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he was supposed to be—always late, half the time didn’t remember. So that’s what we thought. I mean, everywhere he was supposed to be, whoever was there thought he was just somewhere else—do you understand?”
    She was gibbering a bit, but it almost made sense. “You mean if you were supposed to meet him at the office and he didn’t show up, you just thought he was probably at the fairgrounds?”
    She nodded. “And vice versa. I knew he was missing appointments—oh, yeah, and his father and stepmother were calling about every ten minutes, but things just get crazy at the last minute. I looked for him, of course. But that isn’t unusual. He disappears and I cover for him, you know? Track him down and light a fire under him. He’s like that.” She didn’t even notice she was using the present tense.
    “Like what? Irresponsible?”
    “No! Just overworked. He gets involved in things. He forgets what time it is.”
    “And misses appointments.”
    “Well, not usually, but it’s happened. He gets way behind schedule. He’s—he was—kind of a dreamer, the kind of guy who gets interested in something and forgets everything else. He’s not really …” She seemed to think better of finishing the sentence.
    “Not really what?”
    “Well, you wouldn’t call him a ball of fire. You kind of have to keep after him or his whole schedule falls apart. Anyway, it was about lunchtime that I kind of caught on he hadn’t been anywhere he was supposed to be that day.”
    “What did you do?”
    “Well, I was so worried, I drove out to his house, but he wasn’t home. I mean I guess he was… already dead.”
    Skip spoke quickly to stem that train of thought. “So the last time you saw him was when—quitting time yesterday?”
    “There is no quitting time during the festival. We kind of work around the clock if we have to. But this party—this Second Line Square thing—it’s kind of his pet project. It’s—it was—really, really important to him. He’d hired the caterers and everything—all out of his own pocket—but nothing would do. But he had to make his own special gumbo for a couple of the performers. See, they’d been at his house when he’d made it before, and he promised them if they’d come and be nice to the rich people, he’d make it again.” She spread her arms. “He had a deal—what could he do? So just when things were at their hottest, he went home in the middle of the day to make gumbo.”
    “And that was the last time you saw him? When he left?”
    “No, he called and asked me to bring him some tasso. He’d forgotten it, and his special, personal recipe wouldn’t work without it.” She rolled her eyes. “So he said.”
    “You must have been snowed under too.”
    “And yet he wasn’t really demanding. Every now and then something like that came up, that’s all. He was a great guy, Offic —uh, Detective.”
    “Skip.”
    “He was the best. Everyone who worked for him adored him. Just one of those easygoing, teddy bear sweetie-pie pussycats, you know what I mean?”
    “I knew him a little bit. He seemed like that to me.” But she’d seen men like that get clobbered—not murdered, but good and beat up in domestic disputes she’d been out on. The wife would be furious, maybe still brandishing a poker or frying pan, and the teddy bear would be mouthing, “Now, honey, you put that thang down, baby doll,” blood running down his face, but eyes like velvet, voice like taffy, all hell breaking loose and still gentle as a cocker spaniel. She never knew what these sweeties did to inspire so much wrath.
    “Ariel,” she said, “when did you bring the tasso?”
    “About three.”
    “Was anyone else here?”
    “No. I mean, not that I saw. Ham just met me at the door and took the package.”
    “What was he wearing at the time?”
    “Wearing? I don’t know. Jeans, I guess. And, um, a T-shirt. Black. I know! A Radiators T-shirt.”
    “How did he seem?”
    “Seem? Anxious, I