House of Blues

every
scrap of "family business," was going to be picked over and
examined. "Could you do me a favor? Could you step outside with
me and point out your car? And Arthur's and your daughter's?"
    "There's mine over there. And Arthur's in the
driveway."
    " I'd like you to show me Reed's."
    Sugar opened the car door. "I'll try."
    It was dark now. But when she noticed, apparently for
the first time, that most of the neighbors were outside, she
retreated back to the car. "I don't think I'm up to it. Is that
all right?"
    " Sure." Skip could get Grady to do it. "Do
you have a picture of Dennis and Reed?"
    " Inside—shall I go get it for you?"
    "I can get it."
    " It's on the little table in the living room."
    " How about one of Sally?"
    "In my purse—on the table in the foyer."
    Skip found the purse, checked it for weapons, and
asked Paul Gottschalk to photograph and dust it. While he did that,
she went in to get a good look at the dining room, to fix the crime
scene in her mind, and then found the picture of Dennis and Reed.
    It was a wedding picture that showed only
faces—Reed's radiant, surrounded by tulle, Dennis's a little
daunting. Reed was a classic southern beauty, natural-looking, with
straight brown hair and straight white teeth—teeth whose
straightness had not come cheap, Skip imagined, but the orthodonture
was worth it.
    Dennis was another matter. His features were very
distinct, his lips generous, his eyes intense. He had a little baby
fat, like the young Brando, that softened him, made him slightly
vulnerable. But there was something brooding about him.
    Heathcliff , Skip thought; but a man who liked begonias—or whatever he
had at his nursery—didn't fit the stereotype. For now, she left the photo, giving Paul a little time to get it
dusted.
    She went back to Sugar. "May I borrow the
picture?"
    "Of course." But she hesitated.
    " For the investigation," Skip said, and
Sugar nodded. "May I see the one of Sally? And could you check
your purse to see if anything's been stolen?"
    Quickly, Sugar checked her credit cards, checkbook,
and money. "Everything's here," she said, and drew from her
wallet an Easter snapshot of a pretty towhead in a pink dress. She
was holding a basket of eggs.
    "Can you tell me what they were all wearing? And
their heights, weight, eye color—all that?"
    To Skip's surprise, Sugar's lip started to tremble.
She tried to control her face but lost the battle. An anguished rasp
escaped her, not quite a sob. "Sally!" she managed to gasp.
"She must still be wearing the dirty overalls."
    Skip said nothing for a few minutes, but the
information trickled out: Dennis was dark, Reed was light; he wore
jeans, she wore a summer dress with sandals, and Sally wore beans.
    Skip wondered what else there was to get. She
repeated Sugar's earlier statement: "Reed and Dennis really hate
guns."
    "Hate them. Feel strongly. Arthur tried to give
Reed a little gun to carry around—you know how dangerous it is in
the Garden District—but neither of them would hear of it. They said
they didn't want to live like that." She turned away for a
moment. Gazing back at Skip, she said, "Of course, Arthur had a
lot of opinions."
    Once more Skip heard a clatter. It was Grady, back
with a handsome young woman in tow, a black woman, though probably
she'd describe herself as Creole. She was barely beige in color, and
she wore her straight hair in a low-riding ponytail.
    "This is Nina Phillips. She's our director of
sales at Hebert's."
    Before Skip could shake hands, Sugar had repeated her
performance with Grady—fallen upon Nina Phillips's neck, wailing.
    "That's right," said Nina. "Grady's
told me everything. You just go on and cry."
    It was a good time to talk to Grady. While Sugar
wasn't listening, Skip asked him the same question she'd asked his
mother. "Tell me a little about Reed and Dennis."
    He pondered a moment. Finally, he said, "The
couple of the nineties. She's the brains of the operation. Also the
brawn."
    Skip smiled. She didn't think he was nearly done.
"How so?"
    " God forbid anyone should call me a
feminist—they shoot guys for that in some parts of town—but,
look, he's got it easy, she's got it hard. She brings home the bacon
and then she cooks it; after changing into some diaphanous frock and
also changing the baby, of course. I guess it's like that apocryphal
old woman said: 'I makes the livin' and he makes the livin'
worthwhile.' "
    "I gather you don't think much of your
brother-in-law."
    "Oh,