Crescent City Connection

franchises—about forty-seven more than she’d expected. She phoned them all and asked to speak to Isaac. When that failed, she enlisted Abasolo to help her call on them. He took twenty-six and she took twenty-seven, both wishing fervently for the task force they’d been denied.
    They tried to see managers and owners or, failing that, at least to find out who they were, to call later. And then they talked to the employees about a regular customer dressed in white.
    At Whole Foods, the girl at the deli counter raised a finger at Skip, seemingly pointing at her. Skip looked behind her and sure enough, a man in a white polo shirt and white jeans was perusing canned goods. Another man, not three feet away, stood by the beet and carrot chips in a white linen shirt and shorts.
    Neither of them matched the description Isaac’s mother had given her. The simple truth was, men in white weren’t that uncommon at this time of year.
    Pursuing the artist avenue, Skip walked around Jackson Square, where street artists could hawk their wares with no overhead; some good artists had started this way. Not-so-good ones also made a living.
    They were a friendly bunch, these artists, and they didn’t miss much—they all knew a guy who wore white and had a spot a block or so over, by St. Anthony’s Garden. Unfortunately, he was African American.
    No one knew Isaac, and she wasn’t that surprised. For all she knew, he did six-foot metal sculptures rather than French Quarter scenes.
Oh, well
, she thought,
I can talk to Cindy Lou on the weekend. Maybe she’ll
have an idea.
    It was Easter weekend, when hardly anyone would be working. But Cindy Lou was coming over for Easter dinner, which Jimmy Dee was cooking, “For Layne, darlings, for Layne—our first holiday since the Troubles.”
    Skip hadn’t seen the two of them, had barely spoken to the children, since the Jury case started to break. She said, “Wait a minute. I think I missed a chapter. Does this mean the Troubles are over?”
    “The allergy’s at bay, anyway. It only comes a little bit now. The odd sneeze or sniffle.”
    “You’ve got to be kidding.”
    “Hey, the witch cure was your idea.”
    “Hold it. You’re saying it worked?”
    “Darlin’, I can’t tell you what worked. Call it the placebo effect, or call it voodoo. All I know is, for the moment, this marriage is saved.” Ostentatiously, he knocked on wood.
    “But that’s great, Dee-Dee. That’s fabulous. Why didn’t anybody tell me?”
    “Tell you? You mean fax you at FBI headquarters?”
    She uttered an all-purpose “ummm.” “Is there anything else I missed?”
    “Let me think. Kenny dyed his hair green. Angel became a lesbian. Sheila’s going to church tomorrow.”
    “Very funny.”
    “Well, the last one’s true. I think she’s got a Catholic boyfriend.”
    “Good. Catholics are still against premarital sex, right?”
    “Bad. That just makes them want it more. What are you doing tonight? Rare night out with the Bear?” His name for Steve.
    “We’re dyeing Easter eggs.”
    In fact, they went to an early movie first, and then stopped by the Napoleon House for dinner. Skip was in a fine mood when they got home, suffused with a feeling much like children get at the start of summer. She put on water to boil, and found herself enclosed in a rear-approach bear hug. Steve said, “Want to make love?”
    “Have to, to celebrate the season. Renewal of life kind of thing. Soon as I get my eggs dyed.” She wiggled her butt against him and then wriggled out of the hug.
    She opened the refrigerator and pulled out a dozen eggs.
    “You’re serious about this? You’re really dyeing eggs?”
    “Hey, get in the spirit. It’s not Easter every day.”
    “What the hell.” He started getting out cups for the different colors, and she remembered how much fun dyeing eggs used to be. Steam everywhere and the kitchen smelling of vinegar.
    When the eggs were done, she opened some brown paper bags filled with the stuff of the season—an Easter basket, fake grass, chocolate bunnies, jelly beans, marshmallow chicks.
    “I know that’s not for Kenny or Sheila.”
    “Listen, you’re going to think I’m crazy.”
    “I already think you’re crazy, and we’ve already talked about this—it’s for Shavonne, isn’t it?”
    She looked at him, willing him to understand. “The least I can do is—I don’t know—something.”
    He smiled at her, apparently at a loss for what to say. She knew the