“I wasn’t planning to govern her.”
Dominic sipped his coffee. “You were planning to think about it.”
“Yes.”
Outside, a streetcar bell sounded on the avenue, then faded into the ordinary noise of a Saturday morning. I poured my second cup of coffee and thought about garlic.
By one o’clock I had onions diced, stock warming, and a chicken broken down on the board beside the stove. The kitchen ran cooler than the rest of the house, but not by much. A second line had started somewhere toward Magazine Street, the sound of brass filtering through the August air.
Thiago had notes spread out across the kitchen table and what appeared to be a cold brew he’d acquired through mysterious means. He was working through the Orpheum credentialing records, comparing names against a list Michael had sent overnight.
“Who managed guest credentials for the Preservation Society reception in May?” he asked.
“Alma from the Society office. Gerald Tureaud would be at her elbow.”
“Gerald had access to the completed guest list?”
“Gerald has access to everything. He is one of those men who always seems to know which doorway to be standing in when important things happen.”
Thiago made a note.
I moved to the stove and dropped butter into a heavy pot. When it melted, I added flour and stirred.
Thiago raised his head, pointing his nose into the air before joining me at the stove. “That looks like the beginning of a problem.”
“It’s the beginning of dinner.”
“It’s darkening.”
“It’s supposed to.”
He watched in silence for forty seconds. “That’s not burning?”
“Not yet. Stop watching it. It’ll get nervous.”
He chuckled, low and genuine. “I’m not sure that’s how chemistry works.”
“In this kitchen, it is.”
My roux deepened by degrees, pale gold through peanut butter and into something darker. I lowered the flame and reached for the onions.
“What time is check in with Michael?” I asked.
“Three.”
I scraped the onions into the pot, and heat rose into my face from the sizzle. From somewhere beyond the courtyard wall came the sound of the second line again, trumpets climbing and then dropping away.
Thiago watched the steam rise. “Henri doesn’t appear in any official Orpheum administrative records.”
“People who avoid records leave impressions elsewhere.”
At four-thirty the landline telephone rang in the front hall. I found Dominic already there, receiver in hand, saying “yes” and “fine.” He handed me the receiver without comment.
“Celeste.”
“Mon cher,” she said. “I forgot to ask whether you had enough garlic.”
“I’m covered.”
