Louisiana Bigshot

he seemed to find it as appetizing as a nice rodent stew. He was staring at the crowd in front of Lola’s across the street. Talba said, “I’ll eat it if you don’t want it.” It was a vegetarian version of a muffaletta. She thought that he was probably a meat-eater who’d ordered the veggie muff for a reason—because Babalu would have—and now he was sorry. Watching him, she tried to memorize his face, and the way the sandwich looked, and the hopeless set of his body. The moment was a poem, and she tucked it away for safekeeping.
    He pushed the sandwich over to her. “I guess I’m not hungry.”
    Talba nibbled at it, not sure she was either. “Tell me something, Jason. Why are the police so sure this was a suicide? They left her datebook and Rolodex—surely they wouldn’t have if they’d had any other ideas.”
    “The police say there was a note on her desk. I didn’t even see it. They found it.”
    “Did they show it to you?”
    “Yes.” His eyes looked far past her.
    “What did it say?”
    “It wasn’t a note. It was a poem.” He still didn’t meet her eyes.
    She was silent, and eventually it paid off.
    “It was about betrayal. The title was ‘To Jason.’”
    She couldn’t stop herself from gasping. Catching her breath, she said, “Jason, I don’t know what to say.”
    He shrugged.
    “I mean…” Should she say it? “…that sounds pretty convincing. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” For him and for her role in it.
    His eyes came back into focus and turned on her angrily, passionately. “Listen, there’s a lot more to it. First of all, she must have written twenty poems called ‘To Jason,’ about everything you could name. Some were funny, some complained about me, some were love poems. It was one of the ways she communicated—one of the things I loved best about her. I know that poem. She read it to me the night before she died.”
    “She what?”
    “Talba, I knew all about you and your report. She confronted me about it. And we didn’t break up. She was angry, she felt betrayed, but we didn’t break up. I told her what I told you and she agreed she hadn’t been herself. She said she’d give me another chance. And she read me the poem and we both cried.”
    Talba realized she hadn’t even asked when he saw her last.
Whoo, that’s what I get for assuming. Eddie would kill me if he knew. I know what
I’d
have done with that information
—
dumped him on his butt. I guess I just thought anyone would.
    “You mean you were at her house the night before she died?”
    “Not exactly. This happened on the phone.”
    “You must have told the police.”
    He nodded emphatically. “Told them and told them. They just keep saying there’s nothing to point to murder. No forced entry, I guess they mean. And in their minds, there’s a suicide note; ergo, it’s suicide. They found the poem on the desk, right by the report.”
    “Well, where do they think she got the heroin?” Talba spoke more loudly than she meant to, causing passersby to stare.
    In contrast, Jason’s voice was almost a whisper. “I don’t know.”
    She exhaled, ready to go on to another subject. “Well, look—did you know she’d made a will?”
    “A will?” He looked utterly amazed.
    “Several years ago.” She handed it over. “Mary Pat’s the executor. You know what that means? It means the family doesn’t control her property quite yet—Mary Pat does. Do you realize there’s a whole drawer of poems in there?” She hoped he’d take the hint. Legally, the poems probably belonged to the sister, Hunter Patterson, but Talba was afraid Hunter might not appreciate them.
    When Jason said nothing, Talba continued, “Mary Pat could perform a rescue mission—I mean, keep them safe for Hunter. For a little while maybe.”
    She knew that what she was doing was unprofessional, but she couldn’t help it. What if the estranged Patterson family simply tossed their hated daughter’s life’s work in the garbage? Talba had always thought certain things were more important than the law; it was one of her continuing arguments with Eddie.
    “What’s Mary Pat like?” she asked.
    “Mary Pat? She’s kind of wonderful. Curly red hair, dresses like a gypsy. Laughs a lot. She might be into Wicca or something—she sure wears a lot of jewelry.”
    “Does she like poetry?”
    “I don’t think I’ve ever talked to her about it. But she loves Babalu—they were college roommates. Loved,” he said