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She was no longer wearing the lavender suit and pillbox hat but a baby-blue cashmere suit with a white blouse and white hose, which meant she had come to New Iberia with luggage. “Sit down,” she said.
“Kind of you to ask me,” I replied, and remained standing.
“The man who died here? He was the one the killers were after?”
“He may have been my half brother. At least that’s what he said before he shot himself.”
“I’m very sorry, Mr. Robicheaux.”
“You have to forgive me, but I don’t understand you. In fact, nothing about you makes sense.”
She took the plastic cover off the pie and got cups from the cabinet. “No one will believe my story. Nor will they believe yours or Mr. Purcel’s. That means we’re members of a very lonely club.”
“So tell me the story.”
“Maybe later. Eat first. Please. I want to explain something you’re probably experiencing now or will experience later.”
“Oh, really?”
“Don’t be sarcastic.” She placed her hand on my chest. I could feel my heart beating against it. I sat down.
“Start eating,” she said.
I didn’t argue.
“People who commit suicide in a dramatic fashion often have an agenda and are involved in a fantasy that leads to their death. They’re filled with rage and seek revenge against those who have hurt them. They slash their wrists or jump from buildings or fire bullets into their brain. In their fantasy, they witness the discovery of their body by people they hate. In that way, they leave behind a legacy of guilt and sorrow. Don’t let this happen to you, Mr. Robicheaux.”
I put a teaspoon of pie in my mouth and drank from the coffee cup she had placed by my elbow. But neither would go down. I choked and held a napkin to my mouth. She was standing behind me now. She spread her hand across my back. It felt as warm as an iron on cloth. “You’re shaking,” she said.
“I have malaria.”
“From where?”
“Vietnam or the Philippines. Who cares where you get it?”
“After all these years?”
“Give it a break, Ms. Balangie,” I said.
“You’re one of us now.”
I stopped trying to eat. “One of what?”
“The people who have to see into the other world, the one we try to deny in modern times.”
“Sorry, I’m not up to listening to any more craziness, Italian or otherwise.”
“Did the man who died see Gideon Richetti?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“What does that tell you?”
“The price of knowing the Balangie and Shondell families is too expensive.”
“Your wife died recently?”
“I’ve lost two wives.”
