Big Easy Bonanza

to.
    “They never told me who the family was—just that it was very nice and respectable.”
    Skip said, “I’m sorry.”
    “Then Tolliver found her—she was a prostitute, you know—that’s how he met her. She told me that, not him. When he found her, I felt alive again. Like I had a new lease on life. But she rejected me; my poor daughter rejected me because of what I did to her. And then she went to Chauncey’s office and tried to blackmail him—he was about to be Rex and she knew it. But he wouldn’t pay and so she came to the house. I saw her that time. I heard the whole thing, and I confronted Chauncey about it. He already knew I’d met with her—she told him the whole story—but he didn’t even mention it to me. Can you imagine that?
    “Anyway, he told me he’d take care of her and he went out one night and came back disheveled and got drunk and wouldn’t talk, and couldn’t sleep that night. And then a couple of days later I read in the paper that the police were trying to figure out the identity of a body they’d fished out of the river. And I knew she was Hélène. I
knew
.”
    “Did you mention it to Chauncey?”
    “Of course. I beat him up. I accused him of killing his own daughter and I climbed up on his chest and I beat him as hard as I could. He didn’t deny it either. When he got tired of me beating him, he just pulled me off. It never even hurt him.” Her shoulders sagged. “And he said it was for the best. That she was dead. And so I did what I’d been wanting to do for years.”
    “She didn’t kill him. I did.” Henry’s eyes were sullen and defiant.
    “First I sobered up. Do you know how easy that is?
Really
easy. All you have to have is a good reason. You can stay sober for weeks if you have to. Of course the craving doesn’t go away—the ‘addiction,’ as they insist on calling it nowadays—and you go back to it as soon as the threat, or whatever it is, is past—believe me, I know. But you can do it for a while. Make no mistake about it.
    “In this case I didn’t get sober because of a threat in my life. I had a mission.” Her voice rose a little and for a minute tiny, fragile, usually unobtrusive Bitty convinced Skip that she was someone to be reckoned with. She remembered stories Marcelle had told her, stories about Bitty’s resourcefulness when everyone else was falling apart, and she kicked herself for not remembering earlier. “I never felt better in my life, either. I
lived
to kill my husband. I relished it. I thought when it was done I could live a normal life, that I would never drink again.”
    She looked at her lap. “It didn’t turn out that way. The whole thing caved in as soon as he was dead. I turned to mush again, only it was suicidal mush this time.”
    “Mother!”
    “Right now, I have only one thing to live for—Henry’s life. I want to live to make sure that Henry doesn’t suffer for what I did.”
    Skip said, “You’re sober right now, aren’t you?”
    “And I will be as long as I have to be. Shall I go on?”
    “Please.”
    “I expect I’ve already surprised you, and I’ll do it again. I can shoot. I’ll demonstrate if you like. My father taught me when I was a kid. I had to find the right weapon, of course, but that wasn’t hard—Chauncey had an array to choose from—and I had to practice up. I took a selection to a firing range across the lake and figured out which one would work best, and then I kept practicing until I was as good as I ever was. The 44.40 was a large enough caliber to be accurate at the distance I needed, but not so huge it couldn’t be managed by someone who’s a pretty good shot. Henry’s probably never shot a gun in his life, but plenty of witnesses will tell you I have.
    “One thing I’ve kind of regretted, though. I put my costume together from bits and pieces I found here and there, but I couldn’t really find the right wig anywhere.” She turned to her son. “Except here, Henry. I shouldn’t have taken it, should I? That’s how you figured it out.”
    “Mother, don’t be absurd.”
    “Because you already knew about your father killing your sister. You thought I didn’t remember telling you, didn’t you? It was just before I decided to kill him—the last time I was drunk, I think. But I do remember; I didn’t for a while, but I do now.”
    “Mother, I think you’re drunk now. You never told me any such thing.”
    “I hid the whole outfit in a bag of peat moss at