by Smith, Julie
* * *
That afternoon Skip drove home singing with the radio, knowing she was going to get a break from the case—tonight was the night she and Cindy Lou were going to see the Boucree Brothers.
She had done quite a bit of paperwork after seeing Marguerite, and she’d left work early to do some research on the computer—since she hadn’t heard from Wizard, the sysop, she’d gotten impatient; she wanted to work on Geoff’s posts on her own.
It was barely after three when she arrived home, but the day was cloudy and it was already getting dark. There was a nasty chill in the air.
But Sheila was on the patio, working on something, maybe homework.
“Hey, babe. Aren’t you cold?”
“I’m fine.” The girl didn’t look up.
Uh-oh, forget about work for a while.
“Come in, why don’t you? Let’s have some cocoa.”
“I don’t think so.”
Oh, hell, what was it going to take?
“Coffee and beignets?”
Sheila looked up. “Really? I could really have coffee?”
“Well, beignets, anyway.”
“I knew it. I knew you didn’t mean it.”
“Well, I almost meant it. Going once, going twice… yes or no to the beignets?”
“Oh, okay.”
Skip was almost disappointed, had half wished Sheila would continue to sulk and let her go about her business. “Just a second, okay? I’ve got to do a little piece of business.”
“Can I go with you?”
“Sure.”
Sheila followed her inside. “Your place is really nice.”
“But freezing. Aren’t you cold?” She didn’t take off her coat while she phoned the TOWN and left a message for Wizard. “What were you doing outside?”
“Oh, nothing.”
“I mean, why weren’t you inside?”
“I get tired of it in there.”
Skip backed off. The girl wanted to see her, that’s why she was outside. “Come on. Let’s go get those beignets.”
What was going on? she wondered. Was this a bonding attempt, or did Sheila have something on her mind? Maybe she was getting her period or something; she was about the right age.
By way of feeling her out, Skip said, “You know, Jimmy Dee was thinking of getting an au pair to stay with you and Kenny when he’s not home. But I talked him out of it. I thought you’d be involved with after-school activities, and then if you were home, there’s always Geneese.” The maid, she meant—the extremely motherly maid (Skip had seen to that) who doubled as a babysitter.
“What the fuck’s an au pair?”
“Well, you certainly are a trash-mouth.”
“Fuck you, too.”
Skip sat down. “What is it, honey? Something’s bothering you, isn’t it?”
“I hate this place, that’s all! And Uncle Jimmy and—” She was yelling, loud, but apparently she couldn’t get herself to finish.
“Me.”
Instead of answering, she turned and ran.
“Sheila!” Skip followed.
“Leave me alone!” The girl ran through the gate and back to the street, where she fumbled with her key.
“Okay. I will for now. But come talk to me when you want. I’m sorry I called you a trash-mouth—I don’t care how you talk. You can say anything you want. Really.”
Sheila gave her a glance, just once, before she disappeared, and Skip thought she’d never seen anyone look so pathetic.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SHE BOOTED UP her computer and started going through Confession again. But Geoff could have been posting in a hundred other conferences in the same time period. She needed to know his favorites. She called Lenore and Layne, got neither of them.
What did she need to do next?
Warm up. If I had a beautiful, warm room, it would be more inviting for the children, she thought.
She made herself a cup of tea and opened the phone book. Where did you order firewood? She called around, got some wood on the way, and made a vow to get some furniture. But then she had a better idea.
Art.
Which she couldn’t afford.
Well, maybe a little something. A tiny little watercolor? Something by Carol Leake. One of her garage sale things.
Or maybe a few of them.
And plants. I’ll have art and plants and a beautiful rug—no, for now, just a warm one, a nice warm gray one, to match the sofa. The kids can lie on it and play Scrabble or something.
She felt a big lump in her chest when she thought of Sheila, but she didn’t know what to do about it; the girl had Do Not Disturb signs hanging all over her.
She tried to work, but couldn’t stop thinking about Sheila. Finally, she abandoned the project and called Dee-Dee.
“Come to dinner?” he asked hopefully.
“Can’t. I’m going out with Cindy Lou.”
“Oh.”
“Maybe you should rethink the au pair.”
“Yeah, maybe I should.” He couldn’t keep the discouragement out of his voice.
And maybe, she thought when she had hung up, I should rethink the case.
The same theme kept replaying itself: I want to know more about Kit. She popped in the shower, to get her mind off it. Cindy Lou was right—you couldn’t eat, sleep, and breathe a case.
Even if you need to keep your mind off your boyfriend, who seems to be in the process of dumping you.
Well, not dumping her. Just not…
Committing?
What a stupid word! What a dumb, late-twentieth-century female cliché.
She was surprised to find herself wishing for a joint, a sign that she was depressed and hadn’t yet admitted it.
She sighed.
In the old days, Jimmy Dee would come charging through the door and hand her one, right about now. But of course there was no smoking at Chez Scoggin anymore—Jimmy Dee didn’t know all that much about being a parent, but he had caught on that you didn’t do drugs around the kids.
She was meeting Cindy Lou for dinner in a few minutes. She put on black leggings and a long green sweater that she felt matched her eyes. She thought Jimmy Dee might approve if he was still in the mode of barging in to dress her when she went out.
She felt as if she looked pretty good, pretty damned acceptable, till she saw Cindy Lou, who had on jeans, a white shirt, and a black leather jacket. People at the restaurant were whispering to each other, trying to remember what show they’d seen her on. Skip knew because it happened all the time. Sometimes they waited till Cindy Lou went to the ladies’ room and then they buttonholed Skip: “Who is that woman you’re with? I’ve seen her in commercials, but she’s got her own show now, doesn’t she?”
When they were seated (which didn’t take long; the maitre d’ seemed as friendly as anyone with a star on the premises), Cindy Lou said, “Have you heard from Steve?”
“I’ve heard a little too much from him.”
“How’s that?”
“I don’t think he’s going to be moving to New Orleans. He’s sort of hinting around that things are really great in L.A. right now.” She didn’t meet her friend’s eye, but sneaked a peek to see if she looked alarmed.
She didn’t. “Well, good. When he gets here, he’ll have some money.”
“Hey. Whose side are you on?”
“He’ll be here. The guy’s crazy about you.”
Skip didn’t answer. If a guy was crazy about you, he didn’t get your hopes up and then disappoint you. Did he? But she didn’t feel like arguing. “You’re the shrink.”
“I mean it you know. This guy is a gem. Things happen with people. Maybe he can’t move here now, and that’s just bad timing—nothing to do with his level of commitment. You’re thinking about that, aren’t you? I know you.”
Skip nodded.
“Give it some time, girl. You’re disappointed and therefore you’re pissed and I don’t blame you—I would be too. But do me a favor, okay? Count t
o ten. Give things time to shake down.”
Skip was pissed and not only at Steve. Little Miss Shrinky-Poo, she thought. How dare she? The way she runs her life.
Cindy Lou caught her look. “Oh, chill out—the music’ll do you good.”
It was true. She knew it, and when they walked into The Blue Guitar, one of the hot new spots that were popping up like weeds in the warehouse district, she was like a teenager again—a person who hadn’t yet settled on murder as a career.
Jeez. Think about it. Murder as a career. Cindy Lou’s right, it takes more out of me than I think.
In her younger days (which weren’t all that far away) she’d spent a lot of time in joints like this, swigging illegal Dixie and listening to the blues, which, she believed, had been invented just for her. Nothing else so perfectly described her miserable little life; and nothing could make her feel so alive.
She wished Sheila were old enough for this.
Cindy Lou said, “Let’s get a couple of Abitas and grab those spots over there.”
It was the kind of place where you stood, preferably as close to the stage as possible.
“Make mine a Dixie.”
“Hey, good-lookin’.”
Skip felt herself grabbed from behind. A strange black man had his arm around her.
She was tensing up, about to give him the shove he deserved when something rang a bell. “Tyrone?”
“Ms. Skip? Officer Skip?”
“I didn’t think you’d remember me.”
“How’m I going to forget you? There we are playing the JazzFest, biggest crowd we ever had, we’re trying to figure out what we did right, and you come onstage tryin’ to arrest us all.”
She laughed. That hadn’t been what happened at all, but she was pleased to be remembered.
“Are you talking to the famous Tyrone Boucree?” Cindy Lou had gotten the beers and now handed one to Skip. She turned her full wattage on him.
“Cindy Lou Wootten, Tyrone Boucree.”
“Buy you a beer?” said Cindy Lou.
“Well, no, I think Skip owes me one after nearly scaring me to death at JazzFest. In fact, I think she ought to buy the whole band a round.”
“I would, but half of them are underage.”
“I’ll have a Dixie,” he said.
Skip turned to get his beer, knowing perfectly well he just wanted some time to stare at Cindy Lou.
When she came back, he said, “Did y’all come to see us?”
“Uh-uh. We thought the Nevilles were here.”
“When our lead singer grows up a little, we’re going to give them a run for their money. Right now, it’s kind of hard, playing in places where they serve alcohol.” Someone tapped him on the shoulder. “Uh-oh, I gotta go do it. Y’all stick around. I’ll buy you a beer.” He went off toward stardom.
“Cindy Lou, he’s married, and not only that, he’s Joel Boucree’s father and Joel’s Melody’s best friend.”
Melody was a kid from another case, a kid toward whom Skip felt extremely protective.
“You don’t get it about me. When I say I have bad taste in men, I mean abysmal. Tyrone Boucree is preceded by his reputation; the nicest guy in town, right? I think New Orleans Magazine singled him out.” She wrinkled up her nose.
“Was that the problem with the Saint?”
“God, no.” She shrugged. “Maybe shrinking other people’s taking its toll. I’m just kind of tired of the game, that’s all.”
“Have you got a radio or anything? I’ve got to get a weather report.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I think hell just froze over.”
Cindy Lou turned slightly away, to hide her smile, Skip saw, and the band started up. The two women edged closer to the stage. For the next hour and a half, Skip was in a trance, moving with the music, part of the human motion machine that now filled the club, forever swelling, bouncing and bobbing, jukin’ and jivin’, in a collective world of its own.
Cindy Lou was right. She did feel better.
“That was fabulous.”
“Let’s go outside.”
The Blue Guitar boasted a courtyard, a place where you could sit and talk and cool off. Even in November, it felt good.
“Omigod, look over there.” Skip pointed at the bar.
“What?”
“Melody. Buying a beer.”
“She’s only seventeen, huh?”
“Not even that—unless she didn’t invite me to her birthday party.”
“So what are you going to do? Bust her?”
“I’ve got to do something.” She started walking. “Melody!” The girl tried to hide her beer. “Haven’t you heard? There’s cops in here.”
Melody gave her a wan smile. “Hey, Skip.”
“Come on. Let’s have a hug.”
She got one, a warm one, except for the cold bottle that pressed against her back.
“Haven’t seen you since…”
“July.”
Skip had taken her a small gift. She wanted to stay in touch, but wasn’t sure how to do it. “Hey, do you babysit?”
“Not much. Why?”
“I’ve got kids now.” She told her about Jimmy Dee and his two wards.
“Wow, weird. Can I meet them?”
“Sure. I’ll call you. I’ve got to tell you something, though. You’re breaking the law.”
Melody flushed.
“Who’re you here with?”
“Some friends from school.”
“You’re all breaking the law.”
“We have to leave, huh?”
“It’s a school night, anyway.”
“Can’t I stay a minute? Just to introduce my friends to the guys?” The Boucrees.
“Honey, I’m a police officer. What if you said, ‘Can’t I just rob that old guy over there?’ ”
“It’s not the same thing.” She started to pout.
Skip was miserable. Here was a kid she was crazy about, about to impress her friends by knowing the Boucrees, and instead she was getting them thrown out of the club. Skip truly felt for her. But before she could say a word, a genie appeared out of nowhere—a coffee-colored one, tall and reedy, about thirty or thirty-two, with close-cropped hair and a pair of eyes that didn’t miss a thing. But still, they were soft, kind eyes; eyes that could take a joke and give one back. She’d noticed him onstage and been impressed.
“Hey, Melody. I’m s’posed to be lookin’ for this big good-lookin’ tall woman. Wouldn’t be this one, would it?”
Skip liked his looks, his wiry energy, but she hated lines; obvious, unimaginative lines, at any rate. “Not unless you’re giving away money,” she snapped.
“Is your name Skip? You’re supposed to be with a bourbon and Diet Coke.”
“I beg your pardon?’
“A skinny little black bitch. ’Scuse my French; I used to be a bartender.” As if that cleared it up.
He was looking at Skip now, and his expression had changed. “I mean, I didn’t mean your friend’s a bitch. It’s just a… you know… bartender humor.”
“Oh.” She couldn’t decide whether to continue being outraged or let it go.
“Listen, Tyrone sent me. He wants to get out of here and go somewhere quiet. Y’all up for it?”
“Where’s Tyrone?’ asked Melody. “Couldn’t I just say hi to him?” Ostensibly, she spoke to the genie, but she looked at Skip beseechingly. The look said, “I’m going to die right now if you embarrass me in front of this cool dude.”
Skip nodded. What was another minute going to hurt? But she also said, “Don’t forget to give Cindy Lou her beer.”
Despite all her efforts to be cool, the genie said, “That somebody else’s beer? I was just gonna read you the riot act, child. Tyrone’s packing up in the back. Say your name, they’ll let you in.”
Melody went off to find her friends.
“I used to do that,” said Skip.
“What?”
“All that tee
nager stuff. Drink; stay out too late; lie to my parents.”
“Whoa. Didn’t we all.”
“You must be a Boucree.”
“Oh, didn’t I say? I’m Darryl. You didn’t see me on rhythm guitar?”
“Mmmm. Guess I did.”
“You didn’t really notice. That’s because I’m ugly, have no sex appeal, and women hate me. Agggg. Thanks so much.”
“Sorry. It’s just that there are so many of you.”
“And we keep switching around. I bet there are fifteen different Boucrees play different gigs, different times.” He flashed Skip a smile that could have lit the path if they’d been lost in the woods.
She found herself smiling back. Smiling and not being able to think of a thing to say, which meant her mind had been more on form than content. His form.
A bad sign, a very bad sign. Cindy Lou, where are you?
“Maybe I should find my friend.”
“Oh, yeah. The bourbon and Diet Coke. There she is. That her?”
Skip scanned the crowd. “Where?”
“Over there. The one that looks real nice. Nothing like a bitch at all.” He gave her another of his dental extravaganzas.
“Ah. The one that’s waving.” Skip beckoned her over. “Cindy Lou Wootten, Darryl Boucree.”
They said they were glad to meet each other, and Skip outlined the plan—to join the band someplace quiet.
Cindy Lou waved a manicured hand. “Sure, sure. I’m up for anything. Let’s go wait out front.”
“I’ll meet you in a minute.” The cop in her had to make sure Melody went home.
They ended up at the bar at Snug Harbor—not the world’s quietest spot, but it beat The Blue Guitar. And, face it, Skip thought, there probably weren’t that many places where a crowd of five or six black guys and two women, one of them white, would be all that comfortable.
She had a lot to catch up on with Tyrone—mostly Melody’s career. Tyrone, as the father of her pal Joel, and also just a good, strong, earthy guy, was Melody’s idea of the ideal dad. She idolized him, and also fought with him, more or less as if he were her own dad, because she knew him about that well—he was her boss. Melody was the underage lead singer Tyrone had mentioned.
There were problems, with Melody being white and everyone else black, but both sides wanted to work them out.
