Creole Belle (Dave Robicheaux 19)

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Alafair watching me.

“A Cajun singer named Tee Jolie Melton gave me a recording of it when I was in a hospital in New Orleans.”

He nodded pleasantly, his gaze as radiant as the sunlight filtering through the trees. Then I realized what it was that had bothered me most about him. His eyes performed a constant deceit. I believed he could look endlessly into the face of another human being with a lidless, almost ethereal curiosity, giving no hint about his inner thoughts while he simultaneously dissected the other party’s soul.

“Today I saw a photo of one of your paintings at the UL exhibition. The nude woman on the sofa is Tee Jolie, isn’t she?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know this person,” he said, biting into a shrimp and chewing, leaning over his plate, his gaze never leaving mine.

“Her sister was the girl who floated up on a sand spit in a block of ice south of here.”

He wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Yes, I heard about that. How does someone end up in a block of ice in the Gulf of Mexico?”

“That beats all, doesn’t it?” I said. “Tee Jolie used to sing in a couple of clubs by Bayou Bijoux. You ever go to clubs on Bayou Bijoux?”

“I haven’t had the pleasure,” he replied.

“Boy, that’s a lot for coincidence, isn’t it?” I said.

“What is?”

“You paint a woman who looks like Tee Jolie. You paint a scene that seems to derive from a song she gave me on an iPod. But you’ve never heard of her. The phone call I just received was in regard to Frankie Giacano. You bought your office building from his uncle Didi Gee. Somebody splattered Frankie’s grits in a toilet stall at the Baton Rouge bus station last night.”

Dupree set his shrimp back on his plate. He seemed to gather his thoughts. “I don’t understand your level of aggression, Mr. Robicheaux. No, that’s not quite honest. Let me offer a speculation. The whole time we’ve been talking, your eye has kept drifting to the decanter. If you’d like some brandy, you can pour yourself one. I won’t. No offense; your history is well known. I admire the fact that you’ve rebuilt your life and career, but I don’t like the implications you’ve made here.”

“Dave’s questions were put to you in an honest fashion. Why don’t you answer them?” Alafair said.

“I thought I did,” Dupree said.

“Why not just say where you got the concept for your still life if it wasn’t from a song? Why should that be a problem?” Alafair said.

“I didn’t know you were an art critic,” he said.

Just then Alexis Dupree opened the French doors and came out on the terrace. His mouth was downturned at the corners, his long-sleeve gray shirt buttoned at the wrists and throat, even though the afternoon was warm. His posture was an incongruous mix of stiffness and fragility, the parallel scars on one cheek like half of a cat’s whiskers. “Why are you here?” he said.

“A mistake in judgment,” I said.

“Who is she?” the grandfather said to Pierre, his eyes narrowing in either curiosity or suspicion.

“That’s my daughter, sir. Show her some respect,” I said.

Alexis Dupree raised his finger. “You’ll not correct me in my home.”

“Let’s go, Alfenheimer,” I said.

“What was that? You said Waffen?”

“No, Gran’père. He was calling his daughter a pet name. It’s all right,” Pierre said.

Alafair and I got up from the table and began walking toward her car. Behind us, I heard footsteps in the leaves. “I can’t believe you have the nerve to speak to a Holocaust survivor like that. My grandfather was in an extermination camp. His brother and sister and his parents were killed there. He survived only because he was chosen for medical experiments. Or did you not know any of that?” Dupree said.

“Your grandfather’s age or background doesn’t excuse his rudeness,” I said. “I don’t think he’s an impaired man, either. In my opinion, the suffering of other people is a sorry flag to operate under.”

“You may not drink anymore, but you’re still a drunkard, Mr. Robicheaux, and white trash as well. Take yourself and Miss Alafair off our property. I think only a special kind of fool—I’m talking about myself—could have invited you here.”

“What did you just call me?” I said.

“What I called you has nothing to do with your birth. The term ‘white trash’ references a state of mind,” he replied. “You hate people who succeed or who have money and who force you to admit you’re a failure. I don’t think that’s a difficult concept to understand.”