Big Easy Bonanza

hurt feelings he might have from the night before.
    He said, “I missed you last night. I wish I’d been with you.”
    “I missed you too.”
    “You did?”
    “I certainly did. Especially when LaBelle’s burglar came in my back window.”
    “You’re kidding.”
    “I wish I were. I can’t talk about it now, though—I’ve got to get on the road.”
    “Can you come over tonight? Cookie’s cooking. He says he’s going to get a date and everything.”
    “I think so. I’ll call you later.”
    She tried the second number she had for Stelly Villere, the one in Harvey, figuring the first had long since been disconnected. A teenage boy answered “Hello?”
    “I’m calling Estelle Villere.”
    “Who?” He sounded outraged, as if she’d invaded his home and asked for Jabba the Hut.
    “Estelle.”
    “Oh,
Stelly
.” Very superior. “Stelly back in New Orlean. Huh husband work there now.”
    “Do you have her phone number?”
    “No.”
    “Does your mother?”
    “She ain’here.”
    He hung up, leaving Skip to curse everyone under twenty, an age she hadn’t left so long ago herself. She called back again. “Listen, what’s Stelly’s husband’s name?”
    “Peeler.”
    “What’s his first name?”
    “Peeler.”
    “Okay, what’s his last name?”
    “Johnson.”
    “Thanks for your kindness and cooperation on this beautiful Sunday morning.”
    There were half a dozen P. Johnsons in the phone book, all of whom Skip called while a man repaired her window, and four of whom knew no Estelle Villere, the other two not being reachable.
    She went over to LaBelle’s, told Calvin Hogue about the burglar, and asked him again to phone her if LaBelle turned up. Then she grabbed a sandwich and drove out to see Jaree Campeau.
    Jaree was napping, but her husband, a light-skinned man with kind crinkly eyes, said it was about time she got up anyway. Skip sat uncomfortably in the living room, where a girl of twelve was watching TV, while Jaree got dressed.
    Jaree entered wearing jeans and crewneck sweater, still patting her hair into place. Not greeting Skip, she snapped, “Turn that thing off, Shirley Ann. It’s a beautiful day outside. Go get some exercise.”
    Skip stood and told Jaree her name, sure she would have forgotten.
    “I remember you, officer,” said her hostess. “I was hoping you wouldn’t be back. Hoping I’d heard the last of Miss LaBelle Doucette.”
    Skip hated her coldness. LaBelle might be a disappointment, but she was the woman’s daughter. Unable to control herself, she said, “A child is a lifetime commitment.”
    “Tell me about it. I can honestly say I wish I’d never seen or heard of that girl.”
    I can honestly say people like you don’t deserve children. May Shirley Ann marry a white man and decide she’s too good for you
.
    Skip’s feelings must have shown in her eyes. Jaree said more mildly, “Sit down, officer. I know I sound hard, but if you knew that girl and what she’s put me through and my grandmama through and my husband and chirren through…”
    “I’m sorry to tell you this, but I’m afraid she may be involved in a serious crime.”
    “Whoo! Serious crime. She’s already been involved in every kind of crime you can name.”
    “This is murder, Mrs. Campeau.”
    Jaree didn’t move a muscle, didn’t flick an eyelash. “I’m not surprised. Nothing that girl does would surprise me.”
    “I’m still trying to find her.”
    “Well, I still haven’t heard from her. Believe me, if I did, you’d be the first to know.”
    “I was wondering if she might be with her father.”
    “No chance of that, honey. She doesn’t have the least idea who her father is.”
    “I heard she tells stories about him—she says he’s a white man, a prominent New Orleanian.”
    Jaree smiled a cold, smug smile, the kind, Skip thought, an executioner who really loved his work might permit himself as he delivered the coup de grâce. “He probably is, officer. But LaBelle doesn’t know who he is, and neither do I.”
    Skip tried not to let her jaw drop as she tried to imagine the prim Jaree in the role of LaBelle’s predecessor as sweetheart of the regiment.
    “Like mother like daughter you’re thinking,” Jaree said. “But you’re thinking wrong. It is a pure delight to tell you that LaBelle is not my natural child. I adopted her when I was seventeen, and I wish to God I’d stayed working as a maid instead.”
    Skip waited, sure there was more. Jaree sounded as