by Julie Smith
I thought that had the ring of a few fifty-minute hours to it. Also, the way she’d started taking care of the kids, staying home, doing things with them, bespoke a different attitude. But maybe she wasn’t in therapy—maybe the sight of Libby’s swollen wrists and ankles, the horror of knowing she’d nearly lost her, the weeks and weeks of screaming, sweating nightmares, had simply wrought a change. They say people who go through an ordeal often undergo a spiritual experience. Such a thing was hard to imagine where Marty was concerned, but watching her actually behaving like a mother, being civil to Don, seemingly enjoying so humble a thing as a holiday with family and friends, no payoff expected, was a pretty strong argument.
Another was that she’d been offered the job as director and had turned it down, saying she wanted to spend more time with her kids. Who knew? Anything was possible. We’d been together a lot since August and I’d enjoyed her, thought the true Marty—not the female Sammy Glick—might be coming into its own.
She wasn’t dating anyone at the moment, and neither was Don, but neither of them talked in terms of getting back together. That was a romance that had never been one to begin with, and it seemed good and over. He’d been invited to dinner because the kids wanted him.
And Ricky was there because Amber was spending the holiday with her mother. He seemed a little morose, and was having a little wine, but he swore he’d really cut down on his drinking. Libby had told me Amber told her he was in AA, but he seemed not to be in it with both feet. Still, Libby said, Amber was keeping her fingers crossed. Maybe he’d come through for her one day.
As for Julio and me, we were an item. Rob was the first to tell me. He knew because an unfortunate thing had occurred. The day after the ordeal, when everything was still shaking down, a TV crew caught us leaving the police station, Julio’s arm around my shoulder, mine around Esperanza’s. Rob had seen it in Cambridge. He said we looked like a family.
We weren’t that, but we’d grown very close in three months. Libby and Esperanza had dreams of me dying, Julio dying, everyone in their family dying. Part of their therapy was for me to spend a lot of time with them. So I came to Monterey a lot. Esperanza was spending the school year with Julio instead of her mother. She’d gone back to Santa Barbara for a while, but the nightmares had come every night, and every day she’d cry until her mother let her call Julio to make sure he was still alive. Finally she admitted she wanted to be in Monterey for a while.
So Julio moved out of the house with the awful memories and into a much nicer, sunnier one, warm with new furniture, new rugs, new curtains that I’d helped him pick out.
But we’d by no means moved from two days of fun and games with Warren back to our peaceful and tranquil lives. First of all, there was one more tragedy to be gotten through: Mary Ellen’s body was found at Warren’s home after his arrest. He’d apparently dispatched her before coming to work that fine Monday morning.
And then there were the nightmares—not just for the kids, but for us all. And in our waking hours there was reliving our story, retelling it. People who go through something terrible have to do that, repeatedly, till they’ve healed themselves. Something in the neighborhood of sixty times, I’m told. That was why we’d made a special effort to spend Thanksgiving together and why Marty was trying not to throw up while we talked slime.
“Esperanza, you’re hardly eating a bite.”
Libby said, “Oh, Mom, you sound like Grandma.”
“Sorry.”
I suspected Marty could care less whether Esperanza ate. Her problem was that Esperanza was talking. She was desperately trying to stop her.
“Well, see, I got the idea when I realized I was going to be able to get free. I was thinking about how I could really hurt him and I knew. It just came to me, like a message from God.”
Keil said, “There’s no such thing as God.”
“You know how much slime those things can make? My dad showed me once when he was trying to convince me I should like them. It’s, like, ten times their weight. Twenty times. It’s like—out of some horror movie. There’s no way that much gunk could come out of such a little wormy thing.”
“Chill out, will you?” Keil was furious he hadn’t gone through the great adventure with us. “Everybody’s already heard what a hero you were. About a hundred and nine times.”
“Ricky hasn’t!”
“Keil,” I said, “there’s something I never got a chance to ask you. I chased somebody in the warehouse the day after Sadie was killed. That was you, wasn’t it?”
“What makes you think that?”
“You had access to a key—your mom’s, or maybe Ricky’s that you got from Amber. You’re about the right height and build. And you got a phone call that sounded like a job a few minutes before I left the house.”
He looked very smug, very pleased himself. “Trap Door’s clientele is strictly confidential.”
“Oh, sure,” said Esperanza. “Like attorney-client privilege, right, Rebecca? Mr. Important.”
She sounded like a brat. I knew there could be only one explanation—she was getting a crush on him.
I said, “Okay, you don’t have to tell me. But let me guess, okay? Humor me.”
He shrugged.
“The client’s name started with ‘A.’”
Libby took up the game. “Amber!”
“And she wanted you to recover a certain piece of property for her.”
“The pearl!” Both girls were into the spirit now. Maybe I’d successfully changed the subject.
“I was kind of wondering how much you charge for a job like that.”
“Confidential.”
“Ha. I know! That’s why she gave you her Swiss army knife.” Libby preened herself over her deduction.
Ricky started. “Santa Claus brought her that knife.”
“Oh, Ricky, who believes in Santa Claus? Don’t you want to know what it feels like to pick one up a hagfish?”
“Don’t they wiggle?”
“Oh, wiggle. Wiggle! It’s like having a whole handful of snakes at once. And they’re so slimy the only way you can keep hold of them is to squeeze real tight, but then they might pop right through your hands. So you’ve got to hold them in both hands, and you’ve got to be real quick and just when you…”
But that was far as she got. Keil had just about had it with Libby and Esperanza’s Excellent Adventure. “Hey, Mom,” he interrupted, “what’s for dessert?”
Finally! A change of subject that worked. Marty served the pie with clouds of whipped cream, airy and sweet like the kind of dreams we all hoped to have again.
THE END
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Next in the Rebecca Schwartz series is OTHER PEOPLE’S SKELETONS. Find it at www.booksbnimble.com or www.amazon.com.
The Rebecca Schwartz Series
(in order of publication)
DEATH TURNS A TRICK
THE SOURDOUGH WARS
TOURIST TRAP
DEAD IN THE WATER
OTHER PEOPLE’S SKELETONS
Also by Julie Smith:
The Skip Langdon Series
NEW ORLEANS MOURNING
THE AXEMAN’S JAZZ
JAZZ FUNERAL
DEATH BEFORE FACEBOOK
(formerly NEW ORLEANS BEAT)
HOUSE OF BL
UES
THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS
CRESCENT CITY CONNECTION
(formerly CRESCENT CITY KILL)
82 DESIRE
MEAN WOMAN BLUES
The Paul Mcdonald Series
TRUE-LIFE ADVENTURE
HUCKLEBERRY FIEND
The Talba Wallis Series
LOUISIANA HOTSHOT
LOUISIANA BIGSHOT
LOUISIANA LAMENT
P.I. ON A HOT TIN ROOF
As Well As
WRITING YOUR WAY: THE GREAT AMERICAN NOVEL TRACK
NEW ORLEANS NOIR (ed.)
And don’t miss ALWAYS OTHELLO, a Skip Langdon story, as well as the brand new short story, PRIVATE CHICK, which asks the question, “Is this country ready for a drag queen detective?” More info at www.booksBnimble.com.
Acknowledgments
The Monterey Bay Aquarium is a real and very wonderful place much as depicted herein except for one tiny detail—it’s staffed by perfectly lovely people (not a murderer in the bunch), many of whom contributed to this book not only with generosity but with joy and gusto. I particularly want to thank Judy Rand, as knowledgeable and delightful a guide as anyone could have, and her colleagues, Steve Downey and John O’Sullivan. Need I mention that none of the characters are based on them or anyone else who works at the aquarium or ever has? Lieutenant Ken Brown of the Monterey Police Department, Christina Parsons, Dr. Patty Barnwell, and Frank Clark were equally generous with their time and expertise. Kit Tomas explained about certain saltwater treasures, and no less than three lawyers offered opinions about the best way to handle the case. My thanks to James Crowder, Michael Ganschow, and Carolyn Wheat for not charging by the hour.
About the Author
JULIE SMITH is a New Orleans writer and former reporter for the San Francisco Chronicle and the Times-Picayune. New Orleans Mourning, her first novel featuring New Orleans cop Skip Langdon, won the Edgar Allan Poe Award for Best Novel, and she has since published eight more highly-acclaimed books in the series, plus spun off a second New Orleans series featuring PI and poet Talba Wallis.
She is also the author of the Rebecca Schwartz series and the Paul Mcdonald series, plus the YA novels CURSEBUSTERS! and EXPOSED. In addition to her novels, she’s written numerous essays and short stories and is the editor of NEW ORLEANS NOIR.
Table of Contents
Praise
The Rebecca Schwartz Series
Also by Julie Smith
Epigraph
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
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The Rebecca Schwartz Series
Also by Julie Smith
Acknowledgments
About the Author