richard.

  Not that many, but at least three were boys, who probably wouldn’t have changed their names. She handed back the yearbooks, asked for the phone book, and looked up all five.

  Three of the names were there, among them, (glory be!) Ebony Frenette. The others were Marshannon Porter and Calvin Richard.

  Talba’s stomach grumbled, prompting her to look at her watch. Nearly two, and she was starving. Not wanting to be seen around town any more than she had to, she drove to the outskirts and found a Wendy’s, her unvarying choice when it came to fast food. At least there, she could get salads—not only were they good for you, there was so much to munch, such robust chewing to be done. And utterly without guilt. She didn’t give the dressing a second thought.

  As she worked her mandibles, she thought about things. She hadn’t yet bearded the judge in the scalping case, but she wasn’t up to it today. Today was a day for deep background, a good time to see if there were any loose tongues at all in this town. Because if there were, they’d almost certainly be attached to black bodies.

  I wonder, she thought. I just wonder.

  The person she was thinking of was the African-American woman she’d seen at the cemetery after the funeral. She was no spring chicken, though Talba couldn’t begin to guess her age. Still, she was probably old enough to have worked for the Pattersons sixteen years ago.

  Talba could feel her blood starting to race. If the woman had been there then, she was practically an eyewitness. White people talked about everything in front of the maid. Talba knew all about it from her own mama, who’d cleaned enough white women’s houses to start her own fortune-telling business, as she was fond of saying. Miz Clara claimed they said everything there was to say about each other. She knew intimate secrets about women she’d never even met. And some times she knew what the future held too—if Elsie’s husband was sleeping with Nina down the block, there was a divorce in somebody’s stars.

  “Law, the money I could make,” Miz Clara liked to say, and laugh; there wasn’t much about her job she laughed about.

  If this woman, the current cleaner, had actually been there when Clayton got scalped, there wasn’t anything she wouldn’t know about it.

  Talba figured chances were good the woman would get off somewhere between three and six, and that was now. Perfect. It would take her awhile to find the house, and Talba could just sit in the car and wait till she came out, then maybe get her license number and run it to get her name. Or maybe talk to her right then. Some opportunity would present itself.

  The Pattersons’ house was enormous, located on a block with several of its sisters and brothers and a whole lot of poor relations, brick houses from the fifties. Evidently, the small ones were now classed as “teardowns.” The others were all far too big for their lots.

  The Pattersons
’ even had a circular driveway, though it hardly needed one so few feet from the curb. There was only a tiny patch of green at the front, planted with flowers of the season—mums, pansies, and a Calhoun-for-Governor placard.

  Not a bad sign, Talba thought, wincing at the pun. At least they aren’t racist assholes.

  The house itself made all the sense in the world. The Pattersons had money and Deborah was a decorator. Even though all their chicks had flown from the nest, they’d have to have a state-of-the-art domicile. This thing had fan windows, antique-style lighting fixtures, and a fall wreath on the door that rang false in the still-steaming weather.

  Talba was discouraged by the sheer size of it. Surely no cleaning lady could get out before six. She circled the block. She couldn’t comfortably park on this block—it was way too white, way too quiet.

  She circled again. She certainly wasn’t going to call the sheriff and say not to bother her because she was a big city PI doing a job in Clayton. Somehow, she just didn’t figure that was going to go down well.

  No car was parked in the circular driveway. One of the others on the block might be the maid’s, but Talba couldn’t pick out a likely one. Her own Isuzu, though, was conspicuous. It could pass just fine in New Orleans, but it was too old, too shabby for this neighborhood.

  She found that when she parked on a side street, she could just see the front of the Patterson house. The problem was, this street was as white and quiet as the other. She got out a book—never traveled without one, never knew when she might get bored—moved over to the passenger side, and held it up ostentatiously.

  A few people came and went, some women with strollers, some men getting off work, some kids out looking for trouble. If anyone gave her so much as a second glance, she made a point of frowning and looking at her watch, as if getting really sick of waiting. It seemed to be working just fine, but after half an hour or so, she thought she was pressing her luck, and moved to the opposite side street. She’d been there about fifteen minutes when a man approached her.

  “Excuse me, are you waiting for somebody?”