PI On A Hot Tin Roof

nineteenth-century woman who’d developed and built the Pontalba Apartments at Jackson Square despite being, on one occasion, pumped full of lead by her own father-in-law. She’d survived with two fingers missing and two bullets in her chest. But all that had nothing to do with why Talba had become a baroness. “I stole her name,” Talba said, “because somebody stole mine a long time ago. When I was born, my mother asked the doctor what she should name me, and you know what he said? ‘Urethra.’ It’s on my birth certificate.”
    Even Adele registered horror. Lucy’s was mixed with bewilderment. “Why would anyone
do
that?”
    “He thought it was a joke. And when I grew up, I just declared myself a baroness—because I wanted to be one. And she was the only one I’d ever heard of.”
    “Oh. My. God.” Lucy said. “That’s…inhuman.”
    Talba smiled. She’d long since come to terms with it, partly by writing a poem about it. “Water under the bridge,” she said.
    Lucy seemed hugely embarrassed, as if she herself was the perp. She seemed to be searching for a bone to throw. “Hey! I just had a thought—can you come talk to my class?” She paused. “I mean if I had a class. I guess I’m changing schools.”
    “Lucy may be going away to school,” Adele interjected. “We have to decide if that’s the best thing.”
    Lucy put on her sullen look. “It’s not my idea. How’s Raisa?”
    “She’s fine. She talks about you all the time.” Not strictly true, but close enough. “And I borrowed her a camcorder for Mardi Gras. She got some great stuff.”
    “Ooh, could I see it? I mean, could I see her? I’m a little short on friends right now.”
    “How about Danielle?”
    “Her family won’t let her come over any more.”
    An interesting irony, Talba thought. And a pity the girl had to resort to a ten-year-old for a friend. “Sure, you can see her,” she said. “I’ll set it up.”
    Talba left and went home to her mama. It would be a good night to chill and read a book—she had a heavy day tomorrow, beginning with a drive to the marina. She wanted to know more about the kid who’d been killed there.
    ***
    She checked into the office first and arrived at Venetian Isles about ten. Both Royce and Brad were in the office. Royce didn’t speak to her; left when he saw her. So much for Kristin’s diplomacy.
    Brad shrugged. “He’s not talking to anybody much these days. He’s sad about his father and he feels bad about”—he paused—“some other things.”
    “What other things?”
    “Goddammit, I’m trying to be patient here. Listen up: Royce is one of the good guys. He didn’t like a lot of the stuff his father did, but he was trapped, you understand? He couldn’t do a damn thing about it, and he’s like, all messed up inside. About his daddy dying and—shit!—just the way things work around here.” Talba didn’t know if he meant the marina or Louisiana, or maybe the world. “His daddy’s dead and he’s stuck with the mess he left and he’s trying to figure his life out. Give him a break, okay? Back off.”
    Good idea,
Talba thought. “Sorry,” she said. “I guess we got off on the wrong foot. Do you know what I’m here for?”
    Brad had been sitting at a small table that served as a desk. He stood now, apparently unable to tolerate being shorter than she was. “Yeah. Stupidest thing I ever heard of. If you don’t mind my saying so.”
    “Royce think so too?”
    “Royce is more or less still in shock. I don’t know what he’s thinking anymore.”
    “His daddy treated him pretty badly.”
    “He was still his daddy.”
    “Brad, you saw Buddy a lot, right? Who wanted to kill him?”
    Brad walked out onto the pier, looked off into space, making her follow. A power play. “You, maybe.”
    “Uh-uh. I already had what I wanted. Tell me Buddy didn’t have enemies. He was a judge, and he was dirty. A lot of people must have thought they’d gotten a raw deal.”
    Brad picked up something, maybe a stick, and threw it into the water. “Ben Izaguirre hated him—the guy was trying to close down the marina. But you already know that.”
    “How about the Dorand family?”
    Brad turned to face her. “Now you’re onto something. They sure made enough threats.”
    “Oh, really? What kind of threats?”
    Brad laughed. “Not death threats. Just that they’d see the Champagnes in hell if they didn’t pay up. All they wanted was a settlement. Didn’t give a damn