Big Easy Bonanza

alarm (which he knew very well how to do, having many times taken care of the house when the family was away), break into the house, and stab Chauncey as he slept. Stab him in the heart. Always in this one Tolliver saw the hilt of an antique dagger protruding from Chauncey’s bloody chest. This one had so much power over him that twice he had done it—or almost done it. Once he had broken into the house when no one was home, groped his way into the bedroom, and pantomimed the murder. Another time—recently, very recently—he had gone in when Chauncey was there alone. He had actually walked over to the bed and listened to Chauncey breathe, longing to make him stop. But he hadn’t brought his dagger, had deliberately not brought it. He wasn’t ready yet.
    Even through the pain in his head, there was satisfaction in these thoughts, as always. He could not remember which weapon he had finally used until her wraith floated insouciantly into his mind’s eye when he was thinking of something else It was LaBelle. LaBelle herself was the weapon. She had come to his house, LaBelle, with her red, fiery, fierce beauty and her awful accent and that smell about her—he didn’t know much about women’s perfumes, but this was new, he was fairly sure of that, and reminded him of stories he had read, of Chinese concubines and Egyptian ladies of fashion who rubbed themselves with love unguents before bewitching their unsuspecting targets.
    Her violet fingernails clashed with her skin—or perhaps clash wasn’t the word, perhaps the effect she wanted was one of discord and danger. She was like a succubus with her siren scent and her deep red, angry energy re-channeled in the most ambitiously imaginative ways. He felt he was too old, too depressed, to fully appreciate her, though he could certainly marvel in admiration. In the end she had enthralled him after all, but she had done it with the tools of Scheherazade rather than with those of Lilith or Circe. In her gutter English she had told him the story that cost Chauncey his life. He hadn’t intended it to work this way. It was so far from the ways he’d imagined. It was so sad this way.
    He was too sad now to continue the charade of trying to work. He closed up his shop and went home.

2
    Yvonne had Saturdays off, and Bitty saw no reason she shouldn’t have this one as usual. She was delighted, in fact, to know no one would come to her house today, no human being for whom she had to pretend. She had a lovely bottle of scotch in her bedroom and so there was no need to make a show of getting up. Henry and Tolliver were working and wouldn’t be around. She could lie here all day and anesthetize herself to her heart’s content. Or she could have if Marcelle hadn’t shown up. Bitty had forgotten about her.
    Using her own key, Marcelle simply came in, made Bitty coffee and eggs and toast, and brought it up to her. “Mother? Good morning, Mother.” Bitty blinked as Marcelle opened the curtains.
    She sniffed the air and Bitty knew she was taking in the aroma from the scotch glass at her bedside, but knew also that she was far too polite to say anything.
    Bitty said only her name, unable to think of anything with which to follow it up. She had been thinking of her other daughter again. Marcelle was an intrusion.
    “Yes, of course, it’s me. And André’s downstairs, being a perfect little lamb, waiting to see his Mo.”
    “Oh, dear. I don’t feel well today.”
    “Eat something, Mother. Please.”
    She had sat down and stared at Bitty, who really didn’t think she could manage more than a bite or two. She tried a sip of coffee and found it strangely comforting. It seemed a long time that they stayed this way, a tableau almost, except that from time to time Bitty would do something with her fork, pretending to eat. She knew that Marcelle would not go away until she felt she had done her duty as a daughter. She must try to eat the toast at least.
    Bitty could defy her, of course. She could pull out her scotch bottle and know that Marcelle wouldn’t take it away. But she was too proud.
    “Mommy?” called André. “Can I see Mo now?”
    Marcelle smiled at her mother. “The cartoons must be over. Shall I have him come up?”
    “Oh, Marcelle. Please try to understand—I’m really not myself yet. I need to spend the morning in bed. Dr. Langdon said it’ll take me awhile to get my strength back. After the stress of everything.”
    “We’ll come back later. Shall