Death Before Facebook

margin left over. The first was dated June 4.
    It was
the
journal. The one no one knew for sure existed, but that her burglar was almost certainly looking for. Well, fine. She’d take it to the damn detective in the morning. She wasn’t in the mood to deal.
    Quickly, Pearce turned the pages, looking at the dates. The last one was November 4, two days before Geoff died. Avidly, he started to read, but Lenore was suddenly angry. She took a gulp of wine.
    “There’s something cold about this,” she said.
    Pearce turned to her, reading glasses pushed down on his nose, looking rather old and utterly befuddled. “What?” he said. It might as well have been “Say whuuut?” for all he seemed to know about what was going on.
    “You’re like some old… raptor.”
    “Huh?”
    “Rapacious… predatory.” She knew she was out of control, but she couldn’t help it; she was just saying whatever came to mind.
    Miraculously, he got it. He laughed, but it came out a lot like “Hee-haw.” “You mean like some salacious old journalist? Honey, they don’t call us news hawks for nothing. I’ll bet I’ve got a curved bill and little beady eyes by now.”
    She laughed too. “Your nose actually grew while you were doing that, did you know that?”
    “You mean, when I was poking it where it didn’t belong?”
    “Did you see anything—uh—you know…” She was starting to feel slightly queasy.
    He shook his head. “Not yet.”
    “I don’t know if I’m up to this right now—would you mind?”
    “What’s wrong?”
    “I don’t exactly… feel right.”
    “You mean about reading Geoff’s stuff.”
    “I don’t know. I just feel slightly sick.”
    He took her wineglass away from her. “You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to tuck you in and sing you a lullabye.”
    Suddenly she was almost inconceivably sleepy. “You are?”
    “Let’s go.” He took her hand. For some reason, she picked up the diary with the other.
    She just barely had the strength to set the clock. She clutched Geoff’s diary against her chest like a teddy bear, while Pearce held her other hand and sang her a pretty song about lying down in a big brass bed. He said it was an old Bob Dylan tune.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
     
    BABY-SITTING NIGHT was looking up. Cindy Lou had called with a grab-a-bite invitation and Skip lost no time talking her into dinner
en famille
. Now the problem was figuring out what to make. There was always hamburgers—that went down well with kids—but did Cindy Lou eat meat? Yes, she’d had veal the other night.
    Okay, hamburgers. Sheila herself had said Jimmy Dee never made them—he probably had the kids on a perfectly balanced low-carb, low-cholesterol, high-vitamin regimen that Deepak Chopra himself couldn’t manage.
    It occurred to Skip that Jimmy Dee might be working too hard at fatherhood. No wonder he was so tired all the time and felt so beaten down.
    She shopped at the Quarter A&P, arriving with two giant bags she hoped Dee-Dee wouldn’t peruse before he left. But of course nothing would stop him.
    “Auntie! Naughty, naughty. Potato chips! You’ve got to be kidding.”
    “Lighten up, Dee-Dee, they’re kids.”
    “Yeah!” chimed in Kenny. “Auntie Skip, could I have a potato chip?”
    He never called her “Auntie” unless he wanted something.
    “You can have lots of them for dinner. For now—how about a carrot stick?”
    “Gimme a break!” But he trundled off good-naturedly.
    “I got cookies for dessert too. I think he’s right, Dee-Dee—maybe you ought to lighten up.”
    “God, I’m doing the best I can! This shit isn’t that easy for a fifty-year-old faggot.”
    “Well, I was thinking—maybe you’re making it harder than it has to be.”
    But he didn’t seem to want to talk about it. He said, “Sheila spoke to me today.”
    “Aha. You must be doing something right.”
    “I think that genie, Darryl, had something to do with it. We should have him over—tonight, for instance. How would that be?”
    “You mean I should have him over. You’re trying to promote something, aren’t you?”
    “I’ve found my true love. Why shouldn’t you?”
    She let that hang there a while.
    “You think I should call Layne?” asked Dee-Dee.
    “Sure—if it turns out he didn’t kill his best friend.”
    “Yeah. Maybe not quite yet. I haven’t had a date in four years—just my luck to bring home a murderer. But there’s something I don’t get. Since he was Geoff’s best friend,