Lousiana Hotshot

had no idea who else was back there. But no one was there except Millie, organizing bits of trim as if it were the most pressing job in the world.
    “Hey, girlfriend. What’s going on?”
    “This part of the store’s my private space.”
    Talba shivered. “Wooo. Have you got a thermometer? It got real chilly all of a sudden.”
    Millie smoothed out a piece of bronze velvet. “I’m afraid I can’t help you today.”
    “Today? Why not today?”
    “Look, Miss, I’ve spoken to my lawyer, and I really can’t help you.” She was keeping her eyes on her workbench, not meeting Talba’s.
    “Oho. You seem to have forgotten whom you’re dealing with. Not ‘miss.’ ‘Baroness.’”
    “Baroness.” The way she kept her eyes down made Talba distinctly uncomfortable.
    Talba opened her purse and brought out the folder of newly printed photos. “I’ve got some pictures to show you.”
    At last, Millie raised her eyes, and they were formidable. “I need you to leave my shop, please.”
    “Hey, I thought we were friends.”
    “I’m ordering you to leave.”
    “I thought you were Rhonda’s friend. I thought you wanted to get the creep who killed her.”
    For answer, Millie picked up the phone, dialed information, and said, “The number for the Eighth District, please.”
    Probably just for effect, Talba thought. Nobody wanted police in their shop. But she was making her point, loud and clear.
    “Okay, I’m out of here. Call me if you need me.” She scribbled Eddie’s office number on a piece of Millie’s gift wrap, and made a mental note to ask Eileen to get her some business cards.
    She breathed deeply as she walked back to her car, trying to regain her composure. She was more shaken than she wanted to admit.
Toes got to Millie,
she thought, and the thought wasn’t pretty.
    Whether he did it with money or threats, he’d realized it had to be done, and done it fast. He was covering his tracks well. Talba was afraid for Shaneel and Cassandra. Close to panicked, in fact.
    Fingers shaking, she dialed Aziza on her cell phone. “I need to talk to Cassandra right away. Can you call the school and fix it?”
    “For heaven’s sake, Ms. Wallis. What on earth is it?” She was irritated, a woman accustomed to full reports, not cryptic requests.
    “I may have an I.D. on the perp.”
    “What? Who is he?”
    “I don’t have a name yet. Just a picture.”
    Aziza sighed. “Okay, show her. Where are you?”
    “Just leaving the French Quarter.”
    “I don’t think you have time to get to her school. Today’s choir practice. She takes the bus to the church— why don’t you head there?”
    “Okay.” She took down directions so precise it was like talking to a cartographer.
    By the time she got there, choir practice had started. Her mission was certainly urgent enough to interrupt, but Talba didn’t at first, preferring to listen for a few minutes to the voices, male and female, young and old, blended in the pure joy of singing. Shaneel was there too, openly having the time of her life, and Cassandra, while not exactly abeam with delight, seemed at peace. Maybe she wasn’t enjoying herself, maybe she wasn’t even able to, but Talba could see she was finding something in herself most people didn’t have. Whatever it was, it was getting her through, and God knew she needed it.
Or Goddess knew,
Talba thought.
The girl needs a mother.
    Listening to the choir, watching the girls, she was catching on to why they did it when they didn’t seem even slightly religious. They had a beautiful gift, something special, something outside the mundane. She was happy for them. It was the thing she told kids to look for in themselves when she went to high schools to talk about poetry. Not many of them had a clue what the hell she was talking about.
    Where’s Pam? she wondered, scanning the choir for the little redhead. Since almost everyone was black, she’d have stuck out like a snowball. She wasn’t there; still in mourning, perhaps.
    Talba listened for twenty minutes, absolutely unable to bring herself to interrupt, and did so only when the choir stopped for a breather. She spoke with the leader, who called the girls down from the choir loft to mundane ground.
    They were avoiding her eyes, sneaking glances at each other. “Hello, women,” she said.
    Shaneel couldn’t help a smile; Cassandra couldn’t manage one for the life of her.
    “I’ve got some pictures for you.” She gave them each a picture of the