Death Before Facebook (40 page)

“All we ever talked about is your work. Do you realize that?”

“Steve, that’s not fair!” It certainly wasn’t. She knew him—no subject on earth was more fascinating to him.

“Oh, great. That’s not fair either. Nothing I do is fair. I can’t do anything right. I get the message, okay?”

“You came all this way and you won’t even talk to me?”

“It looks to me like you’re the one who won’t talk.”

“Steve, I reversed things. I thought about what would happen if I got a great business opportunity in another town.”

“I know what would happen. You’d take it if you wanted it. Just like that. I’d be the last person you’d consult about it.”

“Well, I realized that.”

“So did I, and I just don’t think I want to be with a person like that.”

“Wait a minute! This is theoretical—you’re the one who did it.”

“I tried to talk to you about it. You weren’t interested.”

“I
couldn’t
talk about it. I thought you were breaking up with me.”

They’d reached the airport. She moved as close as she could get to the curb. He turned to her. “Look. We just weren’t a good match, that’s all.”

His eyes were dark, fierce with anger. Hers were swimming. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to let it go—I was trying to protect myself. But I realize now I couldn’t because it’s too late.”

“You did okay. You got another man.”

“What?” For a moment she had no idea what he meant. “No, I didn’t. That was a smoke screen.”

A car behind them honked. She glanced around. They were blocking a long line of traffic. Steve said, “I’ve got to go.”

And he left.

ABOUT A WEEK later, Kit called. “You know how I said something good had to come out of all this?”

“Did you?” Skip had barely slept since the last time they saw each other. Dee-Dee had made something special for her every night and she had pushed it around her plate to please him. Kenny had given her a model he’d made, and Sheila, who listened only to rap, had bought her a tape by the Boucrees. She remained inconsolable.

Why, she wasn’t sure.

Because of Steve, partly.

Because of Darryl, a little, though she had seen him—one night he’d come for dinner at the Big House.

Because she had lost it so badly up on that roof—had come face-to-face with evil and its name was Skip.

Because, Cindy Lou insisted, she had come close to death.

That was a lot of things to make you miserable. And there was one more—anger at herself for losing Steve. It was her fault, she had accepted that. Cindy Lou had called it.

The fact that she’d let it happen was killing her.

Then there was the case. It had had a very successful conclusion. No one doubted Cole would be convicted and everyone thought Skip a hero. Television hadn’t gotten there in time, but an amateur photographer on another roof had taken a series of pictures of Skip and Cole. Two had run in the
Times-Picayune
—one of Skip with the gun to her head, another of her bending Cole over the railing.

A peculiar thing had come out of that—her father, who hadn’t spoken to her in a year or more, had called to congratulate her.

But still. The bottom line was that people had been killed, and one was someone Skip had gotten to know.

Rationally, she knew she couldn’t have prevented Lenore’s death, but the horror of it, the senselessness, wouldn’t leave her.

Kit said, “You don’t sound so good.”

“I guess I’m tired.”

“Maybe I should call back later.”

“No, talk to me. If you have good news, I want to hear it.”

“Well, it’s good news for me. Butsy feels he can’t take care of Caitlin, and he’s agreed to let me adopt her.”

“Kit, that’s wonderful. I think you’ll be a terrific mom.”

“I do too, to tell you the truth. I’ll tell you why I’m calling. We’re having a ritual to say good-bye to Lenore and to celebrate my getting Caitlin—I know it sounds weird, but to us they’re part of the same thing. We’d like you to join us.”

“I don’t think—”

“Neetsie will be there. She’d especially like to see you.”

“I’ll probably have to testify at the trial, and Neetsie might be a witness as well—”

“If you both turned up at Trinity on the same Sunday, would there be something wrong with that?”

“No, but this isn’t Trinity.”

“If the First Amendment means anything, it’s no different.” Her voice softened. “We’d love to have you, Skip. We all went through this together—you were sort of our guide through it all—”

“Me!” She felt like nobody’s guide.

“We all appreciated the way you helped us through it.”

She said she’d think about it and hung up.

In the end, what she thought was that Kit was right. It was her job to guide the course of the investigation and out of that course had come consequences—inevitable ones, some bad, some horrible. But it truly was part of a process and she was pleased that these women saw it this way. She had invaded their privacy. She had nearly killed Neetsie’s father. They had plenty to be mad about if they wanted to be.

She found she wanted to see them. This often happened to her on a case. She liked the people she met; she missed them later.

And she certainly needed to say good-bye to Lenore.

They had set the ritual for the new moon, to symbolize new beginnings.

I could use a few of those
, she thought as she drove to Suby’s. They were meeting there instead of Kit’s because Caitlin, though it was partly her ritual, wasn’t invited. The witches thought the part about her mother might be too sad for her.

They had asked Skip to dress in black and white, but they were in their black robes. This time the altar had on it, not a skull, but some baby gifts and pictures of Lenore and Caitlin.

They cast the circle and called the directions, as they had done before. Once again, Skip was struck by the beauty and simplicity of the ceremony.

Neetsie took the role of high priestess. She called Hecate, goddess of the crossroads, who presumably would preside over both Lenore’s and Caitlin’s journeys.

“Sisters, we’ve come to say good-bye to one of us. Lenore was someone we loved. She died so suddenly we had no chance to say what we felt for her. Let’s say it tonight.” She picked up a talking stick. “Lenore, thank you for being a good friend to my brother.” She passed the stick to Kit.

Kit thanked her for having Caitlin and taking care of her, and for letting Kit be part of the family. Each person said something similar.

Skip thought she wouldn’t say anything, she’d hardly known Lenore, but when the stick came to her, she couldn’t stop herself. She wondered later how magic worked, if the stick had some sort of spell on it, but the witches said not. “Forgive me,” she blurted. “Forgive me for not being there, for not knowing. For not being able to stop it.”

To her everlasting horror, she started to cry in front of a roomful of potential witnesses.

Oh, God, I shouldn’t have come. I must be crazy.

Kit came and held her until she stopped, and they went on as if nothing had happened.

When Lenore had been thoroughly bidden good-bye, the witches took off their robes. Their white ones were underneath.

Neetsie said, “We’ve celebrated Lenore’s life and now we’ll celebrate Caitlin’s.”

Skip hadn’t thought of death as quite so festive, but suddenly she realized that what they were doing was like the end of a jazz funeral, when exuberant music is played to celebrate the release of the soul.

For Caitlin’s part of the ritual, Suby brought out a huge basket tied with ribbons. Inside were more ribbons, which she explained would represent symbolic gifts to go in the basket. Each person was to tie a ribbon and give Caitlin something for her new life—wish her something, Skip thought, because it was easier to grasp that way.

But when it was her turn, she didn’t say it like that. She had been thinking what she wanted for Caitlin, and it surprised her what it was. By the time she said it she wished it with such conviction that she believed she could marshal her energy and somehow give it to her, and so she said it as if it were more than a wish: “I give you the freedom to be Caitlin Marquer, always, no matter what your mother says or your teacher says or anybody says.”

It was a simple thing, but she wanted Caitlin to have it.

After they had all given their gifts, they did the spooky chant to raise what Neetsie called a cone of power, which they sent across the city for Caitlin. That was what made the magic, the ladies said; you could project energy that way.

Someone had made chocolate chip cookies—Lenore’s favorite—which they washed down with milk out of deference to Caitlin’s kid status. This was the part of the ritual Kit was pleased to call “sacred bullshit.” As the witches chattered lightly about restaurants and movies, Skip, who after all barely knew them, dropped out of the conversation and went into a reverie of her own.

The next day was Saturday, she was thinking. She could shop for some plants and a rug, see about getting that watercolor she wanted.

Or maybe, I’ll skip the rug for now,
she thought
. I could go to California instead.

THE END

What would I have done without the WELL? Many thanks to David Gans (tnf), Scott Marley (hudu), and Thaisa Frank (thaisa), for advice and support; to Jon Carroll (jrc), for that and more; and to Jim Petersen, the real (bigeasy), for the loan of his user ID.

Greg Peterson, Richard Sabatté, Betsy Petersen, Steve Holtz, Chris Wiltz, Nancy Moss, Kit Wohl, Becky Light, and Diane Rubin were generous with their expertise. Chris Smither contributed advice on love.

Captain Linda Buczek of the New Orleans Police Department, with her delicate understanding of a writer’s needs, nuts-and-bolts knowledge of police procedure, and generosity of spirit, was immensely helpful (not to mention patient and kind), as always.

My deepest thanks to all who assisted.

In 1994, when Mark Zuckerberg was ten and this book was first published, you were cutting edge if you had high hopes for “virtual communities” and regularly posted on a BBS, or bulletin board service.

A BBS had a lot in common with Facebook. You could be great friends with people you’d never met, and you had the ability to communicate with a lot of people at once. But you didn’t choose your “friends,” you just joined up and posted on whatever topic entered your head. It was a little like a listserv, or even one of today’s specialized online communities, like GoodReads.

While the technology in the former NEW ORLEANS BEAT predates Facebook, the central idea—that if you post indiscreetly, something bad could come of it—remains as true today as it was all those years ago.

In converting the former NEW ORLEANS BEAT to an electronic edition, I was faced with decisions—to update? To revise? To do both? I made what may seem like a counter-intuitive choice—to revise but not to update. If I updated one thing, I’d have to update another. Suddenly everyone would have cell phones and the whole plot would be different.

And one other thing—it just wouldn’t be right. If you happen to read OLIVER TWIST today, do you expect everyone to drive cars? Of course not. A book should be true to its time—it is an artifact of that time, a record; even, in a sense, a bit of history, one of the few ways we have of keeping track of how things actually were then.

So I let it be. But I revised for the same reason I changed the title—because I could. No author is ever pleased with the finished project, but in the end we just have to let go. Now, with the advent of ebooks, we get another chance. In proofing the scanned document, I saw subplots and scenes I thought bogged the book down, so why not lose them? It’s a sleeker book now, a faster read, and maybe it’s better.

The next Skip Langdon mystery is HOUSE OF BLUES; find out more at
www.booksbnimble.com
or
www.juliesmithbooks.com

“A genuinely moving mystery…It’s always a pleasure to spend time with Skip, a no-nonsense, level-headed heroine in a wild and reckless city.”
—THE BALTIMORE SUN

Skip had arrived with her platoon, all in the same car, because there weren’t nearly enough unmarked cars to go around. They must have looked terrifying, a six-foot woman and three men in suits, advancing like a phalanx.

The woman on the porch, looked blank. “Yes?” she said, as if unable to comprehend why strangers were invading her house. If she were Sugar Hebert, she’d just arrived home to find her husband shot dead in the dining room.

“Detective Skip Langdon. I’m from Homicide.”

“Oh, I see.”

Skip was talking because she was the one who’d caught the case, meaning she’d been next on the list when the call came. She gestured for the others to go in—she’d interview the witness, they could divide up the other chores.

Rather than sad, the woman seemed bewildered and scared out of her mind, though she’d had a little time to calm down. The district officer had arrived first and had called Homicide. Hebert said, “They’re gone. All of them. I only left for twenty minutes.”

“Shall we talk in the car?” Hebert looked as if she could stand to sit down.

“Yes. Please. They said I couldn’t stay in the house.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Well, not that I’d want to.” They were side by side now, and something passed over Hebert’s face that could have been a memory—of her dead husband, perhaps.

Another car arrived—Paul Gottschalk from the crime lab and Sylvia Cappello, Skip’s sergeant. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“We were having dinner—my husband and my daughter Reed, along with her husband Dennis and Sally, their little girl. Somebody spilled something on Sally, and I went to get her clean overalls. When I came back, it was like it is now. Blood everywhere, and Arthur—”