The Axeman's Jazz (Skip Langdon Mystery Series #2) (The Skip Langdon Series) (18 page)

He gave her an uncomprehending look—one of those unbelieving looks half a couple gives when the other half has just said something along the lines of the earth being flat. “Well, what the hell do you drag me to those meetings for?”

“Honey, you might have a little bitty problem or two, but that doesn’t mean you’re not sane—one of us has to be.”

Sonny gave Skip a self-deprecating smile, showing teeth Paul Newman might have envied. “Well, I guess you know the country song: ‘I’ve always been crazy, but it’s kept me from goin’ insane.’ “ He spoke in a drawl that had probably caused death by melting in more than one sorority house.

But Skip failed to melt, in fact hardly noticed. Her mind was on something Missy had said, something she couldn’t put her finger on….

“Sonny, Skip’s going to think you actually listen to that or stuff.”

She had it—the italics, the easy endearments, the slightly-too-niceness that sometimes seemed like bossiness. It wasn’t New Orleans, it was the trademark of every girl at Ole Miss. She said, “Missy! I just caught your accent. You’re from Mississippi, aren’t you?”

“Now, how’d you do that? I thought I talked like everybody else.”

“I went to Ole Miss for a little while. Where are you from?”

“Hattiesburg. Near Hattiesburg, I mean. In the sticks, really. I went to Ole Miss too.”

“Not LSU? I figured both of you did and you met at a pep rally.”

“Gosh, no. We met right here. We’ve only been together a year.”

She turned her warm, loving gaze on Sonny, only to find him staring into space, eyes glazed. Skip brought him out of it. “Sonny, do you come from a medical family?”

“My dad’s a doctor and my grandfather before him and my uncle, and I think my great-grandfather was one too. Anyway, as you can guess, there wasn’t much choice about it.” Skip thought he spoke ruefully.

“You’re not enjoying med school?”

“Oh, med school’s fine. Grades are what the problem is.”

“Oh, Sonny! You’re doing great and you know it.”

He pointed a playful thumb at her. “My coach says I’m doing great.”

When they asked what she did, she gave them the civil-service routine that she hoped made her sound like a postal cleric and said she hadn’t made many friends at work.

Missy covered Skip’s hand with hers. “You’re gon’ just love Coda! There’s so many nice people in there.”

“There certainly seem to be. Di seems very nice—the one in charge of the meeting last night.”

“Oh, she’s a peach.”

“Do you know her very well?”

“I don’t think Sonny does, ’cause he doesn’t always go to coffee and I usually do. But I think she’s a doll—she’s my sponsor. Goin’ to coffee’s the whole key, Skip. That’s how you really get to know people.”

“I knew a man who used to go—named Tom. Did either of you know him?”

Missy shook her head, but Sonny seemed to have drifted off again. He was preoccupied perhaps, or a little depressed.

Or maybe he just resents having me horn in.

“MARGARET! MARGRIIIIIIT!”

Only one person called her Margaret and only one person stood outside her door and yelled as loud as he pleased.

She answered the door in a towel, having just stepped from the shower.

“Oh me-oh my-oh,” said her guest. “It’s Venus of de bayou.”

“As a matter of fact, Dee-Dee, it’s the second time I’ve been called a goddess in twenty-four hours.”

“Do tell.” He offered his early evening joint, which she waved away, and strode in, closing the door.

“Your version was better. The other person said all women were goddesses.”

“Well, some are more so. May I nuzzle your neck?”

“By all means.”

After a brief caress, he said, “What news of your oafish swain?”

“I’m cheating on him tonight.”

“With me, you mean? I don’t recall asking.”

“I wish, Dee-Dee; don’t I wish. I’ve got a date with a character named Abe.”

“Abe what?”

“I don’t know. I met him in a twelve-step program. First names only.”

“My dainty darling, no! You can’t be going out with some anonymous meeting-cruiser! There’s a killer on the loose, or haven’t you heard?”

“Worse news, he’s not only a suspect, he’s a creep.”

“Oh, Jesus, I just had a flash. A truly horrible thought came over me. You’re absolutely sure you don’t know this man’s name?”

“Actually, I think I do. He left it on the machine when he called to confirm.” She thought back. “It’s Morrison.”

“Oh, no! Worst fears confirmed. Abe Morrison. Awful Abe to everybody on Gravier Street.”

“You know him?”

“This is for your job? Is that what this is about?”

“It’s not for my health, Dee-Dee. Dress me, will you?”

He flung open her closet. “Black,” he pronounced. “For deepest mourning.”

“Dee-Dee, it’s the middle of summer.”

“This!” He pulled out a calf-length sundress, khaki green with a dropped waist.

“Why this?”

“It’s olive drab. The color of his personality.”

She went in the bathroom to slip it on. “Okay, Dee-Dee, I’ve got five minutes. Tell me who the hell he is.”

“In my opinion,” he shouted through the closed door, “he’s quite capable of serial murder. Even mass murder. Easily capable.”

Oh, shit.
Abasolo would be covering her, but they both could have used a little advance warning.

“What the hell do you mean?” She burst out the door, ready to pick him up and shake the information out of him.

But he burst out laughing. “Officer Darling, you’re so cute when you’re terrified.”

“I mean it, Jimmy Dee.”

“My, my, she means it. Okay then. Maybe I overstated the case a tiny little bit. Maybe the world’s primo pompous bore isn’t
necessarily
a killer. But I’ll tell you one damn thing—forced to remain in his company for long,
you
might become one.”

She’d agreed to meet Abe at the bar in the Monteleone. Back in the shadows, she could make out Abasolo, sipping a Coke. And there was Abe—in a sport coat over an open-necked shirt.

She’d never have thought to wear a dress, would have automatically thrown on some sort of summer pants outfit if Jimmy Dee hadn’t been clowning, but the dress was the right thing, she saw. Abe not only smiled when he saw her, he nodded—nodded several times, almost imperceptibly, but he very definitely did it. She felt like a blue-ribbon heifer at a 4-H show and reflected that it was a new experience—no man had done this to her before.

Probably because I haven’t dated that much.

He said, “You look perfect. I like a skirt that swirls.”

It was weird, but better swirling skirts than leather dog collars. And it was soon explained. He was into Cajun dancing.

They went to Michaul’s, a warehouse of a restaurant with a live Cajun band and a dance floor as big as a bistro plunked down in the middle. The band was hot and skirts were aswirl. A mural of bayou scenes surrounded communal tables spread with blue-and-white checked cloths. Ceiling fans turned, though the AC was blasting. Bales of cotton hung from the ceiling, along with an authentic pirogue. A portrait of a rare swamp animal—an “Ali-posa-fisha-coona”—seemed perfectly plausible at a place that offered drinks like a “nutty Cajun (Amaretto daiquiri).”

“Trust me,” said Abe. “The food’s great. Women always get that look when they first walk in here—like maybe it’s a place for the LSU-Ole Miss crowd.”

“Do they?”

“Yeah, but they end up loving it.”

“A funny thing. I’m getting the feeling I’m part of a mile-long parade.”

“Hey, we’re adults.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Why pretend we’re kids on our first date?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

“Why not now?”

“I have to wait for the right moment.”

She found herself eager for a drink before dinner, something she usually declined, preferring wine later. There was something about the situation—and not just the fact that she was a fraud—that was making her nervous. It was a weird sense that she had to perform, had to please Abe, had to make him like her whether she liked him or not. Those women who loved the place—had they lied to please him? What was it about him? Something intangible; demanding; something oddly controlling yet needy.

“Want to dance?”

“Not yet. Later maybe.”

“Now, baby.” He got up and pulled her to her feet.

“But I don’t know how.”

“Skip, you gotta get with it. Everybody’s into Cajun dancing.”

“Last on my block as usual.”

“You gotta go to the Fais Do Do at Tipitina’s. Or come here—they have lessons at six o’clock.”

She would have said she’d do that, but he had dragged her to the dance floor, stuffed ear plugs in his ears (“I never dance without ’em”), and was getting into professorial mode. “Okay, here’s all it is. You think it’s going to be two steps but it’s four. You’ve got to take those two extra steps. Bend your knees and kind of go up and down. That’s it. Got it?”

“I guess so.” Dancing wasn’t her strong point.

But the music was irresistible, and he was right, it was getting to be a fad. She went at it with all her heart.

“Hey,” said Abe, “you can’t do that.”

“I can’t do what?”

“You’ve got to go up and down when your partner does. You can’t set the rhythm yourself.”

Damn! Just like high school—she never could do it right. Her knees were starting to kill her. “Maybe that’s enough for now.”

But in Abe’s opinion it wasn’t. She was a near-cripple by the time they got back to the table, and, worse, felt off-balance, a failure. She caught Abasolo’s eye—and could have sworn he was grinning evilly.

When they had ordered—jambalaya for him, catfish for her—Abe leaned forward. “Tell me about yourself.”

No. Something in her balked at the exercise. Why did she always have to do every little thing he wanted?

“You first,” she said.

“No, you.”

It was a direct order. She said, “I wasn’t really born here. That’s just the story my parents tell. Actually, I was left behind when my spaceship took off and I’ve been trying to learn the language ever since.”

“I see what you mean. You don’t look like you fit in.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“Hey, from me that’s a compliment. I hate this place.”

But it stung. She had been trying lately to fit in better and she’d thought she was succeeding. What was it that made her stand out? She didn’t ask, knowing the answer was bound to make her feel insulted.

She changed the subject. “Why do you live here if you hate it?”

“To be near my kids. I was in Atlanta before—now, there’s a city! But my wife divorced me and moved here; she got the kids, of course, so I’d hardly ever have seen them if I’d stayed there. This is bad enough.”

He speared a piece of lettuce, using his fork like a weapon.

“You miss your kids?”

“I miss ’em like crazy.” He stared at her, letting his eyes go moist. She got the feeling he’d done it before.

“But you must see them sometimes.”

“Oh, sure. It’s just not like having a family.”

Skip had a feeling that she was supposed to take his hand and croon, “Ooooooh, is that what you really want?”

Instead she said, “You’re upset about the divorce?”

“Horribly.” He tried the spearing trick again, but missed—his fork squeaked nastily on the plate.

He wants me to ask him what went wrong and whatever it was will be her fault.

“Would it be rude to ask what happened?”

“Not rude at all. Cynthia didn’t want to be married anymore. Period.”

“She didn’t give any reason?”

“She gave lots of them, but they all amounted to the same thing—I wasn’t perfect.”

“And you thought you were.”

Seeing him start, Skip held up a hand. “Just kidding. Really.”

“Anyway, she really pulled the rug out from under me. I had a nice wife, nice home, two great kids, good job, friends—now I’ve got none of it. I threw away my whole career to come to a city where nothing’s happening economically.”

“Do you think she was right about any of the stuff she said—about your not being perfect?”

“I don’t know if I really want to talk about that.”

“Well, to tell you the truth, I don’t blame you. I was thinking you were being awfully forthcoming for someone talking to a stranger.”

“You mean I don’t have to?”

“Don’t have to what?”

“Talk about this stuff. I thought women expected it. It’s supposed to make us seem vulnerable or something.”

Skip failed in all attempts to avoid laughing. “Sorry,” she said when she had gained control, “but you don’t seem at all vulnerable to me.”

He made a fist and set it sideways on the table. “You know, I don’t know what to do with you. I thought women liked to talk about themselves, so I tried to talk about you. I know they love to hear personal stuff, so I tried that. What the hell else am I supposed to do?”

“You don’t have to be vulnerable to be attractive.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I just want to get to know you. You don’t have to present some kind of false identity to get me to like you. We could just have a little quiet conversation, maybe.”

“I’ve already gone through all my subjects.”

”No you haven’t. You could tell me about your children.”

“What’s to tell? Two lovely daughters. Real smart. Pretty.”

“Names?”

“Why should I tell you their names?”

She wondered if a lot of his dates walked out in the middle of dinner and hailed the nearest taxi.

But probably none of the others have been cops. I could just pull out my gun and shoot him.

It was tempting, but instead she took a deep breath. “Oh, hell, let’s talk about us.”

He looked so shocked it was almost worth it. She said, “Are you dating anyone else?”

“I’m not even dating you.”

“I got a good recommendation on you. I hear you date a lot of women from that inner-child group.”

“Tell me something—will you just tell me something? Why do women think this kind of stuff is any of their business?”

“I really like you, Abe. I’m just trying to find out what you’re all about. Isn’t that reasonable?”