82 Desire

crossing it a third time.
    But you don’t have to cross it again to get to Belle Chasse—if you’ve reached that second bend, you’re there.
    To the right is a development of nice-looking though aggressively neat houses. Skip drove through, looking for the Newmans’ address and marveling at what she saw. Nothing could have been farther from the French Quarter. About every second house had a wreath of dried flowers on the door, making her think of pagan customs involving harvests. Somehow, she didn’t think that was what this was about. It was probably part of the same non-pagan deal that caused each of the houses to have a leaded glass door. These were new houses and the doors, by the look of them, weren’t antiques—had obviously been made to order, to lend a look of modest grandeur. Then there were the mailboxes, sitting out on the road a good distance from the houses. Most of these were encased in little brick housings, like birds in cages. It was a phenomenon Skip hadn’t seen before.
    I wonder , she thought, who lives in Belle Chasse? There was no one outside.
    The single exception was an old man in a straw hat riding a tractor lawn mower at the Newmans’ address.
    Skip got out of her car and hailed him. “Can I talk to you a minute?”
    He eyed her as if she came from Mars.
    “Mr. Newman?” she said, and he nodded briefly. “Skip Langdon. Police.” She held up her badge.
    “Police,” he repeated. He looked as if she’d told him someone was dead, and she wondered if that was what he thought.
    “It’s nothing to worry about,” she said. “Just a long shot in a case I’m working on. Over in New Orleans.”
    He pulled a bandanna from a pair of khaki shorts, took off his straw hat, and wiped his forehead. He grinned at her. “My grandson just got a car for his birthday. I thought you were here to tell me the worst.”
    With the hat off, she saw that he was a handsome man, with a bit of a belly, maybe, but otherwise fit, and an inch or two taller than she was. He spoke with one of those very soft Southern accents designed to be pleasing, never to give offense, and to sneak up on you in the dark—the sort a Southern senator has, one with half his colleagues eating out of his hand and the other half running for cover at the sight of him. In a suit, he’d be the type to get the best table in every restaurant he set foot in, whether or not the maitre d’ knew him. He didn’t seem to go with the neighborhood.
    She said, “My case involves a company named United Oil, and your name came up.”
    “United Oil.” He said the words as if they were the name of an old girlfriend, one he remembered none too fondly. “In what context?” he said.
    “I’m wondering if you ever knew a Russell Fortier.”
    “Fella who disappeared? Don’t b’lieve I did.” He looked at her warily. This man was not only no fool, he was used to getting his way, and probably more manipulative than she was. She was going to have to tread lightly.
    She smiled. “Well, that’s the context. You’re in his Rolodex.”
    He gave a mock shake of the head, as if completely befuddled. “That so? Well, I called him once—called a lot of people over there, but none of ’em ever called back. Surprised he kept my number.”
    Skip waited for more, but he seemed to be waiting as well.
    Finally, she said, “Mr. Newman, it would be a great help to me if you’d simply describe your dealings with United Oil.”
    “Now why should I do that?” He gave her a practiced, crinkly-eyed grin, the sort that had probably won over many an unsuspecting business associate—or female target.
    She gave him one just as practiced. “To be a good citizen?”
    He laughed. “That. And ‘cause I got nothin’ else to do. Thanks to United Oil.” He paused. “Come on in and have a lemonade with me.” He turned his back on her, one finger gesturing at his waist for her to follow, as if she were a grandchild. He padded toward the house, evidently quite confident that she would.
    The house had one of those enormous kitchens with a counter separating it from a family room. Newman led her in there and rooted around in an overstocked refrigerator for a pitcher of lemonade. There was no sign either of the maid who’d answered the phone or of anyone else.
    Newman poured and held up his glass. “Cheers.”
    Skip nodded and sipped.
    “Shall we?” Gallantly, her host pulled out a light-colored chair at a round kitchen table. She sat down at a place