House of Blues

is—we're real obsessive.
Can't rest till everything's done; and done perfectly.
    "But her daddy criticized everything she did,
and to tell you the truth"—she dropped her voice—"her
mama's not much different. Reed never steps outside the lines they
draw, and in the end she can never really believe she can do anything
very well. But of course she's a whiz. Terrific mother, great cook,
runs her house, runs the restaurant, supports Dennis in his little
venture."
    " A nursery, isn't it?"
    "Yeah. That's what I mean about him being a
gentle soul. Loves plants to death." Something in her voice
sounded like contempt.
    "Reed sounds like she's wound pretty tightly."
    Nina shrugged. "I guess. She's so busy being
nice to everybody you wouldn't notice."
    Paul Gottschalk came out, trailed by the two Heberts.
He said, "The gun's there all right. I'd be surprised if it's
been fired."
    Skip nodded. "Thanks, Paul. I'm going to leave
you folks now."
    She wanted to examine the crime scene. "But Mrs.
Hebert, I need you to walk with me through the house when we're done,
to see if anything's missing. Are you thinking of staying with
friends?"
    " I might just stay at Reed and Dennis's house—I
don't think they'd mind, do you?" She looked at Grady, holding
her hands at breast level, rather like a prairie dog. She was
beginning to look tired and very frightened. Skip thought the shock
was starting to wear off.
    Grady said, "My hovel certainly isn't suitable."
    "Do you think you could maybe . . . She let it
hang, clearly not wanting to ask her son for something.
    Grady looked meaningfully at Nina, and Skip realized
he wanted her to come to his rescue. Nina ignored him. Finally, he
said, "Yes, Mother, I'll stay with you," speaking not
nearly so gently as the circumstances called for. To Skip, he said,
"Can I take her there and bring her back when you call?"
    "Sure, but one last thing. Can you point out
Reed and Dennis's car?"
    "Of course."
    He and Skip walked up and down the street. "It's
not here."
    " It's not?"
    " It's a beige Mercedes sedan—do you see one?"
    She didn't. She handed out her card, told everyone to
call immediately if they saw or heard from Reed and Dennis, then said
good-bye and went into the house.
    The district officers who'd checked out Reed and
Dennis's, and Dennis's parents' house, reported no sign of any member
of the Foucher family. Skip put out a bulletin for them and their
car, asking officers who spotted them to contact her immediately.
    Because it was her case, it was her job to stay with
the body till the coroner took it away. She was standing in the
dining room, staring at the carnage, when Paul Gottschalk joined her.
    " What do you make of it?"
    " I give up. You?"
    "Well, I've got a theory. We'll have to see if
it checks out, but here's what I think. He was shot first in the
right leg—in the groin, actually, and the bullet hit his femoral
artery. Blood spurted all over the floor, and the impact threw him
back and twisted him toward the right, toward the wall, where he
touched his hand to the wound, then to the wall to steady himself."
He pointed to the handprint.
    " Then more blood spurted all over the
wall—that's why it looks like a knife fight in here. And then he
turned around, he might have even walked a couple of steps, and that
time he got shot in the chest."
    Skip nodded, about to say something, but Gottschalk,
strange bird, simply walked away looking satisfied.
    When the body had been
removed, Skip called Sugar to come examine her house. Nothing was
missing.
    * * *
    The last step was to canvass the neighbors, a task
she dreaded. People in the Garden District, with its mansions and its
private patrol service, were probably the most frightened of crime in
the whole city. She didn't want to look at their dilated eyes and
tight lips as they pressed her for details, as they wrung their
manicured hands and begged her to tell them how to protect
themselves.
    She didn't have the least idea how to reassure them,
and right now she didn't have time either.
    As it happened, the neighbors on the right were on
vacation, according to their own right-hand neighbors. The ones on
the left had been out at the time of the shooting, and the ones
across the street had been closeted in their air-conditioned house.
    Two doors down, however, on the Heberts' side of the
street, Mrs. Gandolfo did think she'd heard a shot, had even peeked
out through her curtains. She called her neighbors, the Heberts'
left-hand ones, and