PI On A Hot Tin Roof

voicemail, was out. So it would have to be sometime between the first and the second earlys: just before dinnertime, perhaps.
    This would be a perfect day, she decided, for a drive to Covington—to see if Kristin had two parents who hated her. Like Venetian Isles, Covington was a place Talba had never been to—though she’d heard plenty about it. It was in upscale St. Tammany Parish, across the lake, and there just wasn’t much reason to go there if you were a young African-American starving poet and computer jockey. Add “P.I.” to the mix, and there might be, but so far it hadn’t come up.
    What she
had
done before was cross the causeway over Lake Pontchartrain, and she dreaded doing it again. Unlike the more familiar—and attractive—suspension bridge, with its sweeping views, this one was built on concrete pilings, and crossing it felt like driving an endless white road across an infinite stretch of nondescript water. In truth, it was only twenty-four miles long, but it felt like a hundred. It had to be the most boring bridge in the world. The “north shore,” as St. Tammany Parish was known in New Orleans, was a popular white-flight area, and there were times when Talba simply couldn’t understand white people. The idea might be to get away from crime and grime, but to her no amount of safety and fresh air was worth twice-daily ordeals on that soul-destroying span.
    On the other side, she encountered tree-lined highways and—yes!—relentless cleanliness. The malls seemed brand new, the grass freshly mowed, the cars scrubbed shiny. It was about seven miles from the end of the bridge to Covington, and the town itself was preceded by the usual stretch of Anywhere, U.S.A.—fast-food emporia, gas stations, supermarkets, Kinko’s, Wal-Mart, and Office Depot.
    She followed the signs for the Covington Central Business District, and immediately after crossing the Bogue Falaya River, found herself on a street boasting offshoots of the more local businesses you could find in New Orleans itself—but upscale ones only. Here was another Villa Vici (furniture), Mignon Faget (jewelry), and Ballin’s (clothing), plus a couple of familiar restaurants, one of which was a branch of the world-revered Acme Oyster House. At least those with no need to commute didn’t have to hit the causeway for food and spiffy supplies.
    But the business district wasn’t at all what she pictured. She’d been expecting a picturesque main drag lined with storefronts housing darling boutiques and adorable gift shops, of the sort you’d find in a tourist town. But Covington wasn’t a tourist town. Its business seemed to be conducted largely out of several streets’ worth of converted houses, mostly bungalows that seemed to her to date from the 1920s or so. Spanish moss hung from the trees, a phenomenon you didn’t see on the other side of the lake. It was quite charming in a completely unselfconscious way.
    Inside the bungalows, according to the signs, were lawyers’ offices, health-food stores (three that she counted), coffeehouses, a cigar store, and a pub or two. She found Greta LaGarde’s antiques shop in a cottage nestled between a store that sold musical instruments and one that housed a day-care center.
    The store was a far cry from the dusty flea-market sort, and another whoop and holler from the elegance of Royal Street. It was actually more like a gift shop. There was a lot of good stuff for wedding gifts with price tags taped to them set out on beautifully restored tables. Huge bowls held decorative painted balls that had no reason for being except to fill empty bowls. Silver and brass candelabra, some with crystals hanging on them, held fancy beeswax candles that also could be had for a price. Festooned sconces and gold mirrors hung on the walls. It was almost painfully Tasteful. Talba itched to hang some Mardi Gras beads and strew some ethnic fabrics around to funk it up a little.
    And its proprietor, if it was she, was a step up from the store itself. She looked as if she could preside with perfect poise over the snootiest emporium of elegance. In fact, she more or less personified elegance, and she was a step up from the current Mrs. LaGarde as well—in appearance, at any rate. She wore her age the way Diane Keaton did—as if she came from a distant planet where a beautiful older woman was as much prized as a beautiful older table.
    Her thick silver hair cascaded in a lush bob, and her lavender sweater and