The Axeman's Jazz (Skip Langdon Mystery Series #2) (The Skip Langdon Series) (16 page)

But Di seemed to have lost interest. She was looking at her untouched glass. “You know,” she said, “I don’t think I’m a drinker anymore.”

“Would you like something else?”

“No, thanks. I think I’d better go home. Do you want to come with me and get the book?”

Skip was so taken aback, she almost forgot which book. She made a quick call to let Cappello know where she was going.

Di’s apartment was exactly as she’d imagined it except that she hadn’t expected the fireplace. It gave a homey touch but would be about as useful in this city as a snowplow.

But if the place itself was conventional, the eccentricity of the furnishings compensated nicely. The coffee table was covered with a velvet cloth in which crescents and stars had been worked in silver thread, and on the cloth reposed a large crystal ball. Tarot cards were laid out, apparently from Di’s last reading. Three large crystal bowls—actually bells for meditation—stood on a sideboard. A bust of Apollo topped a bookcase. Sandalwood scented the air. Candles covered nearly every surface.

Yet care had been taken not to let the mystical trappings become heavy, weight the room’s essential femininity. The walls were painted apricot; taffeta drapes striped in apricot and white flanked the French doors, a simple cornice between them. A Victorian settee was covered in tangerine, piled high with pillows. The other furniture was also old but light, walnut or cherry. The candles, all forty-odd of them, had been chosen for their perfect complementary colors—either white or shades of yellow and orange, or dark green for contrast. A single art object hung on the walls, a metal sculpture painted white and touched with gilt, a cut-out of a graceful woman in flowing gauze. She was winged, but no angel; more like a fairy. Her airy quality reminded Skip of her owner.

“This is quite something.”

“What?” Di was lighting some of her candles. “Oh, my decor. I’m a priestess of voodoo, you know.”

“Oh.” Were there white voodoo priestesses? Skip supposed so. “I got the impression meetings were pretty much your whole life.”

“Far from it, my friend. Far from it. I’m a hypnotherapist some of the time. And kind of an amateur nutritionist.”

“Ah, yes. Live foods.”

“I might surprise you with some of the things I do ”

Oh, Lord. You certainly might.

“Now where’s that book?”

Together, they surveyed her bookcase. It contained a better selection of New Age writings than any three bookstores in New Orleans, and quite a few books on breast cancer, more, Skip thought, than anyone would have who had merely a passing interest in it. But there were no books on either voodoo or hypnosis.

THERE WERE A lot of popular meetings in the Quarter, it seemed. Alex had one at eight that morning and had agreed to meet Skip at Café du Monde. It meant sitting outside, but at seven o’clock New Orleans in August was bearable, even right on the river, where the air hung like a curtain, sultry and entangling.

He was late, no doubt to make an entrance, Skip thought when he pulled up on his hog. Even though the temperature would soon climb to ninety, perhaps to a hundred, he’d tied a bandanna around his neck. He’d tucked a blue work shirt into tight jeans, and if he’d asked her to make love under the table, she’d have had a hard time turning him down.

She had his book on the table, thinking that would flatter him, but he turned it over even before he sat down—and then, seeing his photo on the back cover, turned it front side up again.

“Did you really read that thing?” he said.

She nodded. “You’re awfully modest for a best-selling author.”

“Not best-selling.” He dismissed the notion with a wave. “I know the publicity says that. Maybe I made some best-seller list somewhere, and that’s how they justify it, but if you saw my royalty statements, you wouldn’t die of envy.”

After they had ordered their café au lait and beignets, Skip presented the book for signing.

But Alex said, “Not just yet. Let’s talk first. You make me nervous.”

“Little ol’ me?”

Alex didn’t smile. He squinched his eyebrows into a nasty scowl. “Yeah. Little ol’ you. I keep wondering who you are.”

“I didn’t know I was that threatening.”

“You’re a psychologist. I hate psychologists.”

“Oh, my God!” She wanted to give the impression she was taking him seriously, but this was too much. Before she could stop it, a belly laugh rumbled up and out. “A psychologist! Why on earth do you think that?”

Mr. Macho now wore a bewildered, slightly hurt look, the look of a man who’s been made light of, and Skip regretted her amusement. She touched his wrist, knowing even as she did it that he would probably take any physical contact as a sexual signal, but thinking it necessary to establish rapport. “Because you’ve read the books,” he said.

“You’re the last guy in the world I’d have suspected of having a self-esteem problem. Does it occur to you that many members of the general public have read the books?”

He sighed. “You have no idea how much I wish that were true. What are you?”

Somehow her flattery ruse was backfiring. “Why,” she asked, “do I feel like I did something wrong by asking for your autograph?”

“We really have to talk.” This time he grabbed her wrist, didn’t merely touch it lightly as she had touched his, and it
was
sexual, was the first of many little moves he’d make if their acquaintanceship continued. Curiously, she found herself relieved—if he was attracted to her, it made him a supplicant in a mild sort of way, gave her a little edge. “You could really blow things for me.”

She leaned back, hoping it made her less threatening. “I don’t understand.”

“I’m undercover here. Nobody in New Orleans knows I write these things.”

“But it was in the paper. I remember.”

“You remember?”

“What’s so weird about that? You’re an author I admire and I saw a piece about you. That’s why I read it.”

“Listen, lady, if you remember, you’re the only one in this godforsaken place who does.”

“I take it you’re not happy here.”

“Jesus! Are you sure you’re not a psychologist?”

“I just hate to see people unhappy, that’s all. Go ahead; call me codependent.”

“Okay, okay. But don’t change the subject. Can I trust you?”

“With your bank account, probably not. Not to attack you in a candlelit room, maybe not. Not to lie to you—not entirely. But to buy you breakfast, sure. I said I would and my word’s good.”

He smiled. “You’re not stupid. I like that.”

“Hush my mouf’, honey, all us Southerners are stupid.”

“I meant can I trust you to keep a secret.”

“Ah. You don’t want anyone to know you’re Alexander Bignell.”

“Right.”

“I don’t get it. What’s the big deal?”

“You just said your word’s good, right?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. This can’t go any further.”

“Of course not.” She shrugged as if the matter was of no more importance than the plot of a movie.

“I’m writing a book about the twelve-step programs.”

Skip sat up straight. “Of course! That’s the only thing that makes sense. And you’re free to come and go as you please because all anyone knows is your first name.”

“So how about it, kid?” He grabbed her wrist again, squeezed this time, a bit more intimately. “Can I trust you?”

“Certainly. I gave you my word.”

“I’ll buy breakfast, then.”

“Don’t be silly. I gave
my
word on that one. But I still need to get a couple of things straight. I was wondering—isn’t there some kind of rule that what’s said in the groups doesn’t go outside them?”

He shrugged. “I don’t give a damn about that.”

“Wow. Hard guy.”

“Look, if I think these things are crap and they’re just ripping people’s feelings off because they really don’t do a damn bit of good and just get your hopes up, then why would I give a good goddamn what their rules are?”

“How do you know I’m not a dedicated twelve-stepper who’ll betray you?”

“You just said I could trust you.” He smiled again, obviously relaxing, and the smile had more than a hint of sensuality in it. “Besides, I’ve got a feeling.”

Right. A feeling a little judicious attention is all you need to get me on your side. And I think I know what sort of attention.

She said, “Well, you’re right. The other night was my first meeting.”

“You had the look of a virgin.”

“Had is right. I was about twelve at the time.”

He gave her an appreciative look. “Women in New Orleans don’t talk like that. You want wit and spirit, go to New York.”

“You’re looking in the wrong places, sweetheart. The wit and spirit of the Southern woman are famous throughout the land. But you’re not going to find either one in Al-Anon. Those people take themselves seriously.”

“Sometimes they can be funny.”

“I thought you thought nobody in the whole town is funny.”

“Jesus, this is a shitty town!” He spoke with such sudden violence that Skip jumped. He noticed and tweaked her arm again. He was touching her entirely too much. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“What’s so bad about my hometown?”

“Everything’s bad about it. It’s a smelly backwater without an intellectual for five states around.”

“Yeah, but it’s got charm.”

“Shit! It’s got falling-down buildings, cholesterol instead of food, and brimstone instead of weather.”

There were times when she felt like that herself. But this morning she’d gotten up early to have the city’s trademark breakfast by the river, and a slight breeze ruffled her hair, drying the sweat. She felt good; at peace with this place. Even, for the moment, at home.

“So why are you here, Mr. New Yorker? They’ve got twelve-step programs everywhere.”

“I’ve had financial reversals. Or haven’t you heard?”

“How would I have heard in this backwater?”

“My last book didn’t sell for shit. That one.” He pointed at her lap. “Nobody wanted to hear that stuff.”

He paused a moment while Skip tried to think of something to say. “Idiots!” he said. “They just want a lot of false hope and stupid sermonettes. Nobody can face the truth about all this crap. They want everything to be rosy and they don’t want to listen to anybody who says it isn’t.” His sudden anger shocked her, seemed out of proportion.

She felt much as she had when she was talking with Di— as if she were in the presence of some insanity too mild to notice at first glance, but unmistakable up close. And the Axeman would be that way, she thought; he would probably pass as a solid citizen; a little eccentric, perhaps, but wasn’t everybody?

Why was it that way?

Because in a sense Alex was right, she thought. If your breakfast companion was a little nuts, you didn’t want to think about it too hard—you didn’t want to think about where “a little nuts” might take him. You wanted to think a nationally known author couldn’t possibly be a murderer, these things just didn’t happen.

He said, “I grew up here, you know.”

It was all she could do not to ask him what schools he’d gone to.

He yawned. “Things are cheap here now. And they’ve got as much of what I need as anywhere.”

“Material for research, you mean.”

“Yes. Pretty clever setup when you get down to it. Except I have to live in this hellhole. What do you do here?”

“You mean what kind of work?”

“I don’t know. Half the people I’ve met in these programs don’t seem to do a goddamn thing except go to one meeting after another. What’s your poison?”

“I work. Petty bureaucrat.” She wrinkled her nose. “Civil-service job.” She held her breath. If he asked the next obvious question, she’d have to say she was a cop—it would be too dangerous to lie.

“What do you do for fun?”

She thought about it, decided to tell the truth. “Precious little. I guess mostly I’m trying to adjust to the place. I don’t know if I fit in either. Mostly I don’t, I guess.”

“And so you thought you’d toddle on down to Coda and make some new friends. You wouldn’t be the first.” He swallowed the last beignet nearly whole.

“I’ll bet you’ve made a few little friends there yourself.”

He gave her his pirate’s smile. “It’s all research. Anyway, I’m new in town—or newly returned—and I live alone—why not?”

“You live alone?”

“Do I seem like the married type to you?”

No, but your house does
. Instead, she said, “Where do you live?”

“Uptown.” His chin dropped a little and Skip took note of it. It probably happened whenever he was lying. She hoped she’d remember that. “Why do you ask?”

“In the meeting you said your mother died. I wondered if you inherited property.”

“That’s not your business.” He didn’t sound angry, just stating a fact. But stating it very clearly; setting boundaries, as the twelve-steppers said. (As he’d no doubt said himself in earlier books.)

“Come on, I didn’t ask you what schools you went to.”

“Why did I get the impression you were changing the subject? About who’s married and who’s not—you, for instance.”

“Not married.”

“Otherwise involved?”

“Um-hmm.”

“How heavily?”

She spread her hands, not knowing how to answer.

“Good. Want to go out tonight?”

“Otherwise involved.”

“No problem. Monday.”

She made her smile discreet, eager not to seem too eager. “Okay, Monday.”

“I want to be alone with you.” He touched the back of his hand to her cheek.

In a way she found the gesture repulsive, the sentiment a little scary. Alex struck her as someone in the grip of a giant ego without a lot of brains for backup, as well as a man caught in a peculiar maelstrom of anger, a condition she sensed he didn’t even begin to comprehend. She didn’t like the man and she was wary of him, even a little frightened; yet her stomach flopped when he touched her face.

SHE MEANDERED OVER to the Voodoo Museum on Conti Street. A young black woman with beads and corn rows was minding the store, reading a book on herbal medicine. Plenty of herbs were being offered for sale in the museum’s gift shop, along with touristy gris-gris, incense, and a few books.