by Julie Smith
“You love your job, I see.”
A blonde who’d just arrived reached over Skip’s shoulder. “Hey, Darryl.” She pushed past Skip to kiss him.
“Hey, Gigi.”
“Could I have an Abita?”
“You sure can.” He looked slightly uncomfortable.
“Hey, did I ever tell you how my interview came out?”
“No. I bet you did great.”
The woman was literally elbowing Skip out of the way.
It’s his job, she thought. He’s probably a pal to these people.
Yeah, and who knows what else?
She wasn’t jealous so much as uncomfortable. Why didn’t Darryl introduce her and include her?
She thought she knew the answer—he wanted the blonde to go away, didn’t want to prolong the encounter—but still, it didn’t feel good.
Tricia came by again. “Sorry. It’s a madhouse in here. In about an hour it’ll let up, probably.”
“I think I better go. Can I have your phone number?”
“Sure. Would you mind getting it from Darryl? I don’t even have time to find a pen.” She was off before Skip had time to answer. Skip felt oddly snubbed.
“Darryl, I think I better go.”
He turned away from the blonde. “Awww. You just got here.”
“Yeah, but it’s not my kind of place.”
“Hey, I’ll walk you to your car.” He signaled the other bartender. “Roy! Mind if I take five?”
Roy slammed down two beers, nodding as he did so, not even looking Darryl’s way. Darryl turned to Gigi: “Back in a flash.”
Skip said, “You don’t have to. I’m fine.”
“Of course you’re fine. I know you’re packing heat in that.” He touched her purse. Gigi’s blue eyes got big.
He leaned over and whispered. “I just want to see you a minute.” His breath was hot on Skip’s neck.
As soon as they were outside, he took her hand. “I just want you to know how much I appreciate your coming down here.”
“You do? Really?”
“You don’t know what purgatory that place is.”
“Then why do you do it?”
“I told you—the money.”
“You really need it that bad?”
“Skip, I’ve got a kid.”
“You said you didn’t!”
“Uh-uh. I hedged. I don’t usually tell people until I get to know them a little.”
“Well, I see the point of that.” She paused, taking it in. “You were married?”
“Nothing resembling it. I was in high school.” He gave her a look at his dental wonderland. “The Boucrees nearly shat. I think it’s the real reason they sent me off to New Haven. For years and years, I didn’t even think about it. Then out of the clear blue, Kimmie looked me up, brought over the kid.
“She’d just gotten divorced. She was trying to get through beauty school, and there I was with an Ivy League education I wasn’t even using. Talk about feeling shitty.” He let her hand go and spread his palms. “So I had to do something. She gets all the Monkey Bar money.”
The man’s a saint.
No, wait—only the devil could be so handsome. Therefore he’s lying.
But she couldn’t convince herself. She said the first thing that popped into her head: “Darryl Boucree, you are one nice dude.”
They’d gotten to her car.
He kissed her, pushing her up against it. It wasn’t a long kiss, or a particularly serious kiss, but it enabled her to feel his chest and take in his scent. “Good night,” he said, and though she had a hand on the back of his neck, he pulled away and went back.
She thought it strange that he hadn’t waited till she was in the car, but if the kiss had affected him as it had her, it was just as well. She realized she was shaking a little.
Oh, shit, she thought as she released her emergency brake, I am really attracted to this man.
He’s got a kid, has he?
Is there no end to his little stories of helping out the human race? He’s got to be lying. Cindy Lou’s right—he’s way too good to be true.
But once again she couldn’t convince herself. She floated into her house and flung herself on the bed, engrossed in fantasies run amok.
She was imagining the child she was going to have with him, a little girl, half black, half white, with long, long legs and a probable career as a movie star, when Steve called.
“Skip. I’m so glad I got you.”
“Oh. Steve.”
“Is this a bad time?”
Why should it be? she thought. She was in a great mood. “It’s fine.”
“Are you still mad at me?”
“A phrase I’ve always hated, Steve Steinman—as if it’s my fault. Oh, sure, just give her a little time, she’ll be all right. You just don’t get it, do you?”
“A phrase I’ve always hated. It kind of leaves you without an answer.”
I could try to explain to him what’s wrong, but what would be the point? He really doesn’t get it. He’s not coming here and so there’s no point arguing.
“Look, you’re not coming and that’s the end of it. Let’s not prolong this; it didn’t work out. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye?” He sounded utterly bewildered. “What about all our plans? I thought we were committed to each other.”
An icy calm had come over her. Now that she was actually talking to him, telling him how she felt, she could feel nothing, was all detached observer. “You keep stealing my lines,” she said.
“What?”
“Yes, I thought we were committed to each other. What about all our plans?”
“I told you. They’re just being delayed a little while.”
“On the other hand, they were our plans. That’s your decision. If you want the truth, that takes my breath away.”
“What, I was supposed to consult you on this? Skip, we’re not married.”
“Look, what’s done is done. I’m going to get on with my life now. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t call me anymore.”
“What? You’re breaking up with me?”
How can you be so thick? Who wouldn’t break up with you? She said, “I’m seeing someone else.”
Silence. A long silence. And then he repeated it. “You’re seeing someone else?”
“Yes.” She felt her teeth clench.
“You’re really breaking up with me?”
“Frankly, I don’t look at it that way. I think you broke up with me.”
A noise like a sob came over the phone. But it couldn’t be.
Men don’t cry.
They especially don’t cry over me.
“Skip, I’m so sorry.” He was definitely sobbing. She didn’t know what to say. She sat there, teeth still clenched, more or less in shock, trying to think what to do next.
Finally, he said, “What can I do to change your mind?”
“I think you know.”
“You mean give this up? You can’t ask me to do that.”
“We’re at an impasse, aren’t we?” It would have been a good time to end the conversation, but she found herself reluctant to do that, wanted to hold on to it. “I guess so,” he said.
“Good-bye.”
He gasped, apparently stifling another sob. “Good-bye.”
He hung up, leaving her with the odd sensation of being garroted, of her windpipe being squeezed by an unseen hand.
* * *
Pearce hadn’t called. Caitlin was home today and Lenore still had her job. Far from firing her, her boss at the bead shop had been solicitous. Lenore had mentioned Mrs. Julian when she called in. Her death on top of Geoff’s would be hard for anybody to take, her boss had said, and wanted to know if Lenore needed even more time.
She probably doesn’t think she could ever get anyone else to work so cheap.
Nonetheless, it was a relief to know her life was still intact after two days in the Twilight Zone.
Except that it wasn’t. Pearce had
bitten a big chunk out of it.
Why in hell did she sleep with him? Was she nuts?
Yes. And needy. Maybe that was worse.
She hated being needy—and face it, she was needy again tonight. She had a big hole in her after all the things that had happened, and a night with Pearce couldn’t fill it up. Instead, it had opened a new abyss of longing and loneliness.
For a long time Geoff had taken care of her, had met a lot of her needs. But he hadn’t been a romantic partner or even, finally, a sex partner. Just a good friend.
Pearce awed her. She couldn’t understand why she hadn’t had a crush on him all the time she’d known him; probably she had, deep down, but it had simply never occurred to her that someone like him could be interested in someone like her.
Now Pandora’s box had been opened.
All the troubles of the world, all the creepy-crawly insecurities, all the jagged-edged terrors, all the foul forms self-loathing could take, were beginning to ooze in Lenore’s psyche, and to overflow.
She was panicked.
How the hell am I going to make it?
Call Kit.
No. I can’t call Kit—I can’t let her see me like this, I can’t let anyone see me. They’d never let me keep Caitlin.
I could call Pearce….
No, if he wanted to see me, he’d call.
Get Caitlin to bed—at least do that.
The child was slightly fussy, but glad to be home, Lenore thought. Once she had had her bath, she dropped off quickly.
Leaving Lenore with a terrible sense of aloneness and dread.
Should she have a drink?
What could it hurt? she thought.
She had dropped by Winn-Dixie on the way home from work and stocked up. Pearce liked bourbon, she thought, or maybe Scotch, so she’d gotten both. She’d have to drink something with him, so she’d bought some wine for herself. And she’d gotten some beer in case he was in a beer mood.
She needed a jolt. She crushed some ice, poured some bourbon over it, and tossed it down as soon as it was cold. The taste was so medicinal she poured herself a glass of wine before she sat down at the computer.
Pearce wasn’t on the TOWN.
She was amazed to realize she hadn’t logged on herself for days and days—when Geoff was around, she’d spent part of every day on the TOWN.
She went to a few conferences and realized she was just killing time. Finally, she called Pearce.
He wasn’t home.
She was starting to get a headache, yet she was far too anxious to go to bed. She poured herself another shot of bourbon, then another glass of wine. She went back to the TOWN.
She E-mailed Pearce—“Love to see you if you don’t get home too late.”
To her amazement, he got back to her in less than an hour: “Still up for a visitor?”
“Couldn’t be more delighted,” she answered, not even worrying about her typos. He was there in fifteen minutes.
In the meantime, she had managed to change into a floor-length sea-green robe that she had made for a Beltane ritual last spring. It was some kind of chiffon stuff that was more or less transparent, and really pretty intriguing, she thought. Especially with what she wore under it—a black garter belt and whorey mesh stockings. She had pulled her hair up into a kind of Grecian ponytail—what she thought of as a Helen of Troy look.
When the bell rang, she didn’t even bother to look out the peephole—simply tore open the door and flung out her arms.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THERE WAS AN earthquake somewhere.
Here. In Skip’s apartment.
Her bed was shaking. In a minute, the ceiling would crack and fall on her.
She sat up, trying to orient herself, and realized it was only a pounding, a great crashing somewhere outside.
The pounding was followed by the shrillness of her doorbell—apparently she had a visitor who was alternately trying both wake-up methods.
Maybe the building was on fire.
What else could be so urgent? she wondered as she sniffed for smoke.
The air was not only pristine, she thought she could see her breath.
A little fire could only be a good thing.
She struggled over to her intercom. “This better be good.”
“Skip. It’s Pearce Randolph.”
“What the hell are you doing here in the middle of the night? How do you even know where I live, for Christ’s sake?”
The aftereffects of her evening were coming out in her mood.
“Lenore’s dead.”
“What?”
“Lenore Marquer has been murdered.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw her. I was just at her house. She’s floating in her swimming pool.”
Skip was already pulling on clothes.
“Did you call the police?”
“What the hell do you think I’m doing now?”
“Where’s Caitlin?”
“Caitlin?”
“Her baby, goddammit. Where is she?”
“How the hell would I know that?”
“Stay there, Pearce. I’ll be down as soon as I call it in.” She heard the fury in her voice. Didn’t this man have a brain in his head?
She called for backup, saying there was probably a young child in the house and asking for at least two officers.
The gate with the intercom, a high wooden one, was on the side of the house. She couldn’t see through it and for all she knew Pearce was standing on the other side with an AK-47.
“Pearce, are you armed?”
“Of course not.”
“Would you mind putting your hands up?”
“Why?”
“Let’s not waste time, all right?”
Seeing empty hands, she went through the gate.
“Mind if I pat you down?”
“No.” He was grinning now, apparently beginning to enjoy himself.
Cold bastard.
“Come on. Let’s go in my car.”
She didn’t speak after that, her silence letting him know how angry she was.
“Did I do something wrong?”
A lot. For openers: “You don’t come banging on a police officer’s door at two A.M. It makes us paranoid.”
“Well, look—did you ever think about me? I find a body and I’m terrified. What am I supposed to do?”
“Go to the nearest pay phone and call 911. You know that. Everybody knows that. Why didn’t you do it?”
“I thought you were my friend.”
She sighed. “I have a feeling thereon hangs a tale.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
“How’d you know my address?”
He grinned again, making her want to kick him. “I’m an investigative reporter.”
She had her red light on and she was going far too fast for city driving. But the district car beat her.
A uniformed officer, slightly wet, was just rounding the house. She identified herself.
He said, “There was a body in the pool all right, but it’s real ugly. She wasn’t exactly floating—she’s got a concrete block tied to her foot.”
Skip winced.
She ran up the steps and rang the doorbell. As expected, there was no answer. She tried the back door and found it open. Lenore’s phone was ringing. “Check the house—make sure the baby’s okay,” she said to the uniform and stared hypnotized at the phone. She knew she shouldn’t touch it, in fact could wait for the machine to pick up the call, but something told her it was important. She felt in her jacket pocket, retrieved a wadded-up tissue, and used it to grab the receiver. “Hello?”
“Lenore. Thank God.” It was a familiar voice, but she couldn’t place it.
“Who’s this?”
“Skip? What are you doing there? This is Layne.”
“Hang on a minute, will you?”
Though she knew the uniform was perfectly competent, she went to check on the baby, who was sleeping pea
cefully through the noise—she’d probably had a lot of experience at it.
Returning to the living room, she picked up the phone. “What’s up, Layne? It’s two A.M.” She never said “What’s up”; thought it the rudest phrase in the English language. But “rude” would have been a gross understatement in describing her mood—and she hadn’t even seen the body.
“Oh, shit—is everything all right?”
“Goddammit, Layne, this is no time to play games. Why the hell are you calling Lenore at this hour?”
“She left a suicide note on the TOWN. Is she all right?”
“What conference?”
“Is she all right, Skip?”
“Just tell me where the goddamn post is!”
“There’s no need to shout at me. If you feel like being polite you can call me back.” He hung up, leaving Skip staring at the phone as if it had mooed.
She hated herself when she fell into bullying; this was what gave cops a bad name. But the pressure sometimes got to her. Like the combination of Pearce’s inconceivably stupid performance and her distress at Lenore’s death (if it was she who was dead).
She went out to look at the body, thinking that Jimmy Dee must have seen something in Layne that she hadn’t—anybody who could stand up to an angry cop could probably stand up to Dee-Dee, and that was going some.
There was a sea-green garment of some kind floating in the pool. The body had been hauled up on the side in a futile rescue attempt and it was indeed Lenore—Lenore wearing only a black garter belt, black mesh stockings, and a rope around her ankle, the other end of which was tied through a cement block.
The officer who had pulled her out—the first one’s partner—was sitting in one of the white chairs, drenched, she saw now, probably freezing, and trying to collect himself.
“She was just standing in the water,” he said. “See, the light’s on”—he pointed to the backyard light—“so you could see real good. Just the top of her head, her forehead, almost down to her eyes, sticking out. Then when you got close you saw the garter belt and everything—spookiest thing I ever saw in my life.”
Skip saw that the rope on Lenore’s ankle was a couple of feet long, so that if she happened to float up instead of sideways, indeed she would have been standing in the water.