by Julie Smith
“It turned out they were Cassie’s gloves—a few sizes too small for Wayne, and the wrong season, anyhow.”
“Oh.”
“Eddie, I felt so sorry for that woman. Oh, my God! What if she’d shot him? What would have become of that poor child?” She made fists and hit the knuckles together. “When I think about it I could just kill those two fools! God, I’m mad. And that poem—it just came out of me. I actually thought I could stop a murder with a poem. I’m the one who could have gotten killed. Do you realize that? She shot at me.”
“So much,” Eddie said, “for the pen bein’ mightier than the sword.”
“But you know what, I couldn’t stop myself. I didn’t even think, I just… started yelling.” Ms. Wallis took a deep sip, and leaned back, apparently reliving the event. “But in the end it worked out, because the cops heard the shot—that’s how they knew where to go. See, I forgot to tell you that part. I had them on auto-dial and when things turned bad, I called them—but I couldn’t talk. It turned out they answered the phone, which was in my pocket—so they heard some of what was happening, they just didn’t know where it was. You know what I’m getting first chance I get?”
He nodded. He was way ahead of her here. “A cell phone with a GPS in it.” He was surprised she hadn’t already gotten herself one.
“Yeah, well, they were searching all over and some of them were close enough to hear the shot. Good thing that Miss Weatherby didn’t start shooting. You will never in a million years guess who she turned out to be.”
It was a vaguely familiar name. “Weatherby. I know a Neil Weatherby—worked with him a few times. PI out of Bay St. Louis.”
“That’s where she’s from. She’s got to be his daughter. Well, guess what, she joined the family firm—got a permit for the gun and everything. That woman was a PI taking Wayne’s class because she wants to write PI novels. You believe that?”
“Ms. Wallis,” he said wryly, “that’s not exactly the most arrestin’ part of this narrative.” He wasn’t sure what part was. “So tell me,” he said, “did Wayne do his buddy Hunt?”
She shook her head. “Jury’s still out on that one.”
***
Talba knew she owed it to Eddie to give him a report the minute the police turned her loose. But what she’d really wanted to do was go over to Allyson Brower’s and tear Batman and Robin limb from limb. She’d hesitated on the wine, lest it weaken her resolve, and sure enough, it had. She went home and slept instead.
She awoke to find Miz Clara arranging two dozen red roses in the kitchen. “Look what somebody sent ya. Wasn’t Darryl Boucree, neither.”
Talba snatched up the card—“Have renounced Satan, found Jesus, joined AA, shaved heads, and donned sackcloth. Can you find it in your heart to speak to us ever again? Love, Dumb Daneene and Dumber Edwards.”
In spite of herself, her lips twitched as she wondered how they’d look with shaved heads, but she knew she wasn’t about to find out—because everything in the note was undoubtedly a lie.
“Who they is?” Miz Clara said. “And what’d they do that’s dumber’n the next thing? What’s all that sacrilegious mess?”
“Mama, you have no idea. But ‘mess’ works fine. They made a big fat mess. But at least a few things got cleared up. You ready to meet Janessa?”
Miz Clara didn’t look up from the vase, but Talba could see that her jaw muscles softened a bit. “Tol’ ya I was.”
“Okay. Shall I invite her over or what?”
“Tonight be okay. I’ll make chicken.”
Talba got her sister on the phone. “Janessa, I got a hell of a deal for you. You want to try the best fried chicken in New Orleans? Mama wants you to come over tonight.”
“For real?”
“She said it herself.”
“Whoa! I can’t believe it. Can I bring Rashad?”
Talba hesitated. “Rashad is certainly welcome here, but maybe the first time, just you and Miz Clara—what do you think?”
“You call ya Mama ‘Miz’ somethin’? What’s up with that?”
“Everybody calls her that—it’s what she calls herself.”
“That ain’t why you said it. You were tellin’ me what ya want me to call her—’cause ya think I’m not smart enough to figure it out.”
“Janessa, when I’m talking to my own brother we call her ‘Miz Clara.’ ”
“Ya own brother. I love that. Like I’m not ya own sister.”
“Wait a minute—how’d we end up in a fight? I just called to invite you to dinner. I thought that’s what you wanted.”
“I don’t want no part of your fancy-ass family, Ms. Talba Wallis. You can just forget about it.”
She left Talba listening to a dial tone, thinking it was the first time she’d ever been told off for asking someone to dinner. Not to mention the first time anybody’d called her family fancy. She wondered how Janessa was going to react to Michelle—because she was pretty sure she was going to get the chance. No way had she seen the last of this kid, as tempting a thought as it was.
She went in to give Miz Clara the news that Janessa seemed to have a previous commitment.
“I ain’ surprised,” her mama said. “Gon’ take her awhile.”
One thing, Talba decided—her own conscience was clear. She’d done what Janessa had asked, the girl had rejected it, and the ball was now in her sister’s court.
It was a week before she got the e-mail: “Dear Talba—I am sorry I lost my temper with you. I have been under a lot of pressure lately. Please thank Ms. Clara for the invitation and tell her I would be very happy to accept if I am ever invited again. Sincerely, Janessa Wallis.”
“It’s ‘Miz’ Clara,” Talba answered. “Come to my reading at Reggie and Chaz on the 18th. It’s open mike, so Rashad can read too. Talba.”
Of course, that meant mobilizing Miz Clara, so she invited Darryl and all three Valentinos to dinner at the restaurant before the reading. Both Eddie and Miz Clara more or less hated poetry (though they wouldn’t admit it), but they were crazy about each other. She figured she could get Eddie to come for Miz Clara, and Miz Clara would get a bonus—Eddie and Darryl both.
If Janessa came, she was set.
That night Angie had a special glow to her, Talba thought—and Eddie had news. “My buddy LaBauve called with the dirt on Hunt Montjoy. Autopsy showed enough Tylenol in him to kill a moose. And guess what? Taylor told the cops he gave it to him.”
“You’re telling me he confessed to Hunt Montjoy’s murder?”
“Not exactly. Said he just handed him the bottle and paid no attention to how many Hunt took. Claimed Montjoy begged for it, his hand hurt so much from beating up his best buddy.”
“Oh, right. Regular good Samaritan. Well, hell. I guess once you’ve killed two people, what’s three?”
“Hold ya horses, Ms. Wallis. There’s more. Montjoy coulda died from all that Tylenol—mixed up with alcohol, of course—a fact Wayne Taylor couldn’t help but know. But there’s a cute little wrinkle here. Looks like somebody might’ve helped Mr. Montjoy along. He had a little tiny fiber in his nose. Like maybe somebody found him drunk in his car and tried to smother him. And here’s the kicker—that selfsame little bit of cotton matched up with pillowcases in old Hunt’s own house.”
Talba was thunderstruck. “Lynne? You mean Lynne finally had enough?” She knew something else about Lynne.
Eddie shrugged. “They questioned her, but she was cool as a mule. And face it, Hunt was a drunk—he could have slept with his face in the pillow the night before and gotten a thread up his nose.”
“Come on!”
“Point is, they couldn’t prove anything. But guess what else? Lynne Montjoy left town right after they turned her loose and nobody’s seen her since.”
“I know where she is. Her niece Kerry called me.”
“Well? Ya gon’ tell me or not?”
“It’s in my poem.”
After dinner, when they went in for the read
ing, the cause of Angie’s heightened complexion became obvious. Austin was waiting for her—an Austin who looked terrific bald as an eagle. “My God!” she said to Angie. “He really did shave his head. Don’t tell me he really found Jesus.”
Angie gave her a smug look. “He’s been known to invoke that name.”
“Oooh.” Talba held her ears. “Don’t tell me about it, whatever you do.”
Her eyes swept the room. So far, no Janessa. She watched Eddie shake hands with Austin, almost as if he didn’t want to kill him. From the look Audrey was giving him, she thought he was hot. Maybe Eddie would kill him.
Talba was third on the program that night, a place she liked. The audience was already warmed up, but they weren’t yet tired. When her name was called, she took the mike confidently, feeling properly aristocratic in head-to-toe fuchsia, the pants tight-fitting bells (not that different from those black ones she had), the top low in the front with loose, wafting sleeves that ended in graceful little points.
“Poetry,” she said, “is what I do to make sense of my life. Yes, I write it, but I live it, too, and we all live it, whether or not we see it. Sometimes life is rhythmic and nuanced, just like a poem, but it’s hard to hear the rhythms unless you consciously sit down and try to make art out of it. Always, it’s a blank page before it begins to form into patterns, and it’s easy to think the blankness is all there is. So the Baroness myself goes in for poem therapy. I hope y’all will indulge me. This poem is called: The Story of My Life After Hurricane Carol.”
She opened her poem and began to read, once more repeating the title, as was her custom:
“The Story of My Life After Hurricane Carol.”
The town was wet
And the town was mean.
And Hurricane Carol was on her way
When my damn phone rang.
Nothing good could come of it,
Nothing good could follow it,
But I answered my phone when it rang that day.
And two weeks later I was in a classroom,
In a highly respected institution
Of higher learning
When two students whipped out their guns.
This was not no high school.
This was not no Columbine.
These were grown-up middle class
White ladies
Ready to shoot up a university
Classroom.
Y’all mighta read about it.
It turned out that somebody’s husband,
A highly respected professeur
Of higher learning
Had up and killed his girlfriend and then
Her mama, just to round things out,
And finally he got beat up by his best friend
For trying to set him up for his crimes.
After the friend beat him up,
He turned up dead himself.
Now, did our professeur kill his lifelong pal?
Coulda.
Coulda done that thing.
But so could the best pal’s
Cheated-on wife—
Tight, pinch-faced,
Troubled lady.
Left town last week
To marry an Episcopal priest
She’d known for twenty years.
And hers ain’t the only
Happy ending.
The Baroness myself got two new cats,
Used to live with
The ill-fated victims.
But they ain’t got
Nothin’ to say.
Nothin’ much, nohow.
“Blanche and Koko, start talkin’,”
I say,
And they do.
Say, “feed us.”
Y’all think I am makin ’ this up,
And usually I do.
But this poem is true,
And is dedicated to my sister who
May or not be here with you.
And me.
Stand up if you are, Janessa.
Here, she paused, just in case. No one stood, but no problem—she’d written two endings. She recited the alternate:
Well, she ain’t here, but
Y’all are, and the Baroness myself
Has this to say:
Never, ever, whatever you do,
Answer the phone in a hurricane.
Unless ya want to live some poetry.
She had delivered the poem in her usual melodramatic, sing-songy style, almost yelling it, and winding down as she reached the end. She was about to take her bow when Janessa came in with Rashad, now as bald as her brother, Corey. She wondered if the James boys had shaved their heads just before the reading. She said, “Well, hey there, Janessa, baby. Hey, everybody, that’s my little sister!”
The crowd broke into wild applause. There, Talba thought. Never say I didn’t claim you. Fool that I am.
To the audience, she said, “Y’all beware of ringing phones now. The Baroness myself thanks you.”
THE END
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Get PI ON A HOT TIN ROOF at www.booksbnimble.com
The Talba Wallis Series
LOUISIANA HOTSHOT
LOUISIANA BIGSHOT
LOUISIANA LAMENT
P.I. ON A HOT TIN ROOF
Also by Julie Smith:
The Skip Langdon Series
NEW ORLEANS MOURNING
THE AXEMAN’S JAZZ
JAZZ FUNERAL
DEATH BEFORE FACEBOOK
(formerly NEW ORLEANS BEAT)
HOUSE OF BLUES
THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS
CRESCENT CITY CONNECTION
(formerly CRESCENT CITY KILL)
82 DESIRE
MEAN WOMAN BLUES
The Rebecca Schwartz Series
DEATH TURNS A TRICK
THE SOURDOUGH WARS
TOURIST TRAP
DEAD IN THE WATER
OTHER PEOPLE’S SKELETONS
The Paul Mcdonald Series
TRUE-LIFE ADVENTURE
HUCKLEBERRY FIEND
As Well As
WRITING YOUR WAY: THE GREAT AMERICAN NOVEL TRACK
NEW ORLEANS NOIR (ed.)
And don’t miss ALWAYS OTHELLO, a Skip Langdon story, as well as the brand new short story, PRIVATE CHICK, which asks the question, “Is this country ready for a drag queen detective?” More info at www.booksBnimble.com.
Acknowledgments
All my thanks to Greg Herren, Kathy Perry, Betsy Petersen, Win Blevins, and Lee Pryor for editorial aid and comfort, to Hurricane Carol for the use of her name, to retired Captain Linda Buczek for police procedure, to Carol Gelderman for UNO expertise, to Bethany Bultman for biker advice, and especially to Gregory Holt for menhaden lore.
In addition to advice about the world in general, I often turn to friends for a better understanding of my characters. In this case, I must thank Michael Stoehr for his thoughts on the strangeness of love and seduction, and Rosemary Daniell (both in conversation and in her wonderful book Confessions of a Female Chauvinist) for insight into Famous Southern Poets.
Finally, I’d like to thank my Pete’s drinking buddies: Kathy Perry, Mary Bode, John O’Rourke, Ken Cunningham, Tommy LeFort, and Iva Jean Graff for their companionship and hospitality.
About the Author
JULIE SMITH is a New O
rleans writer and former reporter for the San Francisco Chronicle and the Times-Picayune. New Orleans Mourning, her first novel featuring New Orleans cop Skip Langdon, won the Edgar Allan Poe Award for Best Novel, and she has since published eight more highly-acclaimed books in the series, plus spun off a second New Orleans series featuring PI and poet Talba Wallis.
She is also the author of the Rebecca Schwartz series and the Paul Mcdonald series, plus the YA novels CURSEBUSTERS! and EXPOSED. In addition to her novels, she’s written numerous essays and short stories and is the editor of NEW ORLEANS NOIR.
The next book in the Talba Wallis series is PI ON A HOT TIN ROOF. Here’s a sneak preview:
Chapter One
It was one of those robot voices, a male one: “You have a collect call from Orleans Parish Prison.”
Uh-uh. She didn’t.
Talba Wallis was already crying and she didn’t need any more grief, but she didn’t give it a thought. This one wasn’t for her. She got those calls about every three months. Something happened to people’s dialing fingers in Central Lockup, maybe from the drugs or alcohol that got them in there in the first place. She clicked off her cell phone and went back to chopping onions. Her mama, Miz Clara, was slow-cooking ribs in the oven, and Talba was making potato salad for a family meal: Her brother Corey, his wife Michelle, and the adorable Sophia Pontalba (partially named for her aunt, and now talking a blue streak) were coming over soon. Talba still had to make greens, too—her way, not Miz Clara’s. Her mother was inclined to cook them for hours, with lots of pork. Talba and Michelle liked them just barely wilted. Dessert was king cake, a present from one of Miz Clara’s housecleaning clients, so no worries there.
She had time, if she put her mind to it.
By the time the phone rang again, she had the salad together and had begun washing the greens. The same voice again. She sighed. May as well tell the poor bastard he had the wrong number. She reached for the phone, nearly tripping over two cats currently trying to wrap themselves around her legs to get her mind off her cooking and on their dinner. She waited for the prisoner’s name.
“Talba, it’s Angie. I need you.”