Death Before Facebook (18 page)

He shrugged. “Just a surmise.”

What if he was lying? Lenore felt a tiny
frisson
about her burglary. Her burglary in which nothing was taken.

“Let me rub your feet, shall I?”

She gasped, thinking she needed to get him out of there…
now
! But then cooler heads prevailed. Pearce was the one person who couldn’t be the burglar. If he were the burglar, he’d know she didn’t have Geoff’s journal.

And she could really use a little adult attention.

* * *

Neetsie had called shortly after lunch. “Dad, I need to talk. I just don’t… I can’t…”

Cole sighed. “What is it, honey?”

“I don’t know. I got through yesterday fine; I even went to dinner with friends and they talked about Geoff and I was absolutely okay. But today I woke up crying and I…”

“It’s hard on all of us, sweetheart.”

“But I couldn’t go to work. I mean, that isn’t even the point. It’s not just that I feel sad, it’s that I’m afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“I don’t know. I’m just…”

“Well, look. I’ll come get you.”

“No!”

“What?’

“I don’t want to see Mom.”

So Cole had gone to Neetsie’s, to comfort a daughter coming face-to-face with her own mortality. She had always come to him when she was afraid, and it seemed to him that she was afraid a lot, of one thing and another.

He didn’t know how to comfort her, how to tell her that the worst might be over, that if she had even the slightest success in the world, she’d never again have to live in the kind of poverty in which she’d been brought up.

Not that her apartment was a step up—the opposite, in fact It was a roach-infested studio in the Faubourg—a big one, but in disrepair, although furnished cleverly. Neetsie was nothing if not clever. She could have been a designer. Instead, she had some piddling job at a computer store, and wouldn’t get another because she didn’t want anything that took too much of her energy; she needed to have an arid work life so that her real work, her acting, could blossom.

This was her theory.

His was that as long as she had to work all day, she might as well do something that paid well.

He found her wearing jeans and a long black sweater, Kleenex in hand.

“Oh, Dad!” She stared at him, a hard, beseeching, “give-my-brother-back” kind of stare, but she didn’t throw her arms around him. He sensed that she didn’t want to be held.

“What is it, honey?”

She flung herself on her duded-up bed; he sat in her one director’s chair.

“Life is just so fragile.” She sobbed out the last couple of words, apparently in the grip of a depression she couldn’t shake.

“Let’s go for a walk.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ll feel the wind in your face, and it’ll make you feel alive. And you’ll move your butt; endorphins will kick in.”

She made a face. “That’s the last thing I want to do. I don’t feel like budging. I can barely get to the bathroom when I have to pee.”

“You said you felt afraid.” How many conversations had he had with her that started like this? How many with Marguerite?

“I don’t know. I might have a lump in my breast.”

He might have panicked, but he had been here before. “You’re pretty young for that.”

“Well, it might just be a rib. But I feel hot all over, and then cold, and it seems like my heart beats really fast. Do you know what palpitations are, Daddy?”

“You get them when you fall in love.”

“I’m not kidding, I think I’m sick.”

“Two people in the same family can’t die within a week. What do you think the odds of that would be?”

“It happens all the time. Somebody gets stressed out and drops dead at the funeral.”

“The funeral’s over. Anyway, those people are a lot older than you.” He wanted to go over and take her hands, but he knew better. When she was this way, she was in a shell that she didn’t want violated. “Listen to me. You’re fine. You’re just upset and you are stressed out. But at your age, stress can’t do all that much to you.”

“It can give you ulcers.”

“How’s your tummy?”

“Fine.” She actually smiled. “It’s my chest that feels funny.”

“Dr. John says you’ve got a broken heart.”

She laughed. “Do Dr. John.”

Dr. John was a part he’d always played for her when she was sick; it was based partly oh the voodoo priest of the slave days, and partly on the contemporary musician, whose records Cole would play, and whose hoarse voice he’d use, when “curing” her.

He raised his hands and made them into claws. “By lizard and snake and skull and scorpion, I lift the hurt and ease the pain.” His voice was like gravel. He got up and began to dance in a circle around Neetsie, the choreography inspired by movies whose makers had failed to research Native American culture.

“Dr. John put a spell on you! Put the gris-gris on that hurt!” He pronounced it “hoit” like the musician, which made Neetsie laugh.

He stretched out his arms, made V’s of his fingers, and chanted, “Anita Bonita Juanita be cured! Mojo work and gris-gris take root. Out of this girl, broken heart be lured!”

“Daddy. It’s the only heart I’ve got.”

“Oh. Okay.” He did the whole thing again, with the V’s and the gravelly voice. “Out of this girl, the sadness be lured.” He made the last word a big deal. And then he started to dance around some more, singing the mojo song, like he always did when he played Dr. John: “I got my mojo working, got my mojo workin’, and it sure do work on you.”

He dropped into a squat at her feet. “Feel better?”

She nodded, smiling, almost her normal self. “I love Dr. John. Maybe it’s why I want to be an actress.”

“Sweetheart, I hope you can do better than that.” He picked himself up and sat in his chair again.

“You know what that cop asked me? She came to the TOWN dinner last night.”

Cole nodded. “I knew Pearce asked her. What did she want to know?”

“She asked me what I liked best about Geoff. I told her about the time he woke me up for the puppies. What did you like best?”

“When I first met him, he was just a little boy about eleven or twelve, and he came over to me and said, ‘Do you know how to play baseball and basketball?’

“I said, ‘Sure. Why?’ But he didn’t answer, he just said, ‘How about chess?’ I said, ‘Uh-huh.’ And he said, ‘Poker?’ I don’t even remember all the things he asked, but you see what he was doing? He was checking out my daddy qualifications.

Just when I thought it was all done, he said, ‘Well, what kind of cookies can you bake?’ I said, ‘Chocolate chip,’ and he said, ‘Uh-uh. Oatmeal,’ and went away. So I knew I was in, as long as I brought some oatmeal cookies every time I came over.”

“And that was it? That was the best thing he ever did?”

“Well, no. See, he used the cookies too—like, at first they’d be an excuse to stay around while he ate them. Then he’d offer me some; and then he’d say he’d play catch for a while if I’d bring him some more. You know how kids don’t want to say they like you?”

“Boys.”

“Okay, boys. Well, that was his way of doing it—pretending he was just in it for the cookies.”

“Now you’re going to cry.”

“I might.” Sure enough, his throat had gone tight, but he blinked before anything came out of his eyes.

* * *

That afternoon Skip drove home singing with the radio, knowing she was going to get a break from the case—tonight was the night she and Cindy Lou were going to see the Boucree Brothers.

She had done quite a bit of paperwork after seeing Marguerite, and she’d left work early to do some research on the computer—since she hadn’t heard from Wizard, the sysop, she’d gotten impatient; she wanted to work on Geoff’s posts on her own.

It was barely after three when she arrived home, but the day was cloudy and it was already getting dark. There was a nasty chill in the air.

But Sheila was on the patio, working on something, maybe homework.

“Hey, babe. Aren’t you cold?”

“I’m fine.” The girl didn’t look up.

Uh-oh, forget about work for a while.

“Come in, why don’t you? Let’s have some cocoa.”

“I don’t think so.”

Oh, hell, what was it going to take?

“Coffee and beignets?”

Sheila looked up. “Really? I could really have coffee?”

“Well, beignets, anyway.”

“I knew it. I knew you didn’t mean it.”

“Well, I almost meant it. Going once, going twice… yes or no to the beignets?”

“Oh, okay.”

Skip was almost disappointed, had half wished Sheila would continue to sulk and let her go about her business. “Just a second, okay? I’ve got to do a little piece of business.”

“Can I go with you?”

“Sure.”

Sheila followed her inside. “Your place is really nice.”

“But freezing. Aren’t you cold?” She didn’t take off her coat while she phoned the TOWN and left a message for Wizard. “What were you doing outside?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“I mean, why weren’t you inside?”

“I get tired of it in there.”

Skip backed off. The girl wanted to see her, that’s why she was outside. “Come on. Let’s go get those beignets.”

What was going on?
she wondered. Was this a bonding attempt, or did Sheila have something on her mind? Maybe she was getting her period or something; she was about the right age.

By way of feeling her out, Skip said, “You know, Jimmy Dee was thinking of getting an
au pair
to stay with you and Kenny when he’s not home. But I talked him out of it. I thought you’d be involved with after-school activities, and then if you were home, there’s always Geneese.” The maid, she meant—the extremely motherly maid (Skip had seen to that) who doubled as a babysitter.

“What the fuck’s an
au pair
?”

“Well, you certainly are a trash-mouth.”

“Fuck you, too.”

Skip sat down. “What is it, honey? Something’s bothering you, isn’t it?”

“I hate this place, that’s all! And Uncle Jimmy and—” She was yelling, loud, but apparently she couldn’t get herself to finish.

“Me.”

Instead of answering, she turned and ran.

“Sheila!” Skip followed.

“Leave me alone!” The girl ran through the gate and back to the street, where she fumbled with her key.

“Okay. I will for now. But come talk to me when you want. I’m sorry I called you a trash-mouth—I don’t care how you talk. You can say anything you want. Really.”

Sheila gave her a glance, just once, before she disappeared, and Skip thought she’d never seen anyone look so pathetic.

SHE BOOTED UP her computer and started going through Confession again. But Geoff could have been posting in a hundred other conferences in the same time period. She needed to know his favorites. She called Lenore and Layne, got neither of them.

What did she need to do next?

Warm up. If I had a beautiful, warm room, it would be more inviting for the children
, she thought.

She made herself a cup of tea and opened the phone book. Where did you order firewood? She called around, got some wood on the way, and made a vow to get some furniture. But then she had a better idea.

Art.

Which she couldn’t afford.

Well, maybe a little something. A tiny little watercolor? Something by Carol Leake. One of her garage sale things.

Or maybe a few of them.

And plants.
I’ll have art and plants and a beautiful rug—no, for now, just a warm one, a nice warm gray one, to match the sofa. The kids can lie on it and play Scrabble or something.

She felt a big lump in her chest when she thought of Sheila, but she didn’t know what to do about it; the girl had
Do Not Disturb
signs hanging all over her.

She tried to work, but couldn’t stop thinking about Sheila. Finally, she abandoned the project and called Dee-Dee.

“Come to dinner?” he asked hopefully.

“Can’t. I’m going out with Cindy Lou.”

“Oh.”

“Maybe you should rethink the
au pair
.”

“Yeah, maybe I should.” He couldn’t keep the discouragement out of his voice.

And maybe
, she thought when she had hung up,
I should rethink the case.

The same theme kept replaying itself:
I want to know more about Kit
. She popped in the shower, to get her mind off it. Cindy Lou was right—you couldn’t eat, sleep, and breathe a case.

Even if you need to keep your mind off your boyfriend, who seems to be in the process of dumping you.

Well, not dumping her. Just not…

Committing?

What a stupid word! What a dumb, late-twentieth-century female cliché.

She was surprised to find herself wishing for a joint, a sign that she was depressed and hadn’t yet admitted it.

She sighed.

In the old days, Jimmy Dee would come charging through the door and hand her one, right about now. But of course there was no smoking at Chez Scoggin anymore—Jimmy Dee didn’t know all that much about being a parent, but he had caught on that you didn’t do drugs around the kids.

She was meeting Cindy Lou for dinner in a few minutes. She put on black leggings and a long green sweater that she felt matched her eyes. She thought Jimmy Dee might approve if he was still in the mode of barging in to dress her when she went out.

She felt as if she looked pretty good, pretty damned acceptable, till she saw Cindy Lou, who had on jeans, a white shirt, and a black leather jacket. People at the restaurant were whispering to each other, trying to remember what show they’d seen her on. Skip knew because it happened all the time. Sometimes they waited till Cindy Lou went to the ladies’ room and then they buttonholed Skip: “Who is that woman you’re with? I’ve seen her in commercials, but she’s got her own show now, doesn’t she?”

When they were seated (which didn’t take long; the maitre d’ seemed as friendly as anyone with a star on the premises), Cindy Lou said, “Have you heard from Steve?”

“I’ve heard a little too much from him.”

“How’s that?”

“I don’t think he’s going to be moving to New Orleans. He’s sort of hinting around that things are really great in L.A. right now.” She didn’t meet her friend’s eye, but sneaked a peek to see if she looked alarmed.