House of Blues

by Julie Smith

  She threw off her clothes as she climbed the stairs, and slipped behind the shower curtain, turning up the hot water, even though it was June, and stood there until she was cried out.

  Opening the bathroom door, she thought she heard a noise.

  "Steve?"

  The noise came again, almost like a cry. Pulling a terry-cloth robe around her, she found her gun and crept down the stairs. The noise was coming from the kitchen, pretty steadily now, and she was beginning to have a suspicion; the gun was making her feel silly, but she kept it anyway, just in case.

  She opened the kitchen door and something soft touched her leg. Her suspicion was correct—another animal. Not Napoleon because he would have barked; probably a lion cub or a ferret—small but potentially destructive.

  Actually it was another dog—or at least a dog-to-be. At the moment, it was little more than a handful of white fur with one black eye and one black ear.

  "Oh, you angel," she blurted, putting her gun on the counter and reaching down for the puppy. It was shaking. "Oh, Mama's widdle baby's terrified; never seen a great big ol' gun before. Poor widdle baby animal."

  It settled into her hand as if she really were its mama. She was just getting it calmed down when the door burst open. "Hello—oo—oo," Steve singsonged.

  He never does that, she thought. But hold it—I don't do babytalk either. The kids—both Sheila and Kenny—were with him. She had a moment of thoroughgoing gratitude that they hadn't come home in time to catch her.

  "Did you find Angel, Auntie?" Sheila was beaming, as if she'd been chosen class president. "Isn't she the sweetest? Come to Mama, baby." She reached for the puppy.

  "Angel. That's what I called her."

  "She's my dog." Kenny grabbed for her too. Angel yelped.

  "Hey. Hey," said Steve. "She's nobody's dog yet. Don't forget about Uncle Jimmy."

  Kenny's attention wandered to Skip's gun. "Hey. Were you going to shoot her or what?"

  Skip pocketed the gun. "I thought she was Napoleon."

  She regretted it as soon as she'd said it. Kenny's eyes brimmed at the memory of the big dog.

  Setting down a grocery bag of pet supplies, Steve ruffled his hair, causing Skip nearly to gasp. She'd never seen him do such a thing. When he'd arrived a week ago, he'd been pretty much of a dyed-i -n-the-wool child-hater. This dog thing was having a weird effect.

  "Hey, champ, Napoleon's going to be okay. I promise. Nothing bad's going to happen to him."

  "How dumb do you think I am? They're going to kill him."

  "No, they're not."

  "I'm not stupid."

  "They don't kill dogs that get adopted. Napoleon got adopted."

  "Oh, sure he did. Like you'd really know all about it.".

  "Well, I should. I'm the new owner."

  "What?" Skip and Sheila spoke together. Kenny's mouth dropped in wonder.

  Steve shrugged sheepishly at Skip. "I guess you'll never come visit me again, huh?"

  "You adopted that dog?"

  "Had to. They were going to kill him." He leaned against the counter with something that resembled a swagger.

  It worked like crazy with Kenny. "You did? You really did?"

  "Uh-huh. Bet you'll come visit me."

  "Can I? Hey, Skip, can I?"

  "What, and leave Angel alone?"

  "Aren't we forgetting something?" Sheila spoke severely. "We still have the James Scoggin hurdle." She still had possession of the puppy, which was starting to wriggle out of her arms.

  "Where is Napoleon?" Skip said, wanting to make sure he wasn't anywhere close.

  "Oh, they're keeping him a few more days. I paid for his vaccinations and all. Besides, they love him at the shelter. Nobody wanted to off him. Shall we unpack? See, some nice puppy food, a water dish—"

  "I'm going to put the gun away. " She pulled on some clothes while she was at it, crossing her fingers that Jimmy Dee would let them keep the puppy. He had twin soft spots for Kenny and Sheila, but she just didn't see him opting for a pet that was bound to systematically destroy his carefully decorated abode.

  Hearts were going to break, she thought.

  Let's face it, including mine. I really fell hard for the little dickens. She had a thought as she came back down the stairs: "Hey, Steve, she's not a border collie, is she? She looks kind of like one."

  "Why?"

  "They're murder. They herd you and all your neighbors. And they have to run a lot. Also, they're smarter than most humans. I find that an unsettling quality in a dog."

  "Nah. She couldn't possibly be one." He tweaked the puppy, distracting her from Kenny's shoelace, which she was enthusiastically masticating.

  "By the way, how come you're babysitting? Did Jimmy Dee go out or something?"

  "I don't think so. He's making cannelloni for Layne. When Kenny saw it, he said such rude things I felt sorry for Uncle Jimmy and offered to take the kids to McDonald's."

  "I did not!"

  ''Well, the look on your face said it all. Anyway, I brought them over here and cast my evil spell first. We were kind of hoping you'd be back in time to go with us."

  "I got delayed." She hoped her face didn't betray too much, but it must have told him something.

  "How's Jim?"

  She shook her head briefly, telling him to shut up. "Let's take Angel over to the Big House."

  "Okay," said Steve. "Everybody ready?" He was a regular dad all of a sudden.

  "Kenny, you take Angel," said Sheila. "You can be last."

  It was uncharacteristically generous, but Skip figured she had a reason—she had a flair for drama.

  "Uncle Jimmy! We've got something to show you."

  He and Layne were in the living room having coffee. "Hey, everybody. What took you so long?" They were twin souls of civility. Skip didn't want to think about how a dog could disrupt the momentarily peaceful household.

  "We had to make some stops," said Sheila.

  "Where's Kenny?"

  "He's bringing up the rear."

  "What are you showing me?"

  "Kenny's got it."

  Here goes, thought Skip. His last normal moment. After this, everything changes.

  "Oh, Kenny, you can come in now." Sheila hummed the wedding march. Skip and Steve joined in. Catching on, Kenny came in haltingly, in time with the music.

  "Oh, my God, it's a puppy. Kenny Ritter, you get that creature out of here this instant."

  "But she's beautiful," said Sheila.

  "The only thing worse than a big dog is a little dog." Kenny held the puppy to his uncle's face, which she obligingly licked.

  "Help, I've been kissed by a dog."

  ''Look how cute she is."

  "She had the audacity to lick me."

  Layne said, "My God, that's the cutest thing I ever saw in my life."

  Dee-Dee glared at him. "Et tu, Brute."

  "Oh, for Christ's sake, James—quit camping it up and look at her. Is that a face you can resist?" He held his hands out for Angel, who came to him with full tail wags. "Ohhh, look at the widdle thing. How can big ol' mean Jimmy Dee say no to a little ol' ball of fur like this?"

  "I can't stand it! You're all disinherited—including you, Aphrodite." Meaning Skip.

  "Aphrodite," said Sheila. "Maybe we should call her that instead of ‘Angel.' "

  Layne said, "How about Elsie? I had an aunt named that."

  "I'm leaving." Dee-Dee stood up. "Wait a minute, what am I doing? She's leaving."

  He pointed portentously at the wriggling furball. "I mean it, Kenny. No dogs. Period."

  He sounded so intractable that even Skip felt herself shrinking slightly. Worried, she glanced at Kenny. He was fighting his disappointment, but it was winning. His face twisted, a horrible, cracked half scream escaped his throat, and tears began to stream.

  To Skip's amazement, Steve stepped forward and put an arm around the boy's shoulders. "It's okay, son. You can come to my house and visit Napoleon. Anytime you want, honest."

>   "Major grouch," said Sheila, almost in wonder, as if she were witnessing a spectacle of some sort.

  Layne handed the dog to Jimmy Dee. "You can be so heartless sometimes." He was fumbling in his pocket for something.

  Dee-Dee stared at the tiny black and white face. "You are pretty cute, you know that?" He patted her. She wagged her tail and wiggled. He looked at Kenny, whose face had now taken on a pathetic hopefulness. He handed her to him.

  "Okay, you can keep the damn dog."

  Both Kenny and Sheila began doing war whoops, which terrified Angel so much she began yipping. The noise was so shrill Skip was tempted to cover her ears, but she didn't want to take any chances with Uncle Jimmy's largesse.

  "What is it, Layne?" asked Steve.

  Layne had now found a handkerchief and appeared to be crying into it, moved to tears by the happy domestic scene. He sneezed. "I think I'm allergic to her."

  16

  When they were alone, Steve found Skip's white terry-cloth robe, pulled her T-shirt over her head, and held the robe for her. "Let me take off your jeans."

  She stood still while he wriggled them off.

  "Now. Tell me about Jim."

  She felt her mouth go funny on her. When she could control it, she said simply, "He died."

  "I'm sorry." He held her, not saying anything, and it occurred to her that there were no suitable platitudes when a policeman was killed. You couldn't say, "It happens," or "Every cop knows the risks," or anything else that would remind the officer you were trying to comfort of her own mortality.

  Her fragility, Skip thought. Sometimes I think we're all just hanging on by threads.

  "There's more," she said. "O'Rourke blamed me for it in front of everybody."

  "So he's dead too, of course."

  She surprised herself by laughing. "Well, he is in the hospital."

  She told the story with an exuberance that surprised her, and when it was over, found herself wandering inevitably back to her grief. She ended up crying in Steve's arms, inordinately grateful that he was there.

  He pushed her back against the pillows and loosened the belt of the robe, so that it fell away from her. "We're alive," he said, and kissed her, and then kissed her breasts.

  He kissed her and stroked her a long time in a quiet, sensuous way that was almost like a massage. She put a hand between his legs, just to see what was happening, and found him hard. Her mood changed in an instant from languorous to passionate.

  She unzipped him lazily, thinking of ways to prolong the moment, but he was having none of it, and as it happened, that suited her too. She wrapped her legs around him as he buried himself in her, and in that moment life seemed so sweet she actually felt she tasted it, like honey on her tongue.

  * * *

  The next morning she woke up feeling as depressed as she ever had been in her life.

  As she got dressed, she realized she had no plan for the day. She tried to think what to do.

  Jim had died and a new life—albeit a canine one—had come to her. This was both the cruelty and the beauty of nature. She could have gotten into "giveth and taketh away" if she'd thought in those kind of terms.

  Something was nagging at her, nibbling at the edge of her consciousness.

  Old stuff, new stuff, dead stuff, You're going crazy, Skip baby. You didn't invent the life cycle, you know.

  So why can't you get it out of your mind?

  An image came into focus. A baby, from the photograph Sugar had shown her. Sally.

  Skip's stomach turned over.

  Where is she?

  Is she with her mother?

  Where the hell is that kid?

  Carleton—who was quite a bit older than me—and Carleton always said I was way too hard on Arthur—that he was trapped.

  "Trapped by his God, first of all—he thought he just had to be religious, when he was really a brutish old bastard who didn't have a spiritual bone in his body. But most of all trapped by being an Hebert—life was running the restaurant, and you didn't ask questions about it.

  "Of course, Sugar just made him feel more trapped than ever—she never saw anything like him in her life. Had a blind date with him while she was at Sacred Heart and married him just as soon as she could get herself pregnant. Poor man never knew what hit him."

  "Is she the jealous type?"

  "Now that I wouldn't know. I don't really know her personally."

  "She seems to have the idea that you and Arthur were lovers."

  "Lovers!" She hooted. "Lovers!" She leaned back in her chair and laughed until she actually had to wipe away tears. "Oh my God, I'd rather go to bed with Ross Perot. Can you imagine what kind of little skinny thing he's got down there? Oh, my God. Lovers! Let me tell you something—I'm sure the only thing he ever loved was his damned restaurant."

  Skip laughed. "Are you saying you weren't lovers?"

  "I'm saying if he'd touched me, I'd have broken out in hives." She checked her skin, as if the mere thought might cause eruptions.

  Skip was trying hard to retain a professional demeanor. Anne Ebanks was lively, bawdy, and funny—somebody she'd love to be friends with. But she might be a liar. Fighting hard not to smile, she said, "You were his lawyer. Do you know if he had any enemies?"

  "He had hundreds of them. I'm sure his wife must have thought the world of him—there's no accounting—but aside from Sugar, I can't think of a soul who could stand him."

  "I meant the sort who'd have reason to kill him."

  She opened her arms, causing a great jangling of bracelets.

  "Cast of thousands."

  Skip waited, trying to set a tone: This is no time for horsing around.

  "But I don't know of any who actually threatened his life."

  Ebanks spoke more quietly, perhaps having gotten the message.

  "I'll try to make my next question as general as I can—were you and Arthur recently working on something requiring long, confidential phone calls?"

  Ebanks swiveled jerkily, raising an eyebrow; the effect was curiously like a stage double-take. "Why, no," she said, sounding unsure of it.

  Skip was silent, giving her time to process it.

  "So there were phone calls—that must be where she got that ridiculous idea." She drummed pink, perfect nails, staring into space. "Another Anne, maybe. Anything's possible, but I can't imagine who'd put up with him." She refocused on Skip. "Oh, yes, I can—somebody young and dumb. These old coots can always get them.

  "Tell me something—why can't women? I'd just love a strapping young creature myself, wouldn't you? Oh, no, you're young, you've probably already got one. I'd like a zookeeper, say; someone who's kind to animals. I've got plenty of money and tons of energy—why can't I have one?"

  Skip gave up the struggle not to laugh; Ebanks probably carried on this way in court, and maybe at funerals. "I'm sure you'll get whatever you want. Mind telling me about the will?"

  "Arthur's?" She inspected her perfect nails. "I guess I can. It hasn't been admitted to probate yet, but it became an operable legal document when he died. Sure, I can tell you—simple usufruct, with the children as naked owners. Don't you love the way we talk in this garne? It means Sugar, as usufructuary, can use the property till she dies or remarries; after that, it goes to the kids." She shrugged. "How conventional can you get? I'm falling asleep just thinking about it."

  Skip left, feeling buoyed by the sheer exuberance of the woman. From what she'd heard of Arthur Hebert, Anne probably wasn't kidding around—he just didn't sound like her type. She was right about somebody young and dumb—if Arthur had a lover, it was almost certainly someone like that.

  Or someone young and grasping.

  She hit the streets and showed her pictures at more hotels, once again striking out.

  Then she headed back to the office. It was nearly time for the lineup. Two of the men in it had prominent lower lips, like the kid she'd seen at the Iberville. Two others didn't, and these she quickly eliminated.

  T
he first two were the right height and build; in fact, they looked so much alike they could have been brothers. She searched both faces, looking for nuances she remembered, clues that would jog her memory.

  But in the end she couldn't be sure. She beat her fist against her face, out of pure frustration. "Sylvia, I hate this. Those guys look so much alike, it's a good thing they're dressed differently."

  "Does either of them look like the right kid?"

  "That's the hell of it—they both do."

  "Damn."

  "Yeah."

  "Melancon's got a very nasty record. He's a damn good candidate."

  "Well, I'd pick him out if I only knew which way to point."

  Skip was instantly sorry for the sarcasm, but Cappello was unfazed. "Do me a favor, okay? Would you please get some sleep tonight?"

  Steve was home when she got there, in the courtyard with the kids and Angel. They were playing a game she thought was a poor idea, which seemed to involve letting the puppy chase everyone and bite their ankles.

  "Hey, Skip."

  "Hey, Auntie."

  "Hello, everybody and their animal." They paid her no mind as she crossed through. She went upstairs and threw on an oversized T-shirt and a pair of Steve's shorts. When she came back down, Steve was in the kitchen, stirring a pitcher of lemonade. "Look what I made you."

  "What happened to the kids?"

  "Uncle Dee-Dee called them. He's getting to like the dog, by the way."

  "Who wouldn't? He just had a hard time making up his mind to say good-bye to his expensive furnishings. Now it's done and they'll all live happily ever after." She accepted a glass.

  "Let's go out to the courtyard."

  There was a metal table and chairs outside, and the merest hint of a breeze.

  Watching Steve sipping his lemonade, wearing shorts exactly like the ones she had on, so comfortable here, she felt a twinge.

  "What?" he said.

  "Oh, nothing. I wish you could stay longer, that's all."

  "Well, so do I, but now I've got the damned dog to rescue."

  "Napoleon."