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figured, startled by how quickly the time had gone. Back then the Quarter had seemed on its way out, its elegant Spanish facades crumbling. Now a renascence was in swing. Fresh paint. New gutters. Old wrought-iron balconies gleamed.
    Flowers drove right down Bourbon Street, a feat Spraggue wouldn’t have tried drunk or sober. The street never closed; it was one continuous conga line, tourists and natives dancing from one seedy nightclub to the next, one strip joint, one bar, one elegant Creole restaurant, one tourist-trap to another, all stuck together on one street so that the blend of people was even more bizarre than the blend of shops. A dapper man steered a bejeweled woman past a bare-chested tattooed man in motorcycle-leather pants. Hookers leered at cops. Spraggue recalled one Mardi gras, when he’d been young enough not to mind ten thousand drunks jamming the streets, remembered the faraway glamor, the close-up squalor. He hoped it would come late this year, that this business with Dora would be settled long before Fat Tuesday drove the populace berserk.
    â€œMardi gras March the sixth,” Flowers offered. “Things startin’ to heat up though. Balls every night soon. Good time for a cabbie.”
    â€œIf you like people throwing up in your cab.”
    â€œI don’t pick up the ones with the green faces, but sometimes they fool me. I drive plenty careful then. No sharp turns.”
    The Imperial Orleans had two doormen out front, one to hold the door, the other to stare questioningly at Spraggue’s shabby duffel bag and rumpled clothes. The lobby ran to marble floors and pillars, deep-green velvet banquettes, crystal chandeliers. Vases of lilies and freesia made it smell like a place you’d want to stay. The woman behind the desk had a voice so soothing Spraggue almost drowsed off listening to her.
    Yes, Mrs. Hillman’s suite was number 6L. Yes, she had left a key for the gentleman. Did the gentleman require a bellman? No? The elevator is on your left. Have a pleasant stay.
    Mary hadn’t said anything at the front desk about a nephew, that was certain from the way the woman looked him over.
    He stuck the key into the appropriate door, turned it gently.
    Mary yanked the door open, so quickly that she must have been waiting on the far side. She was wearing a rose-colored dressing gown, but her eyes were wide awake.
    â€œI thought you were going to sleep,” Spraggue said.
    â€œI did sleep,” Mary countered. “A good three hours. I feel absolutely marvelous, ready to dance.”
    Spraggue closed his eyes and blew out a deep breath. Four hours was a full night’s sleep for Aunt Mary. “All I want is food and bed.”
    â€œThe young have no vitality anymore,” Mary replied tartly.
    â€œI’m aging rapidly,” Spraggue said. “I may have gone into early retirement when I quit my job to pry into your murder investigation. I smell like a goddamn police station …”
    Mary made a faint and maddening noise. “Take a shower and wash the police station off. Your bed and bath are through here. I’ll order things from room service. Certainly a hotel that keeps Denise Michel as executive chef should be able to provide an adequate dinner—”
    â€œDenise Michel?”
    â€œWhat about her?”
    â€œWell,” Spraggue said, “she is the one who finagled Dora down here. She knew about Dora’s marriage to Fontenot. And she kindly told the cops about it. If Dora’s innocent, I’d say Denise Michel moves up to number one suspect.”
    â€œOn the other hand,” Mary said, pursing her lips, “let’s eat out.”
    â€œI doubt she’d poison us in her own hotel.”
    â€œBathe,” Mary said sternly. “When your police station aroma has improved, I’ll be in my study—through the archway on your right.”
    The shower helped. He had to admit it. The water—hot, cool,