PI On A Hot Tin Roof
you do. You have to eat your soup.”
“Hate soup!”
“No soup, no ballet.”
And Raisa knew she had won. Talba felt she had, too—she barely recognized this child. Was it possible that so simple a thing as a day with a camcorder had begun to pry open her world? But things happened that way. She could recall learning to read as if it were yesterday—how for the first time she understood that she could make sense out of all those squiggles by herself, without adult assistance.
And the time a poet had come to talk to her sixth-grade class, and it was a black female poet. She had had no interest in poetry up till that moment. But here was a woman who was her color and she could make words sing as if they were birds. And more, she’d taken an interest in Talba—in some stupid classroom poem she’d written. That woman had changed Talba’s life forever. Come to think of it, her first-grade teacher had also taken a shine to her, given her special attention. Maybe Lucy could play that role in Raisa’s life—or maybe she already had. Maybe the kid was destined to be a great cinematographer just because an older girl—a teenager, however geeky—had called her a precious angel and showed her how to work a camera.
Or maybe miracles didn’t happen.
They were clearing up the dishes when her cell phone rang. Normally, she would have ignored it, but things were hot enough at the moment that she checked her caller ID. None other than Warren LaGarde was on the line.
She clicked him into her life.
“Miss Wallis? We haven’t met, but I’m Kristin LaGarde’s father. I wonder if you’d have lunch with me tomorrow. I have some things to talk to you about.”
Talba asked no questions. This was definitely a man she wanted to meet. “Sure. I’d be happy to.”
“Good. The Rembrandt Hotel at noon. Have the desk call me.” He rang off without waiting for an answer.
As she hung up, she saw that she’d just missed a call from someone else.
Speak of the devil,
she thought. There was a voicemail from Lucy: “Talba, I wrote a poem I want to show you. Could you come over tomorrow?”
Every kid, she thought, wanted an older friend: Raisa wanted Lucy, Lucy wanted Talba. Well, that was fine with Talba—in fact, it was the least she could do. She wondered if she’d be working off her guilt about the Champagnes for the rest of her life.
Later, when Raisa was in bed, she told Darryl about the two calls. “Pursue that Lucy thing,” he said. “I smell a great little babysitter here.”
“Think you can keep Raisa from finding out about Buddy forever?”
“Damn, that was close! Wonder why she didn’t pursue it? You know how she can be.”
“She’s changed, Darryl. Has Kimmie been giving her Nice Pills or what?”
“Don’t get too excited. When I put her to bed, she asked if we could ever have a night without you.”
“That’s my girl. But you know what? She might really be turning a corner.”
“Oh, sure. And it just snowed in the Amazon. What’s new in the case?”
“Well, I finally know what happened that night—or what I think did. Buddy apparently called the night watchman and said he could go home because Buddy had to meet someone at the marina.”
“So all you have to do is find out who it was.”
“Can’t be bothered. I’m too busy having lunch with hotel tycoons. Did you know the LaGardes have mob ties, by the way?”
“With what mob? There isn’t one in New Orleans.”
“Right. The Baptists run the video poker racket.” And she switched back to the subject on both their minds. “Look, I’m really sorry about the cat. I had no idea Raisa was going to be here.”
“It’s okay. The worst that can happen, she’ll get her heart broken.”
Walking into the Rembrandt Hotel, Talba was struck by how similar it was to the International House, where she’d been the night before. But whereas the latter was light and airy, done up in whites, this one went for a denlike effect, lapis with the occasional touch of black. Quite sophisticated, but it had about as much New Orleans charm as a toaster oven. Why not go to New York if you wanted that style? Practically feeling her way to the reception desk—on account of the dimness—she took in the sort of customer who frequented the place, and was surprised to see a lot of jeans, shorts, and T-shirts, as opposed to business suits. But the men who sported them had shaved heads and soul patches, very hip. Quite a few were Asian, with
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