Free PI On A Hot Tin Roof by Julie Smith

“Sandra? Sandra, you’re my hero—swear to God, you shoulda seen Daddy dancing around.”
    “That’s enough out of you, young lady.” Her father’s voice banished all thoughts of girlish giggles—on Talba’s part, anyhow.
    “Oh, Daddy, don’t be such a dork.”
    Enter Adele. “Sandra. I have to speak to you about something.”
    “Done,” the judge said.
    “Miss Adele, I swear to God it’ll never happen again.”
    “Better not.”
    Kristin was next, followed closely by Royce and Suzanne, who for some reason had decided to rise at a decent hour. Kristin looked ready to take on the board of Bank One—all ninety-nine pounds of her—but the other two looked like they’d had about two hours’ sleep.
    “Hey, Kristin. Hey, Royce,” Lucy said, ignoring Suzanne as if she were a piece of furniture. “We’re not having boudin, are we? I hate boudin.”
    “Young lady, goddammit! I’ve about had enough out of you,” her father said.
    Kristin shot him a “go easy” look and Suzanne said, “Do you really think we care what you hate?”
    Kristin stood. “You leave her alone.” She moved a step closer to the girl.
    “You shut up,” Suzanne said. “You aren’t a member of this family. Who needs your mealy little Pollyanna mouth? I’ll be putting up with the no-neck monster when you’re just one of Daddy Buddy’s fond little memories. He’s got lots of those, haven’t you, Daddy Buddy?”
    Daddy Buddy!
Talba was thinking. And
Tennessee Williams.
She recognized “no-neck monster” as Maggie the cat’s favorite endearment for kids. She’d landed straight in the second act of
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof,
complete with Burl Ives, and Suzanne seemed to know it. Why else would she have quoted from the play?
    “You don’t get to call me that!” Lucy shouted. “Only Royce.” Well, that explained that, but, except for the fatal cancer, these people were six characters who need search for their play no longer.
    This is surreal,
Talba thought, and caught Kristin giving her a sympathetic glance, though she was the one who’d been insulted. The petite blonde looked at her watch. “Oops. Time to go.” Talba guessed she was used to it. “Run you to school, Luce?”
    Buddy said, “Wait a minute, sugar tit.”
    “Daaaaady!”
Lucy wailed, dying of embarrassment.
    The judge got up and kissed his sweetie. “I’m comin’ home for lunch,” he murmured. “Join me?”
    Please God, not a nooner,
Talba thought.
Some things simply cannot be endured.
    “Love to, darlin’, but I’ve got a meeting with Gary Blancaneaux. The state senator.”
    “Watch ol’ Gary—they don’t call him Groper for nothin’.” He patted her bottom as she click-clacked smartly out the door, an adoring Lucy more or less clinging to her coattails.
    As soon as they heard the front door snick, Talba served the eggs and boudin. And Buddy became a firebomb. “Suzanne Champagne, you will not speak to my friends like that in my house! And Royce, you will control your wife, you lily-assed pansy, or I swear to God I’ll toss you both out to beg on the street.”
    He threw down his napkin, strode out, and headed upstairs. Royce, red-faced, followed as soon as his father was far enough ahead that he didn’t have to talk to him.
    And then Adele followed, saying, “I just don’t seem to have much appetite.”
    Which left Suzanne. “Well, I do,” she said, and Talba gave her an extra helping.
    “Bet you’re wondering,” Suzanne said, “how I can eat with all this going on around me?”
    “No, ma’am.”
I’m trying to stop shaking in my shoes.
    “Meditation. You’ve got to be serene to live in this house. That, and practice. Daddy Buddy’s little chickies come and go. He blows up, Royce backs down. Lucy pouts and mouths off.” She shrugged. “You get used to it.”
    Talba profoundly hoped she got the goods on the judge before she had the opportunity to get used to it.
    She had three goals before lunch, to which she wasn’t