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“No.”
“You want to explain that?”
We were still stationary in the driveway, the sunlight spangling inside the oak canopy overhead. I kept my eyes straight ahead, the side of my face almost wrinkling under Helen’s gaze. “I think you know more about Carolyn than you’ve let on,” I said.
When I looked at her, I saw a level of anger in her face that made me wince. “I have a circle of friends in New Orleans you probably haven’t met,” she said. “Carolyn Blanchet has had relationships with some of them. All of them were the worse for it. She uses people and throws them away like Kleenex. She’s also a degenerate. Black leather, masks, chains, boots. Would you like more detail?”
“Why didn’t you tell me this?”
“Because she hasn’t been an active part of the investigation of a crime committed in Iberia Parish.”
“That’s pretty disingenuous, if you ask me.”
And in that mood, not speaking, we parked the cruiser in front of the house and walked through the side yard to the tennis court, where we could hear someone whocking balls that were being fired over the net by an automatic ball machine.
Carolyn was wearing blue sweatpants and a sports bra and was hitting the balls two-handed, her platinum hair shiny with perspiration, her skin sun-browned with freckles, her baby fat wedging over her waistband as she put all her weight into her swing.
She wiped her face and throat and underarms with a towel and flung it on a chair by a table set with a pitcher of lemonade and glasses. She asked if we wanted to sit down.
“Not really, Ms. Blanchet,” Helen said. “We wanted to offer our sympathies at your loss, and to ask you a couple of questions, then we’ll be gone.”
“How you doin’, Dave?” Carolyn said, sitting down, ignoring Helen’s statement, pouring herself a glass.
“Just fine, thanks. You chased off the feds?” I said.
“No, the federal court in New Orleans did. Layton left behind a mess. But it’s not my mess. If somebody else wants to clean it up, that’s fine, but they can do it somewhere else.”
“Ms. Blanchet—” Helen began.
“It’s Carolyn, please.”
“We’re still investigating the death of Herman Stanga,” Helen said.
“Who?”
“A black pimp who was shot and killed behind his home in New Iberia. We wondered if you know a St. Martin Parish sheriff’s deputy by the name of Emma Poche.”
“Offhand, I don’t recall hearing the name.”
“Offhand?” Helen repeated.
“Yes, that’s what I said. ‘Offhand.’ It’s a commonly used term.”
“Do you know any female deputies in the St. Martin Sheriff’s Department?”
“No. Should I?”
“But you know Kermit Abelard, don’t you?” Helen said.
“I’ve read his books. I’ve been to one or two of his book signings. What’s the issue here?”
“There is no ‘issue.’ Did he inscribe a book to you?”
I stared at Helen incredulously because I realized the direction she was headed in, one that would expose the source of our information.
“We’re trying to clear up a question about Kermit and his relationship to Layton and their mutual interest in biofuels,” I interjected.
“What you need to do is answer my question, Ms. Blanchet,” Helen said, her gaze drifting toward me irritably. “Did Kermit Abelard inscribe a book to you?”
