Burning Angel (Dave Robicheaux 8)
Page 116
”Work on your tan if you're coming back after sunset,“ he said.
”Thanks,“ I said, and felt conspiratorial and slightly ashamed at my own response.
A moment later Ruthie Jean opened the door at the head of the fire escape. She wore a pair of new blue jeans with a silver-tipped western belt and white tennis shoes and a burnt orange blouse and gold hoop earrings. This time there was no anger or recrimination in her face; in fact, I had the sense she expected me.
”I need to talk to you about Moleen,“ I said.
”You surely don't give it up.“
”You don't have to talk to me, Ruthie Jean.“
”I know that. Come in, if you like.“
The living room was airy and cool, the upholstered couch and chairs patterned with flowers and decorated with doilies. The curtains puffed and twisted in the breeze, and you could see the top of the levee and hear boats with horns out on the river.
”Can I give you some coffee?“ she said.
”That'd be nice.“
I sat in a deep chair while she fixed a tray in the kitchen. A steamer trunk lay opened by the couch. In a removable top compartment, which she had set at an angle to the sides in order to pack the bottom, was a clear plastic bag with folded blue and pink baby clothes inside. A withered camellia was pressed between the fabric and the plastic.
She limped into the living room with the tray; her eyes followed mine to the trunk. She lowered the tray down on the coffee table, then reset the wood compartment inside the trunk and closed the lid.
”Why you dislike Moleen so much?“ she said.
”He thinks it's natural for other people to pay for his mistakes.“
”If you're talking about the abortion, it was me went over to Texas.
Moleen didn't have anything to do with it.“
”Moleen ran down and killed the little boy out by Cade, not his wife.“
”I don't believe that.“
I leaned forward with my forearms on my thighs and rubbed my palm idly on my knuckles.
”I don't know how to tell you this,“ I said. ”But I believe Julia
Bertrand may try to do you grave injury. Maybe with Moleen's consent.“
”You cain't forgive him for the world he comes from, Mr. Robi-cheaux.
It's not his fault who he was born.“
I was at a loss.
”Do you have a gun?“ I asked.
”No.“
Her face made me think of a newly opened dark flower about to be burned by a severe light.
”You're an admirable lady, Ruthie Jean. I hope you're going to be all right. Call me if I can ever help you in any way.“
”That's why you sent that other man?“
”Excuse me?“