colonnade over the sidewalk and a patio in back that he had decorated with potted banana plants and a bottlebrush tree and a spool table inset with a beach umbrella under which he often ate his lunch or read his mail in the morning.
The drizzle was unrelenting, and he was confined to his office and the endless flow of squalor and chicanery that went across his desk blotter, not to mention the worm’s-eye view of the world that was the operational raison d’etre of almost every client who came through his door.
With an occasional exception.
Gretchen stepped inside his office and closed the door behind her. “Little Miss Muffet would like to see you. She’s got a guy with her who looks like he has a wig stapled to his scalp,” she said. “Want me to blow them off?”
He shut and opened his eyes. “I’m trying to translate what you just said.”
“The broad at the Dupree place with the broom up her ass. The guy didn’t introduce himself. He’s got a Roman collar on. I can tell them they need to make an appointment.”
“Varina Leboeuf is out there?”
“Who’d you think I was talking about?”
“Send her in.”
Gretchen opened her mouth wide and put her finger in it, as though trying to vomit.
“Lose the attitude,” he said.
A moment later, Varina Leboeuf came into Clete’s office, followed by a man in a black suit and lavender collar whose thick silver hair was bobbed in the style of a nineteenth-century western rancher. He had a high, shiny forehead, and turquoise eyes that were recessed in the sockets, and hands like those of a farmer who might have broken hardpan prairie with a singletree plow. His eyes stayed glued on Clete.
“Hello, Mr. Purcel,” Varina said, extending her hand. “I want to apologize for my abruptness at my father-in- law’s house. I’d had an absolutely terrible day, and I’m afraid I took it out on you and your assistant. This is Reverend Amidee Broussard. He has advised me to hire a private investigator. I understand you’re pretty good at what you do.”
“Depends on what it is,” Clete said. He had risen when she entered the room and was standing awkwardly behind his desk, wishing he had put on his sport coat, his fingertips barely touching his desk blotter, his blue-black. 38 strapped across his chest in its nylon holster. “If this is about divorce work, the expense sometimes outweighs the benefits. What we used to call immorality is so common today that it doesn’t have much bearing on the financial settlement. In other words, the dirt a PI can dig up on a spouse is of little value.”
“See, you’re an honest man,” she said.
Before Clete could reply, the minister said, “Mr. Purcel, may I sit down? I’m afraid I was running to get out of the rain and got a bit winded. Age is a peculiar kind of thief. It slips up on you and steps inside your skin and is so quiet and methodical in its work that you never realize it has stolen your youth until you look into the mirror one morning and see a man you don’t recognize.”
“Would y’all like some coffee?” Clete said.
“That would be very nice,” the minister said. When he sat down, a tinge of discomfort registered in his face, as though his weight were pressing his bones against the wood of the chair.
“Are you all right?” Clete said.
“Oh, I’m fine,” he said, breathing through his mouth. “What a magnificent view you have. Did you know that during the War Between the States, a Union flotilla came up the bayou and moored right at the spot by the drawbridge? The troops were turned loose on the town, mostly upon Negro women. It was a deliberate act of terrorism, just like Sherman at the burning of Atlanta.”
“I didn’t know that,” Clete said.
“Unfortunately, history books are written by the victors.” The minister’s cheeks were soft and flecked with tiny blue and red capillaries, and his mouth formed a small oval when he pronounced his o ’s. The cadences of his speech seemed to come from another era and were almost hypnotic. “Do you know who wrote those words?”
“Adolf Hitler did,” Clete replied.
“It’s very important that you help Ms. Leboeuf. Her husband is not what he seems. He’s a fraudulent and perhaps dangerous man. I think he may have had dealings with criminals in New Orleans, men who are involved in the sale of stolen paintings. I’m not sure, so I don’t want to treat the man unjustly, but I have no doubt he wants to make Ms. Leboeuf’s life miserable.”
Varina had sat down, smoothing her dress, her gaze fixed on the rain falling on the bayou. Every few seconds, her eyes settled on Clete’s, unembarrassed, taking his measure.
“What do you base that on?” Clete asked.
“I’m Ms. Leboeuf’s spiritual adviser.” The minister hesitated. “She’s confided certain aspects of his behavior to me that normally are difficult to talk about except in a confidential setting.”
“I can speak for myself, Amidee,” Varina said.
“No, no, this was my idea. Mr. Purcel, Pierre Dupree is a dependent and infantile man. In matters of marital congress, he has the appetites of a child. If the implication has unpleasant Freudian overtones, that’s my intention. Do you understand what I’m saying, sir?”
“I don’t think I need an audiovisual, Reverend,” Clete said. “Why is Dupree a threat to Ms. Leboeuf?”
“Because he has the business instincts of a simpleton and is teetering on bankruptcy. He sees Ms. Leboeuf as the source of all his troubles and believes she’s out to cause him financial ruin. He’s a weak and frightened man, and like most frightened men, he wishes to blame his failure on his wife. Last night she went out to the Dupree home to get her dog. Pierre told her he’d had it put down.”
“The dog named Vick?” Clete said to Varina.
“Pierre said Vick had distemper,” she said. “That’s a lie. You saw him. He was fine. Either Pierre or his grandfather did something to him, maybe hurt him in some way, then had him injected. I feel so bad about Vick, I want to cry. I hate Pierre and his hypocrisy and his arrogance and his two-thousand-dollar suits and his greasy smell. I can’t stand the thought that I let him kill my dog.”
“No good comes of blaming ourselves for what other people do,” Clete said. “I understand you’re filing a civil suit against the sheriff’s department over an incident at your father’s place. The incident involved Dave Robicheaux. That creates a conflict of interest for me, Ms. Leboeuf. I’d like to help you, but in this instance, I don’t think I can.”
“I’ve already dropped the suit. It’s not worth the trouble,” she replied.
Don’t do what you’re about to do, a voice in Clete’s head told him.
“My husband is a pervert. I will not discuss the kinds of things he has asked me to participate in,” she said. “He wasn’t drunk when he did it, either. Frankly, I feel sick at the mention of this. The fact that he’s considered a great artist locally is laughable. He has no understanding of intimacy or mutual respect inside a relationship. That’s why he studied commercial art. It has no emotion. If he ever painted what was on his mind, he’d be put in a cage.” Her eyes were moist, her small fists knotted in her lap.
“Maybe I can recommend a couple of PIs in Lafayette,” Clete said.
“I’m going to be staying at my father’s house at Cypremort Point. I’m at the end of my rope, Mr. Purcel. I have to take care of my father, and I can’t be looking over my shoulder in fear of my husband. If you’d rather I go somewhere else, I will. I’ve made my livelihood in electronic security, but that will not protect me from a man who would euthanize a loving pet who was part of our household for five years. I feel such rage right now, I can’t express it. If you want us to leave, please say so. But don’t try to push me off on some seedy private investigator in Lafayette.”
Clete could feel a strand of piano wire tightening along the side of his head. “You dropped the suit against the Iberia Parish Sheriff’s Department?”
“I already told you that.”
“What if I give you my cell phone number and the number of my answering service? Plus, I can have a talk with your husband about your dog.”
“It’s a bit late for that. Furthermore, I’d like more than talk when it comes to Pierre.”
“Pardon?” Clete said.
“That’s wishful thinking on my part. Don’t pay attention to what I just said.”
“Ms. Leboeuf sometimes speaks sharply, but she’s a religious woman, Mr. Purcel, even though she might get
