The Axeman's Jazz (Skip Langdon Mystery Series #2) (The Skip Langdon Series)

by Julie Smith

  Well not exactly repulsive. How about terrifying?

  She couldn’t shake the fear. Half of her said there wasn’t a thing wrong with a man taking a woman to a romantic place on a date; the other half argued that she wasn’t a woman on a date, she was a cop in the middle of nowhere with a suspect.

  She’d told Joe she could handle him and she’d have to do it. It would be too stupid to die this way.

  They stopped in front of a house—a house in the middle of what seemed a huge forest but was actually a residential area studded with similar yuppie palaces. This one was a two-story frame house, in keeping with other examples of Covington architecture, beautifully kept, and, if the outside was any indication, furnished with relentless good taste. That was how people in New Orleans dressed and how they decorated their houses—soporifically, to Skip’s mind, but no one could call it tacky.

  Alex parked his hog.

  “Whose house is this?”

  “It belongs to some friends of mine. They lent it to me.”

  “They’re not home?” Inane question, she thought. Of course they’re not home. The place is dark as a cave.

  He shook his head. “They’re in Europe. It’s all ours.”

  “All ours for exactly what purpose?”

  “For dinner. White wine or red?”

  “I don’t know—why don’t we just go to a restaurant?”

  “I just told you what’s going to happen. I’ve spent all day shopping. I’m cooking dinner. Are you going to join me?”

  Oh, well, at least he’s in touch with his inner child.

  The sudden petulant turn, unpredictable as it was, annoyed rather than alarmed her. She’d seen this in men before, and none of them had been murderers.

  She took a deep breath, thinking of Abasolo. He’d go nuts if they went in there—Alex could kill her and he’d never know. Trust me, she murmured silently, and said to Alex, “I’m going to join you. With pleasure.” She even took his arm as they walked to the back door.

  He unlocked the door, and as they slipped in, almost sneaking, she felt the air conditioner. Another of his preparations, apparently.

  The light went on. She could see that she was standing in an up-to-the-minute kitchen done in the ubiquitous black and white of up-to-the-minute kitchens. “Lovely.”

  There were no curtains, the place being too isolated to have to worry about privacy. Great. As long as she kept lights blazing in every room she entered, Abasolo’s sanity had a fighting chance.

  “Want a look at the rest?”

  It was as she’d imagined—perfect but predictable. Wing chairs. A few antiques but a lot more reproductions. Family portraits. Laura Ashley prints in the bedrooms. Muted colors. No original art. Nothing out of place. No sign that children lived here, or even adults who did anything more than sleep. A gorgeous place to bring a date—a lot like a hotel room, just bigger and nicer. Skip wondered again about the house at Lakeview.

  Back in the kitchen, Alex poured her a glass of California Chardonnay, which she accepted for the sake of appearances and sipped after they’d clinked glasses. She sat on an Italian-style barstool while he pulled out fish, salad makings, and vegetables, hoping he wouldn’t notice she’d quit sipping.

  “This is such a lot of trouble to go to.”

  “Aren’t you worth it?”

  She tried out a flirtatious smile, but couldn’t manage more than a grimace. He stepped toward her, took her hands in his. “What’s wrong? You look so nervous.”

  “I think we’re moving too fast.”

  “We’re not moving an inch. All we’re doing is having a glass of wine.”

  “I know, but we’re in the middle of nowhere.” She desperately wanted to back away from him, an impossibility in a sitting position.

  She braced herself for another outburst. Instead he stepped away, shrugging, once again attending to his salad greens. “Hey, don’t think a thing about it. I’ve done it every night this week. Sometimes I score, sometimes I don’t.”

  Involuntarily, she laughed. How could this man be a murderer? “Candor,” she said, “will get you nowhere.”

  “I guess that’s my problem. We could take a walk after dinner.”

  “Listen, what’s wrong with your apartment in the city? Why come all the way out here?”

  “Echh, you should see the place. Besides, the Campbells have black satin sheets.”

  “Who are they, anyway? How do you know them?”

  “The Campbells? The same way I know you—from the inner-child group. They’re very large in the whole thing—in fact, they’ve given several parties for us here. Frankly, they must be pretty hard up for friends.”

  “New in town?”

  “Yeah. What’s that about? Who’d move to this decaying, beat-up old place?”

  “You, for one.”

  “Yes, but that was because of the decay, not in spite of it. Anyway, they’re your basic boring, middle-class jerks with nothing better to do than go to these stupid groups all the time and no better friends than me to take care of their insipid hideaway that looks like a motel.”

  Though the sentiments weren’t wildly different from hers, his harshness seemed to vibrate in the artificially cooled air, the Campbells’ air, lent in the spirit of friendship.

  Well, it’s the Southern way, Skip thought. Not only are we blamers, we’re backbiters, a culture of backbiters.

  But there was something different about Alex’s style. It seemed nastier, for one thing, but what else? After a moment it came to her; it was usually Southern women who were treacherous. And not all of them, either, only the wildly unhappy ones who’d gotten trapped in the steel-magnolia syndrome and resented it in bilious undercurrents that made their families miserable and erupted at funerals and weddings—any inappropriate time guaranteed to embarrass everyone present.

  What was Alex’s excuse?

  “Let’s don’t talk about boring people,” he said.

  “I like the Chardonnay,” said Skip. “A little too oaky, but…”

  “Oh, stop! I hate boring subjects.”

  “What are boring subjects?”

  “Food, wine, and football.”

  “What’s interesting?”

  “Sex.”

  “Sorry I asked.”

  “You know what? They hate me in Germany. I got a royalty statement today. My book hasn’t sold a single copy. Not one.” He turned around to deliver the announcement, smiling as if he’d just announced he’d made a million dollars.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “People don’t get it.”

  “Dolts.”

  “Where did you go to college?”

  “Ole Miss.”

  “And before that?”

  “McGehee’s.”

  “My first girlfriend went to McGehee’s. Caroline Bousquet.”

  “There must have been dozens since; hundreds. How on earth do you keep them straight?”

  “What have you heard about me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “People say I’d mount a dog. It’s not true.”

  Skip searched vainly for another topic, desperately wanting to leave this one. Nothing came into her mind but food, wine, and football.

  “I mean, do I want to go to bed with every pretty woman I see? Yes. Do you blame me? It’s not the same thing. Caroline Bousquet was the most perverse woman I’ve ever met. And she was seventeen at the time.”

  “Have you ever been married?”

  “I can’t ever imagine being really relaxed with another human being. Can you?”

  “Was that a no?”

  He only shrugged.

  “You must have been in love.”

  “I was, but the woman was a relative. It was sad—the saddest thing that ever happened to me.” He had a way of announcing catastrophes with a dazzling show of teeth, just the happiest guy in the world. “Did you know Caroline?”

  “No.” Thank heaven. Because I’m about to know everything about her.
/>   “She made me a slave. We did things I’ve never done with anyone else.”

  “What things?” She hadn’t meant to ask. She was falling under a spell of morbid fascination.

  “She said she wouldn’t sleep with me unless I did everything she told me to. She’d set time limits in which I had to bring her to orgasm.”

  Ah, so that’s it. I’m supposed to think he can perform miracles on the black satins.

  “Other stuff too. Things I thought were disgusting—not even sexual. She made them sexual. Have you been married?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Way too young.”

  He put the fish on and began sautéing. Skip was glad of the respite. She searched for silverware and set the table for two.

  “Do you like rough sex?”

  He moved toward her, in each hand a plate with a serving of fish. From several feet away, she could feel the restlessness, the raw energy of the man. Very deliberately she put down her wine glass. He was like a dragon blowing hot breath.

  “Alex, this is moving much too fast.”

  “Sit down and eat. Later I’ll show you the moon in the woods. It’s why I brought you here. Have you lived with anyone?”

  “No.”

  “This man you mentioned at breakfast. Is he jealous?”

  “Not very.”

  I’m not even sure he’s still in the picture.

  “Have you ever been with anyone really jealous, someone violent?”

  She shook her head, not liking the way this was going.

  “You’d think you could see it coming, wouldn’t you? But you can’t. It’s just like betrayal.”

  She seized on what seemed, by comparison, a relatively safe topic. “Have you been betrayed a lot?”

  He showed teeth, as usual when something upset him. “Just about every day I get betrayed. Do you think I’m doing something wrong?”

  What the hell is going on here? Is he playing stupid sex games or is he violent? Or is it me?

  “Betrayed by whom?” she said. “By women?”

  “By everyone. My publisher wouldn’t do Fake It Till You Make It. I had to sell it to a stranger. You want to look at the moon?”

  No!

  But how to say it?

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  “No coffee?”

  “Later.”

  She grabbed her backpack and slung it over her shoulder.

  “Women and their purses,” he said. “What earthly use do you think you’re going to have for that?”

  “I might want to hit you with it.”

  “So you do like to play rough.” He tweaked her ear. “Let me get a flashlight.”

  It had been just dark when they’d arrived and by now the moon had had plenty of time to rise. There was much more light, quite a lot now, but trees blocked out the sky. Alex said they’d have to walk to a clearing to get a really good view of the moon. He led the way down a well-worn path, hardly needing the flashlight. There was the faint scent of ozone in the air and Skip worried momentarily whether it would rain before they could get home on the bike.

  Alex said, “Here we are.” She stepped into the clearing—a small one with a rustic bench in the middle—and automatically looked up.

  “It’s full!” Full and gorgeous. She hoped the Axeman wasn’t susceptible to its pull.

  “Jesus, what the hell is that?” Alex stepped backward, nearly landing on her foot, and trained his flashlight on the ground.

  “It looks like a chicken.”

  It was, and there was another one lying beside it, both dead. Near these two were others, arranged more or less in a pile, or perhaps just left as they fell.

  Skip wanted to bend down to examine them, but didn’t dare put herself at such a disadvantage. The heads of some were grotesquely askew. Alex kicked one; the head flopped, leaving no doubt the neck was broken.

  He said, “The Axeman strikes again.”

  Skip’s forearms erupted in goose bumps. “The Axeman?”

  “He strangles his victims, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes, but the last I heard he wasn’t killing chickens.”

  “Well, somebody strangled those.” He knelt and picked up one chicken after another, feeling their necks. Skip knelt also, keeping her distance, also feeling the carcasses. No question. Strangled.

  “They must be freshly killed,” said Alex. “They don’t stink yet, and in this heat…”

  “You act like you’re conducting an investigation.”

  “That’s it. I am Hercule Poirot, gearing up my little gray cells.”

  “Hey, you don’t think this is creepy at all?”

  “You got down and touched them. The average woman wouldn’t do that.”

  She shrugged, trying like hell for casualness. “They’re only chickens.”

  “They’ve been murdered.”

  “Oh, come on, Alex.”

  “What other explanation could there be? And, by the way, who did it? The Campbells aren’t home—I’m the only one who’s supposed to be here.”

  She looked him square in the eye: “Did you do it?”

  A glimpse of what could have been surprise passed over his features, and then he started laughing; loudly and inappropriately. She felt for the gun in her backpack, ready just in case. When he’d gained control, he said, “You’re something, you know that? There’s a mad strangler loose in this town, you’re all alone with me, and you just asked if I strangled a dozen chickens.”

  “Just curious.”

  “You aren’t acting even a little afraid.”

  “I’ll ask again. Did you do it?”

  “Come here.” He reached for her, his eyes suddenly soft with desire.

  “Not now, Alex. Are you crazy? Let’s get out of here.”

  “Okay.” He waved her ahead of him.

  “Uh-uh. Women and children last.”

  Alex stood still. “This guy could still be here.”

  “Let’s go.”

  He moved toward her again. “Getting scared? Are you finally getting a little nervous? Do you want my arms around you?”

  “Alex, this is no time for kidding around.”

  “Take my hand.”

  “I’ll just follow you.”

  He shrugged, but turned on the flashlight and started down the path. After a few moments, he reached back for her. “Come on; take my hand.”

  “I’m okay. Really.”

  “But I’m scared.”

  “Oh, give me a break. You’re a guy with a Harley.”

  He laughed again. “I’ve never met a woman like you.”

  As soon as they were off the path, in the area that would have been a yard if one had been planted, he stopped and reached for her, hands high, catching her shoulders.

  Too close to the neck for comfort.

  “I want you.”

  She shook him off. “This isn’t the time for that.”

  “Feel my cock.”

  “No!” But she sneaked a look and what she saw made her palms sweat. It was graphically obvious that this was a man on whom the sight of strangled chickens had had a strong erotic effect. She was planning what to say, what calming, non-threatening tack to take, when suddenly his breath was in her face, his arms going around her. She struggled and his arms tightened. She kicked his shin.

  “Whoa!” he hollered, but hung on. She broke from his grasp.

  “Don’t even think about it, Alex. I’m almost as big as you are and in much better shape.”

  “Run. Let me chase you.”

  Her scalp prickled. She strove for control. “Could I ask you a question? What’s so exciting about a bunch of dead chickens?”

  “It isn’t the chickens. It’s you.”

  “Well, listen, I have a headache.”

  “I guess I read the situation wrong.”

  “I said no. How do you get clearer than that?”

  He shrugged. “I thought you meant yes.”

  Struggling to keep
her cool, she said, “Now we each know what the other meant. I think we should go, don’t you?”

  “We have to clean up.”

  As they worked, they listened to an oldies radio station (chosen by Alex) and even danced a little. It all seemed so normal and friendly that she started to relax. There was something offbeat about Alex’s sexuality, that was for sure, but at least he didn’t seem to be a rapist. He probably wasn’t lying—he probably really had misread the situation, though if you asked her, he hadn’t done any reading at all, simply acted on impulse. That didn’t make him all that different from lots of other men.

  As she hung up her dishcloth, she felt his arms once again go around her waist, his lips brush her neck. “For Christ’s sake, Alex, enough’s enough!”

  His arms tightened. “You’re so sexy when you’re trying not to be.”

  She smashed an elbow into his ribs, broke his grip, and stepped out of range. He lunged, but again she stepped away.

  “You crazy bastard!”

  “You like it rough, don’t you? I can tell when a woman does.”

  She didn’t like the confined way she felt here. Her scalp was prickling again, and she was uncomfortably aware that he stood between her and her backpack. She started circling, hoping to get it, momentarily playing his game. He circled with her, obviously enjoying it.

  She grabbed the pack and ran for the door. He caught her there, but she shook him off and made for the hog. He was close behind her, caught her quickly. He tackled her at the waist, bringing her down on top of him, rolling her over, holding her down, kissing her.

  “Get off of me, you asshole, or I swear to God I’ll knee you in the balls.”

  Thinking about it later, she wondered why she gave him the warning, why she didn’t just knee him, and thought that even then she hadn’t been really terrified, hadn’t yet been convinced he wasn’t just playing a game—a perverse, dangerous, almost unbelievably stupid game, but not rape.

  “Don’t call me an asshole. I really hate it when people call me an asshole.” He rolled off her, and the second she was free she was on her feet and walking.

  “Thanks for a fascinating evening, Alex.”

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “I’m hitchhiking home. It’s safer.”

  “Come on. I can’t leave you here.”

  “Goddammit,” she called over her shoulder, “I could have you arrested for what you just did.”