PI On A Hot Tin Roof

blood was mutual, Kristin would happily put her in touch with someone who hated her father. She curled up with Koko and Blanche—who were singing loudly for their supper—and dialed, ignoring the two furry heads that kept trying to bonk her into action.
    Kristin was all sweetness, her voice lilting over the line as if Talba were her oldest friend. “Hey, Talba. I was going to call you tomorrow, to see how you’re getting along.”
    “You know who’d really appreciate a call? Lucy. The kid’s going through a rough time.”
    “Oh, I know, I’ve just been so swamped. I’ll call her after school tomorrow.”
    “I’m sure she’d appreciate it. Also, she might need your help. I just took her a kitten, and Suzanne claims to be allergic to cats—they’re probably going to try to make her give it up.”
    “Oh, Suzanne. She’s such a manipulator.” That word again. “Sure. I’ll put in a word with Adele. She loves me. So how about the investigation? Are you getting anywhere?”
    “A few things are falling into place. But I’m puzzled about something. Does your dad have anything to do with the marina?”
    Silence for a minute. Finally, “No. I’m sure of it. He hated Buddy.”
    “Oh, really.”
    “The day after we announced our engagement, he called me into his office and fired me. I said okay, I was going to marry the man I love.”
    “He fired you.” That didn’t jibe with what Talba had been told.
    Kristin laughed, and her laugh was like mercury flowing. “Oh, he hired me back before the day was out. He needs me and he knows he needs me. But he did say he wasn’t coming to the wedding.”
    Talba was getting a lot of information she hadn’t bargained for. She said, “Can I ask you a delicate question?”
    “Sure. You already know everything else about us.”
    “Do you suspect your father of killing Buddy? Is that what this is all about?”
    “Oh, no. Omigod, absolutely not. When I say ‘hate,’ I mean he didn’t think Buddy was the right man for me. Old enough to be my father, he said—can you believe that? Considering Tootsie-pop.”
    Talba assumed she meant her stepmother. “So you don’t suspect your father?”
    “Talba, he’s my
daddy.”
    “Okay, I just had to ask. Look, I have an off-the-wall question for you. I found out a guy who did business at the marina is mad at your father, and I’m wondering why.”
    “Well, that could be anybody. Lots of people don’t like Daddy—he’s kind of a difficult man.”
    “The guy’s named Bob, and he’s a shrimper. Do you have any idea who that is?”
    But Kristin’s mind had gone off on a tangent. “Wait a minute. I heard something about this. How do you know about it?”
    “I hear things.”
    “Oh, no, you didn’t hear it. It happened at lunch, I heard. You were there. My father took you to lunch and gave you The Speech, right? I hope you had the sense to tell him to go to hell. He does that every time I get ‘out of control,’ as he likes to say. He doesn’t like me trying to find out who killed Buddy.”
    “Why?”
    “Says to let sleeping dogs lie. Why does that generation love clichés so much?”
    “Well, I figured it was just some kind of family stuff. Don’t worry about it. I didn’t take it seriously.” She tried again with her question. “But, listen, what was going on with this Bob guy?”
    “I don’t know. Is it important?”
    “Let me put it this way. I’m thinking Buddy’s death had something to do with the marina—and I saw this guy there. Can you find out his name?”
    “Probably. Let me call you tomorrow. By the way, haven’t you put in about twelve hours by now?”
    “At least. Should I stop?”
    Kristin didn’t answer right away. Finally, she said, “Let’s keep on it.”
    Talba hung up, feeling like the phone call alone was a day’s work. She went to feed her own whiny cats.
    And by morning, she had the shrimper’s name—Kristin had left it on her voicemail at work. The guy was Bob Cheramie, and he lived near Lake St. Catherine, just up the road from Venetian Isles, the area where the Dorands lived. What, she wondered, was a shrimper’s schedule like? (Assuming he came home at night, that is—she knew they often stayed out a few days at a time.) Well, she had to assume it. The old Benjamin Franklin, she surmised—early and early. And she’d missed the first early. Just in case, she made a pretext call to the Cheramie home, and ascertained that Mr. Cheramie, to quote his