House of Blues (7 page)

"
Are you awake? Does this mean I can turn on the
light?"

"I guess I am."

She groped for the table lamp. "There isn't that
much heroin here. Only in spurts. It's all cocaine. Mostly crack."

"A really nasty crack dealer."

"I can't think where you'd find one. They're
usually such sweethearts."

He said, "I won't ask what you've been out on."

But of course he was dying to know—he was trying to
be discreet.

"
You'll read about it in the paper. You know
Hebert's? Somebody walked into the owner's beautiful Garden District
home and blew him away during dinner. Three others missing."

"
Kidnapped?"

"God, I hope not. Considering how this isn't
going to help anyone's nerves, even without that."

"
Paranoia—for my film. White urban paranoia."

"
Why not?"

"No good. No real excuse to come back to New
Orleans—I could do it anywhere."

"
It's worse here."

She wanted him to come back. He lived in Los Angeles,
and she was missing him more and more lately. She had let him walk
out of her life a few months ago, or rather, had provoked a fight
with him, out of her own insecurity.

And then he'd walked out.

She didn't realize how big a hole he was going to
leave. How big an ass she'd been.

Stupid and cruel
. It hurt
to apply the words to herself, but they were true and she knew it and
she couldn't think about it without feeling her face go hot.

How could I?

To this day she wasn't sure. She just knew she'd been
scared to death and acted out of panic.

In the end, she flew to Los Angeles and begged,
something she could never have imagined she'd do. She had simply
turned up at his door, having no idea whether or not she'd be
welcome.

He didn't say a word, just broke into a smile of such
unmistakable delight she'd laughed, and he hugged her so hard she
felt petite for once in her life.

He was a film editor now and very successful, but he
missed his first love, the one he'd had before Skip—making his own
documentaries. Hence, urban paranoia.

"How about a day in the life of a cop?"

"
I don't know if you could really capture the
passion." She captured a part of him.

"I'm sure you're right. Police work is so
exciting."

"But sweaty."

"
I could rise above that." He was starting
to. "The only thing is, I don't know enough about it."

"Maybe you could find a cop and just—you
know—pound a confession out of her."

"
With a blunt instrument?"

"
It's a thought."

He shook his head. His hand closed around her breast.
"Maybe I'd just squeeze the truth out."

"She might have to frisk you for weapons."

"What would she do if she found one?"

"Put it in a real
safe place."

* * *

She awoke refreshed.

The night before, after canvassing the neighbors,
she'd checked the hospitals and even run rap sheets on Reed and
Dennis. Neither had a record, despite Dennis's drug history.

What remained in the way of background checks were
calls to Eileen Moreland, Skip's friend at the
Times-Picuyune
,
and to Alison Gaillard, known privately to Skip as proprietor of
Gossip Central. The only clips Eileen could find involved nothing
more exciting than Hebert appearances at charity functions, and Reed
and Dennis's wedding. There wasn't even a clip file on Grady.

"
No problem," Skip said to herself, dialing
with delicious anticipation. "Alison will dish the dirt."

Alison could come up with amazing stuff even when a
family was obscure. The Heberts were nearly as visible as the Neville
Brothers—she'd know everything down to the hairdressers Reed and
Sugar went to.

"This is Alison," said her machine. "John
and I are having our first vacation since the baby was born. You're
crazy if you think I'm saying where we are."

Skip actually held the phone in front of her face and
stared at it. "Well, damn you, Alison Gaillard."

When she'd recovered from the shock, she decided to
go see Nina Phillips, who'd already been a good source and probably
had a lot more in her.

She was shown through a couple of heavy swinging
doors, around a corner or two, and into a complex of offices—three
or four, it looked like. Probably one each for Arthur, Sugar, Nina,
and the chef.

Nina was on the phone, ordering the day's supplies.
Sugar was sitting beside her, making her life miserable, as far as
Skip I could see.

Nina indicated a chair. "A case of almonds,"
she told the phone. "A case of anchovies; two cases beef base,
two cases lobster base; one case crab boil; four tubs Creole mustard;
ten cases vegetable oil; four sacks rice; twenty-five sacks rock
salt."

She hung up and, without looking at Skip and Sugar,
made another call. "Hello, Mr. Daroca; Nina at Hebert's. I need
four cases of shrimp, please, sir; a hundred pounds of crawfish;
fifteen pounds of alligator; fifteen pounds of frog legs; five
gallons of oysters; seventy pounds of pompano fillet, and . . . let's
see, I think that's it."

She paused to listen for a minute. "No. No crab
today."

Sugar shook her head violently.

"Just a minute, Mr. Daroca."

Sugar said, "What do you mean no crab? We have
nine crab dishes on the menu."

"Jumbo lump crabmeat's eighteen-fifty a pound."

"So? Pompano's nine-fifty. Would we serve
tilapia or drum as the catch of the day? Of course not—a restaurant
of this caliber serves pompano."

"If I bought crab at that price, we'd have to
charge so much for it, no one would order it."

"
Well, can't you get imitation crab?"

"Your husband always said, 'This is Hebert's,
Ms. Phillips. You order crab remoulade, it better be crab.' "

"
We'll just do half and half," said Sugar.
"Nobody'll know the difference" Her expression said she was
absolutely confident no one had ever had such a clever idea.

"
Reed tried that about five years ago. You know
what happened? The chef walked out."

"Can't we just get a new chef?"

Nina closed her eyes and picked up the receiver
again. "Mr. Daroca, I'll have to call you back." She
glanced briefly at Skip, apparently deciding she didn't mind if she
had a witness. "Sugar, you've had a bad shock. I know you must
feel you have to take up the slack, with Arthur and Reed gone, but
you've really got to give yourself a break. You shouldn't be here,
stressing yourself out at a time like this." She brushed hair
off her forehead. "God knows I wouldn't be if I had any choice."

"Nina Phillips, don't you patronize me."

"I'm not patronizing you, I'm just trying to do
what's best for the restaurant right now."

"It's not your restaurant."

Skip wondered how Nina was going to answer that one.
Sugar was apparently one of those people who specialized in the
unanswerable. Her own mother was one as well.

Nina brushed at her hair again. "Sugar, honey, I
know you want to do what's best, but you have to remember, your
husband was raised in this business. Reed went to Cornell to learn
how to run a restaurant; I've had five years' experience here, and
five before that over at Dooky Chase's. You can't just walk in one
morning and take over a multimillion dollar business."

Sugar looked as if she couldn't decide whether to
destroy the room or cry. It was a small child's anger and hurt Skip
saw on her face.

She must have been some mom, Skip thought. A
giant—sized four-year-old.

Nina's voice was very gentle. "Now, I'm going to
talk for a minute with Detective Langdon. When I'm done, I need to be
able to make my groceries."

Sugar looked briefly at Skip. Her eyes were furious,
but the hurt and humiliation in them far outstripped the anger. She
turned and left on noisy high heels, yet Skip thought "stalked
out" too dignified a term for her exit. She thought she heard a
sniffle as the older woman passed.

Nina was too frustrated for discretion. "She's
like a five-year-old. She suddenly decides she's something she isn't,
and no one can tell her different. Life's been pretty easy for a
couple of years, ever since she became an artist—never had a lesson
in her life, but at least she didn't bother anybody. Now she's an
expert on the cost of crab—can you imagine?"

"Sorry it's a bad time, but I really need to ask
you some questions."

Nina was suddenly all business. "Of course. I
apologize for all this."

"First of all, do you mind if I have a look
around Mr. Hebert's office?"

Nina hesitated. Was it her call? Skip could almost
hear her wondering. Finally, she sighed, evidently deciding she was
in charge. "Go ahead. But I'll stay with you."

As Skip began going through papers, Nina reached for
the phone and dialed. "Grady Hebert," she said. "Your
mama's been down at the restaurant creating havoc. If you don't keep
her out of here, there's not going to be any Hebert's."

She hung up, presumably having vented her spleen on a
machine.

Skip searched quietly, found nothing that meant
anything to her. When she was satisfied, she said, "I'rn puzzled
about something. Mrs. Hebert isn't acting very bereaved. How did she
and Arthur get along?"

Nina thought about it. "I guess they more or
less hated each other. But she probably still misses him."

Unless his death was a hit. It wouldn't be the first
time.

"
I've got to tell you, this is how she is,
though. She runs around in circles so she doesn't have to sit down
and think about anything. The more upset she is, the crazier she
makes everyone else."

"
I really came to talk about Dennis. You're
pretty sure he's really off drugs?"

"He's a pillar of AA. Has been for years."
She glanced quickly at Skip. "Believe me, I'd know if he was
using again. Reed would tell me. And she wouldn't put up with it for
a minute. That was part of the deal when they got married."

"
It seems like a pretty odd match."

Nina shook her head vigorously. "Oh, no. Reed
got him off drugs—does that tell you anything?"

"Should it?"

"She's the classic codependent; just loves
helping out. I should know. It's a common complaint."

"What drugs did he do?"

"Heroin."

"
Coke?"

She shook her head. "Don't know. Only know about
the heroin. And alcohol; lots of it."

"
It's hard to imagine." Skip had blurted
it; she instantly regretted it.

"What do you mean? You're a cop; you've seen it
all."

"Reed sounds like such a competent woman. It's
hard to understand the attraction."

Nina sighed. "Well, there are books and books on
it. Or you could go to Al-Anon, if you're really that interested.
She's a dynamo, and he needs one to get him going."

"
He's weak, you mean."

"I guess so." She hesitated. "I don't
know if you can really say a person who's kicked a habit like that is
weak. But he's certainly no ball of fire."

"
Do you know what his old haunts are? Places he
liked to hang?"

"
I never asked, to tell you the truth."

"Who would know?"

"Well, you could go see his family."

"I'd like to meet his business partner as well."

"Ah. The lovely Silky Sullivan."

"
I beg your pardon?"

Nina nodded. "Uptown girl. You know how they go
in for nicknames. She must have been Susan or something and next
thing you know she was a horse."

Skip couldn't help smiling. It really was a very New
Orleans name—there'd once been a cop named that, an Irish Catholic
who converted to Judaism.

She got the necessary addresses and phoned the
Sullivan-Foucher enterprise—known as Lush Life—but got no answer.
The Uptown girl now lived in the Faubourg Marigny, in a charming
double shotgun newly painted light blue with teal trim.

No one answered Skip's ring, but she persisted. It
was a good five minutes before a woman in jeans came to the door,
dirt up to her elbows.

"
Sorry," she said, when Skip had identified
herself. "I was out in the back. I'm so upset about Dennis I
took the day off. Come with me, will you?"

Sullivan walked the length of the house and stepped
into the backyard, where she found a hose and washed off the dirt.
She was nearly as tall as Skip, who was an even six feet, but
Sullivan was a good deal thinner. She was lanky and angular. Skip
couldn't banish the impression that she had the feel about her of a
thoroughbred—that her name, probably applied when she was a baby,
had somehow come to fit. Her short hair was brown and shiny-indeed
silky; her skin was porcelain.