The Kindness of Strangers (Skip Langdon Mystery #6) (The Skip Langdon Series) (8 page)

Sheila looked skeptical. Torian could feel her slipping away. “Hey, will they let you sleep over?”

“Uncle Jimmy, you mean? I guess so. Sure.”

“Well, let’s call him. We can drink my mom’s booze. Madame Lise has a date—she probably won’t even come home tonight.”

* * *

Lise was giving the goddamn service test, the most demeaning of the host of humiliating tasks her job entailed.

“Did you find I got to you quickly and promptly? What?” She felt herself flushing. “Well, I know it’s redundant. I’m sorry. Did you feel the service was prompt?

“Oh? Why not? But you see, we couldn’t process the claim until… I’m sorry, I know I asked. Let’s start over. After the claim was processed, did you find … why is that irrelevant? Okay, why don’t we go on to the next question. Did you find me polite? No? But… oh, slight edge to my voice. Okay. What about efficiency? Did you think … ? Oh. You’d give me about a five and a half. Well, I want to thank you for your … uh … well, I …” She couldn’t bring herself to say she enjoyed working with the asshole. “Umm, thank you, I hope, uh…”

The asshole hung up.
Shit.
Why in the hell had she majored in history when she could have gone into computers or something useful? Sixteen years of marriage was her entire work experience. She wasn’t trained for a damned thing except loading dishwashers and making sandwiches.

She picked up the phone again. “Homelife Insurance.” She tried to give her voice a lilt. Feigning cheerfulness was harder and harder these days. “Oh. Wilson. It’s you.”

“Don’t sound so thrilled,” said her ex.

She said nothing, hoping her silence was eloquent.

“Look, you’re the one who called me. If you’re going to talk, talk.”

“You know what I called about. The same thing I call about every month.”

He didn’t answer.

“I need my support check, Wilson.”

“Look, I’ve had a lot of unexpected expenses. I just don’t know if I’m going to be able to…”

“You don’t know if you’re going to be able to! On your goddamn corporate lawyer’s salary. Do you know Torian had to go back to school with three T-shirts and one new pair of jeans? That was it, Wilson! That’s all she had.”

“So? What else does she need?”

“How can you be like that? Just tell me—how can one man be so goddamn selfish?”

“‘Torian could have gotten a summer job. You spoil the kid rotten, and she’s getting worse every day.”

“She looked for a summer job. Nobody would hire her.”

“You’re telling me she couldn’t have gotten a job at McDonald’s? Her grades, and McDonald’s wouldn’t hire her?”

“Wilson, I am not going to discuss this matter with you. I’m telling you now we’re eating beans.”

“Best diet there is. Beans and rice. What are you complaining about?”

She couldn’t keep the tears out of her voice. “I’m begging you. I’m begging you.”

He couldn’t keep the hostility out of his. “I’ll do the best I can, Lise.” He hung up.

Lise closed her eyes. She thought,
Thank God I’m seeing Charles tonight.

Charles was a contractor, a little rough around the edges, a bit of the good ol’ boy about him, but he had a sweetness that Lise had seen right away and realized she craved after sixteen years with a well-educated asshole.

Charles had gone two years to LSU and flunked out. That was the extent of his formal education, but he did okay; he had a little shotgun in the Bywater, which was more than she could say for herself. True, it was a bit run-down and needed paint, and the backyard was full of old lumber and rusting tools, but Charles had never been married. He wasn’t domesticated, but he was such a sweetie-pie he’d probably catch on quick, Lise thought.

She thought that sometimes. Other times she thought, What kind of life can Charles give Torian and me? I ought to dump him and find someone with some money.

And then she would think: But they’re all such assholes.

Charles was about fifty pounds overweight and had sandy hair that showed streaks of head underneath when he combed it back. His neck and belly were too large, and he had more sagging flesh under his chin than Lise really cared for. But he was tall, and Lise loved to wrap her legs around his thick body. She even loved the soreness the next morning in her inner thighs, which she would feel all day and sometimes part of the next, a reminder of their passion. Passion with Wilson had died before Torian entered kindergarten.

She called Torian. “You doing okay?”

“That depends.”

“Don’t be surly, Torian. What have I done to piss you off? I haven’t said a word yet.”

Silence.

“Did you remember I’m going out with Charles tonight?”

“Yes.” The word was more or less spat at her.

“Well, darling, sweetheart, honeydew, what is there to eat at home?”

“What do you care? You’re going out.”

“I’m your mother, remember?”

“Oh, yeah.
I
remember.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Mom, could you cut to the chase?”

“I’m checking on your welfare. I’m calling to make sure you’re fine and you have enough to eat.”

“Thanks a lot.”

Lise made her tone severe. “If you don’t like anything in the house, you can order from the Verti Marte.”

“I hate the Verti Marte.”

“Royal Street Grocery, then. I don’t care where you order from. You’re a big girl, why don’t you act like it?”

“Will that be all, Mommy dearest?”

“‘Torian, that’ll be enough. I’ll be home late.”

By the time she left to meet Charles, she needed a drink in the worst kind of way. They had a couple of beers at a bar Charles knew, a neighborhood joint that frankly gave Lise the creeps, then they decided to go out to the West End and get some boiled seafood.

Over dinner, she told him about Wilson.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “I’m gonna go out to Old Metairie and break both his legs.”

“Oh, Charles, don’t be silly.”

“He can’t talk to you that way.”

She didn’t answer, wondering what the alternative was.

He upended his beer and stood. “Let’s go. I’ll drop you off, then I’m gon’ go do it.”

“Charles, you’re such a gentle man. You’re not going to do that.”

“Bullshit. I’m sick of this crap. I’m gon’ go break his legs--”

She hated it when he started posing. He would no more break Wilson’s legs than those of his twelve-year-old dog, Buzzy, but let him get a few beers in him and he more or less went crazy.

“Baby. Could you sit down?”

“Lise, you keep whinin’ and whinin’ about that sonofabitch, and I’m goddamn sick of hearin’ it. Le’s go!”

“Hey! You’re making a scene.”

“I’ll pick you up later,” he said, and started toward the door.

“What about the bill?” She hated herself. She’d have loved to let him go, pay it herself, and take a taxi home. But she didn’t have the money.

“Oh, yeah.” He turned around, threw down some bills, and started once again for the door.

She got up and followed, fuming.

When they were in the car, he gathered her in a bear hug and stuck his face in hers, nuzzling, breathing beer fumes.

“Let me go.” She beat on his shoulder blades. “Goddammit, let me go.” She could have killed him.

He unwrapped her, and she saw that he was laughing. “Had you goin’, didn’t I?”

She was too astonished to answer.

He took her chin in his hand. “Baby, I just wanted to get you alone, that’s all. I wouldn’t hurt a fly, you know that.”

“Why couldn’t you have just said, ‘Lise, baby, I want to be alone with you.’ Wouldn’t that have been more romantic?”

“Nah. You liked it this way.”

“I did not, Charles. I assure you I did not.”

“Oh, listen to Miss Priss.” He spoke in an old-maidish falsetto: “I did not, Charles. I assure you I did not.”

She turned and stared out the window. “‘Take me home.”

He grabbed her elbow and turned her toward him, pulling her against his body. He stuck his tongue in her mouth and she opened her lips against his, forgetting everything except the taste of him, the gentle velvet of his mouth.

When he finally started the car, she kept a hand on his thigh, cursing bucket seats, wishing she could lean her body against his.

She thought they were driving to his house, but he stopped at the same bar she hadn’t liked in the first place. “What are we doing?”

“Let’s have a nightcap.”

“I have to get home, Charles. I have a kid, remember?”

“Come on, just one.”

He ordered a Rusty Nail, and so, more or less in self- defense, did she. Then he ordered another.

“Charles, come on. I’ve got to go home.”

He said, “God, you’re beautiful,” and leaned toward her. They kissed in the bar, unmindful of who saw, and then they had another Rusty Nail.

Finally, he took her home, it being far too late to go to his house by then, and she thought she heard noise from Torian’s room.

“‘Torian? What are you doing?”

“Just talking. Sheila’s sleeping over.”

Lise opened the door. Sheila was on the floor in a sleeping bag, candles burned on Torian’s dresser, and the room reeked of cigarette smoke.

“You’ve been smoking again.”

She crossed to the window and opened it.

“Mom! The AC.”

“We’ll talk in the morning, young lady.”

As she left, she heard her daughter say, “Did you smell her? She’s drunk as a coot.”

Chapter Six

SKIP RANG THE doorbell promptly at four. She had arrived early, but out of politeness waited till the hour.

It was a long time before she heard footsteps. Finally Boo opened the door, hands grubby, in a dirty T-shirt and shorts. She’d obviously been gardening.

“Omigod, Skip! I didn’t call you.”

Skip said nothing, too confused to speak.

“Omigod, come in. I spaced it. I can’t believe I spaced it.”

Skip followed her in, but stood barely in the doorway, knowing she’d be leaving soon. Evidently, Boo couldn’t see her now.

“Listen, I’m so sorry, but something very unfortunate’s come up. I’m afraid I’ve got a conflict.” She spread her arms, palms up, contracting her shoulders. “I promise I didn’t know this at the time we talked, I really didn’t, but my husband has taken a job with Errol Jacomine’s campaign. I don’t know what you’re planning to do”—she put up a hand—”Don’t tell me. Please. You see what I mean? We just can’t talk freely right now. So I’m afraid I really can’t see you anymore, but I’ll be glad to recommend someone I think you’ll like. I’m really sorry about this.”

Oh, no. Not my shrink too.

She took the name of the person Boo recommended, knowing she wouldn’t call her.

Okay, I’m paranoid, but I’m not telling my deepest secrets to someone recommended by the wife of one of
Jacomine’s henchmen. For all I know Boo’s involved with them too
.

Here’s what I don’t get—how does he do this? It’s like he can get to anybody. Or am I being paranoid, as advertised?

And she wondered,
Who can I trust?

Jimmy Dee, always.

Cindy Lou.

Or not?

She’s Boo’s friend and she’s a shrink. Also, she’s black and Jacomine’s got that phony brotherhood thing going. Worst of all, she knows my lately unstable history. If Boo tells her I’ve gone off the deep end, she might believe her.

Steve Steinman. No question there.

Okay, good. All I need is one person, and that’s two. I can get through this.

* * *

An emphatic sneeze, audible from the far side of the courtyard, issued from Jimmy Dee’s kitchen as Skip stepped across from the garconnière.

Layne’s eyes were watering. He held a tissue to his mouth and nose.

Skip said, “Uh-oh. Did we forget to take our meds again?”

“They’re wearing off.”

Angel, the dog, was now apparently shut up somewhere in the back of the house, in deference to her pal’s infirmity. This was the second prescription that had worked for a while and then stopped.

Jimmy Dee looked panicked. His relationship with Layne was already the longest running of his life, he’d recently told Skip, and to his amazement, it was going beautifully.

“Magnificently,” he’d said, beaming, not even being slightly ironic, which was nearly unheard-of where Dee- Dee was concerned.

But then he’d said, “Except, of course, for the Celestial Furball.”

Dee-Dee, perennially depressed Dee-Dee, was happy for the first time since Skip had known him. When they first met, he was in a funk she thought was permanent. Many of his friends had died, but he never talked about it. He covered up his grief with campy chatter and weed, but she knew.

The kids and Layne, who’d arrived nearly simultaneously, had made all the difference. He’d had to give up pot because of the bad-example factor, and he still chattered campily, but he smiled a lot more. He was softer, somehow. He’d fallen in love with three people at once: or, to be more accurate, three people and a dog.

And then Layne’s allergy had come up.

“Something smells great,” Skip said.

“Crabmeat Extravaganza. You’re going to love it.”

“Extravaganza?”

“You wait.”

Layne looked miserable. “Wish I could taste it.”

Dee-Dee said, “Set the table, will you, Kenny?”

Thirteen-year-old Kenny, sitting quietly at the kitchen table all this time, got up and began gathering silverware. “This one, or the one in the dining room?”

“Sheila’s not here, so we can be intime, I guess.”

“What’s that mean?” Kenny looked so earnest Skip wanted to kiss him. He was desperate, as usual, to do nothing wrong, to make sure everything was perfect.

“It means the kitchen.”

He nodded, a man with a mission.

Skip said, “Layne, remember those witches I met a couple of years ago?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Layne. “Don’t start on the witches again.”

Kenny said, “I like witches.”

“You do?” Layne said. “Well, if you like ‘em, old buddy, you get your mojo workin’. I’m afraid of them myself.”

“Oh, Layne, you’ve got it wrong. They’re gentle as kittens. What can it hurt? I’ll call them and ask if they can do a healing.”