The Glass Rainbow: A Dave Robicheaux Novel by James Lee Burke Page B
Authors: James Lee Burke
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was sweet-sweet, all the way t’rew. She had the sweetest smile I ever seen on a young girl. The man who done that to her is going to hell. The man who killed her don’t deserve no mercy. If he ever comes in here and I know it’s him, he better look out.”
“Do you know a man by the name of Herman Stanga?”
“No. Who’s he?”
“A local character in New Iberia.”
“Then keep him in New Iberia.”
A palpable bitterness seemed to rise from her person, like a nimbus given off by a dead fire.
I followed her directions to the home of Bernadette Latiolais. The house was wood-frame, with fresh white paint and a peaked tin roof, set up on cinder blocks inside a grove of pecan trees and water oaks that had not yet gone into leaf. On the gallery were chalk animals of a kind given as prizes at carnivals, and coffee cans planted with begonias and petunias. One of the Jefferson Davis sheriff’s detectives who had been assigned the case had given me as many details over the phone as he could. On a cold, sunlit Saturday afternoon, Bernadette Latiolais had entered the dollar store and bought two plastic teacups and saucers decorated with tiny lavender roses. After she paid, she walked out the door and crossed a parking lot and passed a bar with a sign in a window that said PAY CHECKS CASHED . She was five miles from her home with no apparent means of transportation. She was wearing a light pink sweater, jeans, a white blouse, and tennis shoes without socks. She was carrying the teacups and saucers in a paper bag. One week later, her body was found at the bottom of a pond, weighted with chunks of concrete. The knife wound to her throat was so deep she had almost been decapitated.
I picked up a paper bag off the seat that contained two books I had bought earlier that morning at Barnes & Noble in Lafayette. The grandmother invited me in, holding the screen with one arm as I entered. She was a big, overweight woman, obviously in poor health. She waddled as she returned to the couch where she had been sitting, as though she were on board a ship. When she sat down, she pressed the flat of her hand against her bosom, wheezing. “I’m s’ppose to be breathing my oxygen, but sometimes I try to get by wit’out it,” she said.
“I’m very sorry about your granddaughter’s death, Mrs. Latiolais. I’m also sorry about the death of your grandson Elmore,” I said. “I interviewed him in Mississippi. Later he sent me a message about a photograph he’d seen in a newspaper. Elmore believed a man in the photograph was the same man who had told Bernadette he was going to make you and her rich. Did somebody tell you all that? That somebody was going to make you rich?”
“I didn’t hear nothing about that, me,” Mrs. Latiolais said. “It don’t sound right.”
I was sitting on a wood chair on the opposite side of a coffee table from her. I removed the two books I had bought and showed her the jacket photo on Kermit Abelard’s novel about the Civil War and Reconstruction in Louisiana. “Do you know this man?” I asked.
She leaned over the book and brushed at the photo with her fingers, as though removing a glaze from it. “Who is he?”
“A writer who lives in St. Mary Parish.”
“I don’t know him.”
“Look again. This is the man Elmore recognized in the newspaper photograph. He said Bernadette had had her picture taken with him. She showed it to Elmore when she visited him in jail.”
“I ain’t never seen him.”
I pulled out the flap on my copy of The Green Cage and showed her the author photo. She looked at it for a long time. She tapped her finger on it. “That one I know,” she said.
“You do? From where?”
“He was wit’ a black man. The two of them was in the sto’ buying some boudin. The white man wanted it warmed up, but the micro was broke and he was complaining about it. He wasn’t from around here. He sounded like he was from up nort’. He said, ‘I understand why y’all say
“Do you know a man by the name of Herman Stanga?”
“No. Who’s he?”
“A local character in New Iberia.”
“Then keep him in New Iberia.”
A palpable bitterness seemed to rise from her person, like a nimbus given off by a dead fire.
I followed her directions to the home of Bernadette Latiolais. The house was wood-frame, with fresh white paint and a peaked tin roof, set up on cinder blocks inside a grove of pecan trees and water oaks that had not yet gone into leaf. On the gallery were chalk animals of a kind given as prizes at carnivals, and coffee cans planted with begonias and petunias. One of the Jefferson Davis sheriff’s detectives who had been assigned the case had given me as many details over the phone as he could. On a cold, sunlit Saturday afternoon, Bernadette Latiolais had entered the dollar store and bought two plastic teacups and saucers decorated with tiny lavender roses. After she paid, she walked out the door and crossed a parking lot and passed a bar with a sign in a window that said PAY CHECKS CASHED . She was five miles from her home with no apparent means of transportation. She was wearing a light pink sweater, jeans, a white blouse, and tennis shoes without socks. She was carrying the teacups and saucers in a paper bag. One week later, her body was found at the bottom of a pond, weighted with chunks of concrete. The knife wound to her throat was so deep she had almost been decapitated.
I picked up a paper bag off the seat that contained two books I had bought earlier that morning at Barnes & Noble in Lafayette. The grandmother invited me in, holding the screen with one arm as I entered. She was a big, overweight woman, obviously in poor health. She waddled as she returned to the couch where she had been sitting, as though she were on board a ship. When she sat down, she pressed the flat of her hand against her bosom, wheezing. “I’m s’ppose to be breathing my oxygen, but sometimes I try to get by wit’out it,” she said.
“I’m very sorry about your granddaughter’s death, Mrs. Latiolais. I’m also sorry about the death of your grandson Elmore,” I said. “I interviewed him in Mississippi. Later he sent me a message about a photograph he’d seen in a newspaper. Elmore believed a man in the photograph was the same man who had told Bernadette he was going to make you and her rich. Did somebody tell you all that? That somebody was going to make you rich?”
“I didn’t hear nothing about that, me,” Mrs. Latiolais said. “It don’t sound right.”
I was sitting on a wood chair on the opposite side of a coffee table from her. I removed the two books I had bought and showed her the jacket photo on Kermit Abelard’s novel about the Civil War and Reconstruction in Louisiana. “Do you know this man?” I asked.
She leaned over the book and brushed at the photo with her fingers, as though removing a glaze from it. “Who is he?”
“A writer who lives in St. Mary Parish.”
“I don’t know him.”
“Look again. This is the man Elmore recognized in the newspaper photograph. He said Bernadette had had her picture taken with him. She showed it to Elmore when she visited him in jail.”
“I ain’t never seen him.”
I pulled out the flap on my copy of The Green Cage and showed her the author photo. She looked at it for a long time. She tapped her finger on it. “That one I know,” she said.
“You do? From where?”
“He was wit’ a black man. The two of them was in the sto’ buying some boudin. The white man wanted it warmed up, but the micro was broke and he was complaining about it. He wasn’t from around here. He sounded like he was from up nort’. He said, ‘I understand why y’all say
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