by Julie Smith
“What worlds?”
She shrugged. “Us and the other side. Death’s what Halloween’s all about—communing with your dead ancestors, all that sort of thing, and that ritual was barely afterward. Remember? Theoretically, the veil stays thin for a few weeks. And Geoff had just died.”
“Oh. You were trying to get in touch with him?” She felt awfully silly talking this way.
“No, although we might have if he’d died before Samhain—that’s what we call Halloween. Oh, God, I’m bogged down again. Look, the idea is that the goddess is everything—not just sweetness and light, but everything. Unlike the Christians, who see their god as simply good, and Satan, I guess, as evil, we try to recognize the dark side of life. Are you freaked out yet?”
Oddly, she wasn’t. “No, I can kind of see it. If you see it and call it what it is, it can’t sneak up on you.”
Suby beamed. “Exactly. So we had this ritual to kind of say good-bye to Geoff—to acknowledge that he was really dead and to try to assimilate what that means. Somebody’s parents had gotten that skull at some doctor’s estate sale—why, I have no idea—but she appropriated it for the occasion.” She laughed. “I can truthfully say we’ve never before had a skull on our altar. Creepy, wasn’t it?”
“The whole scene was kind of creepy.”
She laughed again. “Yeah, I guess it was. You should have seen the one we did last night. There’s this thing where you call a deity into a person….”
“Is that symbolic or… uh… real?”
“I’m not going anywhere near that one. For our purposes, let’s just say it’s symbolic. Kit wanted to call this real fierce Egyptian goddess that’s supposed to have a lion’s head. And one of the things that’s survived is a list of her epithets—the things her devotees called her. So we got them out of a book, and called her with her names. Man, you should hear them—stuff like Lady of the Bloodbath. Yikes. But then there’s also sweet stuff like Giver of Ecstasies. We tried to intersperse them—I sure hope nobody caught that little gem.” She looked at Skip suspiciously.
“It sounds colorful.”
“Oh, we’re nothing if not colorful. Kit says you really don’t have to do all the elaborate stuff we do, but we like it. Especially Neetsie. She kind of orchestrates us.”
“I get the feeling Kit’s the leader of the band.”
“Yeah, she was into it wherever she lived before—Kansas, I think—and she started a topic on the TOWN.”
“Do you ever… uh… sacrifice any animals?”
Suby’s young features contorted. She looked around frantically for the cat. “Midnight, you didn’t hear that.” She picked up the animal and stroked it. “The Santeros do; and maybe some of the voodoo people do, but if so, they’re sure quiet about it. We wouldn’t hurt a fly.” She spoke to Midnight again, “Now, a flea—that’s a different matter.”
Skip wondered if she’d been conned. It was a pretty story, and not that different from what Ramon had told her, but was this all there was to it?
Quite apart from that, there was a personal question: How could she not have known about a thing like this?
But then she remembered how frightened Suby had been at the thought of Skip’s telling her father.
I guess you don’t nose it around if you’re a witch.
Skip went through her friends and relatives, trying to figure out how they’d respond if she said she was one.
Oh, God. Forget censure. Steve’s wisecracks alone would keep me quiet.
Okay, the thing seemed benign enough, but so did Christianity until it got into the hands of lunatics. How did Kit play as the David Koresh of the witch world?
Skip honestly wasn’t sure. It did seem a little odd that she was hanging out with a group of women so much her junior. Neetsie had a nose ring and a mother who apparently thought she was Blanche DuBois. Lenore was the sort who’d always be into something. Drugs, A.A., witchcraft—whatever happened along. Suby seemed pretty self-possessed, but her dad was a bully, and she’d responded quickly to Skip’s bullying. These women might be vulnerable.
What in the name of Sekhmet was Kit up to?
She headed for the den of the lion.
Kit was in jeans, gray cotton sweater, and an apron. Seeing Skip, she turned pale. “Has something happened to Lenore?”
“No. Why would you think that?”
“I don’t know. It’s Saturday. I thought it might be an emergency.”
“I just wanted to talk to you.”
“Well, would you mind coming in the kitchen? I’m in the middle of a sweet potato pecan pie. For—uh—well, Lenore.”
“You two seem very close.”
“We talked about that, didn’t we? We’re each other’s only family right now. Besides…”
She let the sentence trail off, leading Skip through a surprisingly ordinary living room, no occult symbols in view, only a lot of books and some sewing projects. The sofa and a comfortable-looking chair were covered with an earth-toned floral fabric.
She had the light on in her kitchen, which was cheery and at the moment flecked with flour.
Skip would have preferred a more formal interview—in the living room, say—but it was Saturday and she had barged in. She settled for standing when Kit asked her to sit.
“You were going to say something?”
Kit was measuring brown sugar. “I was?”
“You’re Lenore’s only family. Besides…”
“Oh. Well, I really shouldn’t talk about Lenore’s problems. But believe me she has them. We’re in—how to say this without being indiscreet?—we’re in a private conference on the TOWN that’s a place where people can go for a particular kind of help. I’m kind of her big sister there; it’s how we met, actually.”
“I see. A Twelve-Step conference—something like that?”
“That’s close enough.”
“You seem to be an inspiration to a lot of young women.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I’m thinking about Cerridwen’s Cauldron.”
“So that’s it. Suby phoned a few minutes before you got here. I should have realized you’d want to know more.”
“I gather you’re quite the charismatic leader.”
She turned toward Skip and brushed away a lock of hair that had fallen in her face. “That sounds a little accusing.”
Skip said nothing, simply waited her out.
“I’m not even slightly charismatic. Look, it’s this way. After my second marriage broke up, I had a bad bout of depression, and I started working with depressives. I’m a psychiatric nurse, but besides that I do a lot of volunteer work, some of it on the TOWN.”
She gave Skip a hard stare to make sure she understood her point—she wasn’t exactly giving away anybody’s secrets, but she was making it easy to connect the dots.
“You know when you’re depressed how people tell you to get something spiritual in your life? I found when I was in therapy, I had a lot of dreams that…” She opened her refrigerator and took out eggs. “It’s hard to talk about this stuff. They were dreams that pointed in a certain direction. And to make a long story short, I got into this stuff. I already knew Lenore from the TOWN, and when I moved here, I got her involved in it because I thought it might help her the same way it did me. She took to it like she was born for it, and she got Neetsie interested. Lenore knew Suby through Geoff, and of course Neetsie and Suby always wanted to meet each other— they were sort of like cousins who weren’t really related. So… we have other people, but that’s the core of our happy little group. Sometimes, though, I have to admit I wish there were more… well, what I’d call adults. You wouldn’t want to come sometime, would you?”
“Me?” Skip almost laughed, getting a mental image of herself wearing a weird outfit and frolicking with a bunch of murder suspects.
She said, “Thanks. I’ll think about it. Could I ask you something else?’
“Sure.”
“How do you know Cole Terry
?’
“I used to be married to him. Didn’t I mention that?”
Skip felt flames of rage leap up her spine. “Why, no. And I really think you should have.”
“Oh, God, I thought you knew. I’m sorry.”
“I certainly didn’t know.” Skip was trying to get her anger under control. “You’re telling me you just happened to become best friends—through a computer bulletin board—with a woman who was the girlfriend of your ex-husband’s stepson?”
To Skip’s surprise, Kit laughed. “That sounds ridiculous. And you’re absolutely right—it didn’t happen exactly that way. Technically, Lenore and I didn’t meet on the TOWN—it’s where we met as adults. We knew each other when she was a kid. I was married to Cole then, and we knew Butsy, though they weren’t yet business partners—”
“What? Cole and Lenore’s dad are business partners?’
“Oh, yes. You didn’t know that, either?’
“No.”
“Well, I believe they still are. They’ve known each other forever. Anyway, many years after Cole and I had parted company, when I was living in Kansas City, I got on the TOWN because of this conference I mentioned, which is called Down-and-Dirty—it’s famous in the depressive community. And once I got there, there were the kids of all these people I knew. It was sort of weird and wonderful.”
Skip was trying to take in what this meant—that Kit had been in New Orleans when Leighton was murdered. “You mean Geoff?” she said cautiously. “Were you friends with Marguerite and Leighton?”
“No, no, I just meant Lenore and Neetsie. I never met Leighton and I don’t know Marguerite at all—the only time I ever saw her was at the funeral.”
“But you knew Geoff eventually, through Lenore. I think you mentioned it.”
“Not all that well.” Skip thought Kit’s eyes were darting nervously.
“No?”
“Uh… no, not really.” Her phone rang. “Could you excuse me a minute?”
She picked it up and Skip heard her say, “Oh, no! Have you called the police? Good. Listen, Skip Langdon’s here.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
PEARCE RANDOLPH’S LINE WAS busy, probably, Skip thought, because he was logged onto the TOWN as usual. No telling how long he’d be on it, either.
She drove over.
“Well, Ms. Langdon. I never thought I’d see you on a Saturday.”
“Policemen’s work is never done. And it’s Detective Langdon, please.”
“You don’t look like any policeman I ever saw.”
She could almost have said it with him, it was so predictable.
“A couple of quick questions. May I come in?”
“Sure.”
She reentered the black, mold-smelling hole Pearce called home, and thought that this time she wouldn’t sit, she would get out as quickly as possible.
“Think back carefully. Tell me what you really think—not for testimony, not for any official purpose, just tell me what your sense is. Was Marguerite involved with Mike Kavanagh at the time Leighton was killed?”
“You already asked me that.”
“And you said no. But there was something funny about the way you said it.”
“Yeah, maybe there was. Okay, she could have been.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Once or twice she stood us up—Honey and me. She’d call at the last minute and say her mother was sick, she couldn’t get anyone to take care of Geoff. One of those times we thought we’d drop over and surprise her. Which we did, but no one was home.”
“That’s it?”
“Well, another time she was late and she was disheveled. And I mean the kind of disheveled women get—you know? Like she’d been necking in a car and the guy didn’t want to let her go.”
“It could have been Leighton.”
He shook his head. “He didn’t bring her out to the Dream Palace. He hated it when she hung out.”
“All the more reason he wouldn’t want to let her go.”
His head kept sawing. “Uh-uh. She acted kind of embarrassed. Why do you ask, by the way?”
“I’m a cop and you’re a reporter. You know I’m not going to say.”
“I think I can guess. So it’s Hamlet, is it? Oldest story in the book.”
She left to find Honey, hoping her parting smile was enigmatic.
Honey was raking leaves, dressed in a red bandanna and striped overalls. Like so many New Orleans women, she had the knack of looking perfectly groomed for every occasion, as if her life were one commercial after another. This one could be for garden tools.
“Hey, Honey. Nice nippy day, isn’t it?”
“Hey, Skip. Don’t you love it when it’s like this?”
It was a rhetorical question. Skip said, “Listen, I was just wondering about something. Do you think Marguerite and Mike Kavanagh might have been involved before Leighton was killed?”
Honey cocked her head. “Well, I never got that impression. Honestly, I’d be more inclined to suspect Pearce of being involved with her.”
“Seriously? I mean, you’re not just carrying on?”
“Oh, maybe I am—I don’t know.”
“Were you ever with Pearce when Marguerite broke dates, or arrived late or anything?”
She thought again. “Not that I can recall.” She shrugged. “She came, she had fun, she flirted. The only thing is, Pearce had a great big letch for her.”
“Which she returned?”
“I sure think she might have.”
“Did you have any reason to think that?”
“Once I found a strange phone number in one of his pockets. I sort of couldn’t resist calling. It was some bar where she liked to hang out. Then, too, I didn’t always know what he was doing. He worked late a lot. And sometimes when the three of us would be together, Marguerite would go to the ladies’ room and Pearce would go for cigarettes. And they’d both be gone a long time. I mean, a real long time.”
“Suspicious.”
“Uh-huh. Like I said.”
“Thanks, Honey.” Skip wondered why Honey was trying so hard to incriminate the ex she said she was on good terms with.
It was starting to get dark and she realized she hadn’t eaten lunch. It was Saturday night and she had no plans.
But no problem—Jimmy Dee would feed her. She tried not to feel guilty about intruding, knowing he truly wanted her there. She stopped briefly by her office and found a message that warmed her heart: “Darryl called. He said how’s Sheila and would you like to have coffee sometime.” It was unsigned.
She picked it up, about to stick it in her purse, when the phone rang. She grabbed it: “Langdon.”
“You sound cheerful. It’s Layne.”
Oh. Not Darryl.
“Listen, I’ve been checking something out. I read over some old stuff I downloaded—some correspondence with Geoff.”
“Yes?”
“And I found something funny in it.”
“Uh-huh.” Spit it out, please.
“It’s a quote from Hamlet.”
Hamlet. It was a word she’d heard not an hour before.
“‘…the funeral baked meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.’ Remember how that worked? Hamlet’s mother married his uncle too soon after his father’s murder—eerie, huh? I know because I looked it up today, but I guess when Geoff sent me the quote I didn’t bother. I don’t know why it’s any big surprise—that he suspected his uncle, I mean. But I could kick myself for not trying to figure it out at the time.”
Bells went off in Skip’s head.
What is this? Pearce mentions Hamlet, then Layne does. Things are getting awfully coincidental.
Was a setup possible? Were the TOWNspeople trying to point the finger at Mike?
She said, “How’d you happen to think of it now?”
“I didn’t. I just came across it. I mean, I was looking over some stuff for you—to see if there was anything you could use. You know what else I th
ought of? I mean you probably thought of this too, but just in case…. you know what I realized?”
Spit it out, Layne.
He spoke in a lower tone. “The murderer must have put the cat on the roof. You know?”
She had thought of that. It gnawed at her, too—that someone could be that mean. Could set Geoff up by tricking him into doing a good deed, use the man’s own kindness as the instrument of his death. Gang members might gun each other down, but it took a special breed of invertebrate to put a cat on a roof and wait around to ambush its rescuer.
“You realize how mean that is? How rotten a person would have to be to…goddam, it makes me mad.”
He sounded sincere. May Jimmy Dee’s instincts about him were right. Still, what odd little bits of intel to call about.
“Thanks a lot, Layne. I appreciate it.”
“Say, how’s your friend—uh—?”
“Jimmy Dee.” Oho.
“Yeah. Jimmy Dee—uh—”
“Scoggin. He’s fine. I’ll tell him you asked about him.”
“Nice guy. Well, ’bye now. Hope it helped.”
Layne must have spent the afternoon trying to find a reason to make the call. Well, good, Skip thought. He’d given her a song to sing for her supper. Forty-five minutes later, she was singing it, standing in Jimmy Dee’s kitchen, a glass of red wine in hand.
“Guess what, Dee-Dee? Layne returns the compliment.”
“Layne who?” He opened the oven to peer at his eggplant parmigiana.
“You know what Layne. The one you think is cute.”
“How do you know he returns the compliment?” He straightened up and spoke casually, but Skip noticed he brushed the hair out of his eyes, something she’d never seen him do before.
It was probably a habit he had in high school. “Because he called up and asked your last name.”
“He did? Just like that? Did he say why he wanted to know?”
“He pretended he was inquiring about your health.”
“Ah, the how’s-old-what’s-his-name maneuver.” He pulled the casserole out.
“Ah, indeed. You want to make a bet on whether or not the kids are going to eat that?”