by Smith, Julie
Her voice was getting shrill.
“Oh, I don’t need anything. I should be home working on my opera.”
“Right, Mom. That’s what you always say. Why should today be any different just because your only son’s dead?”
Marguerite felt quick tears spring to her eyes. “Well, you look like you’re dead—wearing black all the time, red lipstick, ten holes in each ear and as if that weren’t enough—”
“Mom!”
“—another in your nose.”
“Mom, we’ve been over and over that.”
“You’re such a pretty girl. You have lovely features and beautiful hair—gorgeous blue eyes. But nobody notices because all they see are the holes.”
“You’re exactly like your mother, you know that?” People in Saks were starting to stare.
“You don’t even know my mother. You weren’t old enough to know her before she lost it.”
“Pearce Randolph told me about her.”
“Pearce? How do you know Pearce?”
“From the TOWN. Geoff took me to a couple of their dinners. I said you were always complaining about my piercings, and he told me a story you told him. About a guy you dated— before you married Leighton, I guess. She told him he had lovely features and lovely eyes, but nobody could see them because his hair was long.”
“At least he didn’t have a nose ring.”
“Mom, will you back off?” Neetsie spoke sharply, in a voice different from the habitual ones they used for bickering, a voice that meant business. Marguerite felt the tears sting again.
“Oh, honey, I just love you so much, that’s all. You know how proud I am of you. Last year, when you did The Ballad of the Sad Cafe, I thought you should be on Broadway, you were so hot. You were great, you know that. I just want—”
“You just want me to be perfect.”
“Is there something wrong with that? Is that too much to hope for my one and only child? You’re the only child I have left, do you realize that? Cole just never seems to get it together, year after year after year….”
“Oh, come on, how about you? You’ve been working on your ‘opera’ for twelve years. Or so you say—nobody’s actually seen you doing it.”
“Why is this necessary? Why are you trying so hard to wound me?”
“Look, Mom, let’s go back to Maison Blanche. I’ll just get that first dress. It’ll be okay. You could get a suit, maybe. You’d look wonderful in a really sharp black suit. With a deep blue silk blouse, maybe. Subtle; almost black itself. A midnight blue, sort of.”
“I can’t afford anything like that. You know I can’t, Neetsie. I haven’t had any money for so long, and all my clothes are full of moth holes—and fifteen years old, too. You just don’t know how hard it is.”
Neetsie looked alarmed. “Mom, let’s go to the ladies’ room.”
She turned on her heel, apparently perfectly confident that Marguerite would follow. Which she did, tears streaming, hardly able to see in front of her.
She had blown it again. She had meant to say how proud she was of Neetsie, to convey somehow how much she loved her, and that if she’d just respect herself a little more, she could live up to what Marguerite knew to be her true potential. She was beautiful, she was talented, she was nearly perfect. Why not go for the whole ball of wax? Marguerite just couldn’t understand it.
When they were there, in the ladies’ room, Neetsie said, “Mom, are you okay? You seem really out of it.”
“Geoffrey—”
Neetsie shook her head. “You sure? You sure that’s all?”
Marguerite leaned on the vanity top. She felt sobs welling up in her diaphragm.
“That’s it, Mom. That’s it. That’s just what you need. Go ahead and cry all you want to.” Neetsie left for a minute and came back with a huge wad of toilet paper, which she handed to her mother.
Marguerite dabbed at her eyes, embarrassed, hoping no one would come in and catch her bawling in the bathroom.
There was something else, all right. She hadn’t felt this stressed out since the day Geoffrey had died.
She was terrified. The thought of seeing Mike Kavanagh filled her with dread.
And he was sure to be at the funeral, had insisted on keeping up a relationship with Geoff long after the marriage was over (never mind the fact that the boy hadn’t cared two figs for him).
When the sobs started to subside and the toilet paper was saturated, Marguerite looked into the round blue eyes of her daughter (Cole’s eyes; Neetsie had been so lucky to get them) and she saw how sad they were.
“Neetsie. Neetsie, could I just ask you a question? You know I don’t ask you for much.”
Neetsie pulled together a smile. “Sure, Mom.”
“Could you take out the nose ring for the funeral? Would that be possible at all?”
* * *
Cole picked up the phone and dialed the nursing home. “This is Coleman Terry, Marguerite Terry’s husband. I don’t know if you know that there’s been a death in our family—we’d like Mrs. Julian to go to the funeral with us.”
He waited as the secretary got his mother-in-law’s chart, as she conferred with doctors, nurses, probably administrators. Eventually, he was told he could come get Mrs. Julian the next morning, but that, as usual, he shouldn’t expect her to know anybody.
Next he got out the vacuum. These sorts of chores usually fell to him. Marguerite took care of her animals and her garden; sometimes she cooked a little; she may have worked on her opera, he wasn’t sure. She was a creative person, not one for the constant repetition of household chores; a fair flower of the South who needed to be taken care of, not the sort to get her hands dirty, and it was Cole’s privilege to assume her care. He only wished he could do it better. His pending deal had to work out… it just had to.
The house was falling apart and if he were any kind of husband, he’d take care of it, he’d have the place full of maids and gardeners and contractors. Sometimes Marguerite got so frustrated she flew into rages, and he didn’t blame her. He felt like raging himself, but he couldn’t, he had to keep working, he had to keep the family together. She was especially fragile right now, with this tragedy, Geoff’s terrible death.
But there was a bright side: At least it wasn’t Neetsie. She loves that kid like she never did love Geoff. I probably feel worse about him than she does.
God, if it had been Neetsie, I’d probably have had to check Marguerite into the hospital with her mother.
He changed the attachment and began to vacuum the furniture, shocked at how dusty it was, how deep was the cat hair. He didn’t know if there’d be visitors after the funeral, but if there was even one, it was worth cleaning. Otherwise they might get reported to the health department.
In fact, if anyone from the TOWN came, everybody else on the whole damn network would know the condition of the Terry household, down to the last flea on Toots.
I wish I’d never gotten Geoff on that damn thing! Hell, I wish I’d never joined it myself—waste of time, and not only that, it’s not safe. All that speculating, that monitoring of people by strangers—
He smiled grimly even as he had the thought, remembering that it had been very unsafe indeed for his stepson. But he was disturbed by what had come after as well. It was sudden and creepy and unexpected—the energy behind it, the taking on of a murder as if it were a hobby.
The whole phenomenon made him mad, especially that Pearce Randolph, whipping up these young kids, these marginal personalities—getting them all worked up, like he was some goddamn electronic guru. Geoff had loved him, all the kids loved him, but he rubbed Cole the wrong way.
Shit! I’ll be done with him and all his kind if only the deal works. Goddamn, if it hadn’t been for that idiot partner of mine, we could be in Costa Rica by now, Marguerite and me. Everything he’s ever done he’s screwed up. Why does God make idiots like that? Can you tell me that? Huh Mosey? Huh, Calabash? Huh, Toots? Could you tell me, please?
He spoke the last few words aloud, prompting Toots to wave her tail unenthusiastically, as if fulfilling an obligation, and then to start barking. The barking started softly and got louder.
“Hey, what’d I say? I thought you’d agree with me.”
Toots had trotted to the door, and now stood there barking at it. Cole turned off the vacuum in time to hear the last chime of the doorbell. “Oh, well, at least I got most of the cat hair.”
A large woman greeted him, six feet tall probably, and built to make an impression. She had buttoned her brown tweed blazer, something you didn’t often see women do. There was aggression in the way she stood. He had an immediate reaction against her—he couldn’t have said why, there was just something about her that was in your face.
“I’m Skip Langdon,” she said, and held up a badge. “You must be Coleman Terry.”
I should have known, he thought, as she explained she was there about Geoff. “Your wife showed me his room,” she said, “but I wonder if I could take another look.”
“Do you have a search warrant?”
“No, I just thought you might not mind. Of course, if you do—”
“Oh, no, it isn’t that. That’s just what they always say on television.”
She smiled. “We like to do things informally when we can. Is Mrs. Terry home?”
“I’m afraid not. Did you want to see her?”
“It’s okay. I can come back later. But why don’t we check Geoff’s room now?”
He stayed with her while she looked, though she conducted her search so slowly he wanted to tear the place apart for her. “Are you looking for anything special?”
He saw her hesitate, probably wondering if it was safe to ask him. She seemed to realize that at this point it made no difference, she wasn’t going to find it—whatever it was—by herself. “Do you know if he kept a journal?”
“I don’t think so. I guess I’d be surprised if he did. Geoff wasn’t a particularly introspective boy.”
“Wasn’t he? I thought he kept to himself.”
“Well, maybe he was introspective. He just never seemed all that aware of other people. Shy. Painfully shy. He was a good kid, though. A really, really good kid.”
“Were you close to him?”
“Probably closer than anybody. The way to his heart was through the computer, and I was able to introduce him to it. He liked me almost as much as the machine.” Cole gave her a big smile.
“And what did you think of him?”
“Like I said, we were close.”
“I see.”
Did she close down a little? Cole thought he saw a shadow cross her face.
“Listen, would you mind if I took his computer down to headquarters?”
“What for?”
“Evidence.”
“What sort of evidence?”
“That’s all I can really say about it. Of course, if you don’t want me to—”
“Did you want to get into his files? Is that it? See if he’s got a journal in there?”
She smiled again, but he saw the tension at the comers of her mouth. “You never know what you’ll find.”
“Seizing computers is a pretty hot-button issue. The EFF would drum me out of the country if I didn’t say something.”
“EFF?”
“Electronic Frontiers Foundation. You could just download the disks, you know. The idea is, it’s bad enough to lose your software, but if your hardware’s missing, so’s your livelihood.”
“I think in this case…”
“Yes, of course.” He shrugged. “I thought I should at least register a protest.”
She began to unplug the computer and gather it up, as if he’d given her permission. “Mr. Terry, as long as I’m here, I thought I might clear up a couple of loose ends. I’m wondering where you were when the body was found.”
“Didn’t anyone tell you? I was in Baton Rouge. That’s why it was such a horrible shock for Marguerite; she had to go through the whole thing herself. Of course I got here in a couple of hours, but it was terrible for her—all alone like that.”
“May I ask why you went to Baton Rouge?”
“Of course. It was business. I’m a partner in a software company and we’re in negotiations with a company that wants to market our product.”
“I see. And where’d you stay?”
“Oh, just a Holiday Inn.”
“Which one?”
He gave her the address. “Can I help you carry that to the car?”
“Sure.”
“By the way, did you get the floppies? He could have put anything and everything on floppies.” He rummaged through Geoff’s files. “Here they are.”
“Thanks.”
As they walked to her car, he carrying the hard disk, she the floppies, she said, “Tell me about your business.”
“Well, it’s kind of interesting, really. I had another business, an electronics store—this was, oh, years and years ago when nobody had PCs. I was one of the first on my block and I was trying to find a program to keep the books, but none of them were any good. So I designed my own, and from that moment I was hooked.
“I went out and read every book I could find about computer programming; I took my first course in it long after I’d already founded a software company.”
“You’re self-taught?”
“Except for that one course, which I just took to see if I’d missed anything.”
“And had you?”
“Not a lot.”
She opened the trunk and they packed it with Geoff’s equipment.
“That’s pretty impressive.”
“You’d really think so if you knew the rest of my history.”
“Why is that?”
“Well, I fall out of love easily.” He smiled at her. “Except with Marguerite, I mean. But I’ve had quite a few jobs—I sailed a boat around the world for a captain of industry; I went to law school and passed the bar; I founded a bluegrass band that was pretty hot up in Baton Rouge a few years back; I even taught at a state college for a while—history, one of my favorite subjects.”
“You seem like a pretty well rounded guy.”
“Not anymore, I’m afraid. For the last few years, it’s been nothing but get up in the morning and work all day, and then work half the night, then get up and do the whole thing all over again. If things had gone right, and I hadn’t fallen in with a pack of idiots, Marguerite and I’d be millionaires. But now things are taking a turn for the better. We’ve got a deal going that’s finally going to do it.”
“That’s terrific.”
“We’ve waited a long damn time for it.”
He was ready to say good-bye—he still had to mow the lawn—but she leaned lazily against the car. “Are you from Baton Rouge?”
“No. Why?”
“Because that’s where the band was.”
“Oh. Just passing through. I was born and raised in Metairie. Lived a lot of other places, though.”
“How long have you been married?”
He had to pause and figure it out—Neetsie was eighteen. “Nineteen years,” he said. “I can’t believe it.”
“That’s a long time.”
“It’s been good, though. It’s been great.”
“Happy marriages don’t come along every day.”
“Neither do women like Marguerite.”
She smiled at him more warmly, he thought, than she had before: All the world loves a lover.
It was hard to convey the way he felt about Marguerite. “Did you ever meet someone that you knew in that instant was right for you—was your life’s partner?”
“I don’t think many people do. How did you two meet?”
“Well, it wasn’t even that we met—I saw her across a crowded room and wouldn’t rest until I found out who she was. It took me an hour to work up the courage, though. Lucky for me, she was just out of a marriage to a very abusive man. What can I say? We fell desperately in love.”
“Lei
ghton or Mike?” she said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Who was the abuser?”
“I guess they both were, now that I think about it, but I met her after Mike. Otherwise I’d have snapped her up a few years earlier. Neetsie was born about a year after we got married, and meanwhile Geoff and I formed a real father-son bond. Mike had been abusive to him as well as to Marguerite; but maybe you knew that.”
She nodded, not giving anything away.
“He was withdrawn at first, but I found the cyberpunk lurking under the quiet exterior.”
Her smile looked painted on as she said good-bye, he didn’t know why. Maybe he’d run on too much. It was a habit, Marguerite had said.
CHAPTER NINE
SKIP HATED TO leave without talking to Marguerite, but she had a feeling it might be for the best—better to catch her without the doting hubby hanging around.
Cole had surprised her.
He was vaguely handsome in that clean-cut, fraternity-boy way so many New Orleans men were blessed with. But he had something else—a kind of wild energy, a charisma. He was a fast talker and a little short on modesty, but she felt herself drawn to him, drawn to the whirling center of all that electricity. How did a man like that sit at his computer all day? He seemed as if he should be out playing tennis. Not only that, how did he hook up with a dud like Marguerite?
But she must be missing something about Marguerite. The woman appeared to have had very nearly the male population of New Orleans in love with her at one time, and it didn’t seem to have abated much. What did she have that men saw and women didn’t?
Skip pulled into her parking place, thinking that the biggest mysteries she encountered weren’t always who did what to whom.
Remembering that Ted Bundy had been famous for his charm, she wasted no time checking Cole’s alibi—but his business associates confirmed the meeting he’d attended, and the Holiday Inn said he’d checked out at midmorning the day of the murder.
She turned her attention to a note she’d found on her desk when she walked in: “Call Mike Kavanagh ASAP.”
Gladly, she thought. About time we met.
Kavanagh had a classic New Orleans accent, not exactly yat, but pretty close. He said he’d be right ’dere.
