Louisiana Bigshot

is far and away the best time for an interview.
    “I’m Calvin Richard.” ReeSHARD. That part was good. “You’re looking for me?”
    “No, sir. But I might be looking for your son. I’m looking for the Calvin Richard who graduated from Clayton High School in the late eighties.”
    “May I ax what you need him for?” The man’s voice was gentle, a little too much so, she thought. For some reason, he was making her nervous.
    “I’m a friend of a friend. Our mutual friend thought he might be able to help me with something I’m working on.”
    “Oh? And who would that be?”
    Something was definitely amiss here. He wasn’t supposed to be the one asking the questions. She tried redirecting the conversation. “Is he your boy? My friend says really nice things about him.”
    “Who would that be?” he said again.
    “It’s someone he went to school with.” She decided to come clean. “I’m a private investigator working on a case—but don’t worry. Calvin’s not involved in any way. I just thought he might be able to help me with some information.”
    “Oh, I see. And what’s your name, miss?”
    “Talba Wallis. But it won’t mean anything to him.”
    “No, it won’t. Nothing will, I’m afraid.” He heaved a deep, impossibly sad sigh. “I’m sorry, Ms. Wallis, our son is no longer with us.”
    Could she be hearing right? “I beg your pardon?”
    “He was killed in an accident a few years ago. I’m very sorry I can’t help you.”
    Even if it was the wrong Calvin Richard, Talba’d meant to ask lots of questions—how to find the other black students, for one thing; who the Pattersons’ maid was, for another—but she was so shocked she could only stare open-mouthed.
    Finally, she said. “I’m so sorry to have disturbed you.”
    “That’s all right,” the man said. “I know you didn’t know.”
    What was the deal here? Everybody she went to see was already dead. At least Calvin had been for years—with luck, his death had nothing to do with the case.
    It was starting to be too late to catch anyone at home, but she drove to Ebony Frenette’s house anyhow, only to discover it was no house at all, but a large apartment complex. She had no apartment number for the woman.
    She buzzed the manager, secured one, tried it, and got no answer.
    Damn!
    She sat down and tried to think what to do next. Maybe if she could just talk to somebody…
    Slowly, she concocted a plan. She went out, bought a big bouquet of flowers, came back with them, and buzzed each of Ebony’s neighbors till she found someone home.
    “Yes?” A woman’s voice.
    “I’m sorry to disturb you. I have some flowers for your neighbor, but she’s not home.”
    “What neighbor?”
    “Ebony Frenette.”
    “Ebony? Ebony at work.”
    “Oh. Well, I wonder if you’d mind taking the flowers for her?”
    There was a long silence, while the woman weighed the virtue of being a good neighbor against the lazy comfort of blowing it off.
    Finally, virtue won out. “Awright. I got to get some clothes on.”
    Talba waited till the woman came downstairs, a much younger woman than she expected. She smiled as she handed over the flowers. “I knew an Ebony Frenette once. She was a nurse at the county hospital.”
    “Ain’t this one. This one work for an insurance company.”
    “Oh, yeah. Which one?”
    “I don’t know. Just an insurance company’s all I know.” She pronounced it “insherntz.”
    “Well, thanks for taking the flowers.”
    Back to the phone book. How many insurance companies could there be in Clayton?
    Quite a few, it developed. Talba called fourteen before she found Ebony. She decided to take a chance on a phone conversation. She had no qualms about saying who she was—she’d already planned it out. For once, she saw no reason to lie. So far as she knew, Ebony had nothing to hide, nothing to lose by talking to her. And how else to justify the kind of questions she wanted to ask? She asked to be transferred to Miss Frenette.
    “Ebony? Hi, my name’s Talba Wallis. I’m a private investigator and I think you might be able to help me with a case I’m working on.”
    “You got to be kidding! Me?”
    “It wouldn’t take more than five minutes or so. If you’re going out for lunch, maybe I could meet you outside your building.”
    “Okay. Sure. Yeah. I’m wearing a tan suit and my lunch hour’s noon. Oh, and I’m African-American.” The woman sounded flattered, as if a TV game show had called