Death Before Facebook

go right for her. Anyway, the minute she left, Marguerite started letting the whole place go to hell, about which Mrs. J and my mother could cluck for hours. I guess part of the fun was disapproving.”
    “And then of course Leighton got killed and she married his brother Mike.”
    “Uh-huh. Marguerite was visiting her mom the night of the murder.”
    “With Geoff?”
    “I guess so. From what I gather, when Marguerite went out and sang—which she did quite a lot—she’d take Geoff over to stay with his grandmother.”
    “Ah. Grandma the martyr.”
    “The saint, according to my mother.”
    “Alison, I have to hand it to you—you’re always in the right place at the right time.”
    “Usually, yes, I cannot deny it. But this is different, I’m not kidding. Everybody at Newcomb took lessons from Mrs. Julian. Probably McGehee’s too.” McGehee’s was Skip’s school.
    “Okay, what do you know about Cole Terry?”
    There was a silence. “Who?”
    “That’s who Marguerite’s married to now.”
    “I can’t believe this—I never heard of him.”
    “It just shows you’re human after all.”
    “Come to think of it, Marguerite kind of disappeared from the scene, I guess. After she married Mike. Once my mother and I ran into her—the only time I ever saw her, to tell you the truth. She was working as a hostess at the Rib Room.
    “Oh, wait, there’s another chapter. After that, she sent a brochure around to all the Uptown ladies, claiming years of experience in what she called ‘the hospitality industry.’ She was starting a party-giving business, and my mom used her once. This was when I was still taking lessons from Mrs. Julian, and it got embarrassing. It seems Marguerite screwed up royally. And then there were all these stories from other hostesses—it was always the same thing.” She stopped for breath. “Do you think I get my habit of carrying tales from my mother?”
    “Probably.”
    “Why couldn’t I have got curly hair like you did? Anyway, it was this way—she always went over budget, and she always had fights with the caterers. Nothing was ever good enough and she kept making people do things over again, which cost everyone involved a bundle. She was just a perfectionist, I guess.”
    “It sounds like she was into histrionics as well.”
    “I guess so. Anyway, the business failed and after that I never heard of her again. Until today, I mean. Maybe she dumped Mike, and Cole came along and rescued her.”
    “I don’t know. If they’ve got any money, why don’t they get the house painted?”
    Skip hung up, thinking Alison was one of the most satisfying human beings on the face of the earth—and marveling once again at what a small town New Orleans could be. Sometimes she thought it was only tiny if you stayed within certain class and race boundaries, but she was always being proved wrong. The Julians and the Kavanaghs were certainly not in Alison’s social circle—and yet she knew every detail of their family history. (Though she was one of the few people in the world interested enough to
remember
every detail.)
    But Skip had lived in San Francisco and she knew how different it was. Such things were treasured in the South, remembered and repeated by people who weren’t even gossip pros like Alison. As a region it had its faults—so many Skip felt strangled at times—but you couldn’t say people here didn’t care about each other.
    She called another Newcomb acquaintance who came in handy sometimes (fortunately, she’d met a few people before flunking out). This one hadn’t turned out nearly as multi-faceted as Alison, but she was dependable. Eileen Moreland, who worked at the
Times-Picayune
.
    “Well, if it isn’t that double-crosser, Skippy Langdon.”
    “Double-cross?
Moi
?”
    “I thought you were going to let me interview you.”
    “Well, I am. That’s what I’m calling about.”
    “Uh-uh. You’re calling because you want a favor.”
    “That’s only coincidental. I’m calling because I owe you and I know it. That other time, I just had this little undercover thing going.”
    “Great. When can we set up the interview?”
    “Oh, maybe in a couple of weeks?”
    “Let’s see, Thanksgiving week’s coming up.”
    “The week after, maybe?” By then Skip would think of some excuse to wait even a little longer. “Tell me something. Can you get clips on a twenty-seven-year-old murder case?’
    “I can, but it’s a major pain in the rear.”
    “How