The Axeman's Jazz (Skip Langdon Mystery Series #2) (The Skip Langdon Series) (22 page)

“Oh, Jimmy Dee, give me a break.”

“What are you complaining about? Having parties assures no violence, or haven’t you grasped that?”

“Oh, great. No violence. Sure. Like there’s never any violence at Mardi Gras.”

“Come on. This is your opportunity to flush this animal out.”

She came back in.

“No,” he said. “Definitely not. Not baby pink.” He meant her T-shirt.

“You’re always saying my clothes aren’t feminine enough.”

“I am not. I’m always saying they aren’t chic enough. And baby pink is definitely not chic.”

“Rats. Steve gave me this.”

“Dump him. He’ll only crush your little baby bones.”

She sighed. “I think he’s dumped me. He didn’t call all weekend.”

“Oh, do let me console you with large bottles of spirits and boxes of chocolates.”

She pawed through her T-shirt drawer. “How about a little red convertible?”

“Anything.”

“How about this?” She was holding up a purple T-shirt from last year’s JazzFest.

“Perfect. How many Axeman parties are you going to?”

“None, I expect. I’m working.”

“Well, how many are you invited to?”

“One—Allison Gaillard’s. Oh, wait—did you invite me to yours?” She went back into the bathroom.

“Not yet, but you’ll only find out about it and get your dainty feelings hurt. So I guess you can come.”

“Two then.”

“Pathetic. Surely you jest.”

“How many are you invited to?”

“Seven. Excluding my own.”

“Well, here’s the thing. You’re popular and I’m not.” She spoke the casual words, but she was starting to feel panicky, and it wasn’t about her social status.

“We’ve got to get you launched socially.”

She returned wearing the purple shirt. “Dee-Dee, are you really going to seven parties?”

“Certainly not. I said I was invited, not going.”

“Oh, God. It’s going to be a living nightmare.”

Her landlord left her in a cloud of marijuana smoke. She’d refused to toke on his joint (since she was working), but she breathed deeply, hoping for a tiny high or at least an imaginary one. And then she went out to meet her date, once again at the Monteleone. Again, she detected Abasolo in the background. And again she drew praise for her outfit. “Oh, good,” said Alex, “you’re dressed correctly.”

“I knew you’d bring the Rolls. Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise.” She hoped Abasolo could keep up.

When they had drunk their obligatory drink (Perrier for both of them), and mounted the hog, she spaced out the danger for a moment. The all-too-human truth was she quite enjoyed having her arms around Alex’s waist, her crotch against his butt. She thought how odd it was that a man and woman who hardly knew each other should be so entwined publicly, with society’s sanction.

A block or two later she reprimanded herself for her crudeness, imagining that most people would focus on the wind in their faces. So she turned her attention to that and found it almost as sensual. They were nearly on the causeway before she realized that was where they were going.

“What’s going on? Are we going across the lake?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Why? What’s over there?”

“Surprise.”

Her scalp prickled, though she knew Abasolo was covering her. And the weight of the gun in her backpack was comforting. But she still felt helpless heading out of the city. She couldn’t have said why, she just had a feeling.

The nearly twenty-four miles of the causeway seemed like a thousand, but they turned off quickly on the Covington side, into a darkly wooded area. She could smell pine in the velvet air, air that was still brushing her face like wings. If she’d been with Steve Steinman, it would have been heaven; as it was, she was aware of a clammy coat of sweat on her body.

Jesus, I must have been crazy. What in hell made me think I could handle this guy?

Another voice said:
Oh, shut up. This is his idea of a romantic evening. He doesn’t know you find him repulsive.

Well not exactly repulsive. How about terrifying
?

She couldn’t shake the fear. Half of her said there wasn’t a thing wrong with a man taking a woman to a romantic place on a date; the other half argued that she wasn’t a woman on a date, she was a cop in the middle of nowhere with a suspect.

She’d told Joe she could handle him and she’d have to do it. It would be too stupid to die this way.

They stopped in front of a house—a house in the middle of what seemed a huge forest but was actually a residential area studded with similar yuppie palaces. This one was a two-story frame house, in keeping with other examples of Covington architecture, beautifully kept, and, if the outside was any indication, furnished with relentless good taste. That was how people in New Orleans dressed and how they decorated their houses—soporifically, to Skip’s mind, but no one could call it tacky.

Alex parked his hog.

“Whose house is this?”

“It belongs to some friends of mine. They lent it to me.”

“They’re not home?”
Inane question
, she thought.
Of course they’re not home. The place is dark as a cave.

He shook his head. “They’re in Europe. It’s all ours.”

“All ours for exactly what purpose?”

“For dinner. White wine or red?”

“I don’t know—why don’t we just go to a restaurant?”

“I just told you what’s going to happen. I’ve spent all day shopping. I’m cooking dinner. Are you going to join me?”

Oh, well, at least he’s in touch with his inner child.

The sudden petulant turn, unpredictable as it was, annoyed rather than alarmed her. She’d seen this in men before, and none of them had been murderers.

She took a deep breath, thinking of Abasolo. He’d go nuts if they went in there—Alex could kill her and he’d never know.
Trust me,
she murmured silently, and said to Alex, “I’m going to join you. With pleasure.” She even took his arm as they walked to the back door.

He unlocked the door, and as they slipped in, almost sneaking, she felt the air conditioner. Another of his preparations, apparently.

The light went on. She could see that she was standing in an up-to-the-minute kitchen done in the ubiquitous black and white of up-to-the-minute kitchens. “Lovely.”

There were no curtains, the place being too isolated to have to worry about privacy. Great. As long as she kept lights blazing in every room she entered, Abasolo’s sanity had a fighting chance.

“Want a look at the rest?”

It was as she’d imagined—perfect but predictable. Wing chairs. A few antiques but a lot more reproductions. Family portraits. Laura Ashley prints in the bedrooms. Muted colors. No original art. Nothing out of place. No sign that children lived here, or even adults who did anything more than sleep. A gorgeous place to bring a date—a lot like a hotel room, just bigger and nicer. Skip wondered again about the house at Lakeview.

Back in the kitchen, Alex poured her a glass of California Chardonnay, which she accepted for the sake of appearances and sipped after they’d clinked glasses. She sat on an Italian-style barstool while he pulled out fish, salad makings, and vegetables, hoping he wouldn’t notice she’d quit sipping.

“This is such a lot of trouble to go to.”

“Aren’t you worth it?”

She tried out a flirtatious smile, but couldn’t manage more than a grimace. He stepped toward her, took her hands in his. “What’s wrong? You look so nervous.”

“I think we’re moving too fast.”

“We’re not moving an inch. All we’re doing is having a glass of wine.”

“I know, but we’re in the middle of nowhere.” She desperately wanted to back away from him, an impossibility in a sitting position.

She braced herself for another outburst. Instead he stepped away, shrugging, once again attending to his salad greens. “Hey, don’t think a thing about it. I’ve done it every night this week. Sometimes I score, sometimes I don’t.”

Involuntarily, she laughed. How could this man be a murderer? “Candor,” she said, “will get you nowhere.”

“I guess that’s my problem. We could take a walk after dinner.”

“Listen, what’s wrong with your apartment in the city? Why come all the way out here?”

“Echh, you should see the place. Besides, the Campbells have black satin sheets.”

“Who are they, anyway? How do you know them?”

“The Campbells? The same way I know you—from the inner-child group. They’re very large in the whole thing—in fact, they’ve given several parties for us here. Frankly, they must be pretty hard up for friends.”

“New in town?”

“Yeah. What’s that about? Who’d move to this decaying, beat-up old place?”

“You, for one.”

“Yes, but that was because of the decay, not in spite of it. Anyway, they’re your basic boring, middle-class jerks with nothing better to do than go to these stupid groups all the time and no better friends than me to take care of their insipid hideaway that looks like a motel.”

Though the sentiments weren’t wildly different from hers, his harshness seemed to vibrate in the artificially cooled air, the Campbells’ air, lent in the spirit of friendship.

Well, it’s the Southern way, Skip thought. Not only are we blamers, we’re backbiters, a culture of backbiters.

But there was something different about Alex’s style. It seemed nastier, for one thing, but what else? After a moment it came to her; it was usually Southern women who were treacherous. And not all of them, either, only the wildly unhappy ones who’d gotten trapped in the steel-magnolia syndrome and resented it in bilious undercurrents that made their families miserable and erupted at funerals and weddings—any inappropriate time guaranteed to embarrass everyone present.

What was Alex’s excuse?

“Let’s don’t talk about boring people,” he said.

“I like the Chardonnay,” said Skip. “A little too oaky, but…”

“Oh, stop! I hate boring subjects.”

“What are boring subjects?”

“Food, wine, and football.”

“What’s interesting?”

“Sex.”

“Sorry I asked.”

“You know what? They hate me in Germany. I got a royalty statement today. My book hasn’t sold a single copy. Not one.” He turned around to deliver the announcement, smiling as if he’d just announced he’d made a million dollars.

“I’m sorry.”

“People don’t get it.”

“Dolts.”

“Where did you go to college?”

“Ole Miss.”

“And before that?”

“McGehee’s.”

“My first girlfriend went to McGehee’s. Caroline Bousquet.”

“There must have been dozens since; hundreds. How on earth do you keep them straight?”

“What have you heard about me?”

“What do you mean?”

“People say I’d mount a dog. It’s not true.”

Skip searched vainly for another topic, desperately wanting to leave this one. Nothing came into her mind but food, wine, and football.

“I mean, do I want to go to bed with every pretty woman I see? Yes. Do you blame me? It’s not the same thing. Caroline Bousquet was the most perverse woman I’ve ever met. And she was seventeen at the time.”

“Have you ever been married?”

“I can’t ever imagine being really relaxed with another human being. Can you?”

“Was that a no?”

He only shrugged.

“You must have been in love.”

“I was, but the woman was a relative. It was sad—the saddest thing that ever happened to me.” He had a way of announcing catastrophes with a dazzling show of teeth, just the happiest guy in the world. “Did you know Caroline?”

“No.”
Thank heaven. Because I’m about to know everything about her
.

“She made me a slave. We did things I’ve never done with anyone else.”

“What things?” She hadn’t meant to ask. She was falling under a spell of morbid fascination.

“She said she wouldn’t sleep with me unless I did everything she told me to. She’d set time limits in which I had to bring her to orgasm.”

Ah, so that’s it. I’m supposed to think he can perform miracles on
the black satins
.

“Other stuff too. Things I thought were disgusting—not even sexual. She made them sexual. Have you been married?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Way too young.”

He put the fish on and began sautéing. Skip was glad of the respite. She searched for silverware and set the table for two.

“Do you like rough sex?”

He moved toward her, in each hand a plate with a serving of fish. From several feet away, she could feel the restlessness, the raw energy of the man. Very deliberately she put down her wine glass. He was like a dragon blowing hot breath.

“Alex, this is moving much too fast.”

“Sit down and eat. Later I’ll show you the moon in the woods. It’s why I brought you here. Have you lived with anyone?”

“No.”

“This man you mentioned at breakfast. Is he jealous?”

“Not very.”

I’m not even sure he’s still in the picture.

“Have you ever been with anyone really jealous, someone violent?”

She shook her head, not liking the way this was going.

“You’d think you could see it coming, wouldn’t you? But you can’t. It’s just like betrayal.”

She seized on what seemed, by comparison, a relatively safe topic. “Have you been betrayed a lot?”

He showed teeth, as usual when something upset him. “Just about every day I get betrayed. Do you think I’m doing something wrong?”

What the hell is going on here? Is he playing stupid sex games or is he violent? Or is it me?

“Betrayed by whom?” she said. “By women?”

“By everyone. My publisher wouldn’t do
Fake It Till You Make It
. I had to sell it to a stranger. You want to look at the moon?”

No!

But how to say it?

“Let’s go,” he said.

“No coffee?”

“Later.”

She grabbed her backpack and slung it over her shoulder.

“Women and their purses,” he said. “What earthly use do you think you’re going to have for that?”

“I might want to hit you with it.”

“So you do like to play rough.” He tweaked her ear. “Let me get a flashlight.”