Big Easy Bonanza

guess?”
    “Oh, let’s see. He needed money and you didn’t want to give him any?”
    “Bingo. Remind me to hire you if I ever need a P.I.”
    So far so good. On to the rest of Freddie’s intel. “Tell me something, my baby. You ever work with a young lady named Violet?”
    “Oh, Violet! My former assistant. She volunteered to help with Dollars for Art, and then one day she just didn’t come in. No phone call, no forwarding address, no nothing—and the Dollar Ball two weeks away!”
    The Dollar Ball was her foundation’s big fund-raiser. No one in New Orleans hadn’t read about it, in all its glittering glory. “That was a week ago, right? So she’s been gone about three weeks. Well then. Tell me something else—did she quit about the time your husband fired George?”
    Maker’s Mark or not, Mimi was a fast one, on top of the answers almost before I could fire the questions. But on this one her eyes widened. Her jaw even dropped slightly, but she caught it before it became unattractive. And she was quiet for a moment. “Let me think. Yes, as a matter of fact, I think she did. They both started at the same time too. I remember because George asked me about ‘the weird chick.’ That was what he called her. Can you imagine that? George! Calling somebody else weird. Why? Do you happen to know where Violet is?”
    “I’m working on it.”
    “Well, do me a favor—if you see her, would you kill her for me?”
    “There’s a surcharge for that, my baby.”
    That one brought her up short too—even I knew I’d gone too far. “Sorry?”
    “No,
I’m
sorry. Diva shouldn’t even joke about things like that. Thanks for your help, darlin’.”
    Mimi Dupuy was the Queen of Denial if she thought we were talking about a coincidence. On what planet do they make coincidences like that? Excuse me, George and Violet came to work for two halves of the same couple at the same time and then disappeared at the same time? And now they were both missing? I didn’t think I was going to have a chance to collect that surcharge from Mimi—my guess was Violet was already dead. Along with Geo.
    Time to pay a visit to Detective Clarence Bopp, NOPD.
    Bopp and I go back a long way. We met when he was busting some pole-dancer for dealing and I was the featured act at the club. Before he figured out I wasn’t your average everyday dancer he made some moves that could have been embarrassing if Diva hadn’t taken pity and clued him in. So now he loves me—plus he’s a well-known sucker for a pretty face.
    I hoped I didn’t embarrass him barging into the squad room like I did, but probably not. Only one other guy was there, and he was talking on the phone. “Oh, Clarence! It’s your favorite private dick. Or should I say chick?”
    Bopp was bent over something that looked suspiciously like a racing form. When he looked up, I was touched by the look of unmitigated delight on his world-weary—if pudgy—mug. (Though some might have mistaken his sunny smile for a grimace.)
    “Oh, crap. It’s the world famous Mistress of Disguise.”
    “I didn’t get that title by choice, my baby; only because Disguise wouldn’t marry me.”
    “Why buy the cow when the milk is free?”
    See how much fun Bopp and I have together? “You calling Miss Diva a cow?” I inquired.
    “Moooo!” he riposted. We’d be the bromance of the century if Miss Diva weren’t such a lady.
    I pantomimed kissing: “MWAH. We both know you love me.”
    Bopp said, “Yeah, right, Devereaux. How do I pry you outta here?”
    I ignored his lively wit. “You got a missing persons’ report on a kid named George Dupuy? Filed by a Miss Wendy Thornton?”
    He lit up. “Promise you’ll go if I find it?” And without another word, he started staring at his screen and clicking around. Miss Diva was quiet as a cat.
    After awhile he said, “Well, I’ve got a Geo De Pew. Damn close, huh?”
    I figured that was no accident. “Yeah, that’d be him. Listen, I’ve got a pretty good idea where he is. That is, Barkus does. He thinks a certain sculpture stinks. If you take my meaning.”
    And I proceeded to tell Bopp the whole story, to which he replied:
    “Okay, simple. All I’ve got to do is get a court order to melt down a piece of civic art commissioned by one of our most prominent citizens, who happens to be married to the artist. Sure, no problem. What if there’s no body in there? You gonna pay for my retirement party?”
    I knew he’d believe me. As