82 Desire

business… ?”
    He was nodding. “Yeah. Whose? What’s this stuff all about? It’s the ass-end of the Roman Empire.”
    She found she didn’t really want to talk about it anymore. “How’s the house?”
    “Great. It’s just a wonderful little house. But everybody that works on it seems to think I won’t even notice if they’re a month late and charge me twice as much as they estimated.”
    “As I may have mentioned, this is a third-world country.”
    “I got these guys who were supposed to build a brick wall in the courtyard. They arrived with no bricks.”
    “They thought you were supplying them?”
    “Nah. They just forgot to take the measurements to the brick supplier, so they had to come back and start over.”
    “Typical,” she said, her mind wandering. She was wondering where the hell she was going to go with this damn Russell Fortier thing.
    She spent the entire next morning going through Allred’s files, bank and credit card records, and phone bills, but finding no trace of his mysterious client. Evidently there was no written record of the transaction.
    She called her buddy Eileen Moreland at the Times-Picayune for all the clips on Bebe and Russell, thinking, Talk about a dirty job. There’s probably a mountain of them .
    In fact, there was an avalanche of them, mostly having to do with Bebe’s runs for office and performance while there. For the moment, Skip put those in a separate pile, concentrating solely on Russell. And saw that there was only one story—or group of stories—that were really about him and not his wife.
    They dealt with the sailing accident Bebe had mentioned. Skip found them riveting. She’d had no idea how huge the thing had been—how Russell had survived for days and then been miraculously rescued.
    What it meant to the current case she had no idea—but she wondered for the first time if being Mr. Councilwoman had grated on him.
    She needed to speak with someone who really knew him—someone he confided in. And yet, she’d already talked to his wife, his mistress, and, so far as she knew, his three best friends.
    She had asked Bebe for his Rolodex, and she went through it idly. Neither Gene Allred nor Talba Wallis was in it, but that was no surprise. Cindy Lou wasn’t either.
    Most of the names could have come out of the phone book—none rang bells or waved red flags. Dammit, she might as well go see Bebe again.
    She phoned first; the councilwoman was in.
    Bebe was looking the worse for wear, having huge circles under eyes that looked permanently red. Skip didn’t know whether to ignore it or say something. She settled for, “How’re you holding up?”
    Bebe shrugged, tears coming to her eyes. She was on the edge.
    “I’m really sorry you had to go through that.”
    “The phone’s been ringing off the hook.”
    “Hate calls?”
    “Some of each. A lot of people think I ought to resign.”
    Skip was silent, thinking that maybe she ought to; also that, this being Louisiana, the whole thing would be quickly forgotten if she didn’t. Or it would if Bebe were a man. Skip didn’t know if a double standard applied or not—it hadn’t been tested that she knew of.
    Bebe said, “Maybe I ought to.”
    “Maybe—”
    “Do you know what some of them are saying? Some of them think I killed Russell.”
    And did you? Skip thought.
    “Omigod, Ernest LaBarre! What was I thinking of?”
    There was so much regret in her voice she couldn’t be faking it—but that didn’t get her off the hook.
    By now, they’d reached the comfortable den in the back of the house. A young woman sat in one of the leather chairs, body curled around a phone that she now put in her lap. Skip could see that the girl was nearly as tall as she herself. She was slender and slightly stooped and she had brown hair that hung more or less artlessly. She wore no makeup, but her hair had been highlighted. Her face was set in as obvious a pout as ever was seen on a five-year-old.
    Bebe said, “Oh! Eugenie. I didn’t know you were there.”
    “Obviously not, Mother.”
    “This is Detective Langdon.”
    A tiny exclamation escaped the girl. She stood up to shake hands, wiping the pout off her face.
    Ah , Skip thought. Respect. I should get it more often.
    “You’re here about my father?”
    “Yes.”
    “Any news?”
    “I’m afraid not.”
    The girl seemed crestfallen and Skip couldn’t blame her. She said, “You must be close to your father.”
    Eugenie shook her head. “Not