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that this woman was his mistress long ago—”
    â€œHis wife.”
    â€œRidiculous. I don’t believe it. That’s all. I think it’s easier to arrest her than to look for the jealous one, the one who couldn’t stand my husband’s success. This woman, this Miss Levoyer, she’s not from around here, she’s not well known. The police want to keep this nice and quiet. I don’t believe it. That’s all.”
    â€œWho else would you suggest I talk to, to get a complete picture of your husband?”
    â€œWell, you could talk to Paul Armand. At the Café Creole. He worked with Joe. He can tell you about Joe’s cooking.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œOh, a lot of cooks around here. Talk to the people at the Great Chefs, they’ll tell you he would have won.”
    â€œWhat about Denise Michel?”
    â€œNo. She hardly knew him. She didn’t like him. You wouldn’t get anything from her.”
    â€œDidn’t like your husband? Do you know why?”
    â€œThat’s enough questions.”
    â€œDid your husband own a gris-gris, a sort of charm he kept with him?”
    â€œDid the police tell you that? Look, he had a charm, but it meant nothing—like a rabbit’s foot. My husband was a good Catholic.”
    Spraggue shrugged, said, “I’d like to talk to your daughter, for the article.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œIt would give our readers another angle.”
    â€œNo. My daughter should not be bothered with this. It would upset her.”
    â€œIs she away at school? She’s seventeen, isn’t she?”
    â€œEighteen. She’s not away anywhere. But I don’t want you to interview her. She’s been through enough. There will be nothing in this article about my daughter, you understand, or there will be no article at all.”
    â€œBut—”
    â€œLook, I have been polite to you at a time of grief. I answered your questions because I think that people should know that jealousy killed my husband. I’ve let you take pictures.” Mrs. Fontenot sneaked another look at her thin gold wristwatch. “And now I ask you to leave.”

SIX
    Flowers held it in until they slammed the doors of the cab shut—barely. Then he gave a great whoop and asked eagerly, “How’d I do, man? How’d I do?”
    â€œNice work. I wish you could have held her down there longer. I wanted to find Fontenot’s checkbook. He was carrying five hundred bucks when he died, and it would give me a warm feeling to know it didn’t come legit from his checking account.”
    â€œI tried,” Flowers said. “Once she got that phone call, she was different. Before that call, she was fussin’ with her hair and all ready to let me snap pictures to my heart’s content. After that call, all she wanted was to send me on my way.”
    â€œWell, you did fine. Authentic. Where’d you get the camera gear?”
    Flowers slapped the pillow case on the front seat. “Theatrical props, right? Got ’em from my brother-in-law. He lives kinda close by and I busted records gettin’ over there. Gotta get the goods back tonight, though, or my sister’s in big trouble.”
    â€œYou actually take any pictures?”
    Flowers bristled. “Course I did! And my brother-in-law’ll develop ’em—for a price. I took the layout, you know, like a bank job, like if we was gonna break in later. Shot the doors and windows. Took a close-up of the front door lock—”
    â€œYou have true criminal instincts.”
    â€œI had me one hell of a time,” Flowers said. “You need an assistant full time, you let me know.”
    â€œUp in Boston?”
    â€œNot durin’ the winter time.”
    â€œThat may limit the partnership.”
    Flowers’ enthusiasm was undiminished. “Well, what are we gonna do now?”
    â€œWhy did she clear us out so fast?”