Death Before Facebook (Skip Langdon #4) (Skip Langdon Mystery) (The Skip Langdon Series)

by Julie Smith

She turned her attention to a note she’d found on her desk when she walked in: “Call Mike Kavanagh ASAP.”

  Gladly, she thought. About time we met.

  Kavanagh had a classic New Orleans accent, not exactly yat, but pretty close. He said he’d be right ’dere.

  He was overweight and red-faced, veins popping on his nose. He clearly ate too much and drank too much. His hair had been red, but it was mostly gray now. When he shook hands with her, he stood close enough so that she could smell the alcohol on his breath. She hoped he wasn’t too attached to his liver.

  She hated cops who gave cops a bad name, and Mike Kavanagh, she could see at a glance, was capable of that. She had taken what Cole said about his being abusive with a grain of salt, but now she wondered.

  “What can I do for you?” she said.

  “I came to ask you that. May I sit down?”

  “Of course.” They both sat.

  “I knew you’d find me eventually. Terrible thing about Geoff.” He looked at his lap and shook his head. “Terrible thing. Wasn’t it?”

  She nodded, thinking he looked shaken indeed.

  “I thought you’d like my ideas on the case.” He attempted a smile.

  “You have some?”

  “Nah, not really. But you do—you think I’m a pretty good suspect, don’t you?”

  “Are you?”

  “Well, Suby told me about all this memory stuff. She says half that goddamn thing—the TOWN—thinks I did it.”

  “Suby?”

  “My daughter. Geoff got her on the goddamn thing.”

  “I don’t understand. How did they know each other?”

  He brought his fist down on her desk. “See? See? You don’t even know. Geoff and I were close, goddamn it! Marguerite didn’t tell you that, did she? I went to see that kid every week after we got divorced, and then welcomed him into my home after I got married again; he came to see Suby in the hospital the day she was born. They were like cousins, those two. Practically brought up together.”

  “I guess I didn’t know that.”

  “That bitch Marguerite’s not gon’ tell you. I don’t know why I ever married her—I must have been crazy.”

  “Maybe you were crazy in love.”

  “With skinny ol’ Marguerite?” He sat back in his chair, regret on his face. “I tried. I really did try. But the only good thing I got out of it was Geoff.”

  “She was very beautiful, I hear.”

  He made a face. “Shee-it. I don’t know, maybe she was. She was my brother’s wife and that was the end of it. I never really paid her any attention. But Leighton, he worshiped her. Thought the sun rose and set on her. Then when he died, she just seemed so… I don’t know, so sad and small somehow. Real fragile, and real burdened. I just felt real, real sorry for her. She had that little boy—bad little kid. Really bad. But then after we were married, he just kind of settled down. He needed a father was all.”

  “Are you saying you married Marguerite because you felt sorry for her?”

  “Well, that was why I started seein’ her. I’d take her and Geoff to the movies, the Audubon Zoo—I thought it was my duty as an uncle. Leighton and I were like that.” He held up two mashed-together fingers. “It was what I had to do for his son and his widow.”

  His eyes clouded as he went back in memory. “Sometimes she’d cook me dinner. Or we’d go out to the lake and get crabs. It just seemed we were together a lot.” He shrugged, apparently trying to piece it together for himself as well as Skip. “It seemed like the thing to do to get married. It sounds kind of funny now, but I did it out of duty, sort of. Can you understand something like that?”

  “Not really.”

  He slammed his fist down again. “That’s how it was, goddamn it! You can believe it or not.”

  “I didn’t say I didn’t believe it. You asked me if I could understand it.”

  “Are you a Catholic?”

  She shook her head.

  “Well, that explains it.”

  When she said nothing, he poked at his chest with the fingers of both hands. His face got redder and redder. “I didn’t get who she was, see. I believed Leighton—did that ever happen to you? Somebody you’re close to likes somebody so much you talk yourself into that person?

  “I remember the first time I met her, I thought, this woman is trouble. She’s up to something I don’t understand. She’s gonna hurt my brother. But then she didn’t and he married her and he kept on thinking she was a saint even though she looked like a goddamn hippie. She had to do that for her job, he said. Because folksingers had to look that way. And I was so dumb I just believed him. You know what? You should always trust your first impressions. I had a lot of clues and I was too dumb to notice. Like what a bad little kid Geoff was.”

  “Bad how?”

  “He was always in your face, always asking for things, demanding things, and throwing tantrums when he didn’t get them. Nothing was ever enough for that kid. I thought it was just natural—his father dies, it upsets a kid. Ha! There’s this other thing—his mother pays no attention to him the first four years of his life, it leaves a real big hole. That’s what the kid was like—some kind of bottomless pit. Of course, Leighton and Marguerite probably fought a lot too. That probably didn’t help.”

  “I thought he thought she was a saint.”

  He looked uncomfortable. “Well, Leighton was different from me. I like a peaceful kind of woman.”

  Right. Subservient, you could even say.

  “I think he was into kissin’ and makin’ up.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  He looked down at his flat, blunt fingers, thoroughly embarrassed. “Because Marguerite was.”

  He seemed inclined to stop there, but Skip was having none of it. When he hadn’t spoken for thirty seconds, she said gently, “Oh?”

  He looked her full in the eye, apparently determined to come clean. “She got me with this helpless act. Then we get married and she wants to go out every night all by herself and drink and hang with a bunch of hippies and do every kind of drug you can name. Now think about it—what’s the next thing women do when they do drugs?”

  “I guess that depends on the woman.”

  “You know what it is. They’re hangin’ out in a bar with a bunch of lowlifes—you know what they’re doin’. She wouldn’t come home until two or three—she’d leave the kid over at her mother’s—but finally she’d get back and I’d be good and mad.

  “Well, she knew I was going to be good and mad. How could she not know? Same thing happened every time. She’d fight with me a while, then she’d get real seductive. I fell for it the first few thousand times.”

  “Ah. You got off on it too.”

  “Well, now, that’s the thing.” He was talking to her as if she were a man, not embarrassed anymore, simply analyzing what happened. “I didn’t get off on it. The first few times, I was so surprised I just reacted like a piece of meat. Then after a while, I started realizing it was kind of makin’ me mad. I was feeling kind of used, to tell you the truth. And eventually, I didn’t want nothin’ to do with her after we’d been fightin’.” He paused and took a breath, even smiled.

  “Well, that made her mad. I mean, really mad, and I caught on that the other kind of fightin’ was an act and when she didn’t get what she wanted, that was when she got bitchy. See, the way I piece it together, Leighton always gave her what she wanted—got jealous, got into a fight with her, got seduced and had a rare old time. You gotta remember, he wasn’t married to her as long as I was.”

  “How long were you married to her?”

  “Six years. Seemed like sixteen. Anyway, after I caught on to what was happening, I just left her alone. And then that started a whole new deal about why didn’t I care anymore and I must have another woman and all that kind of crap. But I’d had it by then. I just wasn’t falling for all that stompin’ and screamin’ and carrying on anymore.

  “Anyway, by that time I could see I wasn’t go
ing to get what I wanted out of the marriage.”

  “And what was that?”

  “Well, I was crazy about that ’lil ol’ Geoff. What I wanted was a kid.” For the first time he looked sad rather than unpleasantly angry. “But Marguerite just wasn’t interested.” He was quiet for a moment. “You know, sometimes I think I’m kiddin’ myself, that I didn’t marry her out of duty or because she was kind of pretty or anything. I just fell in love with that kid.” There was real pain in his voice.

  “That must have been the hardest part about getting divorced.”

  “Always is, they tell me. The kid. That’s why I stuck with her so long in the first place. In the end, she was the one wanted to get divorced. I guess I kept hopin’ she’d change.” He shrugged. “But both of us met someone within six months or so, got married again, and had a daughter. That always pissed me off, you know? That more than anything. That she had a kid with him when she wouldn’t have one with me. But I tried not to let it bother me; I had to be civil to her to keep up with Geoff. I miss that boy, you know that?” He had tears in his eyes.

  “You still married?”

  “No way. Got me another bitch, second time around. Totally different from Marguerite; I thought if I got an ugly one she’d stay home and take care of me like she was s’posed to. Helen was short, fat, and dumb—and just as mean as Marguerite. That’s it for me, lady. No more of this marriage shit.”

  Skip didn’t reply, more or less struck speechless.

  “But it was worth it. Got me a beautiful daughter that time. You know what? I got a picture right here.” He pulled a worn wallet out of his back pocket and extracted a photo of a teenage girl who’d obviously gotten both parents’ fat genes. But he was right, she was lovely just the same, mostly because of her skin, which was almost translucent, delicately pink.

  “Light of my life. I’m crazy about that kid.” His moony face looked like the sun for a moment. He rested a hand on each knee, a man at ease for a second in the torment he seemed to find life on Earth. He smiled a distant smile, looked fondly at the wall for a bit, and came back, patting his knees to signal his return.

  “Well, I guess that’s it. I just wanted to tell you my brother was the only thing I ever loved except for his son Geoff and my daughter Suby. I wouldn’t hurt Leighton, Ms. Langdon. And I wouldn’t hurt Geoff. I’d rather cut off my arm.”

  I could believe the first part, anyway, the way this guy hates women.

  She thought briefly about letting him get away with the way he’d addressed her, just to avoid a confrontation.

  But why should I put up with that crap? He probably makes a career out of pushing women around.

  “Officer Langdon, Officer Kavanagh. Thanks for coming by.”

  “Well, sorry to offend you, Officer.”

  “Thanks for getting in touch.” She didn’t smile as she said it.

  “A lot of good this did me,” he said, and walked out of the room.

  “You, sir, are a grump,” Skip said to the air.

  Marguerite needed talking to, but Skip decided to leave her until after the funeral—Lenore needed talking to just as badly. If Geoff had told her things in confidence, she might be ready to come out with them. And how had she gotten that coroner’s report?

  Skip gave her time to get off work, get home, and put her kid to bed. She turned up about eight-thirty, and was dismayed to see that the house looked dark. The curtains were drawn, but one of them moved slightly, and she thought she saw a flash of something, maybe a TV screen. Or a candle. The motion made her sigh—if she was about to interrupt a romantic evening, so be it.

  She walked to the front door and raised a hand to ring the doorbell. But even as she started to press it, something stopped her.

  Chanting.

  Was it “Om”? Or just “Oooooooooooooooo”? She’d never heard anything like it. It made her spine tingle and her scalp prickle, made her want to get in the car, step on the gas, turn on her red light, and drive to Mexico.

  Come on, she told herself. It’s just voices. What’s the big deal?

  The chant changed: “Maaaaaaaaaaaaaa…”

  The voices were women’s, she thought, and they were playing with the sound, drawing it out, some singing in different keys, at different pitches from the others. The effect was eerier than bagpipes.

  Shivering, trying to shake off what she knew was irrational fear, Skip moved to the side of the house. As she’d hoped, there were windows here whose curtains hadn’t been drawn. The trick would be to look in without being seen.

  She needn’t have worried. The people inside were standing in a circle, arms around each other’s waists, swaying, eyes closed, so deeply involved in the chant she could probably take her time.

  Candles burned at odd places about the room, some on what appeared to be an altar—or a coffee table that had been turned into one. In the light they cast, the ones on the altar were easy to see. There were two tall ones, one black and one green; and there were several votive candles, all black.

  Also on the altar was a candle snuffer, a knife or dagger with a fancy handle, and some kind of small round plate with a star engraved on it—Pentacle, she thought, not quite knowing where the word came from. A large ceramic chalice was filled with some kind of dark liquid—red, she thought. Or am I crazy? And oddly, a curiously mundane item nestled in the midst of the macabre—a china plate of cookies. Next to the cookies was a skull.

  Not a cow’s skull, or a cat’s skull.

  A human skull.

  The people chanting wore hooded black robes. Candlelight glinted on something shiny on one of the faces—something strangely metallic. Skip stared until, revolted, she realized it must be a nose ring. But she couldn’t tell anything about the face itself—that one or the others. Not even if the robed figures were men or women, black or white.

  Voodoo, she thought.

  But it didn’t seem right. She had been to the voodoo museum on a case, had read a little about it. This looked a little too stark for voodoo. There should be figures on the altar, perhaps. Offerings of rum and cigars. And she didn’t think the robes were right. Shouldn’t they be white?

  But the cookies must be an offering of some sort.

  Why cookies?

  They were creeping her out, those cookies, so plain and wholesome sitting there next to the skull. Had she come face-to-face with the infamous banality of evil? The phrase had always puzzled her.

  The chant was winding down.

  I’d better get out of here, or they’ll sacrifice me and drink my blood.

  She ran back to the car. It probably would have been safer to walk, but she couldn’t help it, she ran.

  Once inside, windows up, keys in ignition, radio at hand, she felt her heart beating as if she’d run five miles. It was cold outside, but she tasted sweat.

  She tried deep breathing. Can I meditate? she wondered. Usually, she couldn’t—she hated to sit still—but she had to get her center back. She sat and breathed until her heart slowed down. Only then did it occur to her to wonder what had gotten to her. Why was the thing so scary when there probably wasn’t any danger at all? The only weapon she’d seen was the dagger on the altar, and she had a .38. What was the big deal?

  She honestly didn’t know.

  Much as she would have given anything to go home and pull the covers over her head, she settled down to wait for the strange ritual to end. It was no night to beard Lenore, but she had to try to find out who’d been in there.

  She wrote down the license numbers of the nearby cars and hunched down.

  She had plenty of time to meditate; she could have written a sonnet or a symphony, too, if she’d been the creative kind. It was an hour and a half before the door opened and women’s voices chimed merrily.

  “’Bye!”

  “See you soon.”

  “Give Caitlin a kiss for me.”

  Skip shivered.

  They hugged their hostess good-bye and tripped daintily to their cars, as if th
ey’d just been to a tea party. They looked pretty normal except for the one with the nose ring—and she would have without it.

  Several of them went to the cars Skip was watching.

  Excitedly, she ran the plates. Two were noteworthy: one was registered to a Michael Kavanagh, one to a Nita Susan Terry.

  Yes, now that she thought of it. The heavy girl who’d gotten in Kavanagh’s car was probably the one in the picture he’d shown her. The other one, the one with the nose ring, was about the age to be Neetsie Terry.

  When she got home she ran all the names she had—six in all—through the TOWN’s data bank. Three were TOWNspeople—Neetsie (SaraB), Suby (Michelle), and someone named Kathryne Brazil (Kit), a tall slim woman who seemed a good deal older than the others.

  CHAPTER TEN

  SKIP FOUND, AS always, that once logged on it was difficult to get off. It wasn’t that she was fascinated—in fact, she was more or less bored—but there were so many choices, so many possibilities….

  Who could resist checking a few of them out?

  First, of course, she went to Geoff’s topics. Nothing new, which was wonderful news. Maybe she was up to speed with regard to the TOWN; that should improve her self-esteem.

  What next? This was supposed to be a place where you could get information. Was there anything that could help her? How about religion? Yes, there was a Religion conference; she went there. There were 305 topics, mostly, it seemed, dealing with various forms of Buddhism and with channeling.

  Ah, there it was—“Is It True What They Say About Satanism?”

  Eagerly, she dropped in.

  Reading quickly, licking her lips, she went through 150 entries in about half an hour. The gist of the discussion seemed to be whether Satanism was somehow an urban myth, a product of false memory syndrome, rather than a real phenomenon. Some of the people who posted, for instance, found it hard to believe that women were systematically gotten pregnant and forced to give birth to babies who were then sacrificed and eaten.

  The whole Satanic scare, it seemed, had started with a book called Michelle Remembers that blew the whistle on the baby sacrifices and such described by people who claimed to have grown up in a Satanic cult. The name Michelle, Suby’s user ID, gave Skip a tiny bit of hope, but it was the only thing that did. Neither Lenore, Suby, nor Neetsie had posted in the conference.