A Woman’s Eye

A MATCH MADE IN HELL by Julie Smith

Like Marcia Muller, JULIE SMITH is a California-based writer (Berkeley) and has given us three splendid series detectives-Rebecca Schwartz, a lawyer with clients in deep trouble; Skip Langdon, an officer with the New Orleans Police Department; and Paul McDonald, a mystery writer with considerable personal experience in things criminous. The fact that Ms. Smith is a former journalist may help account for the rugged realism of her writing.

Cursing the inventors of pantyhose, June weddings, and Southern tradition, Skip took the arm of the freckle-faced young usher and walked down the damn aisle. Her pantyhose swished as her thighs touched. The skinny little usher made her feel like a freak. He was about five six; Skip was six feet and Junoesque. (Or that was one way to put it; other ways were less polite.)

“Aren’t you Skip Langdon? I remember you from Icebreakers.”

Icebreakers. Seventh-grade subscription dances. The kid’s face at twelve popped into focus: “Rhett Buchanan-not again!”

The usher giggled and dropped her off. They had been a terrible mismatch as junior high dancing partners and they still were. As far as Skip was concerned, she was mismatched with everyone and everything in New Orleans-maybe she’d come back to “work out” something. Who knew? It was a weird thing; she knew she didn’t fit in, had never fit in, probably never would fit in, but when she’d decided to become a cop, she also knew she had to do it in New Orleans. She didn’t know why, it was just that way.

The success of the exercise had yet to be determined. Uptown New Orleans, where Skip had grown up despite her daddy’s Mississippi beginnings, seemed to her as ingrown-and as stifling-as any town in West Virginia. But it looked as if once you’d graduated from McGehee’s and pledged Kappa, you were part of the equation even if you were a six-foot female cop from Mars-one of the gang whether you liked it or not. Frequently she hated it-at the moment, for instance.

The congregation stood for the wedding march. Clouds of clashing floral perfumes engulfed Skip, and she felt her left shoe begin to rub a blister on her heel. The soft gray pumps were new, to go with the lilac suit she’d probably never wear again.

The bride, darling Weezee Rounsaville, flashed thousands of dollars of wondrous white at her admirers. Skip knew for a fact from Alison Gaillard, who had made her come to this carnival of silliness in the first place, that Weezee’s daddy had practically gone into hock to pay for his little girl’s “cosmetic dentistry”; the standard straightening wasn’t good enough for a future queen of Comus.

But the investment had paid off handsomely. Mardi Gras queens were a dime a dozen; marrying Aubrey Delacroix was a stellar achievement. Aubrey had dark, Creole good looks and several million dollars.

As for the bride, darling Weezee looked like an anemic angel-the white wispy hair, milk-white skin, and pouty lips style of beauty. Absolutely ethereal in ivory satin. If that train were any longer, Skip thought, they’d have to call it the Chattanooga Choo-Choo.

The congregation sat The minister mentioned why they were there: “To join together,” etc., etc.

Damn! There was her egregious brother Conrad, king of the “suppies” (Southern Urban Pains in the butt). This was his sort of thing, not hers. What was she doing here? Pleasing Alison Gaillard, that was what-it had become almost a career with her.

“If any of you,” intoned the minister, “can show just cause why they may not lawfully be married, speak now; or else forever hold your peace.”

That part tended to wake Skip up. She always sat up straighter, half wishing for someone to accept the invitation and liven up the proceedings.

Something banged at the rear of the sanctuary. Before she had time to turn, something else banged at the front. A figure burst from a door to the left, a man dressed in black, watch cap on head, stocking over face. He was holding a metal object at his side-a handgun? Automatically, she reached for her purse, her.38. But… damn! She hadn’t brought it. It wouldn’t fit into the leather envelope Alison had talked her into. Never again! Never, never never! Shit!

She ground her teeth in agony, watching the man raise the gun.

“I can show just cause.” The voice came not from him, but from the rear of the church. “The groom’s dead.”

The man in black fired, fired again. Skip couldn’t tell if Aubrey was hit. The best man, standing next to him, lifted off his feet and fell against him, knocking him backward, blood gushing onto his white shirt.

Over Weezee’s screams, the bridesmaids’ screams, all the screams in Creole hell, the voice from the rear spoke again. “Everyone stay where you are. Anybody move and I waste the place.”

Skip turned. The man in the back also was dressed in black, also wore a stocking. He was pointing an Uzi. The shooter joined him, “Count to ten,” said the speaker, and they were out the door.

Skip was halfway down the aisle before a round of gunfire tore through the heavy air of the afternoon. A warning. Now the aisle was filling up. Should she try to get to the victims? No. A doctor would go, maybe half a dozen. That was the kind of crowd it was.

“Police! Let me through! Police!”

She might as well have been reciting “Hail Marys” for all the good it did her.

Alison Gaillard caught up with her, tugged at her elbow. She had on a peach-colored dress and straw hat with matching floaty band, like some caricature of a Southern belle in a rum ad-Try some of this in your Scorpion, Talk about deadly! Except the woman in the ad would be running barefoot on a beach instead of teetering on heels that were more like stilts. And she wouldn’t have tears welling in her china-blues. “Oh, Skippy, not Aubrey!”

Oh, Alison, not this crap!

Skip thought it. But she said, “Get me through this crowd, will you?”

Alison had the right shoes for it. Some might have kicked ass; Alison wasted insteps. Sailing past the injured, Skip finally made it outside. It was June 30, last chance for a June wedding, but the weather was more like August. Humid and still. Air you practically had to swim through. She felt her suit wilt as she ran to the curb, getting there just in time to watch a gray car turn the corner.

A maverick breeze caught Alison’s hatband; it fluttered artistically. “Nobody ever thought Buddy Carothers meant it. I mean, everybody says they’re gon’ kill their girl friend’s new flame.”

“Alison, hold it. Weezee dumped someone for Aubrey?”

“There was a big scene at the Twelfth Night Revelers-didn’t you hear about it?”

Skip shook her head. The revelers held their ball on the night in question, which meant the big scene would have been almost six months earlier. Plenty of time for tempers to cool.

“Buddy said he’d kill Aubrey on his wedding day. Who knew he meant it?”

Skip heard sirens. Good. Someone had thought to call the police. But for the moment she was the sole representative thereof. She went back inside, made her way to the front and found Aubrey well, standing outside a small crowd shaking their heads around the fallen best man. Three doctors had tried to help him. They told her, in that Southern way that simultaneously celebrates euphemism and false piety, that there was “nothing they could do for him.”

They also told her he was Aubrey’s father Noel, the Delacroix patriarch and head of the shipping company the family had founded.

She called homicide and returned quickly to help the uniformed officers who’d be the first to arrive. Since it was a Saturday, it was a while before the detectives came-when they did there was good news and bad news. The two who turned up were Joe Tarantino, a prince of a guy in Skip’s book, and Frank O’Rourke, who had personal problems and liked to make Skip his personal scapegoat.

“Hey, Skip,” said Joe. “You a witness?”

“Hello, Langdon,” said Frank. “Tried Weight Watchers yet?”

She gave them her Buddy Carothers gossip, made herself useful taking statements, and in the end succeeded in behaving in so puppylike a fashion that Joe asked if she wanted to take a ride over to Buddy’s.

O’Rourke was outraged: “She can’t investigate. She’s a witness!”

Joe only shrugged, “So maybe she can ID the guy,”

Buddy lived in half a double shotgun up near Carrollton, A small gray car parked outside could have been the one Skip had seen at the church. But Buddy didn’t answer the door. It opened when Frank tried it. The three looked at each other and shrugged, all knowing they shouldn’t enter, all agreeing they were going to.

It was clammy and dark inside. They built these old places to stay cool no matter how hot it got, and the AC was on as well. Skip shivered.

There was no one in the living room. All was quiet. But they found a heavy-breathing lump under a sour sheet on the bed. Beer bottles were everywhere, and a half-drunk bottle of bourbon on the floor hadn’t been reclosed. The bedroom reeked. A.38 lay on a nearby dresser. Skip sniffed the barrel. Recently fired.

Stuffed into Buddy’s closet, thrown on the floor in a heap, were one pair of black jeans, one black turtleneck, and half a pair of pantyhose, all slightly sweat-soaked. They’d stink when they dried out, but not as much as the rest of the setup, Skip thought. She didn’t like the open door.

The lump didn’t move, didn’t hear a thing, or else Buddy had taken acting lessons. The two men finally shook him awake enough to read him his rights.

Buddy’s story was that he’d been drunk for two days because the woman he loved was getting married. He didn’t own a.38 or a black outfit. He’d had a visitor the day before, a Jehovah’s Witness, maybe-something like that; he’d opened the door, talked to the person, and closed it, maybe locking it, maybe not.

Skip could almost buy the case against him. Buddy had done the shooting, with the accomplice doing the talking because Buddy’s voice was known. The accomplice had dropped Buddy off and driven away in the gray car. Buddy had faked the whole drunk number, even down to his blood alcohol level, just by drinking fast. He might have even had a heat on at the church, which would explain his poor marksmanship.

But if he hadn’t really been drunk-if the binge was a cover-then why leave the evidence lying around? And was there some other reason the accomplice had done the talking? Perhaps because the shooter was a woman?

It wasn’t her problem; it was homicide’s. The next thing she knew about it was what The Times-Picayune said in the morning: Buddy’d been booked. What the hell. If he was innocent, it would come out. It just wasn’t her problem.

It had rained that night and the weather was fresher. It was 7:00 A.M. on a beautiful summer day and she had the only walking beat in the city, one of the most gorgeous urban walks in the country. V.C.D. was her district, the Vieux Carré to other New Orleanians-the French Quarter to people “from away.”

Louis Two-Nose caught her on Bourbon, just above Canal, and dragged her over to Iberville where no one could see them. “Whereyat, Skip?”

“How you makin’ it, Louis?” She didn’t know how old he was. Fifty, maybe; or maybe thirty-five. A complex design covered his face, pinky-red, going to purple on his namesake honker. Today he wore a Band-Aid on his forehead, probably from a fall. He needed dental work and about a barrel of leafy green vegetables. And a month at the Betty Ford Cento’. He spoke in the Bronx-sounding patois uptown people call “yat.” Killer fumes came with the words.

“I heard somepn’ I thought you could use. Dey got da wrong man on da church murda.”

“What makes you say that?”

“A conversation I heard.”

Skip waited.

“You interested?”

She shrugged.

“I heard dese two guys settin’ up da hit.”

“What two guys?”

He looked astonished. “I don’ know. I never seen ’em before.”

“What’d they look like, Louis?”

“One black, one white.”

She waited,

“Couldn’t look at ’ em close. Didn ’t want ’em to know I was listenin’.”

“How do you know the white guy wasn’t the one we got?”

“Well, he was da ex, right? You wouldn’t hafta hire him to hit his own woman. Don’ make sense.”

“So the black guy was hiring the white guy.”

Louis nodded.

“Louis, I’m losing my patience. What’d he say?”

“He was drawin’ da church, Talkin’ about a side door where da white dude could come in, and how his partner could come in t’ru the front and cover da congregation. Dem was da words caught my attention-’cover da congregation.’ Ya don’ hear dat kinda talk every day.”

“Damn you, Louis! Why didn’t you call me then? Did you ever think of trying to stop the thing?”

“I didn’ know dey was settin’ up a hit. For all I knew dey was actors in a play.”

“Okay, okay,”

“See, I only caught on after I heard about it.”

“Louis, you know what this means, don’t you?”

“Skip, it’s a good tip-ain’t it a good tip? Come on, Skip… it’s worth somepn’, ain’t it? Gotta be worth somepn’.” Desperation was coming out of his pores along with last night’s Thunderbird.

“Not yet it’s not. Come on, Louis.”

She took him to Joe Tarantino in homicide and left him there, first slipping him a couple of bucks for when they let him go. Joe would him show him pictures of white dudes and black dudes and also arrange a lineup with Buddy in it. Louis would be sorry he’d ever brought up the subject. Oh, well, Skip thought-I’ll give him a few more bucks tomorrow.

She went back to her district and called Joe at 3:00 P.M., when her working day was over. Louis hadn’t recognized anyone and Joe was sorry, but he and Frank just couldn’t buy Louis’s story-he knew Skip knew Buddy, maybe was a friend of his, but they thought it was a good bust.

Well, hell. It was her problem now-Louis Two-Nose might be a drunk, and an unreliable one, but he had neither the brains nor the initiative to make up a story like that.

She traded her uniform for the lilac suit and headed for the Delacroix place, cursing Louis’s oversized proboscis and the messes he stuck it into.

The Delacroix family lived on Audubon Place, a short ribbon of elegance that had never had a moment’s competition for the street, in its way as glaring an anachronism as New York’s Gramercy Park-it was a private street, with a guard and a gatehouse.

Everyone who’d ever curried a moment’s favor with the Delacroix would be there today, expressing sympathy and drinking. Skip knew her name would get her in; her father the social climber was family doctor to half the old families in town. But once there and asking questions, she might get thrown out-it had happened before.

Fortunately, Alison was there. Nobody was going to mess with Skip with her sponsor around. Alison had been one of her Kappa sisters during her brief and unsuccessful tour of Sophie Newcomb. They’d barely spoken then, but now that Skip was back in town and so delicious an oddity as an officer of the law, Alison couldn’t be stopped.

She was determined to show Skip off. Or save her soul Or maybe make a lady out of her. Skip couldn’t begin to figure it out. All she knew was, Alison was always getting her invited to things-like Weezee Rounsaville’s wedding-and making her go.

And why was Skip such a wimp she couldn’t say no to some uptown version of a Jewish mother? Because Alison was a truly great source of information.

Not all criminals came from the lower echelons, as Skip had learned quite early in her career. She was the department expert on the uptown crowd and she owed her expertise largely to Alison. (And, she admitted grudgingly, to her dork of a brother, though his payoff was cheaper-he thought she fixed his parking tickets. What she really did was pay them herself and put in for informants’ fees.)

“Love that suit, Skippy. Did Buddy confess or anything?”

Skip smiled. “I’m surprised you don’t know, Gossip Goddess.” Quickly, so Alison wouldn’t press her, she changed the subject. “Listen, I know Aubrey and his mother, but they might not remember me. Could you reintroduce me?”

“I don’t see Aubrey-come to think of it, I don’t see Weezee either. Maybe they’re having a private moment of grief.” Her eyebrow went up and so did the corners of her mouth. “There’s Clarice over there.”

Aubrey’s mother was tall, thin, nervous. She looked self-absorbed and unfriendly. Closer, Skip saw that her eyes were bright angry dots, periods punctuating a face in which all the lines pointed downward. Skip doubted if she’d smiled twice in her life. She wondered about the anger in her eyes-it could have been there because Clarice had just lost her husband, because Aubrey had taken a few minutes off, any number of things. Skip thought it was simply her habit. Clarice stared at her as if she were a maggot, perhaps a potato bug-something loathsome you could squash.

“You’re Don Langdon’s daughter, aren’t you?”

Skip nodded. “I don’t know if you know I’m with the police department now. I wonder if we could talk a moment?”

“I really don’t think that would be appropriate.”

“Aubrey may still be in danger.”

Skip thought fear flickered on her face, but maybe it was just calculation. “Frankly, I don’t see how. You people have made an arrest, haven’t you?” Her voice was belligerent.

“We want to be sure we have the right man.”

“Are you implying my son has enemies?”

He certainly has at least one. “Of course not. We’re just completing our investigation.”

“I really think you’d better leave.”

“Could I talk to Aubrey first?”

“I think you’d better just go. Alison, dear, would you escort Miss Langdon?”

“But, Clarice-”

“Get this woman out of my house.”

So much for Skip’s fantasies of protection. As Clarice turned away, Alison only sighed. “Tarantula-woman strikes again. Sorry you had to be the victim, but if it’s any comfort, you won’t be the only one. She usually gets two or three a day.”

“You know what just occurred to me? Aubrey isn’t dead and his dad is.”

“Well now, that is a brilliant deduction.”

“Maybe she’s not a tarantula-maybe she’s a black widow.”

Alison laughed. “Had him killed for his money? What’s the point? To run away with her lover? Who’d have Clarice?”

Skip’s mind was reeling, contemplating its own stupidity. Aubrey might or might not have had enemies, but rich, powerful Noel Delacroix was bound to have had dozens-perhaps some in his own family. She wished she knew who stood to inherit.

“Is Aubrey an only child?”

“Why, no.” Alison looked as if she’d just realized she’d been as obtuse as Skip, “There’s Gina. She’s about our age, Where in hell is Gina? And where was she yesterday?”

“Who?”

“Aubrey’s sister Gina. Comes from Regina.” She pronounced both words with long “I’s.” “Isn’t it obscene? She had a bad drug problem a few years ago. Dropped out of school, I think, I haven’t seen her in years. Come to think of it, none of the Delacroix ever mentions her,”

They were nearly at the door now. “Who’d know the story on Gina?”

“Cammy, I guess-the maid.” Alison snapped her fingers. “Tante Adelle and Tante Tay-Tay, Great-aunts-Noel’s father’s sisters.” Her head swiveled. “They were here a while ago…”

The two aunts lived in a house on Prytania, Adelle was a widow and Tay-Tay a “maiden lady,” if such females still existed. They were napping when Skip arrived, having probably had a drop or two at their late nephew’s. She was let in by a maid who acted the perfect hostess while the aunts pulled themselves together. But Skip declined her offer to sit, preferring to prowl, looking at pictures and books,

Adelle appeared first, still smoothing a hastily donned knit skirt over the mono-buttock a girdle makes. She stood erect, had shoulder-length black hair with a white streak in it. Her mouth was a little tight for Skip’s taste.

“Adelle Gibert,” she said. “You’re Don Langdon’s daughter, aren’t you?”

Once Skip had hated to admit it, had longed to be known for herself and not her family, but that wasn’t the way New Orleans was made.

“Sit down,” said Adelle. “I hear Tay-Tay,” So did Skip-unless a rhino was charging; lampshades shook as the floor vibrated. Tay-Tay entered the room with the air of one who owns the parish, possibly the state; someone used to authority. Skip had a flash: retired schoolteacher.

She was a large lady-gray-haired, deep-bosomed, grandmotherly, wearing shorts that showed varicose veins and a T-shirt that couldn’t quite do its work-she had a solid line of bust to go with Adelle’s mono-butt. She looked as if she could give a flying flirt,

“Octavia Delacroix.” Without further ceremony, she plopped into a needlework rocker. “How can we help?”

“I was wondering about Aubrey’s sister.”

Adelle’s eyebrows went up. “Gina? Gina?” Horrified.

Tay-Tay was placid. “Poor little Gina. What about her?”

“I wondered if you know where she is.”

Adelle sat in censorious silence. Tay-Tay smiled. “Well, I guess we’re gon’ be awhile. Something cool, Miss Langdon? Or should I say Officer?”

“How about Skip?”

“And you must call me Tay-Tay. Or Tante Tay-Tay if you like. Everyone else does.” Skip felt engulfed by the warmth of her. She’d probably taught first or second grade, let the kids crawl up in her lap. “I’ll speak to Leeanna.”

When she had left, Adelle said, “Gina’s a very lovely girl, Miss Langdon. I can’t think where you’re going with this.”

Tay-Tay’s heavy step announced her return. She said, “I guess you noticed she wasn’t at the wedding. You think she could have been one of those black figures… that’s it, isn’t it?”

“I have to ask, that’s all.”

“Well, she wasn’t. She’s not even in town. Gina’s estranged from the family. Her daddy never had a moment’s time for her after he found out she had a drug problem. Threw her out of the house when she was eighteen.”

“Tay-Tay!”

“Adelle, she’s gon’ find out anyway. Might as well be from somebody that loves Gina.” She turned back to Skip. “Who wouldn’t take drugs with those two for parents?”

“I’ve met Clarice.”

“Well, Noel was… a Delacroix. Staunch churchmen, the whole lot of them.”

A little too staunch, Skip gathered.

“Anyway, next thing you know Gina got pregnant and he still refused to help her. Even when the baby was born. The good news is, she quit using, for the baby’s sake.” She smiled. “Darlin’ little Heather. Cutest thing old Tante Tay-Tay ever saw in her life.”

Adelle said, “We tried to help her, but Noel found out.”

“Is she disinherited? Do people still do that?”

Leeanna arrived with a tray of iced tea. Overhearing, she snorted. Adelle’s lips drew together again.

But Tay-Tay laughed. “Well, it’s pretty hard, in this state, but it can be done. You’re looking at two of the only…”

“Tay-Tay, I beg you!”

“Adelle, for heaven’s sake. Everybody knows the story. What are you being so silly about?”

Skip made her face a polite blank.

“Adelle tells it herself at parties-or used to before everyone in New Orleans had heard it three times. You know about forced heirship?”

Skip shook her head, mystified.

“Well, Louisiana’s the only state in the union that’s got it-you can’t cut a child completely out of the will, except in twelve very unusual circumstances. Or let’s say eleven of those and one that’s all too usual. Which is how Adelle got caught. When she was fifteen-a minor, you see-she ran away and got married.”

Adelle said, “Damn the Delacroix and all they stand for!”

“Hear, hear!” said Tay-Tay, raising her iced tea glass. Skip suspected she was still a little high from whatever she’d been drinking at the wake. “They don’t even, cut their wives in any more than they have to. The bulk of Noel’s estate will go to Aubrey, you watch. Clarice will get a house-though certainly not the one on Audubon Place-and just enough to live on, and Gina will get the fourth required by law. A bitter pill for Noel-she wouldn’t even get that if it weren’t for us. We’ve schooled the girl very carefully in the art of forced heirship-we’re experts. She always made sure she contacted him at least once every two years-if she hadn’t, she could have been disinherited. That’s one of the twelve ways, and incidentally one of the three our father got us on.”

“Both of you are disinherited?”

“Absolutely. And all because of our dear brother Charles. Now deceased.” Tay-Tay looked delighted about that. “You see he was the one who told Daddy he could do it and how-he was the lawyer in the family.”

“And the one who stood to get the entire estate.”

Adelle sniffed. “That’s what Daddy wanted anyway. The name male chauvinist was invented for Delacroix.”

Tay-Tay was enjoying herself. “They got me two ways, but one of them was fraudulent. A child can be disinherited if he hits a parent. Daddy and Charles claimed I hit Daddy when he told Adelle he was going to do it to her-but really, I only threw a vase. Anyway, after it all happened we never spoke to either of them again. Not even knowing that was one of the twelve grounds.”

“What are the other grounds?” Skip knew, as did everyone in Louisiana, that the state’s famous Napoleonic Code was eccentric, but this was such a preposterous twist she was fascinated.

“Oh, what are they, Adelle?”

Addle held her tongue.

“Let’s see,” said Tay-Tay. “Refusing to ransom a parent is one. And accusing a parent of a capital crime. Except high treason, that is, because that’s your duty. My personal favorite is refusing to take care of a parent who’s become insane. How would you prove he was competent to make a will?” She turned serious. “I’m sorry. It isn’t funny-I’m just used to it. To get back to our lovely family, Adelle has a little money from her late husband and I have my pension, but we’ve had to depend on Noel’s good nature for a house to live in.”

Adelle snorted. “His whims, you mean. Clarice bullied Noel into giving us this one only because it would have looked bad if we’d had to find a hovel somewhere.”

“He didn’t give it to us, Adelle.”

“He let us live here. So that’s why we couldn’t help Gina, have her come live with us, when she needed it. He wouldn’t permit it.”

“Do you have her address?”

Adelle thought they shouldn’t give it to her, but Tay-Tay prevailed. Softly, on the way out, she apologized for her sister’s coldness: “She’s just upset about Aubrey. The wedding being ruined and all.”

Gina lived in Baton Rouge and worked at a drug abuse counseling center. Skip caught her at home, her eyes red, her hair slightly dirty. She didn’t look as if she’d slept.

Skip made sympathy sounds.

Gina blew her nose. “I’m crying because I couldn’t go to my own father’s house today. The day after he died.”

“You were forbidden to?”

“No. I couldn’t bring myself to. Mama’s Catholic too. They both thought I was a sinner that couldn’t be forgiven.”

And a social embarrassment.

The apartment was tiny, furnished with Goodwill bargains, every surface covered with the toys, clothes, and supplies of a five-year-old. Heather herself was watching an old black-and-white TV, there being barely any room in the place to do anything else.

“I gather you weren’t at the wedding either. Why not just defy your parents and go?”

That started a fresh flood of tears: “Aubrey didn’t invite me.” She shrugged. “He did what Daddy wanted.”

Skip was trying to figure out what could make a man like Noel tick-a man so heartless, so rigid, so out of sync with contemporary mores, when Gina said: “It’s a Delacroix tradition. Hating women.”

There was a bitter edge to her voice. “They even gave me a name that sounds like vagina. ‘Generic female here; don’t bother naming it.’ Have you met my mother?”

“Yes.”

“My grandmother was just like her. Their mothers are bitches, they marry more bitches, and they keep on hating women. But they’re so mired in Catholic tradition they never admit to themselves what their wives are. To them all women are either Mary or Mary Magdalene. And Mary is never a bitch. So they spend their lives getting pushed around by these female storm troopers and pretend they’re in control by being tyrants about money.”

“You seem to have thought this out.”

“You would have, too, in my shoes. I don’t think you could possibly know how pathological my family is.”

Skip thought of her own family. “I don’t know-”

“Look at this.” Gina handed her a letter:

Dear Regina,

This is to let you know that on July 1, 1990, the Louisiana law on forced heirship will change. On that day and afterward, children twenty-three and over can be disinherited. Enclosed please find a copy of the will I will sign that day.

“My God!”

“My daddy was a real sweetheart, wasn’t he? It wasn’t enough to do it, he had to make damn sure I knew about it.”

“He was killed June 30.”

“I guess that makes me an heiress, huh? Now I can move to a real house and go back to school.” She blew her nose. “Ain’t life grand?”

Her lips moved a little, to no apparent end. Skip thought she’d tried a smile but just couldn’t manage it.

“Gina, I have to ask you. Where were you Saturday afternoon?”

“Drowning my sorrows.”

You and Buddy Carothers.

“I was with a girl friend, Alicia Ravenel, and we were in a bar called The Glass Menagerie. I think quite a few people would remember. I was making a spectacle of myself.”

Skip stayed late in Baton Rouge, visiting The Glass Menagerie (drinks in glasses animal-shaped), and calling on Alicia Ravenel.

The alibi checked out.

The case against Buddy Carothers was looking better. But if he did it, where did the black man come in? Had he been the man with the Uzi? He hadn’t had a black accent. And Louis Two-Nose had been very clear about it: the black man had been the one doing the hiring, and he’d hired two men, the one in the bar and “his partner,” who’d cover the congregation. Had Buddy sent a friend to hire a thug for him? Had Gina?

Skip called all the numbers in Buddy’s address book and even consulted her least favorite source, her brother Conrad, who knew everyone even a little bit socially important. No one had ever seen Buddy speak with any black person who wasn’t a servant or a bellman. The reason they could be so sure was he was a notorious racist.

As always in these situations, Skip wished she’d gotten it together and learned to meditate. She felt the need to focus her mind. She couldn’t see how Noel’s timely death (considering his letter) could be a coincidence. But if Gina had had him killed, why show Skip the letter? And who was the black man? She knew only two black people involved with the Delacroix family-Noel’s maid Cammy and Leeanna; but there must be others.

She phoned Alicia Ravenel, Gina’s boss, and friends of Gina’s whose names she’d gotten from Alicia. She also called Alison, who made a few calls of her own. That afternoon she found herself visiting a man named Raybon Broussard.

After that, she dropped in on the aunts. This time they both wore white slacks, Adelle’s elegant, Tay-Tay’s the sloppy kind with drawstring waist. Adelle had pulled her hair back against the heat; she looked younger and a little vulnerable. Tay-Tay worked on a needlepoint pillow.

“I talked to Raybon today.”

Tay-Tay looked up in alarm. “Oh, no! Leeanna-”

Adelle said, “I’ll send her to the store.”

When she returned, Skip saw that her color had gone. Raybon was Leeanna’s son.

“He’s sweating,” said Skip, “and not because his AC’s on the blink. He’s one of the most scared young men I’ve seen lately.”

“Has something gone wrong with his parole? I don’t think I can take it if that boy has to go back to prison.” Tay-Tay looked ready to cry. “There’s no harm in Raybon, no harm at all.”

“Armed robbery-”

“He was just a baby. Why, he’s still a baby-won’t be twenty-one till January.”

Adelle said, “Tay-Tay never forgets his birthday. I sometimes think she loves Raybon better than Gina.”

“That’s not true, Adelle, and you know it. I love all my children just the same.”

Skip was sure she’d been right about Tay-Tay-she had to have been a teacher. “He must love you too,” she said. “He’s trying really hard to protect you. But it’s not going to work. I have the name of the man he sent you to.”

She didn’t, though. Not yet. Raybon had been a challenge. He was frightened, all right, which was how she knew she was on the right track. But fear didn’t loosen his tongue any. She’d had to tell him Tay-Tay had already confessed to get him talking-and then he’d only said one thing and it wasn’t enough for an arrest. But she was hoping hard.

“What on God’s earth are you talking about?”

“He says it wasn’t you who called him.”

Adelle started to speak: “I had to tell him it was for Tay-Tay.”

Skip stopped her. “Not yet. I have to Mirandize you.”

Adelle nodded stoically. Her color was better; she’d probably gotten a jolt of adrenaline.

“What’s happening?” Tay-Tay was panicked, looked as if her world was falling apart. And it was, thought Skip, feeling for her. When she’d read Adelle her rights, Skip asked if she wanted to waive them.

“Oh, hell, yes. I want to talk, and I don’t want some stuffy lawyer in here clamming me up.”

She might be a murderer, but Skip liked her spirit. She saw now that Adelle was no stiff-lipped Sunday school teacher; she’d seemed uptight because she’d been under the biggest stress of her life.

“Adelle, no.”

“Hush up, Tay-Tay. Don’t you see what she’s doing? She’s blackmailing me. If I talk, Raybon gets off.”

Skip said, “I can’t make any deals.”

“But this way you won’t take him to some horrible interrogation room and badger him, will you? Because I’m going to give you what you need, and tell you flat-out that he didn’t have the least idea what it was all about. He just gave me a name, that’s all. Wouldn’t take a penny for it. Thought he was doing a favor for Tay-Tay. That’s how I got him to cooperate.”

She spoke directly to Skip, avoiding her sister’s eye. “Gina called in tears about the letter-absolutely hysterical, poor little baby. Anyway, Tay-Tay wasn’t home and I made up my mind not to tell her about it. I just made my plans. I told Raybon Tay-Tay had a problem and I wanted to solve it for her. I asked him to give me the name of a very bad man, someone from prison. I think he thought I wanted to scare somebody because he didn’t give me a murderer. But his friend knew some Italians. I had to pay him five thousand dollars for the introduction; the Italians cost twenty apiece. Did you know it was so cheap to hire hit men?”

“That’s all the money you have in the world!” Skip noticed Tay-Tay had changed the subject, unable yet to face what had happened.

“Gina will help me. I know she will.”

She was getting a glazed look now. But Tay-Tay was snapping back to reality, taking it in.

“Adelle, murder. You did murder!”

“Poor little Heather-my heart just sank every time I saw that child in that tiny little crackerbox.” Her bland face wore a look Skip had seen in court: a judge pronouncing sentence. “Somebody had to get this family back on track.”

“But the wedding-why poor Aubrey’s wedding?”

For the first time Adelle smiled. “I thought we needed a ritual murder,”

Horror replaced the shock on Tay-Tay’s gentle face. She spoke as if explaining it to herself. “You’re crazy, Adelle. You’re really mad.”

“That’s right, little sister. I’m really mad. But not crazy-mad.” She paused and took a breath for maximum volume. “I’m furious!”

Skip thought little Heather probably heard her aunt up in Baton Rouge.