A small thing, but puzzling. Why would anybody want to change Como to Comeaux nowadays? Why would anyone prefer to be thought Huguenot and not Italian? I’ve known plenty of both, and frankly—
A small thing, but enough to make him skittish with me. But he’s very much at his ease now, clicking his spurs against the terrazzo and pushing off the wall by ducking his dark head just graying at the temples, neither Sicilian nor Huguenot now but very much the English gent in his muddy field boots. He smiles his new, brilliant smile.
“Bob, what’s this about a fire and vandalism out at Mickey’s ranch? Did something happen out there? Something about a groom?”
“Oh boy.” Bob’s face goes grave, showing white around the eyes inside the tan. With his deep tan and flashing white smile suddenly going grave, Bob is as handsome as a young George Hamilton. “Oh boy, it was more than that. The fire was the least of it. Tom, Mickey took it into her head one day last week to remove her husband’s.45 automatic from the closet shelf, drive out to the ranch, and begin shooting her thoroughbreds, beginning with the least valuable, fortunately — you know, she’s got over two million in horseflesh out there — until she was stopped and disarmed by a groom. Those horses weren’t burned. She shot them. Then she deceived the groom by pretending contrition, talked him out of the gun, headed back to the house. Tom, I’m afraid she intended harm to herself or her children or both.”
“How do you know that?”
“She told me.”
“How did she tell you? In her present state I can’t see her telling a story, relating an event.”
“You noticed that.” Bob Comeaux gives me a keen-eyed look. “You would. You’re quite right. You get it out of her by questioning her like a child. But she’ll tell you!”
“What’s this about some sort of sexual business between her and the groom? Did the groom attack her?”
Bob looks grave. “I fear not, Tom.” He stands quite close, facing me, head down, talking so low that not even Sue Brown, who’s back, now six feet away, can hear. “She was coming on to him, Tom.”
“That’s the groom’s story?”
“Yes, and I didn’t believe it at first. But she told me herself, quite openly.”
We fall silent, pondering. Now Bob is back against the wall, speaking in our old offhand style.
“Tom, you asked me earlier, with your typical Freudian skepticism, just how did I propose to modify her behavior and what sort of behavior I wanted from her.” Actually I didn’t ask him any such question. “Well, you’ve seen for yourself. Wouldn’t you say that such behavior needs modifying — entirely apart from whatever is going on in her subconscious mind, as I believe you call it.”
“Yes.”
“You know, Doctor, you and I might just be the ones to achieve a meeting of minds over the old mind-body problem, that ancient senseless quarrel. What do you think?”
“Our minds might.”
“Ha ha. Never quit, do you?” By way of leave-taking he gives me a warm, horse-smelling, shoulder jostle. “Oh, Tom—”
“Yes?”
“I know I can count on you to help me see to it that Mrs. LaFaye gets the best care we can give her.”
“You can.”
“Thanks, hoss. What say to the Ein und Zwanzig and a flick?” That’s old P&S talk for let’s go to Twenty-One to eat and then to the movies at Radio City.
“Thanks, but I got a junior dog.” I got a date with a student nurse.
“Oh shit. Tom?”
“Yes?”
“I almost forgot. This is not a favor. This is something I’m sure you’d want to do because it involves an old friend of yours.”
“Who’s that?”
“I spoke to you about Father Smith and Father Placide over at St. Michael’s?”
“Yes?”
“Well, it seems the good fathers have a problem. Father Placide called me a couple of weeks ago. Incidentally, he’s a hell of a nice guy — we served on a couple of committees together. He’s got a little problem and frankly I think you’re in a better position to handle it than I.”
“What’s the problem?”
“The problem is Father Smith. It has to do with his behavior. Ha ha, I’m sorry, Tom, but I’m quoting Father Placide. Frankly, Tom, I’m a little out of my element here. I believe you’ve known Father Smith for some time, that you knew him well in, ah, Alabama.”
“Yes. What’s wrong with him?”
“I’m not clear on that — something about him flipping out, not coming down from a fire tower. Anyhow, I’d appreciate it if you would talk to Placide. I’d take it as a personal favor.”
“All right.”
He looks at his watch, a curved gold wafer. “Could you drop by there this afternoon?”
“Well—”
“Tom, just hear what Father Placide has to say. Then I want you to take a look at Father Smith and give me a DX. Okay?”
“All right,” I say, looking around for Lucy.
“Great,” says Bob, giving me a strong pronated handshake and a long level-eyed look. “You know something, hoss. If the creek don’t rise, I think we’re going to make it. Right?”
“Right,” I say, wishing he’d let go of my hand and wondering what he wants from Father Placide.