PI On A Hot Tin Roof

This guy was no bubba.
    “Sure,” she said, and followed him into a tiny white bungalow so neat she thought at first he was one of Brad’s gay friends. It wasn’t capital-f Fabulous, but it might be the Westwego equivalent. However, Burrell evidently wasn’t gay. A very neat, short-haired woman who looked a good ten years older than Burrell was working at a laptop on a table that clearly doubled as a desk in a dining room that clearly doubled as a library and office. It was completely lined with books.
    “This,” he said with a flourish, “is my wife, Mary Ann. Mary Ann, this is Miss Wallis. She’s a private eye, come to call on us for some reason. You haven’t been up to anything you shouldn’t, have you?”
    She made to stand, but Talba said, “Don’t get up.”
    Mary Ann ignored her and stood up. “Sorry the place is such a mess. We’re putting in a little garden—just moved here last fall.” Talba saw that the laptop (which was wireless) was connected to a gardening site. Seed catalogues covered the table.
    “We’re newlyweds,” Wesley Burrell said proudly. “I work contracting jobs from time to time. Came to remodel Mary Ann’s kitchen, and it was love at first sight.”
    Talba said, “I thought you were a postal clerk.”
    Both Burrells laughed. “I was, I was. Been most everything. Bartender, waiter, night watchman, you name it. Let me get you that iced tea.”
    He bustled off, giving Mary Ann a chance to lead Talba into a living room that seemed to have been furnished by Pottery Barn. Obviously, Mary Ann was a great catalogue shopper. “Had to buy all new stuff,” she said. “My husband got the furniture.”
    You little devil you,
Talba thought.
Carrying on with the contractor.
If anybody didn’t look the type, she was it. “All but the books,” she said.
    Mary Ann laughed. “I’m afraid I’ve got this little habit. I’m a retired librarian. But those are mostly Wesley’s. We bonded over
The Lovely Bones
—neither of us could stand it.”
    “Why not?” Talba asked. “I kind of liked it.”
    Mary Ann shivered. “All that heaven stuff. Gave us the willies. My ex-husband,” she added, “isn’t much of a reader. It’s true what they say—you can’t break up a happy marriage.” She held her hands apart like parentheses, containing her words. “And the kids were grown, so why not? Matter of fact, the grandkids are almost grown. We were both marking time. Lenny married his secretary the minute the divorce was final.”
    “A win-win situation,” Talba said, and Wesley came back with the iced tea.
    “Let’s sit down, shall we?” he said, handing Talba a tall cool glass. “If I can coin a cliché, to what do we owe the honor?”
    “It can wait a minute,” Talba said. “You piqued my curiosity. Did you say you were involved in a murder?”
    He nodded. “Client of mine was killed. It’s probably what you’re here about, right? I mean, Mary Ann and I lead kind of a blameless life—but not every day does a client get killed on my watch. And everyone else has been here to talk about it—I figured the FBI was next. Instead, I bet it’s you.” He gave her a shrewd look. “Besides, you discovered the body—we saw you on television.”
    Mary Ann did a double take. “You’re that poet! I looked you up on the Internet, but I didn’t recognize you.”
    Talba figured they’d appreciate her Baroness routine. “The Baroness de Pontalba, at your service,” she said. “But you can call me Your Grace.”
    Wesley raised a bemused eyebrow, but decided to go with it. “Okay, Your Grace,” he said, “you want to hear my story, right? Who are you working for?”
    “That part’s usually confidential, but in this case, it’s not. I’m working for the judge’s fiancée.”
    “Never met her,” Wesley said. “I just came at night and did my rounds. Place stinks like hell, doesn’t it?”
    “Was there ever any activity there—at night?”
    “Just me. Otherwise, quiet as a tomb. Why?”
    “I think Buddy was buying shrimp from poachers,” Talba said.
    “Ah. It’s not shrimp season, is it? I should have thought about that. Well, if he was doing it, he was doing it in the daytime—which you’d have to at Venetian Isles. Quiet place like that, night work’d be even more noticeable. Damn!” He seemed to be kicking himself. “Well, I was about to quit, anyhow. The judge’s death kind of turned the trick. But anyhow, I was embarrassed—people aren’t