82 Desire

discussing the relative merits of some tiny point of human behavior. Skip particularly liked this subject, because Steve hadn’t always gotten along with Jimmy Dee, and when the kids first arrived had been utterly indifferent. These days he seemed to consider them family as much as she did.
    The two of them continued minding other people’s business for a while and eventually got around to their Chinese delicacies, which they polished off with gusto, still sitting out in the courtyard. It was getting on toward ten o’clock, and the mosquitoes were starting to come out when Skip said suddenly, “My pager. Damn.”
    “Double damn.”
    She went in to call, though it was a number she didn’t know. “Skip Langdon,” she said. “Did someone page me?”
    “Oh, Detective Langdon. Thanks so much for calling back, I—uh … didn’t know who else to call.” It was a woman’s voice, and the woman was frantic.
    “Who is this, please?”
    “This is Deborah Cavignac. Bebe gave me your number. I’m calling because my husband hasn’t come home.”
    Skip felt a sudden flush of alarm. “You’re Beau Cavignac’s wife?”
    “Yes.”
    “What time does he normally get home?”
    “Oh, between five and six. Six-thirty if he has a drink first. This has never happened before—and we’ve been married seventeen years. Bebe said you’d know what to do.”
    “Have you heard from him today?”
    “Yes. He called before he left work and said he was going to stop for a drink at the Marlin Bar. And that he’d be home by six-thirty. Come to think of it, he actually said that.” She started to sob. “Oh, my God. I’m so worried.”
    Under the circumstances, Skip couldn’t really blame her.
    “Have you called the hospitals?”
    “Why, no.”
    “Well, why don’t you start there, and then I’ll see what I can do.”
    “I don’t know …” Cavignac’s voice was uncertain, as if she really couldn’t be expected to make the calls herself, but Skip hung up before she had time to argue.
    She called the coroner’s office, which, happily, had nothing to report. She could hear, somewhere in the distance, that Steve had turned on the television.
    She joined him for fifteen minutes of mindlessness, and then the phone rang again. “Nobody’s got him,” said Mrs. Cavignac.
    “That’s good news, isn’t it? He must not have been in an accident.”
    “Well, where is he now?”
    A very good question. One which she, in good conscience, had to try to answer. She said, “Let me make a couple of inquiries for you.” Having already checked the morgue, she called the jail. Beau wasn’t in it.
    This had a deja vu kind of quality about it, but Skip had a bad feeling Beau wasn’t in Fort Lauderdale. She made her apologies to Steve, then slipped out of her shorts and into a pair of rayon work pants.
    The Marlin Bar was more or less hopping—some say the weekend begins Thursday in New Orleans—but eventually Skip caught the bartender’s eye. She said simply, “Has Beau Cavignac been in tonight?”
    “Beau?” The man’s head swiveled, made a quick survey of the place. “He left an hour or two ago.”
    Skip had no desire to flash her badge, but it looked as if the time had come. She palmed it, hoping no one would see but the bartender, and said, “One or two?”
    “Something wrong, Officer?”
    She smiled. “Not that I know of. How about you?”
    A hush had fallen among the nearby customers, the ones who’d seen the badge. One of them heaved his body around on the barstool to get a better look at her. “More like two,” he said. “Beau left two hours ago.”
    The bartender shrugged and went back to work. Skip held out her hand to the man. “Skip Langdon. Are you a friend of Beau’s?”
    “Bill Tyler. I just see him in here—we talk about sports and the weather.”
    “Did you talk to him tonight?”
    “Yeah, a little bit. He had a beer or two and then said he was going home to dinner.”
    “Did he come in with anyone?”
    “Came in alone. Left alone.”
    “Talk to anyone else?”
    “Just Joe.” He pointed with his chin to the bartender.
    Knowing it was too much to hope for, she asked if Tyler knew where Beau parked.
    “In a parking lot, I guess—he works for United Oil.”
    “That sounds right. You know what kind of car he drives?”
    “Afraid not.”
    “Okay, thanks.” She tried to give him a grin of gratitude, but she couldn’t get her face to move properly. Her heart was picking up speed.
    She