Louisiana Lament

geezer. It wasn’t a cheering thought.
    He flapped his arms. “Just go and be your own sweet self,” he said. “Isn’t that what Miz Clara would say?”
    She looked him in the eye, the pretty smile gone, a perfect “11” over her nose. “Eddie, you think I’m wasting my time here? The police say it’s suicide and the ex says it’s suicide (although anybody’d be suicidal if they were married to him). Am I wasting this guy’s money?”
    “Well, what do you think?”
    She covered the bottom half of her face with her hands and thought into the little pocket thus created. Finally, she said, “I don’t think so. She was too hopeful a person, too positive to commit suicide. But on the other hand, I just can’t imagine anybody who’d want to kill her.”
    “Well, her family hated her, right? Then there was the boyfriend’s girlfriend. Oh, yeah, and the ex who thought he was going to get something when she died. Hey, how about the sister who was actually named in the will? Maybe she plays the ponies or something.”
    “Eddie, are you making fun of me?”
    He wasn’t, actually. He was perfectly serious. “For Christ’s sake, Ms. Wallis. Just round up the usual suspects.”
    “I bow,” she said, “to your superior wisdom.” And she actually did bow.
    “For Christ’s sake,” he said again.

Chapter Eight
    Her favorite thing about Eddie was the way he embarrassed so easily. Of course, it could be a pain when she wanted to exercise her usual vocabulary—as far as he was concerned public nakedness was preferable to profanity within the hearing of both sexes. But it was such sport to heap him with extravagant compliments and watch him squirm.
    Besides, she really did respect him. He’d taught her a lot, despite being a royal pain. If he said go to the funeral, Talba would go. Babalu was her friend, she might have gone anyway.
    But one more thing to do first—it might help with the family to meet Mary Pat, get her on Talba’s side. She could phone, but she was learning more and more that showing up on someone’s doorstep was usually far the greater learning experience. If they tried to throw you out, they usually had something to hide, which was instructive in itself. If they didn’t, you got a lot of bandwidth—appearance, expressions, body language, some sense of financial position and demographics, stuff you couldn’t get on the phone. Eddie even claimed there were ways to tell if someone was lying—something to do with looking right, or maybe it was left. Not only couldn’t she remember which direction it was, she couldn’t even think to look and see if they did it. But you learned stuff, anyhow—like in the case of Rob Robineau. A drunken, druggie, arrogant, violent, lowlife burnout. Would all that have come through on the phone?
    What on earth had Babalu seen in him? Maybe she thought he reminded her of her daddy. It was so often the case.
    Obviously, from the bequest, Mary Pat was also a body-worker. She was much as Jason had described her, except that today she wasn’t dressed like a gypsy, unless the gypsies had changed their national dress to overalls. “Cleaning,” she said, waving a cloth. “It’s what I do to relieve depression. Other people exercise, but that one’s against my religion. I’m about to have a Diet Coke.” Seeing Talba’s expression, she said, “Listen, no one in the world’s as pure as Babalu, certainly not little
moi,
and certainly not today. Want to split one with me?”
    Talba couldn’t help smiling. “Sure.”
    Mary Pat sat her down in a living room as cluttered as Babalu’s was stark. “I’m glad to see you,” she said. “I know Babalu thought the world of you—Clayton, I mean. We’re going to have to get used to calling her Clayton if we’re going to Clayton. You headed there? Want to go together?”
    “I promised Jason I’d go with him. We could all go together if you like.”
    Mary Pat shook her head. “I can’t. Sorry, but I’m too mad at him. I don’t blame the family—I think he should stay away.”
    “You know about his hiring me, I presume?”
    Mary Pat nodded, causing a pair of long beaded earrings to swing as if caught in a high wind, but she didn’t comment. “Well? Do you think it’s a bad idea?”
    She shook her head as vigorously as she’d nodded, making the earrings change direction. “I’d love to believe Clayton didn’t kill herself—but, face it, she had reason. I think he’s just trying to assuage his