The Glass Rainbow: A Dave Robicheaux Novel by James Lee Burke

already fallen into deep shade, and the wind was flattening the azalea petals on the bushes. The sun had started to set on the far side of the trees, and its reflection inside the room had taken on the wobbling blue-green quality of refracted light at the bottom of a swimming pool. Then I realized that the change of color in the room had been brought about by the sun’s rays shining through a large dome-shaped panel of stained glass inset close to the ceiling.
    “I’m not up on homicides in Jeff Davis Parish,” Layton said. “Kermit Abelard is mixed up in something like that?”
    “I was wondering why Kermit is doing biofuel presentations with you.”
    “He’s interested in saving the environment and rebuilding the coastline. He’s a bright kid. I get the sense he likes to be on the edge of new ideas. You drove all the way down here about Kermit Abelard? He’s a pretty harmless young guy, isn’t he? Jesus Christ, life must be pretty slow at the department.”
    “You know the Abelard family well?”
    “Not really. I respect them, but we don’t have a lot in common.”
    “Why do you respect them? Their history of philanthropy?”
    “You go to a lot of meetings?” Layton asked.
    “Sometimes. Why?”
    “I’ve heard that when alcoholics quit drinking, they develop obsessions that work as a substitute for booze. That’s why they go to meetings. No matter how crazy these ideas are, they stay high as a kite on them so they don’t have to drink again.”
    “I was admiring your stained glass.”
    “It came from a Scottish temple or church or something.”
    “With unicorns and satyrs on it?”
    “You got me. The architect stuck it in there. Dave, a conversation with you is like petting a porcupine. Ah, Carolyn with a cold beer. Thank you, thank you, thank you. You got some iced tea or a soft drink for Dave?”
    His wife, Carolyn Blanchet, wore a halter and blue jeans and Roman sandals; she had platinum hair and the thick shoulders of a competitive tennis player. She had grown up in Lake Charles and had been a cheerleader and varsity tennis player at LSU. Now, twenty years down the road and a little soft around the edges, the flesh starting to sag under her chin, she still looked good, on the court and off, at mixed doubles or at a country-club dance.
    Her laugh was husky, sometimes irreverent, perhaps even sybaritic, the kind you hear in educated southern women who seemed to signal their willingness to stray if the situation is right.
    “I’m so happy you can have dinner with us, Dave. How’s Molly?”
    “She’s fine. But I can’t stay. I’m sorry if I gave that impression,” I said.
    “Your steak is on the grill,” Layton said.
    “Another time.”
    “She made a big salad, Dave,” Layton said.
    “Molly is waiting dinner for me.”
    “That’s all right. We’ll invite y’all out on another evening,” Carolyn said. “I heard you talking about Kermit Abelard. Did you read his last novel?”
    “No, I haven’t had the chance.”
    “It’s beautiful,” she said. “It’s about the Civil War and Reconstruction in this area. It’s about this slave girl who was the illegitimate daughter of the man who founded Angola Penitentiary. A white Confederate soldier from New Iberia teaches her how to read and write. But more than anything, the black girl wants the recognition and love of her father. Do you know Kermit Abelard?”
    “He’s gone out with my daughter from time to time.”
    “I’ve never met him. But his father gave Layton the stained glass up there. At sunrise it fills the room with every color of the rainbow.”
    “I think the architect got that from Mr. Abelard, Carolyn. Mr. Abelard didn’t give that directly to us,” Layton said.
    “Yes, that’s what I meant.”
    “I’d better go now,” I said.
    Layton sipped from his beer, taking my measure. “Sorry you can’t eat with us. You’re missing out on a fine piece of beef.”
    He laid his arm across his wife’s shoulders and