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shrugged. “If she finds anything she’ll get back to me.”
    “ She?”
    “ Did I ever tell you about Beverly?”
    I rolled my eyes. “Where did you meet this one?”
    “ Oh, I met Beverly at a strip club out by the airport.”
    “ She’s a stripper?” I asked, raising my voice in surprise.
    Uncle Lance laughed at my reaction. “No. She was waiting tables to make ends meet. Apparently the Tangipahoa Sheriff’s Office doesn’t pay that well. She works in the records department. I called her and asked if she could pull David’s file and see if there is anything we should investigate.” He looked around my room. “Hey, why don’t you come to the French Quarter with me? We can pick up Val’s keys, then grab some lunch, and maybe even do a little window shopping.”
    “ I don’t know. Dallas will get back from his run and have a fit if he finds I’m not home.”
    He gave me a silly grin. “We’ll leave him a note. Come on, kid.”
    My uncle’s smile was contagious and I could not help but laugh when he grabbed my hand and pulled me from the bed.
    “ All right, Uncle Lance, you win,” I conceded as I let him drag me out of my bedroom.
    ***
    After a quick stop over at Val’s gray Creole cottage on Dumaine and Royal Streets to pick up the keys she had left for him, Uncle Lance and I decided to walk over to Jackson Square and have lunch at one of the small restaurants that overlooked the iconic New Orleans landmark. As we strolled in the shadows of the overhead balconies, I felt the burden of the last few days ease from my shoulders. The May sunshine warmed my face as we crossed over Chartres Street and walked into the open square. All around us tourists, carrying maps and cameras, were stopping here and there to admire the French and Spanish influenced architecture in the balconies of the Pontalba Apartments, or to study the facade of the Cabildo and Presbytere Museums, or to take in the tall spires of St. Louis Cathedral.
    “ So how old is Beverly?” I inquired as we stood outside of Muriel’s Restaurant on the corner of the square and gleaned over their limited post-Katrina menu displayed at the entrance.
    Uncle Lance looked over at me and smiled. “Twenty-two. A mature twenty-two, if you know what I mean.”
    “ I don’t know if I want to know what you mean. Your taste in women has always left me wondering what dark closet the family pulled your DNA from, Uncle Lance.”
    “ Hey, I know I’m nothing like your father.” He rolled his eyes. “Thank God. But not all of the Beauvoirs were as closed minded and boring as my brother.”
    “ Or grandfather,” I added, alluding to the infamous founder of Beauvoir Scrap Metal, Lionel Beauvoir, who was known for his business sense and his notorious lack of humor.
    “ Yeah, well, I take after my mother’s side.” He waved his hand casually in the air. “Now your grandmother Rita, there was a joker.”
    I furrowed my brow at my uncle. “Dad never mentions her. Why is that?”
    “ She died when we were both just boys. Billy barely remembers her since he was a baby at the time. But I remember Rita. She used to put live crabs in your grandfather’s toilet bowl when she said he was getting too full of himself.”
    “ A live crab?”
    Uncle Lance smiled as the memories warmed his eyes. “Used to make our Sunday mornings a little brighter to see my old man come running out of the john with a crab clamped down on his cheeks.”
    “ No wonder Grandpa Lionel was always in a bad mood,” I said, half laughing.
    Uncle Lance shook his head. “No, kid. The bad moods didn’t come until after Momma died. When she was alive my old man was a hell of a guy. It wasn’t until after Momma passed that Lionel pulled back from your father and me. That’s when he turned all of his attention to the business. He pounded the fear of God into your father to keep the place running after he died.”
    “ And what did Grandpa pound into you?”
    “ Not a damned thing. Your