I thought for a moment. Barbara Selby couldn’t afford anything like it. Then I remembered the money Karen was paying me.

“Okay,” I agreed.

“I’ll need to meet the mother and get her permission.”

“All right. But I’ll pay the bills. Don’t discuss money with Cissy’s mother.”

“Okay. I can’t make any promises that Cissy will tell me anything. And even if she does, that I can tell you.”

“I know. But I can’t…” I didn’t finish the sentence.

Lindsey nodded. She got in her car. “Goodbye, Micky. It was intriguing to meet you.” She gave me an enigmatic smile, then started her car and pulled out.

Seated in her car, she seemed very confident and in command, a woman who should be driving a red Jaguar, I thought as I got into my not-very-late model, faded lime green Datsun. She had, I realized, controlled the entire interview. I only knew what she had intended to reveal, nothing beyond that, and I had given away things I never intended to let escape.

I sat in my car, remembering that ugly yellow brick house in Metairie where I had lived with my aunt and uncle after my father had died. I had been ten years old when I first moved there, eighteen when I’d walked out, vowing never to return. Never to see my Aunt Greta, Uncle Claude, and their three children, Bayard, Mary Theresa, and Augustine, again. Gus was a year younger than me, always a little slow and glad that I was the new “whipping boy” in the family, but he was never malicious or mean. Mary Theresa, into boys and makeup, had no interest in a tomboy cousin from the backward bayous, a few years younger than she was. Bayard was five years older than I was. And he had an interest in me.

But that was the past. It was gone. I started my car and drove away.

Chapter 12

After I had gotten home yesterday from my talk with Lindsey McNeil, I had turned down my phone and answering machine. I didn’t remember to turn the volume back up until midafternoon when I noticed the message light blinking. Cordelia had called, her message was short—she had just called to say hi and that she was going to bed early. There were two name-and-phone-number messages from Joanne, both from earlier today. I wondered what she wanted. I didn’t have to wonder long. The phone rang and it was her.

“You’re hard to get a hold of,” was her greeting.

“Sorry, I occasionally have to go out and work for a living.”

“But not as hard to reach as Cordelia. So you get to be the message bearer. Alex’s party is a surprise. Tell Cordelia that I’ve gotten reservations at Commander’s.”

“La-di-da,” I interjected at the name of the Garden District restaurant. “I don’t know if I have anything that will pass their dress code.”

“You have a little over a week to beg, borrow, or steal something.”

“An officer of the law advising me to steal?”

“Beg or borrow, then. We need to get Alex there without her suspecting. Pass this on to Cordelia and discuss it. I’ll call you later in the week.”

“Okay, I will.”

“And check your answering machine more often. Bye.” She hung up.

“Nice talking to you, too, Joanne,” I said to the receiver still in my hand.