Death Before Facebook (Skip Langdon #4) (Skip Langdon Mystery) (The Skip Langdon Series)

by Julie Smith

  “What was he like?’

  “Mean bastard. And none too smart. But you hate to see that happen to a young person. Beautiful wife—nice little boy.”

  “What was Geoff like that night? The boy.”

  “Real scared. Like any kid would be.”

  “Did you get the idea he could have seen anything?”

  “I didn’t question him; he was four years old. And that mama of his—the word ‘hysterical’ was made up for women like that. I’m lucky I got anything coherent at all. Tell you what I thought was strange, though. Two things. It looked like Leighton came home from work and caught a burglar in the bedroom. They struggled, and somehow the guy got Leighton’s gun and shot him. Only thing was, the gun wasn’t there. Now why take a gun that could only incriminate you?”

  Skip grinned. “The guy was stupid?”

  Rene grinned back. “Most likely. Other thing was, the place was wrecked, more or less, and only one thing was taken—a ring that Miz Kavanagh said wasn’t even valuable. An heirloom—somethin’ she got from her grandma—and she said wasn’t that always the way, they took somethin’ meant a lot to you and wasn’t worth that much to anybody else. But she had some nice pearls there—why didn’t he take those?”

  “Probably thought they were fake.”

  He grinned again. “Most likely. But he could have taken a handful of stuff.”

  “What kind of ring was it?”

  “Yellow. A great big stone, but just about worthless. Citrine? Could that be right?”

  Skip nodded. “That’s a kind of gold color.”

  “Yeah. That’s the word. Funny, I haven’t heard it in all these years.”

  “Maybe he knew the Kavanaghs. Maybe there was some reason he wanted that ring.”

  “That’s what I was thinkin’. Couldn’t find anything to hang it on, though.”

  “How about another murder? To hang it on.”

  “Yeah. How about that?” He stared out the window. “Mm. Mm. Mm.”

  Skip couldn’t have agreed more.

  On her way back to the office, she picked up the clips, unfurling them as she walked out of the building. The first thing she saw was the most interesting item they had to offer. It was the byline, the name of the reporter who’d covered the murders—Pearce Randolph, also known as Bigeasy.

  CHAPTER SIX

  DAMN! BACK to Eileen. Skip went back and asked her about Randolph. He was long gone, it turned out. So once more they checked the clips, finding only one story of interest—on his marriage to Honey Diefenthal. The write-up made clear she was very much a society lady. Which meant another call to Alison.

  “Honey Diefenthal! Of course—the Marguerite connection.”

  “Wait a minute—you’re going too fast for me.”

  “You’d like Honey. Really, you would. She’s got a tongue on her you could slice a roast with. She’s a good friend of my mom’s—they were on some board or other together. One day they were drinking sherry, or more likely gin and tonic, and talking about the good ol’ days. Honey swore she was a hippie and Mother said she never even knew one unless you counted Marguerite Julian, who she didn’t really know, and Honey confided she worshiped Marguerite—followed her around like a little sister.” Alison paused. “But this is intriguing, don’t you think? Who knew she married a man Marguerite met when he came to cover her husband’s murder? Do you suppose Marguerite introduced them?”

  “You’re asking me?”

  “Even Alison the Magnificent is not omniscient. Now, here is your assignment: find out and tell me.”

  “I promise. Are they still married?”

  “Oh, God no. That’s ancient history. I’m not sure whether Honey’s married to anyone right now, and I haven’t a clue about Pearce, whom I know nothing about, by the way.”

  “That must mean he’s nobody.”

  “I take deep umbrage at that, Skippy Langdon. You are dealing with a pro here and don’t you forget it. I will gossip into the night about people who are nobody, as you so tackily put it, as enthusiastically as if they were Di and Fergie. So will Honey, by the way. If I were you, I’d give her a call.”

  Next Skip ran record checks on Pearce, Marguerite, and Honey, and then went in to bring Cappello up-to-date. The sergeant frowned, as if she didn’t believe a word Skip was saying. “Now let me get this straight. This Pearce Randolph is Bigeasy, right?”

  “Right. What’s the big deal?”

  “Is he still a journalist?”

  “Long since retired. Why?”

  “Because I just had a call from him—he says he’s doing a story on Geoff Kavanagh’s murder.”

  “Whoops. I think I better talk to him next.”

  Almost next she meant. Taking Alison’s advice, she called Honey next. But Honey was out, and it was getting on toward noon. So she phoned her pal Cindy Lou Wootten, psychologist extraordinaire, and asked her to lunch.

  Cindy Lou was one of Skip’s favorite people. Skip liked to look at her, for one thing; the woman was gorgeous. She learned a lot from her, for another; Cindy Lou was afraid of nothing and no one. That included Frank O’Rourke, the Homicide sergeant who hated women in general and Skip in particular.

  She was such a near-perfect creature, Skip could have envied her too deeply for friendship if Cindy Lou hadn’t had an all-too-human failing—when it came to men, she was hopeless. Even Skip, who had probably had a quarter as many boyfriends and a tenth as many suitors, could see her friend picking Mr. Bad News time after time. Cindy Lou didn’t even seem to care: “I know I’m a psychologist,” she’d say, “but I can’t help it, I just have terrible taste.”

  They met at the Dante Street Deli, where you could wear anything at lunch, but Skip was made aware of her clunky blazer and skirt when Cindy Lou appeared in a gold-colored suit nipped in at the waist. As always, she could easily have stepped out of Vogue. She was black, and liked to dress in colors that complemented her skin tones. It didn’t hurt that she was about a size six, with smooth, shoulder-length hair and a finely sculpted face.

  She made Skip feel like a moose, though, oddly, she looked incredibly tall from a distance. When Skip had first seen her, addressing a roomful of cops, she had thought her about five-ten.

  Today, despite her sophisticated appearance, Cindy Lou had the canary-feathers look of a teenager up to no good. “Guess who I’ve got a date with.”

  “Oh, Jesus. Probably the governor.”

  “Uh-uh.” She named a name Skip didn’t recognize.

  “You mean you’re not a Saints fan?”

  “Please, not an athlete. He’ll kiss you good-night and crush you to death.”

  “I like big guys. Don’t you?”

  “Big for me is a whole different story and you know it.”

  “You’ve seen pictures of him, haven’t you?”

  “I don’t know. I’m a sports ignoramus—I wouldn’t know Joe Montana’s picture.”

  “Promise you’ll find one. I want you to see how cute he is.”

  Skip sighed. “Cindy Lou, you’re acting like a teenager. You’re gorgeous and brilliant and you could get anybody.”

  “It’s not an ego thing—I mean, not that kind. It’s that you always harass me about my bad taste; I want you to see that at least I have the aesthetics down.”

  “This one’s married, I suppose?”

  “Oh, yes. And I’m sure there’s nothing she doesn’t know about his roving eye.”

  Skip rolled her eyes. “I just hope you plan to have safe sex.”

  “Hello,” said Cindy Lou to a just-arrived waitress. She and Skip glanced quickly at the menu and settled on salads.

  “Well, now, sex,” Cindy Lou said when they’d ordered. “I don’t plan to have it at all. One date—just for the thrill—and I’m out of there.”

  “Because he’s married? You were never so scrupulous before.”

  “And I’m not now. Look out the window. See a car that looks like a plain brown wrapper? Little white guy hunkered down in
it? Mrs. Saint’s having me watched.”

  Skip held her head, causing her to miss the return of the waitress. “Uh—excuse me?” said the woman.

  “I don’t know if I’m hungry.”

  The waitress looked confused.

  “Sorry—I’m just carrying on. Cindy Lou, are you crazy?” The waitress left.

  “I’m a shrink, girlfriend. How could I be crazy?”

  In a way, Skip rather enjoyed her friend’s parade of losers—it was like reading Dick Francis books to see how he’d work the horses in. Each new swain was an all-new and ever more fascinating form of unsuitable. Skip worried about her, but she had to admit that of all the women she’d ever met, Cindy Lou got her vote for best able to take care of herself.

  Skip poured dressing over her salad. “Could I ask one thing? Why go out with him at all? Bad things could happen and there’s no future, so what’s the point?”

  “You forget I’m from Detroit. Danger’s a way of life with me. Besides, he’ll be fun to look at across the table, and maybe one day he’ll get divorced.”

  “And he’ll remember the lovely lady who refused his suit on moral grounds—you’ll put it that way, I’m sure.”

  “Of course. But enough about me—since you’re treating, I assume you need advice on something or other.”

  Skip ran down the case for her. By the time she was done, so were the salads. Settling in, they ordered coffee.

  Cindy Lou had a faraway look. “Man. I wish I could have talked to that kid. Geoff.”

  “He was no kid—he was in his thirties.”

  “Yes, but he was a kid, really. That’s your impression, isn’t it?”

  “I guess so. He was a lot like other social misfits. But I can’t figure out who he was.”

  “He was probably an egg that couldn’t hatch until he got that memory dealt with. A perennial four-year-old terrified of the world because of what it did to his daddy.”

  “You think he could have seen something?”

  “Oh, sure. That’s how memories start to come back—a little at a time. That’s what he said, isn’t it?”

  “It’s what he posted.”

  “He was so isolated he didn’t even talk; he just posted.”

  “We don’t really know that. He might have talked to Layne and Lenore—maybe other people.”

  “So if he remembered a face, he might have told someone.”

  “Well, he did have vocal cords.”

  “Oh, stop. A lot of men have hearts but they act heartless, now don’t they?”

  “You’d be the expert on that. Of course he could have told someone—he could even have tried to blackmail the killer.”

  “Somehow I doubt it, given the guy you’ve described. I wonder if he kept a journal.”

  “What?” Skip’s ears pricked up.

  “That’s a common technique for people who’re trying to bring something into consciousness. Especially if they’re dreaming—and the first thing he posted was a dream.”

  “Hold it—about this journal idea. I didn’t know about it. Does the average person do that?”

  “Sure, if they’ve ever been in therapy. But I think a lot of people just do it—it helps them organize their thoughts. Someone from the TOWN might have suggested it.”

  “Could be. They’re helpful to a fault. But I didn’t see any mention of it in his topic.”

  “How about E-mail?”

  “I’m not sure yet; the sysop’s not being all that helpful. You know what a sysop is?”

  “Sure.”

  “Come to think of it, he had some books on self-hypnosis.”

  “He did? Now that’s interesting. Maybe he was trying to get at it that way.”

  “The thing is, if there was a journal…”

  “What?”

  “Well, it’s as likely to be on the computer—maybe even in his personal TOWN file—as written down in a book. You’ve got your work cut out for you.” Cindy Lou started to collect her belongings.

  “Let me know if you want me to introduce you to a nice man.” Where Skip would find one she had no idea, but that was no problem—this was part of their standard good-bye.

  Cindy Lou wrinkled her nose. “Hate ’em.” This was the rest of it. “By the way, how’s your man?”

  “Okay, I guess. He sounds a little funny, though.”

  “Sounds funny how?”

  “I don’t know. He made a remark I didn’t get.”

  “Miss Sensitive. You need to get out more, you know that?”

  “Speaking as a shrink?”

  “Speaking as a friend—especially a friend who wants to go see the Boucree Brothers. You up for that?”

  “When?”

  “They’re playing Thursday at The Blue Guitar.”

  “I don’t think… I mean, this case…”

  “It’s a date.”

  Skip thought about it. “Boucrees or bust.”

  It was true she almost never went out anymore. The way she got involved in cases, she just didn’t think of it—and now that Sheila and Kenny were there, it seemed more fun to stay home.

  But they’re not my family.

  She told herself that often, felt she had to, to avoid disappointment, keep her perspective.

  She decided to drop in on Honey Diefenthal, former wife of Pearce Randolph, aka Bigeasy, instead of calling her. Honey lived nearby, in a wonderful restored camelback, which had been painted a delicate peach.

  I like her already, Skip thought.

  Honey—clearly just back from lunch—wore black wool crepe slacks and a pink starched shirt, elegant but informal, the kind of outfit you didn’t have to put any thought into, and you still looked great.

  If you were Honey Diefenthal.

  She was petite, a quality about which Skip had a deep ambivalence. In some ways her size made her feel powerful—in others, simply awkward, like an ostrich among canaries.

  Honey was not only petite, but as blond as her name implied, as peaches and cream, as capital-S Southern. She wore her hair in something resembling a crew cut, which could have looked butch but instead looked delicate and caplike. Skip envied the confidence it took to pull it off.

  She identified herself.

  “Oh, yes. Pearce said you’d probably get in touch.”

  “Pearce? But we don’t even know each other.” Skip felt the flash of annoyance she’d come to associate with the TOWN and its denizens.

  “Well, he knows you. He said to give you some tea and crumpets. Won’t you come in?”

  Skip entered a room full of chintz and light, not especially an original look, but it went with the house, and it worked.

  “Sit down. Would you like that tea?”

  “No, thanks. I’ve just come from lunch. Why on earth did Pearce think I’d call on you?”

  “To check up on him, I guess. He’s a little on the self-important side.”

  “Well, he’s sort of right. But I mostly came because Alison Gaillard said I shouldn’t miss you.”

  “Alison! How on earth do you know her?”

  “She and I were sorority sisters at Newcomb.”

  “Oh, you’re the Kappa cop. You’re famous.” She paused, letting pennies drop. “Now I get it. You must be Elizabeth Langdon’s kid.”

  Skip grinned.

  “I know her from… let’s see, the Opera Association, I think, and maybe the NOCCA board. I don’t even remember what-all. We’re sort of in the same business.”

  “Professional volunteers.”

  She laughed. “We say ‘community activists.’ ”

  It was the sort of thing Skip had gotten used to. She got ready for twenty minutes of “who-do-you-know,” and when that was over, she asked about Pearce. “He must be a nice man, if you still keep up a friendship.”

  “He’s a perfectly terrible man. We don’t have a friendship at all—he just calls me to borrow money and read his manuscripts. The former calls are a great deal more frequent than the latter.”

  Skip l
aughed.

  “And thank God. I could tell you about his writing, but you mentioned you just had lunch.”

  “Gory?”

  Her face grew serious. “Just depressing. He has talent, he just can’t seem to get on with anything.”

  “Must be pretty slow stuff.”

  “In a sense. Do you know how long the average screenplay is?”

  “A couple of hundred pages, I guess.”

  “About a hundred and twenty. Think about it. If you wrote one page a day, you could do a whole one in about four months.”

  “Providing you’d already plotted it, I guess.”

  “Well, say you took six months doing that. And then you took a month or two for research. You could do it in a year. Then maybe you’d want to rewrite—give it another six months, say a year to be generous. That’s two years, which is a tremendous flyer to take if you’re not getting paid for it. Just to take off two years—wouldn’t you say?”

  Skip nodded, not sure where this was going.

  “Well, Pearce has been working for seventeen years. That’s almost twenty years on a hundred and twenty pages—on a project nobody wants and nobody’ll ever want. And if they did, they couldn’t get it because it wouldn’t be finished. And if it were finished, it would be a different story from the one they bought. Because he keeps changing it.” She sighed. “Every week he’s got a different great idea.”

  “No wonder he has to borrow money.”

  “Oh, the man is pathetic. A bitter, bitter old man.”

  “Old? But I thought he was about your age.” Around fifty, she thought.

  “Old, old, old before his time. He’s a person who never fulfilled his own potential—he could have been a writer. Or a lawyer, for God’s sake, or a bailbondsman. Something. But he isn’t anything. He’s accomplished nothing. But he wants to be recognized anyway—that’s what the problem is. He tells everyone he’s a writer, and he does write, so as far as he’s concerned he is, and he just can’t understand why he doesn’t get fame and adulation. Which is what he wants. I don’t even think he cares that he doesn’t have any money—he just wants his talent recognized.”

  She paused for breath. “So every now and then he does some piddling story like the one he’s working on now, about this young man’s murder. And he posts on the TOWN, of course. I guess that’s a form of writing. For all I know, people love him there.” She grinned evilly. “That would be so much easier if you’d never met him. You could imagine he was a dashing, witty sophisticate instead of a broken-down old boozehound.”