Killer On A Hot Tin Roof (3 page)

“Hello,” he said, not exactly surly but not all that friendly, either.

“Thank you so much for setting up this tour,” Dr. Madison went on. “I’ve been to the festival before, of course, but never with a group like this. I understand that we’re going to be seeing some of the other sights in New Orleans while we’re there.”

“Well, sure,” I said. “Didn’t you do that when you went to the festival before?”

“No, I always had to get back as soon as possible.” She turned her smile on her husband. “Somebody has to take care of this big lug here.”

I tried to think how long it had been since I’d heard anybody call somebody else a “big lug,” but gave up after a second, when I couldn’t remember. Instead I asked, “Are you interested in Tennessee Williams, too, Mr. Madison?”

He grunted. “Not really. I’m not much on plays and things like that. But Callie convinced me that this would be a good vacation for us.”

He didn’t sound to me like she had completely convinced him.

“And I’ve always wanted to try some of that food they have there,” he went on, getting a little more animated now. “I want to go to that fat guy’s restaurant.”

“Paul Prudhomme,” Callie said.

“Yeah, him. That fat guy. I like that Cajun stuff.”

“Well, you’re goin’ to the right place, then,” I told him. “New Orleans has some of the best Cajun cooking in the world.”

Jake Madison nodded. “We’ll see about that.”

His wife rested her hand on his. “Surely you want to do more in New Orleans than just eat, Jake.”

“I might take in some of that Dixieland jazz, too. ‘When the Saints Go Marching In’ and all that.”

“And you’ll come see me present my paper on Williams’s use of imagery in
Suddenly, Last Summer
?”

“What? Oh, yeah, sure. Last summer. Can’t wait.”

I felt the growing strain in the air and thought that I might be contributing to it, so I figured I’d better move on. I said, “If there’s anything I can do for you folks to make y’all’s trip better, you just let me know.”

Callie turned that hundred-watt smile on me again. “Oh, we certainly will.”

I wondered how much cajoling it had taken for her to get her husband to come along with her on this trip. Quite a bit, I suspected. Without the Cajun food and the saints marching in, I wasn’t sure if Jake Madison would have ever agreed.

Dr. Paige was sitting next to Dr. Jeffords in the next pair of seats. She was in the aisle and he was next to the window. She looked up and gave me a curt nod, but Dr. Jeffords, the one who looked like Orville Redenbacher to me, was friendlier.

“I’d say we’re off to a good start, wouldn’t you, Ms. Dickinson?”

“We’re all here, we left on time, and the plane didn’t crash on take-off. Three for three.”

He laughed. “That’s a rather fatalistic way to look at it, but I suppose you’re right.”

“Are the two of you looking forward to the festival?”

Dr. Paige said, “I was … until I realized that it’s liable to turn into a sideshow, rather than a serious literary conference.”

Dr. Jeffords frowned and leaned toward her. “Now, Tamara–”

“You’re the head of the English Department, Andrew,” she said. “You must have known about this ridiculous stunt that Frasier’s trying to pull.”

“As a matter of fact, I didn’t.” A crisp note edged into his voice. “Dr. Frasier didn’t have to clear his presentation with me. You could take it up with the festival organizers, though. I’m sure he had to submit an abstract of his paper to them for approval before it was placed on the program.”

Dr. Paige gave a little shake of her head. “It’s not worth the trouble. Let him go ahead and make a fool of himself. He’ll never be allowed to present again.”

“But what if he has something worthwhile to say? Shouldn’t we give him the benefit of the doubt?”

“You think that old man was really some cabana boy that Williams picked up?”

“I don’t have any proof that he’s not,” Jeffords said.

That made Dr. Paige frown. She couldn’t disprove Burleson’s claim, at least not at this point, because she didn’t evenknow the details of it. She’d have to attend Frasier’s presentation for that.

Me, I didn’t give a hoot ‘n’ holler one way or the other. I just wanted to shepherd this bunch to New Orleans and then get ‘em all back home safely to Georgia. If I did that, it would be a good trip.

“I’ll see y’all later,” I told them. “If you need anything, you let me know. That’s what I’m here for.”

Two of the professors who’d been arguing in the airport terminal were sitting in front of Drs. Paige and Jeffords. I paused beside them, but they didn’t look up at me. They were still going at it, each one trying to talk over the other. I heard the words “anthropomorphism,” “epistemological,” and “phallophobia” and decided it was better just to move on.

The next pair of seats held only one passenger, but he was a big one. I recalled that somebody in the group had paid for two seats, and this fella had to be the one. He had a round face, graying brown hair, balding at that, and a grayish-brown goatee. His shirt gapped a little between buttons because of the pressure that the massive belly put on it. Whoever said fat men were jolly got it wrong, at least in this case. He wore a pained scowl.

I leaned over him. “You need something, sir?”

“You’re not a stewardess, are you?”

I didn’t bother correcting him on his choice of terminology. I just said, “No, I’m Delilah Dickinson. I’m the tour director.”

“Well, there’s nothin’ wrong with me that a good stiff drink won’t fix. Why don’t you go see if you can get me one of those little bottles of booze?”

I tried not to bristle, but like I said, I’ve got a temper, so it wasn’t easy. I managed to smile and said, “I’ll speak to the flight attendant.”

A woman sitting in front of the man turned around in her seat and said, “No, you won’t. He’s not allowed to drink.”

“Now, damn it, Junebug–” the big man began.

“Don’t you Junebug me, Papa Larry. Edgar and I are just trying to see to it that you take care of yourself, and you know the doctor said you can’t drink anymore.”

A rumble came from the big man. I swear, it sounded almost like a big dog growling. “How’m I supposed to feel better if I can’t drink? Do you know what this is gonna do to my creative juices?”

“I know what whiskey will do to your belly,” the woman he’d called Junebug said. She didn’t look like a june bug to me. She had a narrow face with short, wispy brown hair around it. “It’ll burn out what little of the stomach lining you have left, and then you’ll die,” she went on.

“You don’t know that,” he said in a sullen voice.

“I know what the doctor said. I was there.” She elbowed the man sitting beside her, who had an open laptop computer balanced on his thighs. “Tell him, Edgar.”

The man didn’t seem to want to tear his attention away from whatever he was doing on the screen, but he turned his head long enough to say, “June’s right, Dad. No booze for you.”

The big man settled back against the two seats and glared. “What the hell kind of a trip is this?” he muttered.

“It’ll be a good one,” I said, trying to sound optimistic.

He just gave a disgusted snort and looked out the window.

“Don’t mind that old grump,” Junebug said to me when I stepped up alongside the seats where she and her husband sat. “He ought to be happy. He’s going to direct a performance of three of Williams’s one-act plays. It’s very prestigious to be asked to do something like that at this festival.”

“I expect it is,” I agreed. “I’m Delilah Dickinson.”

She held out a hand to me. “Dr. June Powers.” She nodded toward the man beside her. “This is my husband, Dr. Edgar Powers.”

He didn’t look up at me. His attention was fixed on his computer screen again. But he lifted a hand and said, “Hi.”

“Glad to meet you, Doctor,” I said.

“And you met my father-in-law, Dr. Lawrence Powers. He’s one of the most esteemed theater directors and teachers of drama in the country.”

I’d never heard of him, but I was willing to take her word for it. “All of you teach together at the university?”

“That’s right. Well, we’re in different departments. I teach American Literature, and Edgar’s in … engineering.”

I caught the little hesitation, as if she were slightly ashamed to admit that her husband was in the sciences rather than the arts. Every family has its dirty little secrets, I suppose.

“Well, if y’all need anything, you let me know, hear?”

I was about to move on when Dr. Lawrence Powers, a.k.a. Papa Larry, said, “Get me a drink and there’s twenty bucks in it for you, Red.”

I swung around toward him. I don’t like being called Red any more than I like somebody commenting on my temper because I have red hair. But before I could say anything, I realized that Will was there. He must have come up behind me in time to hear what Powers said. He knew me well enough that he got between me and Powers with a slick little move that kept me from saying anything.

“Larry, it’s good to see you again,” he said. “June, Edgar, a pleasure as always.”

Junebug simpered a little. That’s the only way to put it. I wondered if she might have a little crush on Will. I didn’t figure I had any reason to be jealous, though. Edgar just grunted.

And I moved on to talk to the other members of the tour group, thinking that if anybody else called me Red or used the word “phallophobic,” they might wind up having to call the sky marshal on me.

F
or about a quarter of a century, the Tennessee Williams Literary Festival has been held every year in New Orleans, and while the scope of it has expanded somewhat to include other New Orleans-based literature and Southern literature in general, the focus is still on Thomas Lanier Williams and his plays, short stories, poetry, and novels, as well as how various aspects of his life influenced his work.

I’d done some research on him before starting the tour, as I always do. I consider myself a reasonably well-read person, but I suspect most folks know Willliams not from actually reading his plays but from seeing them performed, either on stage or on the screen. Women remember Paul Newman’s blue eyes and brooding intensity as Brick; men remember Elizabeth Taylor walking around in that slip as Maggie the Cat. And I suspect that a lot of guys of a certain age, at some point in their life, have bellowed, “Stella!”

These things and a lot of others from Williams’s plays, like that “kindness of strangers” line, have worked their way into the collective consciousness, to use a phrase that proves I’d been spending too much time around professors, especially a certain professor. Will always listened when I talked about thetour business, though, so I figured I ought to pay attention when he talked about academic matters.

Anyway, to get back to the festival, after an opening night reception and ceremony, it was four days of panel discussions, paper presentations, theater performances, readings, and some things that were more just for fun, like dinners and musical performances. Professors like to cut loose and let their hair down, too, I suppose, although I’d never been around a bunch of them actually doing that. I figured that might prove to be interesting, although I didn’t really expect anybody to get out of line.

I had a charter bus waiting to take us from the airport to the St. Emilion Hotel–in the French Quarter, right around the corner from Bourbon Street–which was serving as the headquarters hotel for the festival. As the bus pulled up in front of the lovely old three-story building with its wrought-iron railings along the balconies, I felt the elegance and charm practically oozing from it. The French Quarter, more than any other part of New Orleans, had fully rebounded from the devastating tragedy of Hurricane Katrina several years earlier. That wasn’t surprising, of course, since the French Quarter represented more tourist dollars than any other part of the city. I don’t mean that to sound cynical. It’s just a fact of life.

As the bus came to a stop, I stood up from my seat just behind the driver, turned to face the passengers, and raised my voice. “All right, folks, this is the St. Emilion Hotel. This is where we’ll be staying for the next five nights. I think you’ll be very pleased with your accommodations. The St. Emilion is one of the nicest hotels in New Orleans, which means it’s one of the nicest hotels anywhere in the world.”

It was expensive, too, but the group rates made it at least somewhat affordable. The university was probably picking up some of the tab for the professors, too, but that wasn’t reallymy concern. Will and I got off the bus and I asked him to let the concierge know that we were here while I supervised the unloading.

That proved to be an unnecessary request. Before Will could even get through the big fancy wooden doors, they swung open and a whole squad of uniformed porters marched out to take over the bags and see that everybody got inside. A short, dapper black man in an expensive suit came out, too, spotted me, and crossed the narrow sidewalk toward me.

“Ms. Dickinson?”

“That’s right.”

“I’m Dale Gillette, the assistant manager of the hotel. I want to welcome you and your group to the St. Emilion and let you know that everyone on the hotel staff is dedicated to making your stay as pleasant and memorable as possible.”

“That’s mighty nice of you,” I said. “It looks like you’ve sure got everything under control.” Escorted by the uniformed porters, my clients were going inside to check in.

Of course, not everything could go smoothly. Sometimes I think it’s a law of the universe. I heard a raised voice say, “No!” and turned to see Dr. Michael Frasier clutching one of the carry-on bags to his chest like it contained some sort of treasure.

“I said I’ll take it,” he told the porter who obviously had reached for the bag. “Just leave it alone.”

The porter looked confused, and so did Howard Burleson, who stood next to Frasier. The porter said, “Of course, sir. I was just trying to help. I meant no offense. If you’d like to carry that bag, it’s fine.”

“Of course it’s fine,” Frasier snapped. “It’s my bag.”

Burleson raised a gnarled finger. “Actually, Doctor, I believe it’s mine.”