The Kindness of Strangers (Skip Langdon Mystery #6) (The Skip Langdon Series)

by Julie Smith

  “I guess I did, Daddy. I apologize, sir.”

  “Don’t ‘sir’ me. You only call me sir when you know damn well you’ve done something wrong. Potter, I just don’t know what I’m gon’ do with you. I can’t take your insubordination too much longer. Some things you just don’t do. And you do ‘em anyway. I swear to God, I’d fire your ass if I could.”

  The thing about Daddy was, he was always right. Potter had known better than to pry into his private life.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  THEY DROVE FOR a long time. Torian had to go to the bathroom so bad she whimpered inside her gag.

  Finally, Paulette stopped the car, went somewhere, came back and said, “Y’all must be ‘bout to die back here, po’ little things.”

  She was the old Paulette, the one who was like a nice mom.

  “I’m gon’ untie ya, and we gon’ go in and pee.”

  It was still dark, and the rain was relentless now. The wind was so fierce the girls staggered on the short walk to a small asbestos-shingled house. It was as poor a little shack as Torian had ever seen, and there didn’t seem to be much else around. It was too dark to tell, but there weren’t streetlights. Torian didn’t think they were in a city.

  Her muscles were so cramped from the ropes and from lying down in the van, her bladder so stretched, that at first she was aware only of herself. Her body. She realized gradually that there were other people here, a man and a woman, who’d obviously been waked from a sound—and possibly drunken—sleep.

  The man wore an ancient plaid flannel robe, too hot for early September, now worn so thin it was probably fine. He was dark and tall, but lean, his longish hair graying, his mustache still dark. Torian classified him as semi- old—fifty-five, perhaps.

  The woman was also dark and thin, the kind of thin that derives partly from genes and partly from smoking too many cigarettes. She looked stringy to Torian—her face was long, her hair lank, her body bony. She wore a garment Torian had seen in plenty of stores and catalogues, but rarely on a human being: a nightgown. This was a thin cotton one, white with tiny green polka dots, sleeveless, with some sort of inset under the boobs—a satin ribbon, perhaps, so that it was vaguely A-shaped. On her feet she wore fuzzy pink slippers in the shape of pig heads. A haze of cigarette smoke engulfed her.

  The man seemed to be keeping up a relentless, angry harangue, the woman interjecting shrill comments whenever she saw fit. Both spoke with a heavy Cajun accent.

  “Paulette, Paulette, Paulette.” The man shook his head in thorough disapproval. “Years we don’t see ya, and then ya come running from the law. What ya got, two girls? Three? What we gon’ do with ya, huh?”

  “Black as the ace of spades,” said the woman. Her voice had the clipped, hard cadence, the perennial anger and heavy judgment developed over a lifetime of unhappiness and disappointment.

  Faylice put a hand on her hip. “I s’pose your shit don’t stink.” Her shorts looked as if they’d been worn for a week. In spite of her weariness, Torian half smiled: Go, Faylice.

  “Denis, ya hear that? Ya hear? Comes right in my house, talks ta me like that. Little fat nigra girl.” Her already irritating voice now carried a note of outrage— the world had treated her as badly as she feared it would.

  Torian tuned the others out, trying to take in the inside of the shack.

  The furniture was worse than hers and Lise’s—older and cheaper, if that was possible, and in much worse taste. Covered with that rough, ugly fabric that seemed to come always in plaid. Herculon? She wasn’t sure. There were doilies, too. This was something she’d only read about. The place smelled musty, and dirty somehow, as if there was a huge accumulation of dust under beds and on baseboards, caught in curtains and on doodads, permanently embedded in sofas and chairs. An old stained blanket was spread on the sofa, making her think that whatever was under it was even worse. She didn’t want to sit down.

  “So, Paulette, why ya kidnap these girls?”

  “Daddy, look. Ya my blood kin. I got no one else. We got to have a place to stay for a while.”

  “We gon’ be in jail by mornin’, every one of us,” said the woman. “If we’re not dead from that hurricane.” She took a long drag on her cigarette and blew it out fast.

  Denis said, “Ya gon’ bring bad things on all of us. Ya got to get these chirren out of here.”

  “Daddy, ya gon’ throw ya only kin out in a hurricane?”

  “Hurricane! Pah. They always say there’s gon’ be a hurricane, it never comes. Look—we still got power. There ain’t gon’ be no hurricane, Paulette. Ya b’lieve everything ya hear on TV?”

  “It’s supposed to hit New Orleans at three-thirty. Look at that rain. You don’t b’lieve—?” Paulette shook her head. “It’s comin’, Daddy.”

  “Goddammit, Denis, I tol’ you! Ya wouldn’t b’lieve me and we gon’ be killed. Now it’s too late to get anywhere.”

  “Tootie, shut up! I gotta think.”

  It occurred to Torian that these two had probably done quite a bit of drinking before going to bed.

  The smoking woman looked panic-stricken. “My daddy was killed in a hurricane, ya know that, Denis. I don’t take no chances with ‘em. Denis, we got to get out of here. We can’t stay here in no hurricane.”

  Denis was fumbling with a radio. “Shut up, Tootie. Tootie, will ya just shut up?”

  “Daddy, listen. I been working with the Reverend Errol Jacomine. Ya know? Who’s runnin’ for mayor?”

  “Oh, yeah? He used to stay in St. Martinville—ya cousin Eddie knew him, got us over there to see him once.”

  Tootie said, “Ya just had to go to that revival. Wrecked ya car on the way back.”

  “You the one got rid ya arthritis.”

  “I did not—my left shoulder’s been killin’ me.”

  “Daddy, I been doin’ this work for him, with runaway kids. He axed me to bring these girls up for a few days. They’re in some kind of trouble—”

  Tootie said, “You rite they in some kind of trouble.”

  “You tellin’ me the truth? That Reverend Jacomine sent these kids up here?”

  “That’s what I been trying to tell you.”

  “He remember me, then? He remember that night we came up to hear him?”

  “Sure. Course he did, Daddy.” Torian thought Paulette looked at him for the first time with affection.

  “Listen.” He turned on the radio. “Y’all be quiet. Here comes the weather report.”

  Hurricane Hannah was still headed toward New Orleans, coming in up Barataria Bay. Winds were still about ninety miles per hour, but she might be slowing a bit.

  Denis said, “That puts her just west of New Orleans and east of Houma. Guess she’ll get us about the same time she gets New Orleans.”

  Paulette said, “Daddy, ya gotta let us stay. Ya wouldn’t throw ya only kin out in a storm, would ya?”

  Tootie was having a small conniption. “Girl, nobody can stay here in a hurricane. Ya must take after ya mama. Don’t have the sense God gave …”

  Denis hit her. Not hard, Torian thought, and not on the face, but she heard flesh connect with flesh. She turned away.

  “Ya know better than to talk about Marie. I don’t know why I ever married ya. Ya not fit to wipe her shoes.”

  “Daddy! After the way you treated Mama!” Denis looked as if he might come after Paulette next. She took a step back and composed herself. “Now listen, y’all. I got three chirren here and a hurricane’s comin’. Could y’all pick another time to fight?”

  Denis said, “‘Tootie, get ready. We gotta get outta here. Paulette, ya comin’ with us. We can’t none of us stay here in that storm.”

  * * *

  Skip thought: I can call Jane Storey. Like people in AA; whenever the thing’s got you…

  Wait a minute! Gloria mentioned a support group for former church members. If she knows about it, Mrs. Sauter probably does.

  Quickly, Skip found a pay phone, but it was dead. She
found another—also dead. And suddenly, it began to dawn on her that she was soaked to the skin; Spanish moss was blowing off the trees, some of which were straining, as if limbs were soon to follow.

  Is this really it? she thought.

  Already?

  She looked at her watch.

  Yes. The beginning of it anyway. The storm was going to get worse, and already the phone lines were out.

  I wonder if they’re down at Headquarters?

  Or home. I should go to the Quarter. If I can’t get Mrs. Sauter, I can try Gloria.

  Electricity was out in most of the city. It was eerie driving the deserted streets, a tempest blowing—the “felon winds” of some forgotten poem—the city dark as the sea. Skip had a sudden surge of loneliness—and of fear, not for Sheila, but for herself. It wasn’t fear of Jacomine or Menard, or even fear of the storm. It was more an existential kind of fear, a sense of being a grain of sand and knowing it would soon be high tide.

  “Paranoia,” she muttered to herself, and rocked in her seat, trying literally to shake it.

  I wonder if I should just go get some sleep for a couple of hours? Or turn it over to the real cops.

  Uh-uh. The only advantage I’ve got—if I have any—is that the bad guys are asleep and I’m on the road.

  There were no lights in the French Quarter, which meant Gloria’s doorbell wouldn’t be working. Shouting was a possibility, but she didn’t think she could be heard above the wind.

  Well, first things first.

  Skip went home and tried her phone—dead. She pickedup her gun, flashlight, and radio and left again, not even waking Steve.

  She dragged her gun back and forth on Gloria’s metal gate until finally the tousle-headed man opened his door. This time, he came awake instantly: “Oh, shit. Don’t shoot.”

  She was on the verge of saying she was a cop, but stopped herself at the last second. With Mitchell, she might get away with it. But for all she knew, this guy was a cop himself.

  She tried to hold the gun in such a way as to suggest she hardly knew what it was. “Sorry, I just needed to make a lot of noise. I know it’s late, I’d never have done it except… it’s about Gloria’s mother.”

  “Oh, shit,” he said again, and started to close the door.

  “I can shoot through it, you know.” His eyes jerked from his task back to her and registered that she was now holding the gun very professionally indeed.

  “Uh … I guess you want to get in.”

  “You got it.”

  He opened the gate and went back to his warm bed— or more likely, fled into the night, convinced she’d shoot him as soon as she’d finished off Gloria.

  The setup was like Skip’s and Jimmy Dee’s, Big House in front, slave quarters in back; Gloria and her roommate apparently lived in the latter.

  The ground floor was lit up, and loud music poured out of it. Pam Tillis singing “Mi Vida Loca.”

  Skip banged out the police knock.

  Gloria pulled the curtain aside, then flung open the door. “Get your butt in here. There’s a storm, girl. Haven’t you heard?”

  “Hurricane party?”

  “Old New Orleans thang. You met my roommate? Suzanne Shasta.”

  “Skip Langdon. Listen, Gloria, I have to throw myself on your mercy.”

  “What you drinkin’?”

  “I’d love to, but I can’t, thanks. I’m still looking for my kid.”

  “Hey, Suzanne, she’s the one I thought was from P-FLAG.”

  “Gloria, this is serious.”

  Gloria’s tone changed instantly. “Hey, I don’t think we invited you.”

  Skip made her voice extremely low, trying not to sound melodramatic. “My daughter’s life may be at stake.”

  The roommate intervened. “Hey. Hey, sit down, okay?”

  Skip looked at Suzanne for the first time. In some ways, she was almost indistinguishable from Gloria— hugely overweight, large of tit, buzz cut, a lot of earrings. But her face was rounder and softer. Her hair—what there was of it—was dark like Sheila’s, and her cheeks were as red, her skin as white. She was probably in her late twenties, but to Skip she looked like her kid. Skip sat down, feeling a sudden wave of something like defeat.

  Suzanne turned down the CD player. “Would you like some tea? Gloria! Put some water on.”

  Her friend obeyed, slightly sullen.

  “I know it’s awful to turn up at midnight, but all the phones are dead. I can’t get your mother.”

  “I thought you were going to call her right away.”

  “I did, and she gave me a lead that—frankly—might save Sheila …”

  “Sheila! That’s right, you said you lived in the Quarter. Chubby girl, looks like Suzanne? Hangs with that skinny little Torian. The two of ‘em call me St. Ann.”

  “That’s her. Torian’s missing too.”

  “God, they practically live at the deli.”

  “Yeah, that’s probably what folks at Croissant D’Or say.”

  “‘Torian came in once with a blond guy about twice her age.

  “That man was Errol Jacomine’s campaign manager. He was murdered yesterday. He introduced Torian and Sheila to a woman in the church, and now they’re all missing.”

  Suzanne said, “My God,” and Gloria turned around to stare at her.

  Apparently, that put things in perspective. Gloria seemed to sober up instantly. “What woman?”

  “Paulette Thibodeaux.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding!”

  Skip’s pulse speeded up. “You knew her?”

  “Yeah. Yeah. I’m just trying to get the hang of this.”

  “Listen, time’s running short. Tell me everything you know about her.”

  “We sang in the choir together. And we were both in this church support group. All the Jacomeanies had to be in one. Kind of a cross between a twelve-step program and an old-time therapy group. Personally I think it was just their way of spying on people; finding out their weak spots.”

  “You talked about personal stuff in the group?”

  “Mostly, yeah. Relationship stuff.” She cut her eyes at Suzanne.

  Skip could barely speak in a normal tone. “So you know something about Paulette’s personal life?”

  “It was awhile ago.” She put a hand to her head and closed her eyes. “Boyfriend. Yeah. You know there were always rumors about her and Daddy—that’s what they call Jacomine, did you know that?”

  Skip only nodded, not wanting to stop the flow.

  “She said she’d had a terrible disappointment—I guess Daddy must have dumped her. And she met this dude, Mike, when she had a broken heart. He was real nice to her, but there were problems. See, he was a former dope dealer…”

  Skip couldn’t stand the suspense. “Mike who?”

  “Oh, Aaron; Mike Aaron. I know because he sang in the choir too—I used to see them together. I guess that’s how they met.”

  “You wouldn’t know where he lives, by any chance?”

  “Sure. He had a little picnic at his house once, for the choir. Let’s see—was Paulette there? No, I don’t think so. She probably didn’t want Daddy to know about him—probably didn’t realize somebody in the group was reporting every word.”

  “How do you know that?”

  She shrugged. “It just stands to reason.”

  “Listen, can I have his address?”

  She could hardly sit still while Gloria got her Rolodex and looked it up.

  As soon as Skip opened the door, she realized that the full force of the hurricane had hit. She was nearly blown over the second she stepped onto the flagstones. Her umbrella was stupid, worthless against the downpour, a joke in the wind.

  Her hair flew in her face and wind blew up her nose, forcing her to open her mouth. She could feel her cheeks puff out, and she realized her eyelids wouldn’t work, her eyes were pasted open. This, she thought, is why bikers wear goggles.

  She let the wind take her to the far wall of the
courtyard, which fortunately was on the side with the gate. There she held onto the wall, to a tree, to anything she could until she reached the shelter of the narrow passage between the wall and the main house. Unwilling to go out themselves, Suzanne and Gloria had lent her a key. Struggling to unlock the gate, she could feel minutes ticking away.

  She had to get to her car by the same method she’d used in the courtyard—leaning against walls, holding onto whatever was there. Almost everyone had closed their shutters against the storm, but one home owner, evidently away, had left his to flap in the gale. Skip watched as the wind ripped it off its hinges, and hoped the power lines wouldn’t be next. Random debris already clogged the street, mostly small branches. Driving was going to be hell.

  Because no one was out, even in the French Quarter, she’d been able to park close by. Bits of trees and plant debris formed a light carpet on her car.

  Mike Aaron lived in Bucktown, out by Lake Pontchartrain. There might not be flooding there, she thought. Part of Bucktown was within the levee system.

  It didn’t matter. She was going to try anyway.

  Surprisingly, the streets were fairly clear. There were no floods and only smallish branches. She had to stop only once to clear a path.

  Not wanting to walk in on a band of armed fanatics, she cased the house like a burglar. She wished she’d thought to ask what kind of car Paulette drove. But there was one car in the driveway, and one parked in front; she drew hope from that.

  Sunrise was still hours away, the sky still dark with the storm, the lights still out. With her flashlight, she could see that Mike Aaron took pride in his house. It was neat and newly painted. The front curtains were drawn.

  She moved to the side, using her now-familiar method of hanging onto anything that wasn’t flying through the air. The curtains were drawn here as well.

  Damn. I’m out here without backup. I wish I’d brought Steve. But I can’t go back in this storm.

  The backyard—probably where the choir had had its picnic—was enclosed by a Cyclone fence. She opened the gate and nearly slipped on a carpet of wet grass— more evidence of Aaron’s house pride.

  She wondered what kind of man he was—former dope dealer was all she knew. On the surface, he was somebody who had simply “found Jesus” and used religion to leave behind an old way of life. He could be an innocent drawn to Jacomine’s good works—and possibly their beneficiary. Or he could know all too well about the violence; be a willing participant in it.