PI On A Hot Tin Roof

baseball caps. So it must be the kind of place that catered to the Hollywood and jet-set elite. She placed her order for the owner and snuck a look in a dark, sleek bar that probably filled up with little black dresses on the stroke of six.
    LaGarde tapped her on the shoulder. “Miss Wallis, I presume.”
    Talba turned around. “Ah. I see Kristin described me.”
    He was even handsomer than she remembered; very distinguished, in fact, with an aristocratic manner that was the exact antithesis of Buddy’s redneck act. Taking him in, she had a revelation:
Jane’s theory is completely backwards. Kristin might be in the family business, but she’s rebelling like a teenager.
    LaGarde gave her a full-wattage smile. “She said you were a baroness.”
    “By night only. By day a humble P.I.”
    “Well, let’s go eat Chef André’s not-so-humble food.”
    He took her into the restaurant, where rich draperies and borders carried out the lapis theme, this time with touches of gold instead of black. Gorgeous abstract paintings hung on the walls, which were blessedly white, along with the tablecloths.
    “I’d recommend the mushrooms with goat cheese as a starter, followed by the salmon.”
    But Talba spied a fancy stir-fry on the menu and ordered that instead, preceded by a salad. “The baroness eats her veggies,” she explained.
    LaGarde, seeming slightly put out, went with his own suggestions, and offered wine, which she declined, feeling that if ever sobriety was needed, it was now. She noticed that her host passed as well. This was definitely a business lunch.
    It began with LaGarde quizzing her so hard on her life history that she finally said, “I should have backgrounded myself and brought a dossier.”
    He laughed. “Sorry. I’m just naturally curious, I guess. Interested in how people got where they are.”
    “My mama wonders about that, too. She thought she was grooming me to be the first African-American female president. Failing that, either Speaker of the House or a doctor. My brother did manage that one. Corey Wallis—maybe you met him at the Bacchus party.”
    “I did meet a black doctor. One with a beautiful wife—one of the Tircuits, I believe.”
    Talba made an inadvertent face. “That’d be Michelle. My sister-in-law.” The Tircuits were a big name in New Orleans.
    “You don’t like her?”
    “No, I do. But she’s one of those women who gets her nails done a lot. I’m more the ambitious type—though not according to the aforementioned mama. She doesn’t care much for the humble part of the profile.” Talba was getting tired of talking about herself. She said, “Kristin seems the ambitious type herself.”
    “That she is,” LaGarde said. He quirked an eyebrow. “Could be an understatement.”
    They were starting on their main course. Talba deemed it time to get down to business. “May I ask you something rude?”
    He laughed again, and wiped his mouth, replacing his napkin meticulously. Mr. Charm. “How rude?” he asked.
    “I was wondering what you thought of your prospective son-in-law.”
    “You mean did I dislike him enough to kill him?” He was still being Mr. Charm, but the question was serious.
    She feigned shock. “Mr. LaGarde! I’m not
that
rude.”
    “Why don’t you call me Warren? Shall I call you Talba?”
    “I prefer Your Grace.” She meant to be playful and hoped it came out that way.
    But he said, “Don’t we take ourselves seriously,” which threw her off her stride.
    “Sorry.” She was flustered. “Call me Talba. The baroness thing’s just, uh…”
    “It’s fine. Your Grace is good.” He smiled again, almost flirting. She was getting the impression he liked to keep people off balance.
    “Well?” she said. “You’re avoiding the question.”
    “Listen, nobody wants their daughter to marry an old crook. But it’s the sort of thing Kristin would do.”
    There were two good hooks there. Talba could barely decide which one to go with. Finally, she decided to take them in order. “Ah. So you knew he was an old crook.”
    “There was gossip.”
    “Had Kristin heard it? She doesn’t seem the naive type to me. But on the other hand, she genuinely seemed to love him.”
    The waiter had cleared the plates and asked if they wanted coffee. LaGarde used the moment to put his napkin on the table. Decisively; making a statement. “Your Grace, nothing about my daughter is genuine.”
    “I beg your pardon?” This was definitely not what she was