Death Before Facebook (12 page)

Now it’s “we,”
thought Skip.
When it suits him, it’s “they.”

“Would you mind showing me?”

“Your own letters aren’t in your file—they just get sent as if they were on paper. And I never save my mail, so I don’t have the stuff he sent me.”

“Did he confide anything to you—anything that might help me?”

Pearce, whose eyes had strayed to his neglected computer screen, snapped back to her, suddenly alert, “I think he did. Do you know about the stolen items?”

“Yes. Leighton’s revolver and a ring. Citrine, I think.”

“Marguerite has the ring.”

“Wait a minute—you mean she lied when she reported it stolen?”

“Now that I couldn’t tell you. But it would seem not from what Geoff said—which is that it simply arrived in the mail one day a few years ago.”

“How many years ago?”

“He just said when he was a kid.”

“But how could he possibly know it was that ring?”

“All I know is that he was there when she opened it and that she turned pale and started crying. I guess he figured out later what it must have been.”

Skip raised an eyebrow. “I guess I’d better not take up any more of your time.” She stood up. “You’ve been very helpful.”

“That was fast. I guess I know where you’re going next.”

“I appreciate your help,” she said, more or less trying to make peace. She was so grateful for the tidbit she was suddenly feeling downright benevolent toward him.

He nodded. “You really should come to the funeral tomorrow. You can get a gander at our little community.”

“Maybe I will.”

“Wait a minute! I’ve got a better idea—a much better idea. I mean, you can come to the funeral too, but we’re all having dinner tomorrow night—a ‘Geoff would have wanted it that way’ kind of thing. Why don’t you join us?”

“Who is ‘we’?”

“The local TOWNspeople. It’s a perfect opportunity to meet everybody at once. We’d love to have you.”

I’ll just bet. I’d be the main course.

“Look, the murder’s bound to be Topic A. Basically, what you’ve got is all the suspects gathered together. Someone might confess.”

“Right. If this were an Agatha Christie novel.”

“Seven-thirty at R&O’s. We’ll save you a place.”

A blast of cold wind hit her as she went outside. She turned her collar up, swearing. She’d learned she got the best results when she steeped herself in her cases. It was grotesque, but she knew she had to go to the damn dinner. It was an easy way to talk to them without making them suspicious.

“HOW ABOUT SOMETHING like this?” Marguerite held up a simple black dress, nipped in at the waist, plain straight skirt.

“I don’t think so, Mom.”

“What on earth is wrong with it? It’s about as simple as you can get.”

Her daughter, Neetsie, barely kept the sneer out of her voice. “It’s the wrong length.”

“It’s knee-length. What’s the problem?”

“Short’s good; long’s good. Just not knee-length. Why don’t
you
get it?”

“Me? It’s not my style.”

Why was she even worried about a thing like that? Marguerite wondered. It was for her son’s funeral; Neetsie’s brother’s funeral. Why did she care?

I don’t care
.

But they had already been to three stores and rejected everything. How hard could it be to pick out a couple of dresses for a funeral? She sensed Neetsie getting impatient. Her daughter didn’t want a dress anyway. She kept insisting she’d wear her black wool skirt, which was ankle-length, with a black sweater. And she’d look lovely in it, Marguerite thought (Except of course, for the holes). Dramatic, yet comfortable with herself.

That was okay, that was fine, to wear the old outfit; but Marguerite wanted to give her something. Neetsie was the only child she had left, and she wanted her to have something special, something Marguerite had given her.

“Let’s look at the Anne Kleins.”

“Oh, Mom, they’re too expensive.”

“You need something nice. Come on. I’d like to buy you something nice.”

“Mom, we need to get something for you.”

Her voice was getting shrill.

“Oh, I don’t need anything. I should be home working on my opera.”

“Right, Mom. That’s what you always say. Why should today be any different just because your only son’s dead?”

Marguerite felt quick tears spring to her eyes. “Well, you look like
you’re
dead—wearing black all the time, red lipstick, ten holes in each ear and as if that weren’t enough—”

“Mom!”

“—another in your nose.”

“Mom, we’ve been over and over that.”

“You’re such a pretty girl. You have lovely features and beautiful hair—gorgeous blue eyes. But nobody notices because all they see are the holes.”

“You’re exactly like your mother, you know that?” People in Saks were starting to stare.

“You don’t even know my mother. You weren’t old enough to know her before she lost it.”

“Pearce Randolph told me about her.”

“Pearce? How do you know Pearce?”

“From the TOWN. Geoff took me to a couple of their dinners. I said you were always complaining about my piercings, and he told me a story you told him. About a guy you dated— before you married Leighton, I guess. She told him he had lovely features and lovely eyes, but nobody could see them because his hair was long.”

“At least he didn’t have a nose ring.”

“Mom, will you back off?” Neetsie spoke sharply, in a voice different from the habitual ones they used for bickering, a voice that meant business. Marguerite felt the tears sting again.

“Oh, honey, I just love you so much, that’s all. You know how proud I am of you. Last year, when you did The Ballad of the Sad Cafe, I thought you should be on Broadway, you were so hot. You were great, you know that. I just want—”

“You just want me to be perfect.”

“Is there something wrong with that? Is that too much to hope for my one and only child? You’re the only child I have left, do you realize that? Cole just never seems to get it together, year after year after year….”

“Oh, come on, how about you? You’ve been working on your ‘opera’ for twelve years. Or so you say—nobody’s actually seen you doing it.”

“Why is this necessary? Why are you trying so hard to wound me?”

“Look, Mom, let’s go back to Maison Blanche. I’ll just get that first dress. It’ll be okay. You could get a suit, maybe. You’d look wonderful in a really sharp black suit. With a deep blue silk blouse, maybe. Subtle; almost black itself. A midnight blue, sort of.”

“I can’t afford anything like that. You know I can’t, Neetsie. I haven’t had any money for so long, and all my clothes are full of moth holes—and fifteen years old, too. You just don’t know how hard it is.”

Neetsie looked alarmed. “Mom, let’s go to the ladies’ room.”

She turned on her heel, apparently perfectly confident that Marguerite would follow. Which she did, tears streaming, hardly able to see in front of her.

She had blown it again. She had meant to say how proud she was of Neetsie, to convey somehow how much she loved her, and that if she’d just respect herself a little more, she could live up to what Marguerite knew to be her true potential. She was beautiful, she was talented, she was nearly perfect. Why not go for the whole ball of wax? Marguerite just couldn’t understand it.

When they were there, in the ladies’ room, Neetsie said, “Mom, are you okay? You seem really out of it.”

“Geoffrey—”

Neetsie shook her head. “You sure? You sure that’s all?”

Marguerite leaned on the vanity top. She felt sobs welling up in her diaphragm.

“That’s it, Mom. That’s it. That’s just what you need. Go ahead and cry all you want to.” Neetsie left for a minute and came back with a huge wad of toilet paper, which she handed to her mother.

Marguerite dabbed at her eyes, embarrassed, hoping no one would come in and catch her bawling in the bathroom.

There was something else, all right. She hadn’t felt this stressed out since the day Geoffrey had died.

She was terrified. The thought of seeing Mike Kavanagh filled her with dread.

And he was sure to be at the funeral, had insisted on keeping up a relationship with Geoff long after the marriage was over (never mind the fact that the boy hadn’t cared two figs for him).

When the sobs started to subside and the toilet paper was saturated, Marguerite looked into the round blue eyes of her daughter (Cole’s eyes; Neetsie had been so lucky to get them) and she saw how sad they were.

“Neetsie. Neetsie, could I just ask you a question? You know I don’t ask you for much.”

Neetsie pulled together a smile. “Sure, Mom.”

“Could you take out the nose ring for the funeral? Would that be possible at all?”

* * *

Cole picked up the phone and dialed the nursing home. “This is Coleman Terry, Marguerite Terry’s husband. I don’t know if you know that there’s been a death in our family—we’d like Mrs. Julian to go to the funeral with us.”

He waited as the secretary got his mother-in-law’s chart, as she conferred with doctors, nurses, probably administrators. Eventually, he was told he could come get Mrs. Julian the next morning, but that, as usual, he shouldn’t expect her to know anybody.

Next he got out the vacuum. These sorts of chores usually fell to him. Marguerite took care of her animals and her garden; sometimes she cooked a little; she may have worked on her opera, he wasn’t sure. She was a creative person, not one for the constant repetition of household chores; a fair flower of the South who needed to be taken care of, not the sort to get her hands dirty, and it was Cole’s privilege to assume her care. He only wished he could do it better. His pending deal had to work out… it just had to.

The house was falling apart and if he were any kind of husband, he’d take care of it, he’d have the place full of maids and gardeners and contractors. Sometimes Marguerite got so frustrated she flew into rages, and he didn’t blame her. He felt like raging himself, but he couldn’t, he had to keep working, he had to keep the family together. She was especially fragile right now, with this tragedy, Geoff’s terrible death.

But there was a bright side: At least it wasn’t Neetsie.
She loves that kid like she never did love Geoff. I probably feel worse about him than she does.

God, if it had been Neetsie, I’d probably have had to check Marguerite into the hospital with her mother.

He changed the attachment and began to vacuum the furniture, shocked at how dusty it was, how deep was the cat hair. He didn’t know if there’d be visitors after the funeral, but if there was even one, it was worth cleaning. Otherwise they might get reported to the health department.

In fact, if anyone from the TOWN came, everybody else on the whole damn network would know the condition of the Terry household, down to the last flea on Toots.

I wish I’d never gotten Geoff on that damn thing! Hell, I wish I’d never joined it myself—waste of time, and not only that, it’s not safe. All that speculating, that monitoring of people by strangers—

He smiled grimly even as he had the thought, remembering that it had been very unsafe indeed for his stepson. But he was disturbed by what had come after as well. It was sudden and creepy and unexpected—the energy behind it, the taking on of a murder as if it were a hobby.

The whole phenomenon made him mad, especially that Pearce Randolph, whipping up these young kids, these marginal personalities—getting them all worked up, like he was some goddamn electronic guru. Geoff had loved him, all the kids loved him, but he rubbed Cole the wrong way.

Shit! I’ll be done with him and all his kind if only the deal works. Goddamn, if it hadn’t been for that idiot partner of mine, we could be in Costa Rica by now, Marguerite and me. Everything he’s ever done he’s screwed up. Why does God make idiots like that? Can you tell me that? Huh Mosey? Huh, Calabash? Huh, Toots? Could you tell me, please?

He spoke the last few words aloud, prompting Toots to wave her tail unenthusiastically, as if fulfilling an obligation, and then to start barking. The barking started softly and got louder.

“Hey, what’d I say? I thought you’d agree with me.”

Toots had trotted to the door, and now stood there barking at it. Cole turned off the vacuum in time to hear the last chime of the doorbell. “Oh, well, at least I got most of the cat hair.”

A large woman greeted him, six feet tall probably, and built to make an impression. She had buttoned her brown tweed blazer, something you didn’t often see women do. There was aggression in the way she stood. He had an immediate reaction against her—he couldn’t have said why, there was just something about her that was in your face.

“I’m Skip Langdon,” she said, and held up a badge. “You must be Coleman Terry.”

I should have known, he thought, as she explained she was there about Geoff. “Your wife showed me his room,” she said, “but I wonder if I could take another look.”

“Do you have a search warrant?”

“No, I just thought you might not mind. Of course, if you do—”

“Oh, no, it isn’t that. That’s just what they always say on television.”

She smiled. “We like to do things informally when we can. Is Mrs. Terry home?”

“I’m afraid not. Did you want to see her?”

“It’s okay. I can come back later. But why don’t we check Geoff’s room now?”

He stayed with her while she looked, though she conducted her search so slowly he wanted to tear the place apart for her. “Are you looking for anything special?”

He saw her hesitate, probably wondering if it was safe to ask him. She seemed to realize that at this point it made no difference, she wasn’t going to find it—whatever it was—by herself. “Do you know if he kept a journal?”

“I don’t think so. I guess I’d be surprised if he did. Geoff wasn’t a particularly introspective boy.”

“Wasn’t he? I thought he kept to himself.”

“Well, maybe he was introspective. He just never seemed all that aware of other people. Shy. Painfully shy. He was a good kid, though. A really, really good kid.”