Mean Woman Blues

the other hand, the invention of the cell phone makes gossip-mongering easier, faster, and more efficient than ever before, and I was
always
the queen. Why, now I can gossip in the shower if I want to. And I do, Skippy. I do.”
    This time Skip was the one who laughed. “You aren’t kidding, you’re the queen. You could probably solve my case on the phone.”
    “You must mean that cemetery art thing. I’m just so
proud
of you, Miss Head of the Task Force.”
    “Matter of fact, I do mean that. You wouldn’t happen to have seen any art around someone’s pool, would you?’
    “Oh, no.” Alison’s voice was shocked. “I know a lot of people who’re missing some, though.”
    “Good. So it’s a big Uptown issue. Here’s what I was thinking: If I were a thief, I might offer this stuff to decorators and see if I got any takers.”
    Alison let out a little squeal. “Omigod. Patrick! Patrick Delacroix. I think he did get an offer like that. He told Susu Reynoir about it.”
    Skip let out her breath in a satisfied little hiss. “Ah. Maybe I should give Patrick a call.”
    Alison said, “I’m thinking here. I’m thinking. If Patrick got an offer, maybe some of the others did too. Ash Lanasa did our breakfast room. You should see it, Skippy. We have all these great metal chairs. I mean, real sculptures, like Mario Villa does. Only Mario didn’t do them; a student of one of his students—”
    Skip was sure it was the most fabulous breakfast room in Orleans Parish, but right now she had other things on her mind. “Could you ask Ash if he’s heard anything?’
    “She.”
    “Hmm?’
    “Ash is a woman. Sure I’ll ask her. Get right back to you.”
    This was the way they’d worked in the past: Alison called to pave the way; Uptown, it made everything smoother.
    Without much hope, she called Patrick herself. He hadn’t even met the person who made the offer, just received some pictures through the mail with a note saying the sender would phone. He never had.
    Which might be good, Skip thought, making a stab at optimism. “Call me if he does, will you?” she said.
    Her phone rang as soon as she put it down.
    “Skip. It’s Dee-Dee.”
    Jimmy Dee almost never called her at work and he sounded deadly serious. “Skip,” he had called her, not “Venus” or “my dainty darling” or even “Margaret.” Her heart started to pound.
    “Listen, I’m in a bind, and Kenny’s at a friend’s house. Can you pick him up on his way home?”
    “Sure,” she squeaked, hoping her voice didn’t give her away. Ringing off, she thought that this was no way to live: terrified to hear the voice of her best friend, sure he could only be calling to report disaster, reading danger into haste and distraction.
    She thought,
I’m going to find that bastard Jacomine if I have to spend twenty-four hours a day on it.
    She started immediately, scribbling on the nearest yellow pad. She was putting together her game plan when Alison called back. “Bingo. Ash has a friend who has a friend who actually saw a cemetery angel in a shop. This was before anything came out in the media, of course. A client took Ash’s friend to see it. Kenny Gilbert is the friend’s name. Anyway, Kenny thought it was too Gothic for the look he was going for, so it might still be there. Ash just called him, and he remembers the store.” She gave Skip Gilbert’s number. “Happy hunting, Kappa girl.” Skip had to laugh; that was a nickname that hadn’t even applied in college. Kappa she might be but pretty much in name only.
    The store was neither on Magazine nor in the French Quarter. It was a fairly new shop in the Warehouse District, also known, because of its copious galleries, as the Arts District. Skip went herself rather than send Hagerty, and there was the statue, big as life, in a prominent place on the floor. The proprietor, a Middle Eastern man, seemed barely able to speak English.
What the hell
, she thought, and played Hagerty’s role. “Hi, I’m Margaret Langdon. From Texas? I’m a decorator, and I was just thinking that angel would be perfect for this job I’m doing in Dallas. The only thing is, I really need about six of ’em. Is there any way you could get more like that one? Or even similar. They don’t have to match or anything.”
    He shook his head vigorously. “No, ma’am. This one of a kind. French— come from chateau. You not find one like it anywhere.”
    Ostentatiously, Skip looked at the price tag. “Fifteen