PI On A Hot Tin Roof

they were strangers. But she’d forgotten about the police radio. Soon the television stations, smelling blood like buzzards, began to converge.
    It wasn’t the first time Talba’d made news, either in her detective persona or that of well-known poet about town. Someone from Channel Seven shouted, “Hey, there’s the Baroness de Pontalba. Baroness, whatcha doin’ here?”
    And she ran to the tiny office for cover, almost wishing she had Jimmy Houlihan to deliver the “no comments.”
    Finally, after a couple of hours, during which she gave Eddie and Angie periodic phone updates, Langdon took her away, complaining the whole trip about the way she smelled.

Chapter 11
    No matter how loathsome the man, it’s a terrible thing to think you might have caused someone to commit suicide—and suicide was what it looked like to her.
    Langdon had gone relatively easy on her—though she’d have thrown the book if she’d known about the illegal tapes—but Talba wasn’t about to give out information on an open case—at least not yet. Talba hadn’t seen a gun, but still, she didn’t dare hope it was anything other than suicide. She was on the hook and there was nothing she could do but twist.
    She wondered how Jane Storey felt, but there’d been no reaching her later that day. She knew perfectly well what Angie’s reaction was—and it wasn’t sorrow. It was anger. She’d be mad that she hadn’t gotten the public revenge she wanted and that she was still accused of possession. Talba’d be able to get her off with the speakerphone story as long as Boudreaux caved, but Angie had wanted Buddy to take the rap for setting her up.
    Alberta Williams was distraught. She phoned Talba in tears. “I didn’t wish him no harm, Miss Wallis,” she wailed. “I wish to God we never done this thing.” And Talba didn’t have to get a phone call to know how Lucy and Royce felt.
    Adele she didn’t have to speculate about. The first television broadcasts had identified Talba as being on the scene, mentioning both her jobs. Adele left a message on her cell phone: “Hello, Baroness. I hope you’re happy. We knew there was a rat somewhere, but we never suspected you. We trusted you. How does it feel to deprive a little girl of her daddy? To betray a whole family’s trust?”
    A quote from somewhere popped into Talba’s mind: “Loyalty to an employer is the most vulgar of loyalties.”
At least,
Talba thought,
I’m not guilty of vulgarity.
    Darryl was next on the phone: “Oh, God, Talba, you’re all over the news. I’m just so sorry it turned out this way. You okay?”
    “I’ve had better days.”
    “Look. You did what you had to. This was Buddy’s doing, pure and simple. He did the crimes, and he got caught. If he chose to take this way out, it was his decision. As long as you didn’t pull the trigger, you didn’t do it. Do you get that?”
    Talba sighed. “Miz Clara always says, as long as you do your best, an angel couldn’t do better. Well, actually, she just said it for the first time today. I’m trying to take it to heart.”
    That in itself spoke to the gravity of the situation: When Miz Clara got warm and cuddly, you knew things were bad. Talba took refuge in her work—beginning a poem about trust and how it could be abused.
    And two days later, she got a call from Jane Storey. “Talba. Got stuff from my buddy Grissom—this crime scene guy I drink with.”
    “Grissom? Isn’t that the name of the guy on
CSI?”
    “That’s this guy’s alter ego. He’d kill me if I told you who he is. Fact, he’d kill me if he knew I was telling you anything. Swear on Miz Clara you’ll keep it to yourself.”
    Talba’s heart speeded up. “Girl Scout honor.”
    “Ready for this? Buddy may have been murdered.”
    “What?” She was almost happy. If the man hadn’t killed himself, she hadn’t pushed him over the edge.
    “It’s true,” the reporter said. “I’ve got the whole technical skinny. You want the long version, or the short?”
    Talba asked for the long.
    “Well, for openers, Grissom says there wasn’t much blood.”
    Talba thought back to the scene, how she’d wondered if rain had washed the blood away. “It could have been washed away, though. By a wave or something.”
    “It’s possible, but Grissom doesn’t think so. Buddy’s clothes weren’t wet and it wasn’t a hot morning—they wouldn’t have had time to dry.”
    “And that means?”
    “Well, if he was alive when he was shot,