Louisiana Bigshot

case—not in the middle, like this. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I know you say you’re close, but neither of us really has any idea where this is going. Maybe it’ll end next week, or maybe the week after… I can’t just go on spending money like this.”
    She sat there for awhile, trying to absorb it. Finally, she said, “Let me go talk to Eddie.” He looked at his watch. “Honest I’ll just be a minute.” Eddie could sell snow to Eskimos—she wanted to get him in there and get his tongue going.
    This morning the duffels under his eyes were brown with a slightly greenish tinge—the color varied according to atmospheric conditions. Or maybe Eddie’s body chemistry. It was enough to make you believe in the medieval theory of humors.
    Green must be a good sign, she thought. He was smiling, looking as close to happy as he ever got. She hated to ruin his day.
    “Ms. Wallis, good morning. Sit down. Sit down.” He was downright expansive. She was suspicious.
    “How come you’re in such a good mood?”
    “Took a little drive up to Clayton Saturday night.”
    “And you didn’t get arrested? Maybe we should drink a toast.”
    “Had a pretty interesting time, Ms. Wallis. Pretty damned interesting.”
    “Eddie, listen…”
    “Had a man-to-man with Little King.”
    She gave it up for the moment, figuring she might as well hear him out. “Trey.”
    “A very drunk Trey. Thinks his sister was murdered. Says there’s a cover-up and a conspiracy.”
    “All right! Now we’re getting somewhere.” She was so excited she put up her hand to high-five him, but he made a face at her.
    “Get back, Ms. Wallis. You know I hate that black stuff.”
    “Oh, loosen up, Eddie. Come on—gimme five.” Reluctantly, he slapped her hand. “See? It’s kind of fun, huh?”
    “Infantile,” he said, but the corner of his mouth was twisted, like he was trying to hide a smile.
    He liked high-fiving, he was just too damned uptight to do it. He was going to come around, though; she was going to see to that.
    Talba sat down. A little seed of hope was taking root in her. She figured anything he had to say was going to help them keep the client. “So did Trey say who killed her?”
    “Swore to God he didn’t know. Said the whole town had a motive, though; or rather anybody in the whole town.”
    “Now, come on. Does that sound a little like an exaggeration?”
    “Well, sure it does. But you gotta remember, for him the whole town probably means a handful of his father’s best friends.”
    “Yeah! Listen to you, Eddie. You’ve got something there. Probably means five or six people, max.”
    Eddie sighed. “Well, ten or twenty, anyhow. You want to know the motive, or not?”
    “Yeah. Yeah, I do.” The question surprised her—she’d expected many motives.
    “He said she knew too much.”
    “Knew too much? What could she have known? She was just a kid—how could she know about some adult crime or conspiracy or something? It doesn’t make sense.”
    “Yeah, it does, Ms. Wallis. Yeah, it does. Use ya head.” He made it sound like “hay-id.”
    She let her mind go blank, and, in time, something floated to the top. “Oh, my God! She lied. She did know who scalped her.” She tapped her foot impatiently. “And it was somebody in the family. Just like Betty Majors said.”
    “Least it was somebody the ‘whole town’ was willing to cover up for. Let’s backtrack here. Donny Troxell knows his father is dying, so he calls Clayton and talks her into telling him Donny didn’t really do it, and King did.”
    “King?”
    “Let’s try him on for size.” He shrugged. “Could be anybody whose name Papa Troxell recognizes. So Papa blows the whistle with his dying breath…”
    “Maybe it wasn’t his dying breath before he did it.”
    “Agreed. So King kills him (or
maybe
kills him), and then kills Donny and Clayton.”
    Put like that, it stopped Talba. “Kills his own daughter?”
    Eddie drummed his fingers. “It’s a sticking point, I’ll grant you. Trey said his dad had a motive—along with everyone else in town—but I don’t know.” He stopped to think about it “Naah. I can’t buy it. If the whole town knows he did it, anyhow, then why kill his daughter—why even kill the Troxells—to cover it up?”
    “Not King then.”
    “There’s more to it, Ms. Wallis. There’s just more to it than we got. And something else bothers me. Why kill Clayton now? She’s always known who did