they entered Antoine's through the unmarked door, about 20 yards down St. Louis Street away from the restaurant's main entrance. The Trosclaire party was waiting impatiently for them in a dark, memorabilia-strewn private retreat, located behind the bustling dining room of New Orleans' oldest restaurant. It was a place where parties of 25 or less could dine in quiet comfort and seclusion. At the moment the crowd was considerably smaller than 25.

The youthful Officer Mike Bordelon introduced Abadie and Legendre to the plump, teary-eyed widow of George Trosclaire and her daughter, Marcella, who was virtually a 30-year-younger replica of her mother; to Marcella's too-handsome husband, Joseph Fournet, who was a vice president of the Rex Brewery; to Ad Schmidt, another vp, a red-faced, blustery man of middle age and his attractive wife, Ellen; and finally to Claude Wiseman, a tall, solid man in his late 40s, who was the general manager of the brewery.

Fournet, whom J.J. immediately categorized as the son-in-law, broke the ice with, "I don't see why we aren't free to leave. We've been in this damn restaurant for nearly two hours."

"Now, Bud, honey," his wife said, "these men are doin' the best they can."

"If only you could give us some idea what happened," the teary widow pleaded to Lt. Abadie. "We've been told nothing, except that my husband has been m-m-murdered."

Looking a bit uncomfortable, Abadie said, "Well, ma'am, that's really about all we know. 'Cept that it happened maybe four hours ago. And the killer probably used a dueling pistol that was hanging on the wall."

Mrs. Trosclaire slammed a hefty arm onto the dining table, rattling the coffee cups. "Those damn guns and knives! What a foolish hobby! Guns. Bottle caps. Mugs. Ashtrays. He was like a packrat," she said heatedly. Then she faltered and began to cry again.

"Was there a reason Mr. Trosclaire was at the brewery today?" J.J. asked.

She looked at him blankly and said, "Business, I suppose. Some kind of business."

"I can tell you the kind of business," Ad Schmidt said. "He was waiting for a phone call from Milwaukee."

The others stared expectantly at the red-faced man who paused to light a cigarette before continuing. "For about a year now, George has been talking about selling the brewery."

The widow stared at him, openmouthed. "So that was his surprise?" she asked. "He said he was going to have a surprise for me at brunch today. I've been after that man to retire for more than 10 years now."

Her daughter turned to Joseph Fournet, "You know anything about this, honey?"

"We all knew a little about it," Fournet said. "I didn't realize it would happen so soon."

"Neither did George," Ad Schmidt said. "He set a pretty high price on the business. But old man Ketchum at Wisconsin Lake Brewery came up with a merger plan at the end of the week that George didn't feel he could turn down. Not only was the money end of it good, but it meant that the staff at Rex would remain pretty much untouched."

Claude Wiseman, the plant manager at the brewery grumbled, "That means they keep some of the workers on the line and replace the entire executive staff."

"That true?" J.J. asked Ad Schmidt.

"Not in this case," Schmidt replied. "George would never have accepted the merger if every worker at Rex hadn't been protected. Look, how much longer is this gonna take?"

"Well," Lt. Abadie said, "Officer Bordelon tells me they're finished fixin' up a room for us here. So we'll ask your cooperation for just a while longer, until we can get your individual statements. As we finish, you can be on your way."

"Then take me and my wife first," Ad Schmidt said.

"We thought we'd begin with the Trosclaires," Abadie said. "Let them move on to their grieving in private."

Mrs. Trosclaire had very little to offer, other than that her daughter had arrived at the Trosclaire home at about nine that morning, just as her father was leaving for the brewery.

"You two were together the whole time after that?" Abadie asked.

"We were," Mrs. Trosclaire said.

"But your son-in-law wasn't with you?" J.J. asked.

"No. Joe joined us here at Antoine's. Both Marcy and I are very early risers. By the time Joe gets up on weekends, the rooster has not only crowed, he's gone to town for new shoes."

"What time did he get here?" Abadie asked.

"Oh, I don't know. Just before 12, maybe."

Marcella Fournet told them that her husband had been still sound asleep when she'd left their home that morning. When he arrived at Antoine's he told her that it had been after 10 when he'd awakened.

Joe Fournet's timeline was pretty much the same as his wife's and mother-in-law's. When he finally got to his arrival at the restaurant, Abadie thanked him. The too-handsome man was on his way out when J.J. asked, "Were you looking forward to the merger, Mr. Fournet?"

"You mean did I like suddenly having a boss who was not my father-in-law? Well, let me tell you, detective, working for your father-in-law is a tough way to make a buck."

"You didn't like him?"

"I liked him okay. I just didn't like working for him."

"And now you won't have to," J.J. said.

Fournet gave him a bored look. "You don't really think I'd draw down on my wife's father just because he cracked the whip on me at work."

"It's happened before," J.J. said.

"Not this time."

"You expect the merger to still take place?"

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"Because there's no need for it. Sales are up. George may have wanted to retire, but Ad and I aren't quite ready yet."

"Do you have a nickname, Mr. Fournet?" J.J. asked.

"I beg your pardon?" Joe Fournet was frowning.

"In the other room, your wife called you 'Bud.'"

"Yes. Well, some of my friends call me Bud or Buddy. Started as a childhood thing. Don't know where it came from, exactly. Am I finished here?"

Abadie told him he was.

Next up was the plant manager, Claude Wiseman, who'd moved ahead of the Schmidts because of a report from the brewery. Though the details of Trosclaire's death were being kept secret, the presence of the police was distracting the work crews from their tasks. Wiseman was needed there as soon as possible.

His mind clearly on other matters, Wiseman answered Abadie's questions quickly and concisely. Yes, he'd been at the brewery earlier that day. He usually stopped off Sunday mornings before joining the Trosclaires at one of the better New Orleans restaurants.

"I gather you weren't happy about the merger, Mr. Wiseman?" J.J. asked. Wiseman took his time answering. "I've been with other companies when they changed ownership. No one is safe, not even the guys upstairs behind the desks."

"Then you don't believe what Ad Schmidt said: that Mr. Trosclaire had it written into the merger that no jobs would be lost?"

"If Ad believes that, then he deserves to get squeezed out. Is that it? I really have to get to work."

He'd barely left when Ad Schmidt barreled into the room. "I hope to hell we can make this quick," he said. "The brewery is a madhouse, I hear. I've gotta get over there."

Lt. Abadie asked his usual questions regarding Schmidt's whereabouts that morning. "Ellen and I got up about eight-thirty. She went to mass at Holy Name. I hung around the house, read the Picayune, watched the rerun of yesterday's LSU game on TV. When Ellen got back, I took a shower and dressed and we came down here. Arrived at noon on the dot."

"I assume you're related to George Trosclaire's original partner, Adolph Schmidt," J.J. said.

"He was my father," Ad Schmidt said. "I'm A. D. Schmidt, Junior."

"So you're a partner in the brewery?"

Ad Schmidt nodded.

"And you were in favor of the merger?"

"It was a very generous offer."

"Will Trosclaire's death affect the merger?" J.J. asked.

"I don't know," Schmidt said impatiently. "That largely depends on George's heirs. Why all this talk about the damned merger?"

"Because it may have been the reason why George Trosclaire was murdered," J.J. said.

"Nonsense." Schmidt's face reddened. "Who in their right mind would cave in somebody's skull over a business deal?"

"Interesting question," J.J. said.

As Schmidt rose to leave the room, Abadie said, "Would you ask your wife to come in now?"

"Actually, Mr. Schmidt," J.J. said, "let us have a couple minutes first."

When the florid man had left the room, J.J. asked Abadie, "Why bother with Mrs. Schmidt when we know who killed George Trosclaire?"

"We know what?" Abadie asked incredulously.

So J.J. Legendre told him.