by Julie Smith
Now both hands were fists, pounding him on the shoulders, in the face, hard, harder than was reasonable for a woman her size. “Fucker! Dickhead! Fuckface!”
He was getting creamed. He had his arms up to protect himself, he was trying to grab her flying fists, but she was fast, driven by an unsuspected fury.
“Missy. My God! What have I done?”
He thought later that it was the despair in his voice that stopped her. “Missy, I’m so sorry.” He held her by her elbows and watched her face turn from furious to frightened. Terrified. She looked at him as if he were Jack the Ripper and broke away.
He reached for her, afraid that something in her had snapped, that she’d run to the edge and jump; but instead she climbed through the window that led back inside, clambering clumsily, bruising her bare legs in her panic. His impulse was to try to follow her, to soothe her, talk her down, but he resisted, knowing she was too far gone, that she hated him right now, that she was afraid of him.
She has good reason.
Sonny thought that he should be the one to jump off the building, that Missy had trusted him and he had betrayed her.
Like what happened with Gan-Gan.
But that wasn’t what happened with Gan-Gan.
“You know it was, son. You killed your own grandfather.”
I didn’t mean to!
“You didn’t mean to upset Missy either. But you turned her from the sweetest girl in the world into a violent, cursing harpy.”
He hadn’t realized how much his father’s voice echoed in his own brain.
Later, when the call came, it didn’t seem real, it seemed like some crazy part of his mind that had somehow broken out and spilled over into life. His father had never phoned him at work before.
“Sonny, you feeling okay? Missy called, said she’s worried about you.”
“Missy called you?” How dare she! How dare she break the trust between them. They were two against the world, two against a lot of things, firm allies against his father.
Okay. Okay, so she did it out of revenge. I betrayed her, so now she’d betrayed me. Now we’re even.
But it didn’t feel even. He felt controlled, Missy’s marionette, Papa’s puppet—pull its strings or push its buttons, no matter, either way it’ll fall apart.
“She said you seem awful depressed lately. She on the rag or something?”
“I don’t understand why she called you.” He did, he just wanted to know what story she’d given him.
“She said you were under terrific pressure from med school, from your rotation—which rotation, son? I don’t even know.”
“What did she want you to do about it?”
“I don’t know. She said she just needed to put it out there.”
“Well, now she has.”
“I got somethin’ to tell you, boy. Get rid of her.”
“What?” He had heard it, but he couldn’t comprehend. “Get rid of her? Friday night you had our wedding all planned.”
“She doesn’t want to marry you. She said that Friday night.”
“She said what?”
“You gotta face it, boy. For once in your life you gotta act like a grown-up and look at what’s happenin’ right before your eyes. The girl is not gonna marry you. She’s pretty, don’t get me wrong. Real pretty thing. Sweet thing. But she’s just not wife material. Into that weird religion and all. You’ve gotta forget her, son.”
Even for his father, this was pretty strong stuff. Sonny said, “Dad, I want to ask you a question. I hope you won’t take it wrong, but this is pretty weird, what you’re saying.”
“What do you mean, weird? You’re my son, I’m telling you what I know.”
“Dad, are you drinking too much?” His face went hot the minute the words were out. He’d never spoken to his father that way.
“What did you say to me?” Furious.
“Well, Mama said she was in Al-Anon. I was just wondering.”
“You leave your mother out of this!” He was yelling so loud Sonny had to hold the phone away from his ear.
Sonny said he’d have to call back, his beeper had just gone off. He was shaking when he hung up; the conversation had upset him more than he realized.
He had recognized words from his childhood, a phrase he’d heard a lot after he’d mouthed off, “talked back,” his father called it—“What did you say to me?”
It was always shouted, always with eyes narrowed, face suffused, belt in hand, buckle out “so it’ll really hurt.” It had to be answered. If Sonny didn’t answer, his father would beat him until he said the words again, and then would beat him for saying them. If he did answer, they could skip the preliminaries.
Missy hadn’t even called first, had driven to Di’s without even thinking about it. She had to talk to her; of course Di would be there for her.
And Di was. Of course she was.
She greeted Missy from her balcony, fresh in a pair of pink shorts, holding a glass of something that looked like lemonade. Missy felt a twinge of jealousy. All she needs is a picture hat.
Di would probably look as if she’d just come back from a pedicure and facial if bombs were falling on the city. Missy was suddenly aware that she hadn’t washed her hair since yesterday, and she was getting a pimple on her chin. She had chosen Di to be her sponsor in Coda because she admired her so much it was like hero worship—and she felt concomitantly intimidated. Like she couldn’t measure up in a million years.
Even with all that was on her mind, she said almost involuntarily, “You look terrific, Di! How do you do it?”
“Really? I’ve spent the whole day down in the dumps about feeling so ugly.” Absently, she poured Missy a lemonade and handed it to her, not offering first, behaving like a mother whose kid has come in hot and sweaty. “You remember that new guy who came to the meeting Thursday? Steve? He was at the meeting I went to last night, but I just couldn’t get him interested. I feel about a million years old.”
“He must be crazy. You look like a million dollars.” But even as she spoke, she felt a twinge of resentment. What about me?
“Really?” said Di. “Do you honestly think that?”
“You’re gorgeous. Everybody says so.”
“Yes, but you. Right now. Do you really think so?” She held up a hand. “Look closely before you speak. Look at my neck and under my eyes.”
What the hell’s wrong with her? Missy thought. And then it dawned on her that something was. Di wasn’t herself. Without thinking, she went into helper mode; this was what she did best and often she did it unconsciously. “What’s the matter, Di? You seem really down.”
“I don’t know what’s wrong. I eat nothing but live food. I never cook anything. I don’t know why it’s not working.”
“You’re on a diet? You haven’t lost as much weight as you wanted?” She looked doubtfully at Di’s perfect proportions.
“Oh, Missy. Oh, Missy.” They hadn’t left the kitchen—had been standing companionably, lemonades in hand—so there wasn’t a box of tissues handy and Di had to grab for a paper towel. Before she applied it to her features, Missy saw them twist in misery. Di turned away and sobbed, probably, Missy realized, so she couldn’t see her looking ugly. “Missy, I’m getting old.”
“Old?” Missy didn’t get it.
“I found this guy really attractive, but when I talked to him, I gave him my best smile, flirted and everything, I realized he was just being polite. I might as well have been his mother.”
Missy couldn’t suppress a giggle. “His mother? Oh, Di, I don’t think so.”
“I have something to say to you, Missy. It’s the sort of thing I don’t say because I don’t talk about age, I don’t think it’s important. But today I think it’s important.”
“What is it, Di?”
“I have a feeling that young man is twenty years younger than I am.”
Twenty years! What was with Di? She couldn’t possibly be twenty years older than anyone, that was ridiculous.
And Missy guessed the new guy was quite a bit older than she herself was—he could be thirty, maybe.
She laughed. “Di, you must have found the Fountain of Youth.”
“Missy.” She looked terrified. “Missy. What if there isn’t one?”
THIRTY
SKIP KNEW THAT if she had too many Diet Cokes, she’d have to go to the bathroom and maybe miss Di if she came out. But it was hard to pace yourself when you had all day. And she had to face the fact that the day was quickly dwindling. So far she had had exactly one glimpse of her quarry—when Di had come out on the balcony to speak to Missy. Now Missy had gone, and she was Di’s only visitor of the day. It made for a boring Sunday.
And the thing that happened when you were bored was that you thought about things. You couldn’t stop thinking about things. You couldn’t make your mind stop because your butt was sore and you didn’t want to think about that. As long as your suspect stayed inside, there wasn’t anything to watch, so you couldn’t think about what was actually happening. You’d already thought about sex until the subject had all the vitality of a discarded condom. And thoughts of food only made you hungrier. So things were what was left. Meaning the case.
Which was starting to be a sore subject because Skip was so angry at herself. What had seemed so obvious yesterday now seemed as phony as your comer S&L. What had seemed utterly damning evidence now seemed fraudulent. What had seemed a diabolically clever move on Di’s part—calling the cops about the typewriter—now had another possible explanation. She had almost completely switched over to the theory that Di was being set up.
There were a few delicate little questions she needed to ask, but now that Di knew she was a cop, she didn’t think she’d get any answers. The microscopic inquiries would seem so threatening Di would clam up and call a lawyer. But sitting there sipping her long-running and ever-warming Diet Coke, she conceived a brilliant plan. Well, perhaps not brilliant, but she gave herself points for creativity.
It was simple. First of all, Di obviously had a crush on Steve. And Steve, often to her regret and inconvenience, had out-of-control detective fantasies. Why not put both these situations to perfect use? Why not, in fact, have Steve go in as her proxy? Ask the questions she couldn’t?
Maybe it’s sensory deprivation. Maybe I’m just desperate to talk to him.
She tried, but she couldn’t talk herself out of it. She phoned and asked him to meet her at the bar, and when he walked in wearing khaki shorts and a magenta T-shirt, her stomach flopped over the way it had when Bo Chantlan had shot a rubber band at her at Sunday school in the fifth grade. How did she stand it when he wasn’t here? How the hell had her vacation gotten so screwed up?
“Hi, handsome.”
“From you that’s a compliment.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I get the feeling you really don’t say that to all the guys.”
“Yeah, you right, as we say down here.”
“I know I’m right. Compliments aren’t your strong suit.”
Weren’t they? But she couldn’t let herself get distracted now. “Steve, I need your help.”
“Anything.”
She explained what she wanted.
To her surprise, he balked. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
“What! You usually have to be physically restrained from playing detective.”
“I love the way you restrain me.”
“Next time I’m using handcuffs.” Flirting sure beat the hell out of staring into space. She pulled herself together. “Wait a minute. What’s wrong? I thought you were going to jump at this.”
“That woman gives me the willies.”
“Oh, come on. If I can sit here all day looking at her door, you can take a half-hour of astro-chat.”
“I didn’t really tell you the whole story. She got pretty physical.”
Skip settled back in a pout. “Oh, great.”
“Hey. You’re jealous.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She meant it. And she was shocked at the realization. She was actually very secure about Steve, really believed he loved her. When had that happened?
Anyway, jealousy wasn’t the reason she was pouting. It was because this news bolstered her theory all the more. “Look,” she said, “the way you told the story before, it looked as if she was using you as an alibi. But this way’s different—if she really thought she was going to seduce you after the meeting, she wasn’t going to have time to kill anybody.”
“You said yourself maybe she kills when she’s sexually frustrated.”
“Yes, but I never had a lot of faith in it. Tell me the truth. Do you honestly see Di as a killer?” This was unfair because he didn’t know about her rap sheet.
He thought about it. “On the surface she seems too flaky, but a lot of flakes can get it together when they need to.”
“Oh, hell. Well, let me appeal to your sense of justice. I think she’s innocent. I think someone’s trying to set her up, that someone being a murderer who’s already killed three people.”
“All right, all right.”
“You’ll do it?”
“Yes, but here’s what I’ll expect in return….” When he had told her, and she had fought down the urge to simper like the Ole Miss girl she was, they went over his cover story.
Di looked great when she came out on the balcony. She was wearing shorts that showed off smooth thighs, slim ankles, gorgeous legs. The combination of dark, dark hair and white, white skin gave her an indescribably delicate look, like a porcelain figure, endlessly fascinating in its fragility. Shadows seemed to form on white expanses of neck and chin, faint blue ones that were probably illusions caused by the outlines of veins.
If only she wouldn’t open her mouth.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he said, and congratulated himself on remembering the Southern “hey” for “hi.” “You want to be in a movie?”
When she had let him in to discuss the situation, he said, “Did I ever tell you I’m a filmmaker?”
“A producer?”
She had sat him on her Victorian settee and he felt large and awkward, beset by pillows. She sat next to him, with a decent amount of air between the two of them, but not so much that he couldn’t smell her perfume. Why would she be wearing perfume on a quiet Sunday at home?
She wasn’t. She put it on while I was coming upstairs.
That should have heartened him, made him sure of his success, but he felt uneasy about what he was doing. Fraudulent.
And I was once a reporter. How times change.
“Not a producer,” he said. “That’s far too grandiose a title for the kind of films I do—small ones. Twenty-minute, thirty-minute masterpieces that make the rounds of the festivals and even win occasionally.”
One will win sometime. He had made only three.
“I’ve decided to do an Axeman film—if I can get the money for it. Anyway, that’s what I meant about being in movies: I’d love to interview you when the time comes.”
“Is that really why you’re here, Steve?” There was no mistaking her tone. It was that of a woman who was used to being appreciated. He ignored it.
“Not really. I’m here because I heard about your typewriter.”
“My typewriter? But I don’t have a typewriter.”
“The one you called the police about. I started talking to some cops for the film, and they told me the Axeman’s letters were typed on it.”
She gasped. “Oh, my God. He was in here!”
“How did he get in, Di?”
“I must have left the door unlocked.”
“And if you didn’t? Does anyone else have a key?”
“No! Well … I don’t know.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing. I don’t know.” She was starting to fall apart.
“Know what else they told me? He didn’t strangle Jerilyn with his hands—he used a scarf.”
She gasped again, and this time he could
see she was frightened. The scarf meant something to her.
“It was a cotton scarf made in India, a long striped one they said, in reds and pinks.”
“Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Oh, my God.”
“What is it?”
“I have one like that.”
“Di, are you okay? Do you want me to get you some water or something?”
“Oh, my God.”
“Hold it. Are you afraid you’re a suspect? Listen, if you’ve got a scarf like that, you can’t be the Axeman, right? Because his scarf’s around Jerilyn’s neck.”
“I lost it. I left it somewhere.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “With my lipstick.”
“With your lipstick? You left your scarf and lipstick somewhere?”
She nodded.
“Where?”
But Di didn’t answer, just sat there as if in shock. He had to hand it to Skip, she was definitely on to something. He got up, as if pacing, went straight to the book Skip had mentioned, and plucked it from the shelf. “I have this too,” he said. “I got it because it has the Axeman story in it.”
“What is it?” she said.
He handed it over to her.
“This isn’t my book.”
“Whose is it?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know how it got here.”
He made his voice very concerned, nauseatingly sanctimonious: “Have you been having blackouts, Di?”
“No! Listen, you have to go now.” She rose to emphasize the point.
But he had an odd feeling that if he did, she would phone the person she was protecting, give him a chance to wriggle out, and probably endanger herself. He stood, but instead of going, he walked to the French doors, the ones that led to the balcony.
“Steve? Steve, what are you doing?” There was fear in her voice. Perhaps she thought he meant to close them, had decided he was the Axeman.
He stepped onto the balcony and signaled Skip in the bar across the street. She stepped into the light.
“There’s Skip,” he said. “Were you expecting her?”
“Skip? Oh, my God. Skip?” Di joined him on the balcony.
“Skip!” called Steve. “Come up.”