Visiting hours wouldn’t start for a while, so my first destination was Sergeant Ranson’s office to see if she had arrested Milo and cohorts yet.

The bus ride to the police station was amazingly short. No waiting, no traffic tie-ups. I even thought I might beat Ranson there, as she had obviously worked very late last night. But she was at her desk, on the phone and doing paperwork at the same time. She motioned me in and to a chair while she finished her conversation. She looked tired and there was a half-empty Styrofoam cup of coffee on her desk and two in her trash. I decided to put on my good girl shoes. She finished her phone call.

“I’m sorry I called you a whore last night,” I apologized.

“Damn, Micky, I didn’t know they hit you that hard. That blow to the jaw must have really done some damage for you to be apologizing,” was Ranson’s gracious reply.

Well, no one could say I didn’t try.

“I didn’t mean to call you a whore, I meant to call you an incompetent asshole, but I was too tired to use that many syllables.”

“That’s better,” she said, unfazed, then paused. “I’m afraid I’ve got some news that you’re not going to like.”

“Barbara?” I said, not wanting to hear.

“No, no change there. It’s about Milo. A priest, a state senator, and an assortment of other powerful men say he was eating breakfast with them at the time the murder took place.”

“But that’s not true,” I interrupted. Ranson shrugged.

“Supposedly, Milo flew a group of business men in his private plane to One Hundred Oaks Plantation the night before. Some fraternal group. And he never left the grounds until one o’clock when he drove to the city with Father Francis X. Bromen.” She saw the look on my face and continued, “Personally, I believe you, Mick, but these are awfully hard alibis to break.”

“Shit,” was all I could think of to say.

“No murder weapon has been found. The only thing that ties Milo and his friends to what they did is your word.”

“And Barbara Selby in the hospital.”

“Yeah, but she’s not saying much right at the moment. Until she comes out of the coma…” Ranson left “if she comes out of the coma” unspoken. “And to add shit to shit,” Ranson continued, “Milo and a few others claim that you and Elmo Turner were romantically involved and that the two of you left Jambalaya together on Monday evening.”

“What? You know damn well I’m as queer as a three dollar Confederate bill.”

“I know. And I’m sure we could prove it in court, but being queer in this state isn’t going to do much for your credibility as a witness. Also we only found the one notebook you hid, nothing else. They claim you planted it. Disgruntled employee type revenge.”

“This is fucked. You can’t just let these guys go.”

“Look, I’ve got more than one person calling for you to be arrested before sundown.”

“Great.”

“But I think I can get you off on ballistics. Unless it was your gun that put a hole in Elmo Turner’s chest or Barbara Selby’s head,” she finished, a policeman to the end.

“No, it wasn’t,” I replied. Elly was right. It was a great day to have stayed in bed.

“Do me a favor. Look over some mug shots and see if you can identify any of the other men that were there.”

I agreed and Ranson sat me down in front of a pile of mug shots. A wonderful way to spend the morning, looking at candid pictures of the scum of the earth.

After two hours of serious staring, I found a picture of one of the men who had been there. It was Turner, and he was far beyond the long arm of the law. I gave up and went to tell Ranson how useful my morning had been. I couldn’t find her and decided to head up to Charity Hospital and find out how Barbara was. I left a note for Ranson, telling her that’s where I’d be if she needed to arrest me.

I spent another sixty cents of Danny’s hard-earned money on the bus to Charity. I wasn’t looking forward to this. I’ve never much liked hospitals. Probably because my Aunt Greta didn’t feel her life was complete unless she had someone to visit in the hospital. The sicker the better. Charity was her favorite. It was as close as she ever came to charity. I hoped I didn’t run into her there.

It took me a while to locate Barbara. I found where she was less by the directions I was given than by the sight of two somber-faced children in the lounge area attended by an older woman with familiar brown eyes. But I had never seen Barbara’s eyes clouded with pain the way this woman’s were.

The nurse on duty told me that no visitors were allowed, except for immediate family. I wasn’t surprised. I knew that, but had come here to find out for myself how Barbara was, just on the nagging hope that Ranson had gotten it wrong or that Barbara had come out of the coma and Ranson didn’t know yet. But no, no miracles here. Barbara was still in a coma and they didn’t know if she would ever come out of it or what condition she would be in when she did.

“Hello, I’m a friend of Barbara’s from work. I was the woman with her,” I introduced myself as I sat on the couch next to Barbara’s mother.

“How do you do? I’m Amelia Kelly,” answered her mother, the politeness drilled into every Southern woman taking hold over the pain and fear she had to be feeling.

“And you’re Patrick and you’re Cissy,” I said to the two children. Mrs. Kelly was too tired to have to make introductions. “I’m Michele Knight.”

“Oh, yes, Barbara mentioned you,” Mrs. Kelly said.

“I have a lot of respect for Barbara,” I said, not sure that I should ask in what context Barbara had mentioned me.

“Thank you. Would you mind if I impose on you for a few minutes?” she asked.

“No, not at all.”

“I’ve got to make a few phone calls and I hate to leave the kids.”

“No problem. Take your time. Get some coffee if you want.” Give me some outlet for my guilt.

She got up and headed for wherever the phones were. Patrick and Cissy stared at me, another strange adult in days now filled with strange adults. There was an awkward silence, at least on my part; I doubted that they cared. If I were a kid, how would I want an adult to treat me in a situation like this? What I had hated most, when my father died, were the lies and evasions, the “protection of the child.” I realized the best thing I could do was tell Patrick and Cissy the truth. It was their mother lying on that hospital bed.

“I’m a private detective,” I started out. “And I was working for the police doing an investigation of Jambalaya.”

“Why?” Patrick wanted to know.

“They’re smuggling drugs.” Their expressions didn’t change. At this point, they were probably too numb for anything. “Your mom helped me get some information for the police. But we got caught.”

“And they shot her,” Patrick said. Kids don’t bother with polite evasions. “And beat you up.”

“Yeah,” I said, fingering my bruised jaw.

“How come they didn’t shoot you, too?” Cissy asked.

“I got away,” I said and told them about my adventures in the coal chute.

“Did you see my mom get shot?” Patrick asked.

“No.” I shook my head. I was glad I didn’t have to tell him what it looked like. If I had seen it, I would have told him what happened. He wanted to know. He, they both, wanted to know any and everything that could explain why their mother was in a coma.

“I really like your mom,” I said.

“Yeah, Mom’s neat,” Patrick answered, a high accolade from an eleven-year-old boy. Cissy was starting to cry. I put my arms around her and hugged her close.

“It’s been real hard on Cissy,” Patrick said, the epitome of a strong, big brother. “Dad just left us when she was four.” (And he was six, I noted.) “Took all the money. Mom and Grandma have been taking care of us ever since. Cissy and I both have paper routes to try and help out.”