Big Easy Bonanza

I didn’t eat it. I flushed it. And no, I don’t have the slightest recollection of it.”
    “I was afraid of that,” said Skip, and stood up to leave.

LaBelle
    SKIP STOPPED AT a K&B with a phone booth to look up LaBelle for herself, nearly laughing aloud at the thought of Sheree’s disdain for LaBelle’s taste in makeup. The Katz & Besthoff drugstore chain was almost as famous for the purple of its logo as Pepto-Bismol was for its pink, and a bilious hue it was.
    True to Sheree’s observation, there was no LaBelle Doucette listed, but there were thirty other Doucettes, a circumstance that made Skip wish momentarily that she had a nice job teaching English at Sacred Heart. Had she really been feeling smug about not having to help Tarantino and O’Rourke with the scutwork? She was about to make calls to twenty-nine people who weren’t going to want to hear from her—thirty, come to think of it. If LaBelle lived at the home of one of the listed Doucettes, she’d probably rather talk to the Phantom of the Opera.
    Skip went home and changed back into jeans. First she called Marcelle for a better description of the black woman.
    “Not too tall,” said Marcelle. “About my height, maybe—say around five-five, five-six. But she was a beanpole, like Stelly Villere. Did you ever meet Stelly? Daddy’s ex-secretary?”
    “No, but I hear she was a real knockout.”
    “You’re not kidding. And a doll too. Sweet as pie and pretty as a picture.” She stopped. “Oh, that made me think of Daddy. That’s what he used to say about me.” Her voice had tears in it. “Anyway—”
    “The woman. Did you notice her eyes?”
    “No. It was dark out. And I was on the second floor, looking out a window.”
    Skip went through the hair and skin questions she’d asked Sheree Izaguirre and got similar answers—similar enough, anyway, to convince her LaBelle was the woman Marcelle had seen.
    “Marcelle, a question about Stelly—she was with your daddy a long time, wasn’t she?”
    “Oh, yes. At least five years.”
    “Do you know why she left?”
    “Why? What’s Stelly got to do with it?”
    “I was just thinking. Could this woman be related to her?”
    “Related! How could she be?”
    “You just said they had similar body types.”
    “Oh, but everything else is different. Stelly has black hair and gold skin, for one thing—completely contrasting color scheme. And anyway, she’s…” Marcelle hesitated. “… a lady.”
    She spoke with defiance, but Skip declined the cue and laughed anyway. “Aren’t we nineteenth century?”
    “Oh, Skippy, you know what I mean.”
    “I do. I was just teasing. But seriously, do you know why Stelly left?”
    Marcelle’s voice had an edge to it. “No, I don’t. Why?”
    “In police work, you have to check everything. There’s no getting around the fact that somebody had a grudge against your daddy—a real bad one. Disgruntled employees have been known to commit murder, you know. And nobody seems to know why Stelly left. We’ve got a technical term for that in my business.”
    “What?”
    “A mystery.”
    “Skippy, you’re so funny. I’ll ask Mother why she left. She might know. Daddy always did seem kind of sad about it. Maybe he caught her embezzling or something.”
    “Thanks, Marcelle. I’d appreciate that.”
    There was no putting it off now. Skip settled down with the phone book and started dialing.
    “LaBelle? Ain’t no LaBelle here!” Slam! As if she’d been a heavy breather.
    “Cornell? Cornell’s working nights now.”
    “My mama’s not home tonight. She’s out playing Bingo, I think. Her name? Her name’s Mama. Idn’t it?”
    Busy.
    No one home.
    “I’m sorry. I think you must have the wrong number. What number were you calling, please?”
    Another busy.
    “I don’t know no LaBelle, cher, but maybe you’d like to come over and suck my dick.”
    “Whisper, whisper—heart—not expected—whisper-morning.”
    “LaBelle doesn’t live here anymore.”
    Skip said, “Thanks. Sorry to bother you,” before it sank in that the woman on the line had said something she wanted to hear. Who was she? She’d dialed so many she’d lost count. “Mrs. Doucette?” she said. “Philomena Doucette? Can you tell me where I can reach LaBelle?”
    “I guess she still workin’ on Bourbon Street. Never hear from her no more. Don’ know, really.”
    “Bourbon Street? Do you know the name of the place?”
    “I b’leeve it’s called the Do-It