Big Easy Bonanza

mean they were friends—and surely no friend would destroy her and what was left of her family. Surely as long as Skip slept on her couch the St. Amants were safe.
    She wondered if there were any eggs.
    “Marcelle? What time is it? Is it afternoon or anything?”
    Skip padded in, barefoot as André, wearing the T-shirt Marcelle had given her to sleep in.
    What fabulous thighs she has. If I had that much weight on me, I’d ripple like Jell-O in a hurricane.
    “It’s only about ten. Would you like some coffee?”
    “I’d love it.” She sat down at the kitchen table. “Marcelle, I’ve been trying really hard to find the woman you told me about.”
    “Oh, Skip. You don’t think she’s the one who broke in, do you?”
    “No, because that person also broke into her house.”
    “You know where she lives.”
    “Uh-huh, and her name and everything. I just can’t find her, that’s all. She’s LaBelle Doucette—does that mean anything?”
    Marcelle chewed a cuticle. “I don’t think so.”
    Skip looked up at her, compassion in her green eyes, and sadness, Marcelle thought. “You know that old saying about omelets and eggs?” Skip said. “I hate to mention it, but I think you and I need to have a serious talk.”
    Marcelle pulled warm, lovely French bread from the toaster and gave it to Skip. Her own throat was closing. Skip buttered her toast lustily, apparently oblivious to the fact that Marcelle was shaking as she sat down to join her.
    “Is it going to be awful, Skippy?”
    “Only a little. Can you stand finding out some things about your father that you never wanted to know?”
    Marcelle couldn’t find her voice. She shook her head, wanting the whole conversation to disappear.
    Skip spoke reasonably, calming a child: “It’s important, Marcelle. I think we need to do this to find out who killed him.”
    It was not bad enough her father was dead. Now he couldn’t even be her father anymore, the Chauncey who had held her and made her feel as if not having a mother wasn’t really the worst thing in the world.
    Skip didn’t wait for an answer, but kept talking. “Let’s talk about the day of the murder first.” Quickly, she corrected the faux pas. “I mean, about Mardi Gras.”
    Marcelle managed a small smile. “It’s okay. You can say the ‘m’ word.”
    “Can you remember more or less what happened that morning—who came and went when?”
    “Oh, Skippy!” Before she could turn away, giant tears were running down her face. “Oh, Skippy, it’s so humiliating.”
    “You can tell me.”
    “I wasn’t even there, hardly. I mean, I was, but not so’s you’d notice.”
    Skip waited.
    “Promise you won’t tell this.”
    “I’ll do my best.”
    “I know you will. I’m so ashamed.” She composed herself, biting a hunk out of her lower lip to keep it from trembling. “I was upstairs screwin’ Jo Jo Lawrence.”
    “In the
Boston Club?”
    Skip sounded so shocked Marcelle felt a chuckle rise in the back of her throat. Something about the italics seemed so innocent she felt suddenly like a sorority girl exchanging confidences. “They have this ‘sleeping room’ upstairs, I guess in case somebody gets too drunk to go home.”
    “Oh, sure.”
    “No, really—I mean, it’s definitely not for screwing. There’s not even a lock on the door.”
    Skip’s eyes twinkled. “Anyone peek in?”
    “I don’t know. I was facing the wrong way.”
    They both collapsed in giggles. But Skip was not distracted. When she had wiped the tears from her eyes, she said, “I need to ask you something about Stelly Villere.”
    “You already asked why she left. I don’t know.”
    “Did you know your father had a pretty well-known affair with her?”
    No. It can’t be true. Stelly taught me how to French-braid my hair.
She didn’t answer.
    “I’m really sorry, Marcelle, but she could be involved in all this.”
    “Stelly could? She wasn’t the woman I saw.”
    “I’m still wondering if that woman could be a relative of Stelly’s, though. Or a friend.”
    Marcelle couldn’t make sense of this. “I don’t see how Stelly fits into it.”
    “I don’t know that she does. But she left her job very suddenly, and no one seems to know why.”
    “But that was years ago.”
    “You must have been no more than a teenager.”
    “I was nineteen, and Stelly must have been in her early thirties. I couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing her again.” She shrugged. “But I guess I must have