Big Easy Bonanza

slipped out the back. After Tolliver, they invited Bitty in.
    “You have a key to Mr. Albert’s apartment?”
    “I water the plants when Tolliver goes away,” she said. “He takes buying trips. I’ve had a key for years.”
    She was so calm Skip thought she must be in shock.
    “Mrs. St. Amant, do you have the key with you now?”
    “Why are you asking these questions?”
    “Did you leave the party at any time?”
    She shook her head. Her lips pursed slightly, then straightened out, and Skip saw a muscle start to work in her jaw. “What’s going on? Why do you want to know?”
    “We’ll tell you in a minute. Can you hang on for just a couple of questions more?” Tarantino’s voice was soothing. Skip knew he was afraid she might go out of control before they found out where the key was.
    Bitty nodded, her lips getting tighter.
    “Where is the key now?”
    “In my purse. I put it on a chair somewhere.”
    “Would you mind making sure it’s still there?”
    Bitty sent Skip to find the purse and rummaged through it for her key ring. “Here it is.”
    “How long has your purse been unattended?”
    “A couple of hours, I guess.”
    “Who knew you had a key?”
    “Why, everyone. I’m always having to water Tolliver’s plants after lunch or something, and I usually say where I’m going.”
    They asked her the Dolly questions and then gave her the bad news about the balcony. The tight line of her lips broke. She screamed as she hadn’t when they told her Chauncey was dead—a delayed reaction, Skip thought. The screams kept on, one after another, until they called Tolliver to hold her.
    Marcelle’s and Henry’s interviews added little. Marcelle had not left the party; Henry had gone out for some air—for about thirty minutes, maybe forty-five.
    “I think,” said O’Rourke, “that we ought to go to Mr. Albert’s apartment and have a look.”
    They brought it up with Tolliver, who gulped and looked at Bitty. “I don’t want to leave Mrs. St. Amant. Could someone else go with you?”
    “Marcelle, you go,” said Bitty. “Please.” She took one of Henry’s hands and held it. Apparently she wanted to be surrounded by the remaining men in her life.
    Marcelle looked trapped. She said, “Skip, will you come?” Skip looked at O’Rourke and Tarantino. They nodded.
    “Sure.”
    In the backseat of the dicks’ car Marcelle turned to Skip and let tears once again come into her eyes, which seemed the size of small plates. Marcelle was a famous beauty. She had gotten the best genes from both parents—Chauncey’s dark coloring and Bitty’s Phidian profile. She’d married young and divorced early. She might not be Skip’s favorite conversationalist, but for all her pampered existence, she was a gentle enough soul.
    “Skippy, it’s political, don’t you think? My daddy had enemies. Mother used to warn him all the time. ‘Chauncey, you shouldn’t be so outspoken. There’s a lot of nuts in the world.’ She was right, I guess. It’s got to be political, don’t you think, Skippy?”
    Skip didn’t know whether Marcelle spoke for the benefit of the dicks or whether she just didn’t mind talking in front of them. She said, “I just don’t know,” and wondered if it could be political.
    For the first time she started to think of the difference Chauncey St. Amant’s death would make in the political and cultural life of the city. It would be a huge loss. He had been a member of the Boston Club, which did not admit Jews, blacks, or women, but he had publicly spoken out against the club’s policy. That might seem a small thing to outsiders, but in the circles in which Chauncey moved, it was radical. It would probably have been his undoing if he hadn’t been the son-in-law of Haygood Mayhew. And that was just a tiny facet of his genuine commitment to civil rights.
    He was president of the Carrollton Bank, which had one of the best affirmative action policies of any large corporation in the city. It had black and female vice presidents, and minorities in plenty of other executive spots. And he was a prominent liberal Democrat who had helped elect the current black mayor, Furman Soniat. Lately there had been talk that he might run for office, possibly for the state senate, though Soniat was thinking of moving up himself.
    He was also a jazz buff and one of the founders of the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival. In addition, he had taken on several young musicians as his personal