PI On A Hot Tin Roof

was a piece about shrimp, mostly—cheap foreign imports versus the more expensive local product (“Louisiana wild-caught shrimp”), a hot topic in certain circles. The state’s shrimpers were suffering from the competition, and there were all kinds of pending plans to levy a stiff tariff on the imports. Meanwhile, restaurants were scarfing up the inferior alien product and serving it to unsuspecting patrons. Ben Izaguirre owned a restaurant, but if Farley had questioned him as to which kind of shrimp he served, he hadn’t included the answer in his story. Judge Francis (“Buddy”) Champagne, who bought his product from local shrimpers, then processed it and sold it to restaurants, was portrayed as a friend to his fellow Louisianans, Ben Izaguirre as their enemy.
    Pretty thin, Talba thought, unless Izaguirre also imported shrimp. But if he did, why hadn’t Farley had that?
    She called Angie and asked her about her client. “Hell, no,” she said. “He’s dying in the restaurant business, and he’s over sixty. He’s trying to sell the restaurant right now. Trust me, this guy is no wheeler-dealer. His only interest is in keeping the neighborhood nice for his retirement. Thanks to Farley, half his old friends hate him now.”
    “Would he confirm the drug plant for Jane? Off the record, of course.”
    “Sure. I’ll call him right now.”
    “By the way, exactly what are the complaints about that marina?”
    “Well, at first, it was just the usual—increased traffic, exhaust from the boats coming in, noise, traffic, oil in the water. But most of all the stink. Venetian Isles is tiny—you ever been there?”
    “No, but I know that, as of 2000, it had 772 housing units. Couldn’t find anything more recent.”
    “Sounds like a lot, but wait’ll you see the place. Everything’s cheek by jowl.”
    “What’d you mean when you said at first it was the usual—now it’s something else?”
    “Yeah. Ben Izaguirre says it’s against the law to catch shrimp in the winter, but Buddy’s still buying it. From poachers, he thinks.”
    “Well, that part sounds easy. Why not just report him?”
    “Talba, you are so naive. Think we haven’t?” The lawyer sighed. “Buddy’s a powerful man.”
    “Meaning you got no action.”
    “Right.”
    Talba hung up and thoroughly backgrounded Francis Champagne, noting his address, and then worked on another project she had going, something she’d need tomorrow. She went home early—she had to be at the judge’s first thing in the morning.
    The first thing she noticed about Champagne’s lovely house was that it was all wrong. It was a genuine Garden District mansion, way too fancy for someone on a judge’s salary, whatever that was. It wasn’t merely large, it was grand. In fact, it was famous, mostly for the iron cornstalk fence around the extensive grounds. But if the judge had supplemental income, she hadn’t found it. However, one thing she did know—his wife had died a few years back. Maybe she was the one with the money. But it was an enormous house for one person, and he hadn’t married again, so far as she knew. It needed not a maid, but a staff. Talba cordially hoped she wasn’t going to have to clean the whole thing by herself.
    She arrived at 6 a.m. and hunkered down in her unobtrusive Isuzu to wait. For an hour, nothing happened. Then a man—presumably Buddy—came out to get the paper. And at seven, a black woman in her fifties walked through the famous gate, strolled up the walk, and let herself in.
Pay dirt,
Talba thought.
The maid.
The only problem was, she hadn’t arrived in a car. No way to identify her without approaching her.
    Talba figured she either worked half or whole days, so she’d have to come back at eleven, and if the maid didn’t leave then, again at three. Given the size of the house, she was betting on three, but she couldn’t afford to take a chance.
    So she came back at ten, waited an hour—to no avail—and came back again at two-thirty. At 3 p.m. sharp, a youngish black man arrived in a car to pick up the maid. That was better. Talba noted the license plate, then followed the car home—to a shabby house in Central City.
    She now had two beautiful leads—one plate number, and one address. She sat down at the keyboard and began to play. The car was registered to a Roman Williams, a mechanic, married to Tawanha Williams, a licensed vocational nurse, and they had three children, one of whom was an outstanding student