Lousiana Hotshot

it— she worked every other Saturday for a lady in the French Quarter. A note on the kitchen table noted tersely that:
Darryl Boucree is as fine a Christian as I have ever seen.
    Not just any old thing could amuse Talba that morning, but that did. She’d never asked Darryl if he was a Christian; she herself was not, though she’d never mentioned that fact to Miz Clara.
    She made herself coffee, and as she waited for it, considered a drink instead. She wasn’t really going to have one, she knew that in advance. But the idea was certainly appealing— anything to avoid the shame of the previous evening. The shame and the ramifications:
    Corey would never be able to go back to his favorite restaurant.
    Michelle would divorce him, and he’d never see his child.
    Miz Clara would choose between her children, and she’d pick Corey.
    Darryl would never call her again— no one would date a crazy person.
    Did she dare call him?
    She didn’t think so.
    She found his note when she went to make her bed, pinned to the pillow like a good-bye in a country song. She picked it up with dread. But all it said was, “Your Grace: Call me, why don’t you? Your faithful servant.”
    What to make of that one? “Faithful” was good, maybe all wasn’t lost. Then again, maybe it was. If the news was bad, she wasn’t ready for it.
    On the other hand, the note poked her out of her shell. She was ready for something— but what? She went back into the kitchen, poured herself a second coffee, and sat down to think.
    Uh-uh, that didn’t work. Too painful.
    She wasn’t actually conscious of any transition, was simply aware that she was back in her room, sitting at the computer, having utterly renounced her vow of the day before, to forget about her father. This thing wouldn’t wait.
    The only thing was, she couldn’t get what she wanted online. She’d give anything to be able to hack into the
Times-Picayune
library. Frustrated, she wondered if the public library was open on Saturday, and then had a better idea. She had a friend at the paper, a reporter who’d once done a story on her— maybe Jane Storey would look up what she wanted. She gave her a call.
    Unfortunately it meant telling a lot of her personal business, but that was what it took to get a reporter intrigued. Even so, it looked like it wasn’t going to work until finally Talba blurted, “Dammit, Jane, I’m a baroness! You have to do what I say.” A good laugh, it seemed, was almost as good as information. “All right, all right.” Storey giggled. “Anything you say, Your Grace,” and went off to check the old files.
    It was a thumb-twiddling thirty minutes before the phone rang. “Hey, Baroness, I think I’ve got it. Listen to this: ‘Body Found in Apartment.’ But I warn you, it’s not pretty.”
    “I can handle it.”
    “Okay, here goes. It’s mercifully short.”
    It was only about two paragraphs, and all it said was that Denman Wallis had been found in his own living room, dead of a gunshot wound. Or that was almost all— it said he’d been found after neighbors reported a foul smell. The body was in an advanced state of decomposition.
    When she had thanked Jane and hung up, Talba closed her eyes to see if she could still run the movie. It was there like before, only now she saw only the blood, a flowing, fearsome lake of it. For the first time she heard a voice— “Sandra! Oh, baby, baby, baby! Oh, baby!” Miserable. Keening. “Come here, baby. You all right. Everything’s okay.” And then arms around her. Being picked up and held by someone.
    Not Miz Clara. A man.
    Her eyes were open now, staring at the screen, but she was still watching the movie. Only now it was more like a video game, with characters interchangeable at her whim. She played it as it must have happened.
    If mother-as-murderess was what they were keeping from her, then who had picked her up? Could it have been Corey?
    No. If she was seven, he’d have been fourteen, and even now he wasn’t a big man— as far as she remembered, he’d been a runty teenager. This was definitely an adult. She couldn’t think of anyone close enough to the family to be there at a time like that. There must have been an argument— nobody would argue in front of guests.
    Unless the argument was
about
the guest.
    Did Miz Clara have a lover? The idea was so preposterous Talba almost laughed. If she and Corey hadn’t existed, she’d have thought her mother had never had sex in her life—