by Julie Smith
“Come to lunch tomorrow. At his house.”
“His house? Why not yours?”
“I’ve been staying there. I’m too worried to leave him alone.”
“Alex, if it’s that bad, you already know the answer.”
He took her hand as if he needed something to hold on to. “Di, please. I really need another opinion.”
“Someone’s already seen him?”
“I mean another besides mine, which doesn’t count.”
He had told her he’d say she was his girlfriend, which was part of the reason she’d agreed to do it. It would be fun to see Alex pretend to act solicitous. Aside from that, of course, she was glad to help. She’d seen plenty of Alzheimer’s—ought to damn well be able to recognize it.
The old coot who answered the door smelled like he’d already had a beer or two, but not necessarily a bath. “You the girlfriend?”
She gave him her hand. “I’m Di.”
“Lamar. Hot, idn’t it?”
“Unseasonably.”
“They gotta get those rocks back on the moon.”
She heard Alex’s voice: “Okay, Dad, it’s all yours.”
He appeared behind his father, in jeans as usual, meager hair still wet from the shower.
“Too late, son. She’s already here.”
“Hi, Di.” To his father, “I’ll entertain her till you’re ready.”
“Ready now. If she don’t take me like I am right now, she ain’t gonna take me.”
“Well, I wouldn’t take you. Not as far as the corner grocery store.”
Di was tired of standing out in the heat. “Maybe I’d better leave and come back.”
“Elec, you lamebrain. See what you’re doing?” He gestured Di into the house. “Come on, come on, come on, come on.”
The house was dark and mildewy. The furniture looked ancient; the place probably hadn’t been cleaned all summer. A putrid smell from the kitchen said nobody’d taken out the garbage lately.
“I thought we’d eat in the backyard,” Alex said.
“You crazy, boy?” He kicked his son in the shin. “It’s a hundred degrees out there.”
“Ow.” Alex held his leg and hopped around the room. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, you old bastard?”
“Who you talking to like that?”
Di resisted the urge to hold her ears.
Skip, parked just down the block, wondered if they always yelled at each other, these two, routinely shattered the quiet of this most domestic of streets.
A man who was setting his sprinkler looked toward the Bignell house in surprise. As soon as he’d gone back inside, Skip got out and slipped to the side of the house. The windows were closed for the air conditioning, but she could see in. The three of them were standing in the living room, Di looking a little awkward, the other two conscious of nothing but each other, faces full of fury, bodies wary, poised against attack.
“You talking to your dad? You got the fuckin’ nerve to talk to your dad like that?”
Di said, “Fellows, don’t you think—”
“Who the hell do you think you are, toots?”
Di smiled. “Now, Lamar, I’m just—”
“Who the fuck are you?”
She was suddenly very solicitous, voice very phony pseudo-soothing. “I’m Di, Lamar. Alex’s girlfriend. Remember now?”
“Why the fuck would I forget whose goddamn girlfriend you are. I wouldn’t want you. No way would I take you whether you was lamebrain’s pick of the week or not. You’re skinny and you haven’t got a brain in your head. Why the fuck would I want you?”
“Language, Dad. This is Lakeview.”
“Language, my ass!” A look passed between Di and Alex. Skip didn’t know what to call it exactly, but thought it wasn’t conspiratorial. There was something excited about it. “I don’t give a shit what kind of fucking language I use. I don’t give a fuck!”
He picked up a pillow from the sofa and threw it at Alex. His son started toward him, but Lamar was gone. Out the door. Beating it down the street, hollering, “Fuuuuuuck! Does everybody hear me? Fuck you, you shitheads!”
Skip fell into step behind him. “Hey, Lamar, whereyat?”
He stopped and turned around. “Hey, Margaret. Margaret, zat you? What you doin’ here, you pretty little thing?”
“Came to see Alex, but I saw you first.”
“No, I saw you first, before lamebrain did, so I get to flirt with you.” He seemed to have forgotten his mission. “Now you come on in and I’ll fix you some iced coffee or somethin’. Sho’ is hot out here, ain’t it?”
“Sure is,” said Skip. “Wonder why that is?”
“We gotta get those rocks back on the moon.”
She led Lamar up the walk to his house, walking past Alex and Di, who had started to give chase, but stopped when they saw Skip. Following Lamar’s lead, she ignored them, giving him her full attention and wondering why he’d taken a fancy to her.
But there were more important things to figure out—like what she was going to tell Alex she was doing here, and how to extricate herself in time to keep Di in sight.
As she chatted aimlessly with Lamar, an idea came to her: a plan that made losing Di for a bit worthwhile.
“You know what?” said Lamar. “You remind me of my ex-wife.”
Di and Alex stared speechless after Skip and Lamar.
Finally Di said, “What’s she doing here?”
“Who cares? What did she do to him? Hit him with a nice stick?”
“Nightstick?”
“Forget it. Listen, what do you think?”
“I think your dad’s a case and a half.”
“Yeah, well, so do the neighbors. The question is, is he demented or just mean as hell?”
“Does he get depressed?”
“Depressed! How would I know? Think the old fart’s going to come complaining to me?”
She shook her head in bewilderment. “He’s really a case.”
“Well, you’re a lot of help.”
“I’m sorry, Alex, I can’t do miracles. Why don’t you take him to see somebody?”
“I brought you to see him.”
She started to get into her car. “Is he eating a lot of animal fat?”
“Animal fat!”
“Maybe you should try him on raw vegetables.”
When Alex joined them, Lamar and Skip were sipping iced coffee at the yellow vinyl table, oblivious of the pernicious garbage smell.
“ ’Bout time, lamebrain. I gotta clean up. Don’t know what Margaret’ll think of me.” To Skip he said, “Kid hogs the bathroom, what you gonna do?”
And he left, docile as a doe.
“Why does he like you so much?”
“Probably thinks I’m going to arrest you. What was Di doing here, anyway?”
“None of your business. What are you doing here?”
“Well, uh … it’s not exactly police business. I mean, you still have the right to remain silent and everything, but you could also yell at me, I guess. It’s my mom.”
“Your mom?”
“Yeah. Her name’s Elizabeth and she’s a compulsive over-eater. She’s in Al-Anon too.”
“Elizabeth! Well, well, well. I feel you and I are getting to know each other better and better.” He didn’t sit, but hovered over her.
“You know her?”
“Oh, yes.” He said it as if he’d been sleeping with her—at the very least fending her off. He’d probably make his own mother sound like a slut.
“Well, she certainly knows you. She was a fan of yours before I was.”
“Oh, shit.”
“Don’t worry, she won’t blow your cover. She takes anonymity very seriously—as you might imagine, considering what a social climber she is. But maybe you don’t know about that.”
“It figures.”
“Anyway, she doesn’t know I know you, of course. And she was bragging about how she’d met you through the program—in
fact had seen you around for a while and then finally connected your face with the one on your book jacket. Now I’m getting to the embarrassing part.”
“Will I like it?”
“Well, you’ll like seeing me squirm, anyway. See, she’s the original woman who has everything and her birthday’s coming up.”
“You want me to sign a book? That’s all this is about?”
“Uh … not exactly. She’s already got all your books. I was hoping you might sell me some silly memento.”
“A torn T-shirt or something? I’m flattered, but I’m not Mick Jagger. I don’t exactly have a stash of souvenirs for fans. What did you have in mind?”
Skip was so genuinely embarrassed by what she was doing that she felt herself flush. So much the better. No pain, no gain. “I don’t know. I thought maybe an old manuscript page or something. Maybe you could write a note on it.”
“You’d pay money for that?”
“Sure.”
“I don’t know what kind of jerk you think I am…”
“And you don’t want to.”
“For God’s sake, I’ll give you a whole chapter. Whatever you want.”
“Great.”
“Something from Fake It Till You Make It?”
“Actually, she likes the earlier books better, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“Big deal. None of them are trouble. They’re all on the hard disk.”
He left her alone while he went to print something out, and came back with a sheaf of still-untorn computer pages. “How about this one, on ‘Unconditional Love’? That ought to get her, huh? Oh, brother: I was the turd of turds when I wrote this.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
“Do you think my father has Alzheimer’s?”
“No.” But she considered. “I mean, how would I know? You’re the psychologist.”
“Yeah, but I’m his son.”
He chatted her up a little more, wrote a sweet note on the chapter, and saw her out with a pat on the shoulder. Funny what a little flattery would do for a person’s personality.
It was gratifying to watch Alex behave like a normal human being for a change, but she hadn’t accomplished her mission. She still didn’t know whether he owned a manual typewriter.
TWENTY-EIGHT
SINCE THERE WAS no way to tell from the outside whether Di was in, she phoned. When the machine answered, she was annoyed with herself, felt at loose ends. And so when she saw someone else going into Di’s building, she simply slipped in behind, saying, ‘Hi,’ as if she belonged. Not for any special reason, simply for lack of anything else to do. And that was why, she told herself, she happened to try the door. Yet when it opened she panicked.
Oh, well. If Di was home, she could make up some excuse.
“Di?” she called.
No answer. Oh, well again. A quick look and who would know?
Skip, this is breaking and entering.
Not really. We’re friends. I didn’t find her home and came in to leave her a note.
Liar.
Well, the door was ajar. I had a weird feeling—had to look in and make sure everything was okay.
No matter what games she played with herself, she couldn’t find a way to justify what she was doing.
Neither could she stop herself.
But she did leave the door ajar, thinking she’d use the last explanation if it should prove necessary. And with her first step in the door her attention was so riveted she couldn’t have left if her conscience had attacked her with a cattle prod. Thrown casually on the back of the sofa, as if it had annoyed the wearer, prompting hasty removal, was a scarf almost identical to the one that had killed Jerilyn Jordan. It was a cheap rectangle of Indian cotton, a long neck scarf fringed on the ends. Like the one around Jerilyn’s neck, it was striped, but in shades of taupe and aqua rather than fuchsia and rose. It was the sort of inexpensive accessory women sometimes bought two or three of, in different colors. As soon as Skip saw it, she realized shed seen it earlier—Di had been wearing it as a belt.
Skip took a quick survey of the living room, and one other thing caught her attention. There was a famous collection of Louisiana stories, some of them folktales, some historical. It was the most accessible source of information about the original Axeman. Funny she hadn’t noticed it before, when she’d perused Di’s books for the sort a hypnotherapist would have. Had Di had it in her bedroom, copying the Axeman’s give-me-jazz letter?
Since the light was on in the bathroom, she looked there next. On the counter were the usual perfumes and toiletries and some other things, apparently just pulled from one of the vanity drawers—hair color and discolored vinyl gloves, used at least once before in the rejuvenation ritual. Gloves like those the Axeman probably used.
Putting them on to avoid leaving prints of her own, Skip opened the drawers and found more gloves, a whole box of them. She took a clean pair and replaced the used ones.
Di’s bed was made, her bedroom in perfect order except for the outfit she’d worn that morning, which had been tossed on a chair. An armoire held clothes, but there was also a closet. Skip looked first through an antique bureau, finding a drawer containing a pile of scarves, at least two being different-colored twins of the two she’d already seen.
Jesus, she thought, if I could find a typewriter, I could get a warrant.
And in the bottom of the closet was a Smith-Corona portable, thirty years old if it was a day. Skip’s heart threatened to crash through her sternum in a percussive frenzy, fall out on the floor, and hop around the room. She covered her chest with her hand to quiet it, like some sixth-grader pledging allegiance.
Did she dare to type something out, something to compare with the Axeman’s notes?
No. That was inviting a stroke from stress. And anyway, she heard someone on the stairs now. Pulling off the gloves, she called, “Di? Oh, Di? Di, are you home?”
She had safely reached the living room and was standing tentatively, like a person who’d just arrived by the time Di came in.
She put a hand to her throat. “Oh, Di. There you are. I saw your door open and I got worried.”
Di had changed to shorts and a worn white T-shirt with a faded French Quarter scene on it, obviously a knockabout rather than a formal one. She had a white paper bag in her hand. “My door was open? But I remember locking it.”
Skip shrugged. “It was like this. Shall we look to make sure no one’s here?”
Soberly, Di nodded. They looked in the closet, in the armoire, even under the bed, Skip doing the work, Di hovering nervously. Skip said, “Do you have jewelry? Why don’t we check it?”
Di opened a bureau drawer, pulled out a box, pronounced everything safe. “I guess I forgot to lock up. I was going to color my hair, but I thought I didn’t have enough stuff for more than a touch-up.” She opened her paper bag, pulled out hair color and conditioner. “I guess I got in too big a hurry.”
“Are you sure? Who else has a key?”
“No one. Not even a neighbor.”
“Let’s look at the lock.”
There were no scratches, no signs of forcing. The door had two locks—an ordinary button one and a deadbolt. Without the deadbolt, a credit card could have done the honors.
“Think back,” said Skip. “Did you put the bolt on?”
“I thought I did. But I was starving—Alex was supposed to feed me, but he didn’t, the rat. And I was pissed because I had to go out to the drugstore. So I guess I could have forgotten. But I think I’d at least have remembered to close the door.”
There were windows open too—in almost every room. Someone could have come in that way and left through the door. But maybe they hadn’t. And Skip knew something Di didn’t—that the door hadn’t actually been open.
She said, “I guess you’re okay, then. I’ll get out of your hair. I just felt bad about interrupting your visit with Alex and I wanted to apologize.”
“Oh, no problem. I was done there, anyway.
Listen, I’m still starving. Want a cheese-and-tomato sandwich? I usually don’t eat cheese, but every now and then I’ve got to have protein or I feel like I’ll faint.”
Skip hadn’t eaten either, and she was so glad not to be offered a scrumptious plate of celery and carrot sticks, she accepted instantly. As Di sliced seven-grain bread, lite cheddar (no salt, no fat), and tomatoes, Skip set the table and poured iced tea.
“I’m glad you came over,” said her hostess. “You know, I always knew there was something about you you weren’t telling. I wouldn’t have picked you as a detective, exactly, but maybe as a writer or something like that. I never believed that civil-service stuff.”
“But I do have a civil-service job.”
Di set down the sandwiches, motioned for Skip to sit. “Only technically. There was something special about you, something exotic. I always saw it.” She chewed. “How’s the case coming?”
Skip nearly choked.
“You know what you should be doing? I have a feeling you should be looking in the inner-child group. Everybody in there knew that poor girl was alone at Abe’s last night. And Tom Mabus came now and then. There’s a connection there—do you see it?”
“Yes. Now that you mention it, I think I do. But you know, I’m really starting to feel close to those people. It’s hard to see anyone in there as a killer.”
“Well, you just have to be objective about it. Have you noticed how angry Alex can get?”
“Do you think he did it?”
“Alex? He’s a narcissist, but I don’t see him killing. Only in the heat of passion. Not like this.”
“How do you know these murders weren’t crimes of passion?”
“I just know.”
“How?”
“It just doesn’t feel that way to me. They’re premeditated.”
“What do you think the motive is?”
“You really want to know?”
“Sure.”
“You know I’m a therapist. I’m just not practicing now.”
“I thought you were a hypnotherapist.”
“Oh, well, I am, but you have to be a therapist first; then you learn hypnosis. It’s a specialty, not like being a paralegal or something.”
“I see.”
“Well, speaking as a therapist, I think he’s showing off. I think he’s just trying to get attention.”
