82 Desire

about Cindy Lou?”
    AA grinned. “Damned ingenious red herring—the guy’s so manipulative he might just do it. And this new information lends some credence—Bebe did have a boyfriend. By the way, is it new information?”
    Skip managed a grin. “I’m afraid so. Jane Storey seems to be eating my lunch.”
    She gave a little wave as she went off to call Bebe. She’d already picked up the phone when she changed her mind, deciding to pay a visit instead.
    Bebe answered the door in shorts and a T-shirt, her eyes red from crying. “Oh, Skip. Come on in.”
    Once again, Skip was led to the denlike room in the back. She wasted no time. “Bebe, you should have told me about LaBarre.”
    “Why the hell would that be any of your business?” She spoke petulantly, half like an angry teenager, half like a city official who was used to wielding power.
    Perhaps, Skip thought, there wasn’t much difference. “I’d say a husband in Russell’s shoes would have a damn good reason for disappearing.”
    “But … he didn’t know.”
    “Oh, really? What makes you think that?”
    Skip watched her wrestle with the question. He could certainly have hired a private detective.
    Bebe said, “Russell would have said something.”
    Perhaps he had, in a loud and angry voice, and one thing had led to another, the whole sorry scene ending with Bebe braining him and disposing of the body.
    Skip wasn’t about to drag a popular city councilwoman over to the police station to discuss the idea. At least not yet. Perhaps, she thought, it would be more productive to talk to LaBarre.
    He lived out by the lake, in one of the custom-tailored mansions New Orleans’ nouveau riche prefer to the stately, elegant, historic, and far less comfortable homes of Uptown and the French Quarter.
    Skip had certainly not expected him to answer the door himself, but he did, in shorts, as Bebe had, and he looked equally distraught. But he was holding up the masculine side to the extent that he wasn’t crying.
    “What can I do for you?” He didn’t ask her in.
    “I’m investigating the disappearance of Russell Fortier, and I need to talk to you.”
    He kept his cool, but his lips set in a hard line. “Okay.”
    “I wonder how long you and Mrs. Fortier have been seeing each other.”
    “What does that have to do with the price of tea?” A little muscle jumped at the corner of his eye. His jaw looked so tight she’d need a church key to pry it open.
    Skip thought she heard something in the distance, some commotion, but she couldn’t be sure.
    “I know this is hard for you, Mr. LaBarre, but it’ll be better for everyone if you’ll just be direct and come to the point, so I can go away and leave you alone.”
    Suddenly there was a keening female scream, followed by, “Oh, God, oh, God, look what she’s gone and done.”
    LaBarre turned and ran, evidently forgetting Skip, who stood on the stoop for a startled moment, feeling like an idiot.
    The female voice said, “Oh, God, what am I going to do?” and Skip pounded up the stairs.
    LaBarre shouted, “Call 911, goddammit. Get some help.”
    A child squealed, “Daddy? Daddy, what’s wrong?”
    Skip heard LaBarre say, “Everything’s okay. Everything’s fine. Just go to your room.”
    “What’s wrong with Mommy?”
    “Go to your room!” LaBarre yelled, and the child’s sobs joined the general cacophony.
    When Skip reached the second floor, the child was gone, apparently having obeyed orders. In a bedroom at the end of a carpeted hall, LaBarre was bending over a woman lying on a bed and covered in blood. “Sharon! Sharon, what did you do?”
    The woman was crying, not unconscious, and as Skip stepped closer, she saw that the blood came from her hands or wrists. Either a botched suicide attempt or a bit of drama, depending on how severe the wounds were.
    “Let me help,” she said, and as LaBarre turned around, she couldn’t mistake the look of gratitude on his face.
    The woman on the bed said, “You bastard!” and Skip could see she was in no danger of dying.
    “Get some towels,” she said to LaBarre, and she said to the woman, “Police. Let me see your hands.”
    Actually, they were hardly bleeding at all. But a little blood went a long way, and the woman—undoubtedly Mrs. LaBarre—had made a fine mess.
    As she held out her wrists to Skip, she stared at them and said, “I don’t know what I was doing.”
    “Did you do this yourself?” It seemed obvious, but she had to