Chapter One
Blanche DuBois was wrong: you can't depend on the kindness
of strangers.
Not that I want to sound pessimistic, and let's face it, by
the end of A Streetcar Named Desire, Blanche is more
than a little nuts, anyway. But if you really want to be
disillusioned about the human condition, try being a travel
agent for a while.
I looked at the group of people gathered in the airport
concourse and did my dead-level best not to shout, "Will all
of y'all just shut up?"
Because that wouldn't have been professional, you see.
So instead I turned to Dr. Will Burke and said, "They're
your colleagues. Can't you do something about them?"
He sighed. "I'll try. But remember, they're literature and
theater professors. Drama comes naturally to them."
I'll say it did. At the rate they were going, I'd be a
little surprised if we made it from Atlanta to New Orleans
without some of them killing some of the others.
Unfortunately, given my track record with these
literary-themed tours, that possibility wasn't as
far-fetched as it sounds.
You may have read about me in the newspapers. Delilah
Dickinson. Red-headed, with a temper to match (just don't
remind me of it, if you know what's good for you). Divorced,
approaching middle age too doggoned fast, owner of a
semi-successful small business, a travel agency specializing
in literary tours. I'd come up with the idea a couple of
years earlier, after leaving a big agency to go out on my
own, and, for the most part, it had worked out just fine.
I say for the most part because on a couple of tours, some
pretty bad trouble had cropped up, and by bad trouble, I
mean murder. Those cases had been solved and the killers
caught-with some help from me, if I do say so myself-but
naturally, the violence and scandal involved made folks
remember them a lot better than they did the dozens of other
tours I'd conducted that had gone off without a hitch.
You can't blame anybody for being interested in other
people's troubles. It's part of the human condition, if you
want to get all high-flown and philosophical about it. But
the reputation those tragedies gave my agency made it an
uphill struggle to keep things running in the black. I'd
managed to do that, with a lot of help from my only two
employees-my daughter, Melissa, and her husband, Luke-but it
hadn't been easy.
Now I had a tour headed for another easy, the Big Easy,
N'Awlins its own self ... if we ever got off the ground.
Will held up his hands to get the attention of the
approximately forty people who stood there with their
carry-on bags around their feet. He was about my age,
although his tousled blond hair gave him a bit of a boyish
look. The glasses counteracted that by making him appear
slightly professor-ish. We had dated off and on for a couple
of years, ever since he'd found himself in the middle of my
first tour-and first murder case-and I suspected it was
because of his influence at the university that I was able
to get the job of arranging to take this group of
professors, spouses, and/or significant others to New
Orleans for the annual Tennessee Williams Literary Festival.
You see, that's why I had Blanche DuBois on my mind.
The loud conversations that bordered on arguments were still
going on. The members of the group didn't pay any attention
to Will as he stood there waving his hands a little. He
said, "Uh, excuse me, everyone?"
"You're gonna have to speak up," I told him. "Just pretend
they're a bunch of unruly students in a lecture hall."
He glanced at me. "None of my students ever get that unruly.
They pay attention to me. I give good lectures."
"Then pretend they're a bunch of third graders who're actin'
up."
Will frowned. "I don't know how to do that."
I sighed and shook my head. I'd never been a teacher myself,
but I had driven carpool plenty of times when Melissa was a
kid.
"Hey! Y'all settle down, or I'll tell the pilot to go on to
New Orleans without us!"
That shut 'em up. Of course, it might have offended them,
too, but right then, I didn't care all that much.
An austere-looking man with white hair, glasses, and a
wrinkled face stared at me and said, "I beg your pardon, Ms.
Dickinson?"
I was about to apologize and explain why I'd yelled at them
when it struck me how much he looked like Orville
Redenbacher, the guy from the old popcorn commercials on TV.
That made it hard to think of anything to say.
Will, bless his heart, jumped right in. "I think what Ms.
Dickinson is trying to say, Dr. Jeffords, is that we all
need to show a little more decorum. You know how it is with
airports now. The extra security and all that."
"Oh." Dr. Jeffords blinked, then slowly nodded. "Oh, yes, of
course."
That was pretty slick of Will, I thought. You can ask folks
to do almost anything in an airport now, and as long as you
look properly solemn when you mention "the extra security
and all that," they'll go along with it.
I put a smile on my face and said, "I just think you should
save all these spirited discussions for the panels when you
get to New Orleans, so the other people attending the
festival can get the benefit of them, too."
Another man said, "But Dr. Paige claims that the hurdles on
which Brick breaks his leg have no ethnological significance."
A slender, attractive woman in her mid-thirties, with short
dark hair, gave what my mama would have called an unladylike
snort. "They're hurdles on a high school track," she said.
"They have no ethnicity, so how can they have any
ethnological significance? You might as well argue that
they're gynocentric."
"Well, they could be," another man said. "If you consider
Brick's obvious homosexuality and his later reaction to
Maggie, the hurdles could be seen as a barrier over which
Brick has to leap. When he fails to make that leap, when he
fails to clear the threat of Maggie's sexuality, so to
speak, or all female sexuality, as it were, then he's left a
physical cripple-"
"He's disabled," yet another of the professors interrupted.
"You can't say 'crippled.' He's physically disabled, which
serves as a counterpoint to the emotional disability which
he's already displayed by his incipient alcoholism, as well
as his failure to reconcile his feelings toward Skipper-"
The man who had first brought up the hurdles said, "Yes,
well, that line of argument merely reinforces my theory,
which is never refuted in the text of the play, that Skipper
was actually black, which again raises the issue of
ethnological significance. The hurdle that Brick fails to
clear is not his sexuality, but rather his racism!"
"Oh, surely you can't believe that!" the first prof said.
"The historical aberration alone is enough to discredit the
entire idea. Brick and Skipper were roommates in college. A
black man wouldn't have been attending the same college as
Brick during that time period."
The first professor sniffed and sneered. "It's what the
playwright meant, whether it's historically accurate or not."
Everybody started talking at once then. I looked at Will and
asked, "Did you understand all that?"
He nodded and said, "Unfortunately, yes. And they're back at
it again, aren't they?"
"Let 'em fuss," I said. "I don't guess it's doing any real
harm, and at least I can count heads while they're busy
arguin'."
When I had done that, I realized that there weren't forty of
them after all. I only had thirty-eight members of the tour
accounted for.
Two were missing.
"You know everybody who's supposed to be here, right?" I
asked Will.
"I think so."
I held out the clipboard with the passenger list on it.
"Then go through this and tell me who's not here yet." I
glanced at the giant electronic bulletin board that showed
all the arrivals and departures of the flights. Our flight
to New Orleans was still supposed to be on time, which meant
we had about ten minutes before the boarding call. Having a
couple of missing tourists now was cutting it closer than I
liked.
Will took the clipboard and started glancing back and forth
between the list and the group of people gathered in front
of us. I could tell he was checking them off in his mind.
After a minute or so, he handed the clipboard back to me and
said, "The only ones who haven't shown up are Michael
Frasier and whoever he's bringing with him."
I glanced down at the list, saw the lines that read "Dr.
Michael Frasier" and "Guest of Dr. Michael Frasier." I'd
been able to leave that second spot unspecified when I was
booking the trip, although of course I'd need the name of
whoever was accompanying Dr. Frasier, and the person would
have to have ID before they would be allowed to board the
plane. The airlines don't allow anybody on anymore without
knowing who they are.
"You know this fella Frasier?"
"Of course," Will said. "Not well, mind you. He's only been
at the university for a year or so. But I've met everyone in
the English Department."
"Well, he and his wife had better show up soon, or they're
gonna get left behind."
"I don't think it'll be his wife coming with him."
"His girlfriend, then, if he's not married. Or his mistress,
if he is."
Will shook his head. "Not that, either."
"Oh," I said. "That's all right. Nobody cares about things
like that these days."
"No, no, I don't know that he's gay," Will said. "I don't
know that he's not. But I'm pretty sure he's not married,
and I never heard anything about a girlfriend or a
boyfriend. I'm not sure he has a social life. He's pretty
consumed by his work. Publish or perish, you know."
I'd heard the phrase and vaguely understood it, but I'd
never had any direct experience with it, being a travel
agent instead of a professor.
Before I could say anything, Will went on with relief in his
voice, "Here comes Dr. Frasier now."
He was looking along the concourse in the terminal. I
followed the direction of his gaze and saw two men coming
toward us. The one who had to be Dr. Frasier had an air of
impatience about him as he carried both bags. He looked like
he wanted to stride on ahead but had to hold himself back so
he wouldn't walk off and leave his companion. Every few
steps, he seemed to pull himself back.
The other man shuffled along at what would have to be a
maddeningly slow pace to anyone who could walk normally. He
bent forward slightly at the waist, and his back was humped
with age. He wore a brown suit and tie over a white shirt.
The shirt's collar was loose around his stringy neck. An
old-fashioned brown fedora was on his head. His arms moved
back and forth a little at his side as he walked, almost
like a puppet's. He had to be at least eighty years old,
probably more.
I leaned close to Will and said quietly, "Would it be too
politically incorrect for me to say that if Frasier is gay,
he has pretty odd taste in boyfriends?"
"Yes," Will said. "Anyway, maybe that's his grandfather."
That was possible. Frasier looked like he was about forty,
or half the old guy's age, in other words. He was slender,
with tightly curled dark hair touched here and there with
gray. His suit had a slightly shabby look, sort of like the
one the old man wore. The difference was that Frasier's suit
looked like it was the best he could afford on his teaching
salary, while the old man's looked like he had owned it for
the past fifty years.
The others had started to notice Frasier and his companion,
and evidently they were as puzzled as Will and I were,
because they gradually fell silent. Dr. Paige, she of the
short dark hair and somewhat more commonsense attitude,
glared at Frasier with obvious dislike. Curious, I glanced
at the list in my hand. Tamara was her first name. She
didn't really look like a Tamara to me, but of course you
can't always go by names. Although I've been told that I
look just like a Delilah.
I was too impatient to wait while the two newcomers made
their way all along the lengthy concourse. I went around the
group and hurried to meet them.
"Dr. Frasier?" I said as I approached. "I'm Delilah
Dickinson, the leader of the tour."
Frasier nodded pleasantly enough. "It's nice to meet you,
Ms. Dickinson. I'm sorry we're late." With an expression
that was half smile, half grimace, he inclined his head
toward his companion. "Howard can't move very fast these days."
"That's all right. They haven't announced the boarding call
for our flight yet, so you're here in time. I do need your
friend's name, though, and he'll have to have his ID ready
at the gate."
Before Frasier could reply, the old man said in a loud,
surprisingly clear voice with a strong Southern drawl, "My
name is Howard Burleson, young woman. I can speak for
myself. And I don't need any identification. I know who I am."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Burleson," I told him. "I didn't mean any
offense. But you, uh, have to have ID to board the plane-"
"He's got it," Frasier broke in. "Or rather, I do. They gave
it to me at the home when I checked him out. I have his
driver's license and social security card. Will that be
enough? You don't need a passport, do you?"
I was tempted to tell him that the last time I'd checked,
Georgia and Louisiana were both still in the United States,
but I decided there was no point in being a smart aleck.
Also, it bothered me that the state would give somebody as
feeble as Howard Burleson a driver's license. But I said,
"That'll be fine. Is Mr. Burleson your ... grandfather?"
Burleson waved a gnarled hand. "I'm no relation to the boy.
I'm just his meal ticket to fame and fortune."
I had no idea what that meant and didn't really care.
Frasier looked annoyed and I thought he was going to say
something, but just then the announcement came over the
loudspeaker that Flight 561 to New Orleans was now boarding
at Gate 3.
"That's us," I said as I took a pen and crossed through
"Guest of Dr. Michael Frasier" and printed "Howard Burleson"
in the space above it. "If you'll join the others.... Have
you already checked the rest of your luggage?"
Frasier hefted the two carry-ons. "This is all we have. The
festival is only five days."
Only a man could go on a trip for five days and fit
everything he needed into a carry-on.
But there was no point in saying that, either, so I just
ushered the two of them toward the rest of the group. By now
they had picked up their bags and were making their way
toward Gate 3, along with everybody else who was taking that
flight to New Orleans.
I gave Will a reassuring nod. Now that everybody was here,
things would be all right. The professors had stopped
arguing, and they looked like the low-key, intelligent, and,
well, professorial bunch I'd expected them to be in the
first place. From here on out, I told myself, everything
would go smoothly.
That was when Howard Burleson said, "It's goin' to be
wonderful to see New Orleans again. I just wish poor Tom
could be there with us."
Dr. Paige said, "Tom?"
"Tom Williams, of course," Burleson said. "Or Tennessee, as
he called himself."
Dr. Paige stopped in her tracks. "You knew Tennessee Williams?"
Burleson stopped, too, and looked at her, his leathery face
creasing in a smile. He ignored the gentle tugs on the
sleeve of his suit coat that Frasier was giving him and
said, "Knew him? Tennessee Williams and I were lovers, young
woman."