PI On A Hot Tin Roof

shabby, but maybe a bit old for this kind of work—and he carried two things only, both of them hams. Beautiful hams. “This time they do—picked these babies up myself. Champagne residence, right?”
    “Right, but—”
    “You new or something? Where’s Alberta?”
    “Family emergency.”
    “Oh. Well, these are from Mr. Nicasio. He said to be sure I got them over here before the party.”
    “Okay, thanks.” Talba tried to tip the guy, but he assured her it wasn’t necessary. She found the gift card, and photographed it: “A little something from the God of High Living. Happy Mardi Gras—Harry.” Bacchus, he must mean. The hams were for the parade party. And Harry Nicasio was the same bail bondsman who’d posted Angie’s bond. Was there some kind of connection? Talba’s skin crawled.
    She looked at her watch, sighed, and decided she just had time to shop before lunch—she had Miz Clara’s beans, but the lettuce was too tattered to serve. She stowed away the hams, went out to procure the items on her list, then put on the beans to heat, started rice, and built a salad, which she dressed with her mama’s famous lemon vinaigrette (only Miz Clara didn’t call it “vinaigrette”). She set the table for three, thinking Suzanne might smell the beans and get tempted, and no telling who else would show up.
    Adele and Royce, as it turned out. Adele ate only the salad, the other two only the rice and beans. Fair enough, Talba thought— I’m getting better. To her amazement, the three ate in relative peace, except for a few cross words between Suzanne and hubby-dear.
    “For Christ’s sake, Royce, do you have to chew with your mouth open?”
    “Do you have to sleep all morning while other people work?”
    That kind of thing.
    Royce caught her eye as she cleared, “Hey, Eddie, I got a pure-D mess down at that marina—you got a few minutes to help me out?”
    Adele fixed him with a steely eye: “Are you crazy, boy? We’ve got a party here Sunday night. She can’t take time off now.”
    Wrong,
Talba thought. She was itching to get a look at that marina. She broke out in smiles and nods and made her voice high and feminine—by nature, she wasn’t much of a pleaser, but she’d seen other people do it. “Oh, yes, ma’am, I could do that. I didn’t know you had a party here, or I wouldn’t have been working so hard on the upstairs. I could work Saturday if you like, get the dining room and sun room ready. The living room’s already coming along.”
    “You could work Saturday?” Adele sounded as if she’d won a door prize.
    “Yes. Ma’am, I could. I’ve got some bills and…you know how it is. I’d be glad to.”
    “Done deal.” Adele leaned back in her chair, looking as satisfied as if salad was enough lunch. “Royce, she’s yours.”
    “Come on then, Eddie,” he said. “See if you can make me laugh—I could use it.”
    “Hang on a minute. I’ve got to go apply my blackface.”
    He did laugh. “You are way too sharp to be a maid.”
    This was getting dangerous. On the other hand, she and Royce were developing rapport, and she needed allies. She decided to keep up the routine.
    “Very good, sir. I’ll fetch my stupid-hat, sir. By the way, what about if I follow you in my car? So you don’t have to bring me back.”
    “Great idea. But from the looks of the place, don’t plan on coming back any time today.”
    “Royce.” Adele spoke firmly. “You can have her for two hours. Two hours only.”
    Talba followed Royce out Highway 90, aka the colorfully named Chef Menteur Highway. It was commonly thought to have been named after an actual chef, but Talba, struck that the literal translation was “chief liar,” had looked it up. One explanation was that the Choctaws had once had a mendacious leader who’d been exiled there, another that they’d disliked an early governor, whom they’d nicknamed “lying chief.” A third held that it was named after Chef Menteur Pass, the tidal estuary connecting Lake Borgne with the Mississippi Sound, which had treacherous—or “lying”—currents.
    Talba was going with the governor.
    The Chef Highway cut through New Orleans East, which she’d visited a few times—a very few—usually on shopping expeditions and once on a case, but it wasn’t an area she knew, any more than she’d know the West Bank if Darryl hadn’t lived there. It was odd, she thought, how many New Orleanians, black and white alike, seldom ventured beyond their