Death Before Facebook

by Smith, Julie

  “Who better? We could teach Sheila the goddess made woman in her image. Healthier for a kid.”

  “A girl kid? I guess it is. It’s the weirdest thing. I never thought about it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  EARLY MONDAY MORNING, Federal Express delivered a bulging package, which Skip ripped open instantly. It was full of disks from Wizard and some printouts as well.

  Everything Geoff had ever posted and everything he’d deleted.

  She was thinking eagerly of diving in, with some of the same tingly excitement usually reserved for Linda Barnes novels, when Jimmy Dee called. “How would you like a pile of paper a foot thick?”

  “You got Layne’s program to work.”

  “Pretty neat once I figured it out. You wanted Geoff’s stuff, right? Layne wasn’t kidding, I can get you anybody’s.”

  “Geoff’s is good for openers.”

  “I’ll bring it over.”

  It looked like a long dull morning—she had Wizard’s material, and now this. She settled down comfortably with a cup of coffee.

  The deleted stuff was about the flashbacks. But why had Geoff erased it? Maybe he’d thought twice about being so public about something so private. Or maybe someone had lectured him. Since she’d been logging on, she’d wondered whether certain posters were exhibitionists or were simply deluded. She imagined Geoff sitting at his desk, Mosey on his lap, a cup of tea close at hand, enjoying the illusion of privacy; of coziness—imagining he was among friends.

  There were two provocative bits.

  In a musing on the subject, Geoff said he thought he could remember a fight. There was no mention of who fought or where. The other interesting observation was this: “Sometimes I wonder if hypnotism would work.”

  She checked Jimmy Dee’s printouts to see where and when the posts had been made. They were in the same session, but different conferences, about a week before his death. The first had been made in Confession about fifteen minutes before the other. The second, the remark about hypnotism, had been made in a conference called Irrelevant.

  If the murderer had been online at the time, he or she could have tracked what Geoff was doing; if he had software like Layne’s, he could have gotten a printout like Skip’s that would have shown the direction Geoff’s mind was taking.

  If he thought Geoff might remember through hypnosis, the need to get him out of the way would have been urgent.

  She remembered the books on hypnotism in Geoff’s room. Perhaps he had learned to hypnotize himself. Or maybe he’d seen a hypnotist or hypnotherapist. Frantically, she looked through the printouts—both Wizard’s and Dee-Dee’s—for any follow-up to the remark. But to no avail—she’d have to ask Layne and Lenore if he’d ever mentioned such a thing.

  And there was someone she could ask about the fight Geoff remembered. Marguerite had had a chance to get over the shock and it was time to see her again—to ask her some slightly harder questions this time.

  But to Skip’s disappointment Cole, her shadow and protector, answered the door.

  “Hi. I’m here to see Marguerite.”

  “1 don’t think that’s a good idea. She’s fragile today.”

  Good, Skip thought Maybe the truth’s working its way to the surface.

  She said, “I’m afraid I really have to insist.”

  “Okay.” He sounded dubious. “Come in.”

  Toots stood just inside the door, wagging her tail, not even bothering to bark.

  I’m practically a member of the family.

  The minute she thought it something dark and heavy hovered over her.

  She wished she could name it—could penetrate it and tame it. It was the unhappiness they were all sunk in—even Neetsie, who didn’t live there anymore. It was the accumulation of all the years—starting with Christina Julian, and Windy, the world’s most boring man—of disappointment and failure and eventually violence.

  Marguerite and Geoff and later Neetsie had been born into it, but Cole had been drawn to it, had volunteered for it. On the one hand, it seemed to Skip, he was bent on saving Marguerite, saving them all, and on the other he was as deeply mired in the muck as they were, and part of it was his own muck—his lifelong failure, his inability to achieve his dream.

  She felt the darkness and heaviness as distinctly as if it were a curtain.

  Marguerite entered with her customary drawn look, the one she always seemed to wear at home, and in her customary sweats. She seemed to do a lot of sleeping in the daytime.

  Cole’s arm was around her waist, guiding her. She moved with difficulty, as if she suffered a chronic illness, which was odd, Skip thought, since she hadn’t seemed ill at the funeral. He settled her on the sofa and sat next to her. “You okay, angel?”

  She gave him a long, honeyed look. “Fine.”

  He smiled back at her.

  Even with the damn black cloud, they seemed happy together.

  Skip said, “Do you think we could talk alone?”

  Marguerite looked alarmed. “Cole said—”

  “That I’d stay with her. Sorry, but today it’s got to be that way.”

  Well, what the hell. This is just Round One. Maybe I’ll ask her the same questions eight or ten times. I’ll come back every day till she cracks. “We haven’t really talked about the night Leighton was killed.”

  “Omigod!” Skip could practically see the imprint of her hand on Marguerite’s face, so vivid was the impression that she’d been struck.

  “I’m sorry, but we really have to.”

  “What is there to say?” Her voice went up with each word, ending in a high whine on “say,” so that it came out “sayyyyyy.”

  “Just tell me what happened, that’s all.”

  “It was twenty-seven years ago!”

  “Some things you don’t forget.”

  Marguerite squeezed her husband’s hand and gave an audible gulp. She spoke slowly and mechanically. “We were out. At my mother’s house…”

  “Who?”

  “Geoff and I.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “No.”

  “Go on.”

  “We were there and we came home. Leighton was dead. That’s all.”

  “Was anyone else in the house?”

  “No!”

  “Geoff remembered a fight.”

  Before Marguerite could answer, Cole did: “What do you know about Geoff? How could you possibly know that?”

  It was time to get tough with these people. “Mr. Terry, I’m a police officer. It’s my job to know things.”

  “Why should we believe you?”

  “Frankly, I don’t care if you believe me or not. Geoff remembered a fight.” She pronounced each word separately and deliberately. “Geoff was killed because whoever killed Leighton thought Geoff knew his identity. That means he—or she—was in the house at the time—”

  Cole said, “Wait a minute, wait a minute. I resent what you just said. Are you accusing my wife of killing her own son?”

  “I didn’t say that. Since we don’t know who Geoff’s killer was, I’m not assuming anything.” She paused a moment but Cole said nothing more. “He or she was in the house at the time. And Geoff almost certainly wouldn’t have been there without you, Mrs. Terry. That’s really pretty obvious, isn’t it? Am I going to ask you down to the police station to answer the really hard questions?”

  “You can’t talk to me like this.”

  “Don’t you think it’s about time you got real? Your son’s dead, Mrs. Terry.”

  Marguerite gasped. “I didn’t kill him, goddammit! I didn’t kill him!” She was getting hysterical.

  “I’m not accusing you of anything.” Yet. “But tell me something. How well did you know Mike Kavanagh before your husband died?”

  “Oh, I see what you’re getting at. Oh, yes, I see. Well, you’re barking up the wrong tree, Ms. Police Officer. I didn’t know Mike Kavanagh at all until he started showing an interest in Geoff. Long after Leighton died. L
ong after.”

  “It couldn’t have been that long. You married him eight months after.”

  Cole said, “I really think that’s irrelevant.”

  But Marguerite had somehow entered a private world of her own, seemed scarcely aware that either of the others was in the room. “I would have loved to kill Leighton. Do you have any idea how abusive he was? Can you imagine what it’s like to have your hair pulled when you come in—to be pulled around a room by your hair and thrown across a bed? Leighton did things like that because he didn’t want to leave marks. He had a thing about that—leaving marks.

  “It was always, ‘Who’ve you been in bed with, bitch?’ Not hello or good evening. Just that. Or ‘Who’d you fuck tonight?’ And a lot of hair-pulling. Sometimes slaps. But you know what he really loved? He’d hold my arm behind my back and push it up till I screamed. He’d bend my fingers back. Oh so lovingly. He just loved to do that.”

  “I guess you did want to kill him.” Maybe you even planned it. “Did you tell Mike any of this?”

  “Are you kidding? Mike thought he was a saint. Why would I tell Mike?”

  “Maybe Mike was in love with you and you wanted him to kill Leighton for you.”

  “You’re crazy, you know that? You’re just a crazy bitch.” She stood and, though she seemed unsteady on her feet, managed to look threatening. “You’re crazy nuts!” Her arms flailed in the air.

  Cole stood and caught Marguerite’s waist with both arms. “I think I’d better get her back to bed.”

  Skip left without a backward glance.

  * * *

  When the cop had left, Marguerite took two sleeping pills before Cole could stop her. It was just as well—better, because two of them at once, their fears naked and distorted the way they got, could be too much for him to handle. The other day Neetsie had had a lump in her breast; today she would probably have a stomach ulcer, and no telling what Marguerite would invent. This was the way with his women—he was used to it. They coped by hypochondria.

  It was one way, he thought. Cole needed a way right now. He almost envied them. He had a sudden desperate need to see his daughter, to make sure she was coping. Besides, he had nothing else to do. He headed his car towards All Systems Go.

  It was beginning to dawn on him that his deal had fallen apart, that it was genuinely not going to happen. He wasn’t sure what to do next. First he had to disentangle himself from Butsy; he had to deal with the IRS; he had to get Marguerite and Neetsie through the next few weeks.

  But then what? There were only two companies he could think of who really needed his software that he hadn’t yet approached. He’d have to send his suit to the cleaners, shine his shoes, and go through the whole sad business of business again.

  Meanwhile, of course, he’d start on a new project, and if all else failed, there was always moving to California and getting a job as a programmer.

  But that was wildly impractical. Marguerite was too fragile for a move right now. And the house, in its current condition, would be worth practically nothing if they tried to sell it.

  Then there was leaving Neetsie. He just didn’t think he was up to that. He’d been the strong one for so long, but there were certain things even he couldn’t do.

  They had royalties coming in from a couple of old programs he’d licensed, and they had the house. They could muddle along for a while. They’d been living more or less this way for a long time, except for a couple of helpful infusions from Burke Hamerton’s company. A few more infusions wouldn’t be amiss, but he’d come up with something. He always did.

  Hell, the program was still valuable. The fact that his cretinous partner had fucked him meant nothing in terms of what he had to market.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  TWO DAYS AND I haven’t heard from him. If he liked me, he’d have called by now.

  Skip, will you stop it? You’re a grown-up.

  Is anybody? Even Cindy Lou, with all her posturing. Do grown-ups have anything at all to do with male-female relationships?

  Probably not. We’re all boys and girls when it comes to that area.

  So Skip comforted herself. She found it shocking that she could be reduced to insecurity approaching sweaty palms by a man with whom she’d only had lunch. But she’d heard other people’s tales of romance gone awry and as far as she could tell, this was simply one area in which maturity never set in.

  Jimmy Dee, who was fifty, had recently said to her: “You’ve never seen me in love. It’s not a pretty sight.”

  Well, am I a woman or a mouse? If he’s not calling me I could call him.

  No way. If they like you, they call.

  Ah, but he has a second job. That bartender thing. How can he call me when he’s working?

  That explained it all. It was amazing how much better she felt. As soon as he could, he would call her.

  But why wait? Why don’t I just go have a drink with him? Come to think of it, I could see Tricia.

  Tricia hadn’t crossed her mind since Darryl mentioned her. She truly couldn’t believe she’d forgotten a thing like that.

  And suddenly she was seized with an almost uncontrollable desire to see her old school pal.

  What was the name of the bar?

  She closed her eyes and sat still. It was almost meditating, an act she was quite sure she couldn’t be still enough to perform.

  It came to her: The Monkey Bar.

  She reached for the phone book and dialed the number. “Could I speak to Darryl Boucree?” From the background din, it had to be the noisiest joint in New Orleans.

  “Is this the lovely Margaret Langdon?”

  “How on earth did you know my real name?”

  “You forget who I work with.”

  “Tricia. Well, actually, I remembered. Is she on tonight?”

  “Uh-huh. Why?”

  “I thought I’d come down and see both of you.”

  “Get your butt over here.” He hung up without waiting for an answer. It wasn’t elegant, but it was unquestionably welcoming.

  She slipped into some leggings and a sweater, grateful that mode of dressing had been invented—so much like sweats, but so flattering.

  The Monkey Bar wasn’t a place she would have expected to see either Tricia or Darryl. It had ceiling fans, a noisy tile floor, and lots of light—in many ways like a lot of other bars in New Orleans. But this one had a newish quality, a whiff of trying to be ultra-nineties while employing old-fashioned trappings, a look of the lowest bidding contractor.

  The noise was almost intolerable, the crowd somewhere in its thirties, single and somehow yuppified. Yuppies were a concept one read about more than experienced in the Crescent City, Skip’s brother Conrad being the only one she knew personally. Conrad was a young man on the make in an economically depressed, slow-moving town, a town in which legal secretaries were often temps so law firms wouldn’t have to pay them benefits, a town that young men on the make would do well to leave.

  Yet here was a room full of men who reminded her of Tom Cruise in The Firm and women who’d probably make good secretaries if anyone would give them a job. It was a Friday’s kind of place, a place that would probably have been more at home in Atlanta.

  Darryl waved at her. “Skiperoo!”

  Normally she hated it when anyone nicknamed her, but when Darryl did, it made her feel warm and cheerful. She bellied up, and he slapped down a napkin. “What’ll it be?”

  “Are you kidding? White wine. What choice is there in a place like this?”

  “Naah, you’ve got it wrong. It’s an ugly-looking joint, but it’s just a New Orleans crowd—Abita drinkers, most of them.”

  “I’ll have the white wine—it’ll be better for my nerves. How do you stand this place?”

  “How do you think?”

  “Mmm. Good tips, huh?”

  “That and Tricia. I told her you were coming, but she’s real busy. She’ll be along, though.”

  “Hey, bartender! What’s going on?�
�� somebody hollered. Darryl left.

  Skip sipped her wine in lonely splendor, thinking that people-watching wasn’t even fun in a place like this. She shouldn’t have been quite so impulsive.

  Somebody poked her in the ribs. “Skippy Langdon.”

  Tricia hadn’t undergone a transformation, a New York slicking-up, or even the onset of the first wrinkles. She was the same Tricia she’d always been—her face was slightly too long, her freckles still showed, her light brown hair was in a ponytail, and she wore the characteristic look Skip had almost forgotten—a scrutinizing look, as if she were staring down into your brain. If she underwent plastic surgery, it would give her away.

  Skip had had no idea she’d be so glad to see her old friend. Tricia had a tray of used glasses, which meant she couldn’t hug. But she put an arm around Skip’s neck and still managed to balance it.

  Skip said, “You came back and didn’t call me.”

  “Well, frankly, you wouldn’t have been glad to see me. I came back with a little drug problem.”

  “You?” Tricia hadn’t been very adventurous in high school.

  She shrugged. “Disappointment. Poverty. Despair. It’ll get you if you aren’t careful. That and the wrong kind of boyfriend.”

  Skip was too amazed to say a word.

  “I’ll be back. I have to get to work.”

  When she was gone, Darryl appeared and refilled Skip’s glass without being asked. “Glad to see Tricia?”

  “A lot of water under the bridge.”

  He nodded. “She’s been through a lot.” His face was as solemn as she’d ever seen it, except when Sheila was missing.

  Is he in love with her?

  I don’t think so, but on the other hand, why not? Why is he content to be just her friend?

  He said, “We’ve been through a lot together.”

  Drugs? Recovery?

  “A lot of what?”

  He waved a hand, indicating his kingdom. “Oh, three nights a week at this place. Life where there is no life. Adventures among the soulless.”

  “You love your job, I see.”

  A blonde who’d just arrived reached over Skip’s shoulder. “Hey, Darryl.” She pushed past Skip to kiss him.