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“A
nd Mr. Robicheaux, too,” she said.
I nodded uncommittedly and then took a chance, one I knew would cause Adonis to veil his eyes, lest we see the wrath that was the Balangie family heirloom. “We’re a bit concerned about Isolde.”
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“We were under the impression that she disappeared,” I said.
“Isolde is on a trip. I spoke to her on the telephone today.”
“I see.” I kept my gaze on her to the point of being rude. Her hand tightened on her rosary. “I guess our worries are misplaced.”
“I hope I have set you at ease,” she said.
“You have a chapel inside?” I said.
“How would you know that?”
“The mantilla,” I said, knowing I was getting too personal, turning dials on Adonis that were better left alone.
“Penelope and I are expected in Baton Rouge,” he said. “I’m afraid we have to say goodbye.”
“I thought the Church got rid of head-covering a long time ago,” Clete said.
“I didn’t,” she said. She smiled, then looked up into my face, not Clete’s. “I’m very pleased to have met both of you.”
“We’re running late,” Adonis said, his words flat, his eyes lowered. “Y’all don’t mind walking around the side of the house, do you?”
“Not at all,” I said. “One more thing?”
“Yes?” he said.
“Did you know Marcel LaForchette was working for Mark Shondell?” I asked.
“Excuse me?”
“LaForchette just got out of Huntsville. Shondell got his parole transferred to Louisiana. Actually, I was going to do that, but Shondell beat me to it.”
“What’s your point?” Adonis said.
“I always thought LaForchette worked for the Balangie family. Why would he go to work for the Shondells?”
“Because LaForchette is for sale,” Adonis replied.
“Marcel is lots of things, but a rat isn’t among them,” I said.
Adonis puckered his mouth. “Don’t trip on the hose. The things that hurt us are usually lying in the weeds, where we can’t see them. That’s an old Sicilian proverb.”
* * *
WE DROVE TO the French Quarter and parked Clete’s Caddy at his office and ate an early dinner at the Acme Oyster House on Iberville. We had spoken little after leaving the Balangie estate, in part because of anger and shame, whether we were willing to admit it or not. People whose wealth came from narcotics, prostitution, pornography, loan sharking, labor racketeering, and murder had eighty-sixed us as though we were low-rent ignorant flatfeet unworthy to be in their home.
The other problem we had was figuring out Penelope Balangie’s attitude about the missing girl. I had no doubt Isolde was her daughter; they had the same mysterious eyes, and they both seemed to float on their own wind stream.
While we waited for our oysters on the half shell, Clete kept tearing off bits of French bread and dropping them in a saucer of oil and vinegar.
“What are you thinking about?” I asked.
