Robicheaux (Dave Robicheaux 21)

“Regarding me, he is. I never heard of the guy.”

I looked him in the face.

“As God is my witness,” he added.

“Okay.”

“Okay, what?”

“I accept your word.”

“There you go,” he said, and hit me on the back.

We walked up the slope into his backyard, past a gazebo and camellia bushes in full bloom and trellises dripping with roses and wisteria, the St. Augustine grass so thick and dark green and cold and stiff in the shade that it looked and felt like artificial turf.

A woman opened the back door. She wore a black suit and hose; her hair was black, too, pulled straight back, her skin the color of paste, her eyes dark and luminous, as though she had a fever. “I’m Emmeline.”

“How do you do, Miss Emmeline? I’m Dave Robicheaux.”

“Did you have engine trouble again?” she said to Jimmy.

“Wasn’t watching the fuel gauge, I’m afraid. Nothing to be worried about. With pontoons, you can land almost anywhere in Louisiana. What did our local congressman say? ‘Half the state is underwater, the other half under indictment.’?”

“Would you like a highball or a glass of wine, Detective Robicheaux?”

“No, thank you.”

“On the clock, are you?”

“Yes, I must be going. It’s nice meeting you in person.”

She didn’t reply, as though I hadn’t spoken. The wind picked up, sprinkling leaves that were as hard as the shells of crustaceans on the grass. It was cold in the shade, the light on the four-o’clocks and caladiums harsh and brittle. We were in the midst of spring, yet I felt a sense of mortality I couldn’t explain.

Her face was impossible to read. She was one of those women who seemed to choose solitude and plainness over beauty, and anger over happiness.

“You ever meet a guy named Kevin Penny?” I said.

“Our convict gardener?” she replied. “I fired him.”

I looked at Jimmy. He shrugged and turned up his palms. “I don’t know the name of every guy who cuts the grass, Dave.”

“What is this about?” Emmeline said.

“Veracity,” I said.

“I don’t care for your tone,” she said.

“I don’t blame you. It bothers me, too.” I pointed my finger at Jimmy Nightingale. “I think you’re slick.”

“I’m dishonest?”

“Take it any way you want.”

“You’ve got some damn nerve,” he said.

“Tell it to the eight murdered women in Jeff Davis Parish,” I replied.

“What do they have to do with me?”