“I wonder how they got that grand piano up here,” I muse. “That’s a big one.”
“You won’t believe it,” Nadine says. “They couldn’t fit it into the service elevator, so Paul Matheson hitched it underneath a lumber company helicopter and airlifted it up here this afternoon. That would have made a hell of a picture for the newspaper.”
“That sounds just like Paul,” I say, laughing.
“Look!” Nadine points at the stage. “Is that Jerry Lee Lewis?”
A stooped man with dyed-black hair is climbing onto the risers that hold the grand piano. He’s old enough to be Lewis, but he’s not.
“No, I remember that guy. That’s Webb Westerly, who owns the music store across the river. He’s a damn good piano player in his own right. I guess he’s going to keep the crowd warm till the Killer gets here.”
Nadine grabs my arm and pulls me across the rooftop. Ahead I see some of the wealthier guests at the party.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Charity Buckman just motioned me over. She’s a great customer, and she was part of my mother’s book club.”
This is my chance to question a few members of the Poker Club. Sure enough, as we near Claude Buckman and his wife, Blake Donnelly and Beau Holland move in the same direction. Max and Paul Matheson aren’t far behind them.
These guys want to question me, I realize. They want to know what we’re going to print about Buck’s death tomorrow.
“Nadine Sullivan!” gushes Charity Buckman, a woman of eighty who’s had a couple hundred grands’ worth of plastic surgery. “You look just darling. I wish Margaret could have seen this party. She would have loved it.”
“She would have,” Nadine agrees.
“Your escort’s mighty handsome,” Charity adds with a wink.
“McEwan,” croaks Claude Buckman, offering his hand.
I reach out and gently grasp fragile bones wrapped in skin like parchment.
“Goose!” cries Paul, clapping me on the shoulder. “How you like the party, man?”
“I’ll like it fine if I get to hear Jerry Lee Lewis.”
“Damn right. We only got him because Blake knows him from the Blue Cat Club down in Natchez. Way back in the day.”
“And Lafitte’s Den, right here,” adds Donnelly himself. The oilman is actually wearing a tall gray Stetson. “Jerry Lee used to tear up those little honky-tonks when he was just a boy.”
Before Donnelly can wax poetic about the birth of rock and roll, Beau Holland slides between Paul and Donnelly and fixes me with a basilisk stare. “What’s your take on that accident on the river this morning?” he asks. “That archaeologist who drowned.”
“Wasn’t that awful?” Donnelly says with what sounds like genuine regret. “Buck was a good fella. Picked me up out on Highway 61 once, when my old Dodge quit on me.”
“That was Buck,” agrees Max Matheson, stepping up to Claude Buckman’s left. “He’d give you the shirt off his back. Damn shame.”
Beau Holland has no interest in this informal eulogy. His stare has not wavered, and he looks like his blood pressure is in the lethal zone. “Is there going to be a story about it in the paper tomorrow?”
“I imagine so,” I say with a shrug. “That’s really up to my editor. I’m only the publisher.”
“Oh, bullshit. You’re just like your old man. You decide what goes into that rag.”
“Now, Beau,” Donnelly says in a tone of mild reproof. “You’re not being very neighborly.”
“What do you expect? McEwan here isn’t very neighborly to his hometown.”
I would have thought Beau Holland would be reluctant to backtalk Blake Donnelly, but anger seems to have gotten the better of him.
“Shut up and get yourself another drink, Beau,” Paul advises.
Holland gives Paul a scorching glare. As they stare at each other, I realize that more Poker Club members have moved up to the periphery of our circle. Wyatt Cash, Tommy Russo, and Arthur Pine, the unctuous attorney. Behind Pine, I see Senator Avery Sumner.
“Some people are saying Buck Ferris didn’t drown,” Holland goes on. “That he was killed before he went into the river.”
“Who’s saying that?” Russo asks over the head of Donnelly’s wife.
“Just people,” Holland says sullenly.
“Is that so?” Buckman asks.
Holland nods, his face red with whiskey or fury. “And a fake-news story about a murder is the last thing this town needs this week. The Chinese don’t need to see that! Let’s talk straight. McEwan wasn’t even invited to this party. But since he’s here, I want him to tell us what he’s printing tomorrow.”
“As it turns out,” I say in a conversational tone, “Buck’s skull was crushed by a brick. And it’s looking more and more like he wasn’t killed where his truck was found.”
The men’s faces go pale at this news, but Beau Holland turns scarlet. “Will the word ‘homicide’ appear in the Watchman tomorrow? That’s all I want to know.”
“Well, a black kid was shot with an AR-15.”
“Nobody gives a damn about that. You know what I mean.”
The men around Holland look distinctly uncomfortable, but I’m not sure about the reason. “Why don’t you spend fifty cents on a paper after you come to in the morning?” I suggest.
Holland lunges at me, but Max Matheson plants a splayed hand on his chest and stops him cold. “Marshall’s always invited,” Max says evenly. “He’s family. Get yourself another drink, Beau.”
Into this minor melee steps Sally Matheson, one of the most gracious women in Mississippi. Some people say it’s only her charm and elegance that extricated Max from quite a few scrapes over the years. While Beau Holland struggles to get control of his temper, Sally looks at me as though he doesn’t exist.
“How’s your father doing, Marshall?” Her gentle Southern accent hasn’t changed since she came out as a Bienville debutante five decades ago. “It’s so hard to imagine Duncan being down like he is.”
“He’s holding his own, Mrs. Matheson.”
“I’m so glad. I know Blythe will get him back in the pink. Your mother’s a saint, Marshall. All those years you and Paul were growing up, I was so jealous of Blythe. She just had a natural way about her. She could deal with anything. It’s a gift.”
Arthur Pine shakes his head with feigned empathy. “Tell Duncan I said hello. I miss seeing him on the street.”
“You mean in Dizzy’s Bar,” says his wife, a bejeweled blond standing two steps behind him.
“There, too,” Pine says with a sheepish grin.
To my surprise, Sally reaches out and takes Nadine’s hand, then leans forward and whispers something in her ear. Nadine giggles, surprising me even more. I don’t think I’ve ever heard her giggle. Then Sally leans back and looks me from head to toe, as though taking my measure.
“Marshall, I’ve known you since Hector was a pup, and I’m telling you now, you’d better grab hold of this girl with both hands. They don’t come any better, east or west of the Mississippi.”