Free PI On A Hot Tin Roof by Julie Smith Page A

looking forward—getting every window in Judge Champagne’s suite sparkling clean, planting a bug in his office phone, and pillaging at least half his files. If she got that done, she could work on Adele’s mirrors.
    As it happened, she did get the bug planted and the office windows done, but there was no time to rummage files if she was going to get the beds made by noon. Since most courts recessed at noon, she figured Buddy’d be home by twelve-fifteen, at which time she’d have a toothsome lunch waiting. Anything to buy time.
    Entering the third floor sanctum, she saw that both of the younger Champagnes had long since departed, leaving a room that stank of alcohol and dirty clothes. More laundry to do. After straightening the bed, she tossed the noisome garments in the hamper and worked her way down, entering the kitchen exactly on time. Adele was working in the garden, having exchanged her church-lady dress for a pair of baggy khakis. Talba tapped the window and waved at her.
    The older woman smiled, looked at her watch, and came in. “Gardening keeps me calm,” she said. “I’ll just go up and change for lunch. Can you manage by yourself? There’s plenty in the refrigerator. But no sandwiches—Buddy likes a hot lunch.”
    “Kitchen or dining room?” Talba asked.
    Adele looked at her as if she’d asked what a cat or a dog was. “Why, dining room for lunch and dinner. Just the two of us today, I b’lieve.”
    Talba thought,
what a little tête-à-tête that ought to be, but then, maybe not.
These people seemed so used to drama, they hardly seemed to notice it. She found some leftover chicken and vegetables for a stir-fry, to be preceded by a lovely salad complete with hearts of palm, a can of which Talba found in the pantry.
    Things went swimmingly until she set the second course in front of her employer and target. “What the hell is this?” Pronouncing it
hail.
    She was disconcerted. To her mind, it was the best lunch you could have. “Uh, chicken stir-fry?”
    “Female food. Adele, she’s givin’ me goddam female food!” He looked up at Talba, furious, definitely not kidding around. “I look like a woman to you?”
    “Umm…stir-fry isn’t unisex? I know I’ve seen men…” But
had
she seen a man eat it?
    “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Francis,” Adele said, “you could stand to lose a couple of pounds.”
    Frantically, Talba searched her memory for a substitute. “Omelet and home fries? Hamburger?” Nope, no sandwiches. “I know”—she’d seen a microwave—“stuffed potato.”
    To her surprise, he boomed out a laugh. “Honey, you’re all right. Quick little thinker. Omelet and home fries’d be great. Take this slop away, will ya?”
    Talba left to cook the third meal of the day. The omelet came out so perfectly that all might have gone well after all if Royce hadn’t walked in the door the instant she served it. By now, Adele had finished her veggies and excused herself.
    “Royce? That you?” his father called. “What you doin’ home in the middle of the day. Get ya ass in here and have lunch with me.”
    His son came in looking disheveled and smelling, once more, of strong drink.
    “You been drinkin’?” Buddy asked.
    “Daddy, I’ve got something bad to tell you. I got fired.”
    Buddy’s face flashed pink. He threw his napkin down on the table. “Fired? What the hell ya mean fired? Tell me you ain’t sayin’ Jesse Partee fired ya. How in the name of fuck does a man’s son get fired by his best friend?” By the time he finished his speech, his pink face had turned deep red. Talba might have feared a heart attack if she’d had the slightest sympathy for the man.
    Royce shrugged, hunching his shoulders and looking deeply embarrassed. “I didn’t understand the rules, that’s all. I thought I was just there on a fill-in basis. All I ever did was watch other people, what they were doing. I didn’t know I had to keep nine-to-five hours.”
    “It’s a job, son.