Louisiana Bigshot

too. Nothing proved she did or she didn’t. The thing bore looking into.
    She went out to the kitchen to get herself some chilled white wine, maybe chat with Miz Clara a little. But her mother had gone to bed, and she couldn’t call Darryl. Raisa was with him and she didn’t want to take the chance of waking the child.
    Oh, well, things could be worse. She happened to have a very good biography of that other baroness—the original one of Pontalba—which seemed particularly appropriate at the moment. She took her wine back to bed and snuggled in with the book.
    But it was a long time before she slept and when she did, she dreamed—not nightmares exactly but disturbing movie dreams, stories in which things were oddly out-of-kilter. Anxiety, perhaps, she thought, given what she planned to do the next day.
    She woke up feeling so much out of sorts that not even the smell of Miz Clara’s coffee could cheer her up. Her mama was sitting at the old black-painted kitchen table, wearing ancient blue slippers, eating toast and bacon and reading the newspaper. She caught Talba’s mood immediately.
    “
You
a little ray o’ sunshine.”
    “I haven’t even said anything.”
    “You don’t need to. You got a black cloud over ya head.”
    Talba said, “I need some coffee.”
    “You jealous, aren’t ya?”
    “What?” For a moment, it was hard for Talba to determine the context, but then she remembered—the last thing in Miz Clara’s evening was the visit to Corey and Michelle’s, whereas hers had included sojourns in the various worlds of Matthew and Mozelle Simmons; Tanitha, Calvin, and Damian Richard; and that other baroness. Catching on, she said, “Of whom? Corey?”
    “Michelle. You want ya own baby.”
    “Well, I’ve got one. Little Sophia’s enough for me right now.”
    “Umph umph. You ain’t foolin’ me. Don’t fool me one bit.”
    Talba busied herself making toast.
    “Why don’t you just marry that man and get it over with?”
    “So that’s what this is about.”
    “I see the way you look at that baby.”
    “I love that little critter—any harm in that?”
    “Sandra, go get ya own before it’s too late.”
    “Well, well, well. Is this the same Miz Clara who used to lecture me on ‘stayin’ out of trouble?’ Waiting to marry till I’d established a career? Becoming the first African-American female president? She was a pain in the butt, but at least I was used to her.”
    “You watch ya mouth, young lady.”
    That was the way the morning started. Talba looked at her watch. Ten o’clock on a Saturday morning—just about equivalent to seven or eight on a workday. She really couldn’t put it off any longer.
    The Simmonses lived in Kenner out in Jefferson Parish, on the far side of Metairie. Probably a good half hour away. Talba turned on the radio and sang along, anything not to think about what she had to do.
    When she got there and saw the guardhouse, she almost turned around and bagged the whole errand. These people lived in a gated community. And no way, no way in hell, were they going to want to see her.
    But the way out came to her so quickly it scared her, and she wouldn’t even have to lie much. She could continue the routine she’d already started, only with a different twist.
    Before approaching the guard, she called the number she had for the Simmonses. A woman answered.
    “Mozelle Simmons?”
    “Yes.”
    “Do you know what an heir-hunter is?”
    “I think I do.” As in the case of her young relative, she became a little more animated, decidedly more friendly.
    “Are you the former Mozelle Winters?”
    “Yes.” Talba could almost feel her anticipation. There was no distrust, or even impatience in her voice—she evidently was content to let this one unfold as her benefactor wanted it to. Perhaps she feared that if she disturbed the protocol of the thing, her good fortune would go away.
    “Do you have a sister named Lura?”
    “Lura passed away a long time ago.”
    “And you’re her next of kin?”
    “Yes.”
    “Ms. Simmons, I think I can say at this time that I have some extremely important information for you—something that could enrich your life a great deal.”
    At this point, the woman’s docility apparently ran its course. She sighed and for the first time, her voice was sharp. “I suppose there’s some huge fee attached.”
    “There always is, Ms. Simmons. There always is. I’m outside your gate. Would you like me to come in and tell you