Death Before Facebook

know Cole Terry?’
    “I used to be married to him. Didn’t I mention that?”
    Skip felt flames of rage leap up her spine. “Why, no. And I really think you should have.”
    “Oh, God, I thought you knew. I’m sorry.”
    “I certainly didn’t know.” Skip was trying to get her anger under control. “You’re telling me you just happened to become best friends—through a computer bulletin board—with a woman who was the girlfriend of your ex-husband’s stepson?”
    To Skip’s surprise, Kit laughed. “That sounds ridiculous. And you’re absolutely right—it didn’t happen exactly that way. Technically, Lenore and I didn’t meet on the TOWN—it’s where we met as adults. We knew each other when she was a kid. I was married to Cole then, and we knew Butsy, though they weren’t yet business partners—”
    “What? Cole and Lenore’s dad are business partners?’
    “Oh, yes. You didn’t know that, either?’
    “No.”
    “Well, I believe they still are. They’ve known each other forever. Anyway, many years after Cole and I had parted company, when I was living in Kansas City, I got on the TOWN because of this conference I mentioned, which is called Down-and-Dirty—it’s famous in the depressive community. And once I got there, there were the kids of all these people I knew. It was sort of weird and wonderful.”
    Skip was trying to take in what this meant—that Kit had been in New Orleans when Leighton was murdered. “You mean Geoff?” she said cautiously. “Were you friends with Marguerite and Leighton?”
    “No, no, I just meant Lenore and Neetsie. I never met Leighton and I don’t know Marguerite at all—the only time I ever saw her was at the funeral.”
    “But you knew Geoff eventually, through Lenore. I think you mentioned it.”
    “Not all that well.” Skip thought Kit’s eyes were darting nervously.
    “No?”
    “Uh… no, not really.” Her phone rang. “Could you excuse me a minute?”
    She picked it up and Skip heard her say, “Oh, no! Have you called the police? Good. Listen, Skip Langdon’s here.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
     
    PEARCE RANDOLPH’S LINE WAS busy, probably, Skip thought, because he was logged onto the TOWN as usual. No telling how long he’d be on it, either.
    She drove over.
    “Well, Ms. Langdon. I never thought I’d see you on a Saturday.”
    “Policemen’s work is never done. And it’s Detective Langdon, please.”
    “You don’t look like any policeman I ever saw.”
    She could almost have said it with him, it was so predictable.
    “A couple of quick questions. May I come in?”
    “Sure.”
    She reentered the black, mold-smelling hole Pearce called home, and thought that this time she wouldn’t sit, she would get out as quickly as possible.
    “Think back carefully. Tell me what you really think—not for testimony, not for any official purpose, just tell me what your sense is. Was Marguerite involved with Mike Kavanagh at the time Leighton was killed?”
    “You already asked me that.”
    “And you said no. But there was something funny about the way you said it.”
    “Yeah, maybe there was. Okay, she could have been.”
    “Why do you say that?”
    “Once or twice she stood us up—Honey and me. She’d call at the last minute and say her mother was sick, she couldn’t get anyone to take care of Geoff. One of those times we thought we’d drop over and surprise her. Which we did, but no one was home.”
    “That’s it?”
    “Well, another time she was late and she was disheveled. And I mean the kind of disheveled women get—you know? Like she’d been necking in a car and the guy didn’t want to let her go.”
    “It could have been Leighton.”
    He shook his head. “He didn’t bring her out to the Dream Palace. He hated it when she hung out.”
    “All the more reason he wouldn’t want to let her go.”
    His head kept sawing. “Uh-uh. She acted kind of embarrassed. Why do you ask, by the way?”
    “I’m a cop and you’re a reporter. You know I’m not going to say.”
    “I think I can guess. So it’s Hamlet, is it? Oldest story in the book.”
    She left to find Honey, hoping her parting smile was enigmatic.
    Honey was raking leaves, dressed in a red bandanna and striped overalls. Like so many New Orleans women, she had the knack of looking perfectly groomed for every occasion, as if her life were one commercial after another. This one could be for garden tools.
    “Hey, Honey. Nice nippy day, isn’t it?”
    “Hey, Skip.