The Axeman's Jazz

trouble.”
    “Big deal. None of them are trouble. They’re all on the hard disk.”
    He left her alone while he went to print something out, and came back with a sheaf of still-untorn computer pages. “How about this one, on ‘Unconditional Love’? That ought to get her, huh? Oh, brother: I was the turd of turds when I wrote this.”
    “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
    “Do you think my father has Alzheimer’s?”
    “No.” But she considered. “I mean, how would I know? You’re the psychologist.”
    “Yeah, but I’m his son.”
    He chatted her up a little more, wrote a sweet note on the chapter, and saw her out with a pat on the shoulder. Funny what a little flattery would do for a person’s personality.
    It was gratifying to watch Alex behave like a normal human being for a change, but she hadn’t accomplished her mission. She still didn’t know whether he owned a manual typewriter.

TWENTY-EIGHT
    SINCE THERE WAS no way to tell from the outside whether Di was in, she phoned. When the machine answered, she was annoyed with herself, felt at loose ends. And so when she saw someone else going into Di’s building, she simply slipped in behind, saying, ‘Hi,’ as if she belonged. Not for any special reason, simply for lack of anything else to do. And that was why, she told herself, she happened to try the door. Yet when it opened she panicked.
    Oh, well. If Di was home, she could make up some excuse.
    “Di?” she called.
    No answer. Oh, well again. A quick look and who would know?
    Skip, this is breaking and entering.
    Not really. We’re friends. I didn’t find her home and came in to leave her a note.
    Liar.
    Well, the door was ajar. I had a weird feeling—had to look in and make sure everything was okay.
    No matter what games she played with herself, she couldn’t find a way to justify what she was doing.
    Neither could she stop herself.
    But she did leave the door ajar, thinking she’d use the last explanation if it should prove necessary. And with her first step in the door her attention was so riveted she couldn’t have left if her conscience had attacked her with a cattle prod. Thrown casually on the back of the sofa, as if it had annoyed the wearer, prompting hasty removal, was a scarf almost identical to the one that had killed Jerilyn Jordan. It was a cheap rectangle of Indian cotton, a long neck scarf fringed on the ends. Like the one around Jerilyn’s neck, it was striped, but in shades of taupe and aqua rather than fuchsia and rose. It was the sort of inexpensive accessory women sometimes bought two or three of, in different colors. As soon as Skip saw it, she realized shed seen it earlier—Di had been wearing it as a belt.
    Skip took a quick survey of the living room, and one other thing caught her attention. There was a famous collection of Louisiana stories, some of them folktales, some historical. It was the most accessible source of information about the original Axeman. Funny she hadn’t noticed it before, when she’d perused Di’s books for the sort a hypnotherapist would have. Had Di had it in her bedroom, copying the Axeman’s give-me-jazz letter?
    Since the light was on in the bathroom, she looked there next. On the counter were the usual perfumes and toiletries and some other things, apparently just pulled from one of the vanity drawers—hair color and discolored vinyl gloves, used at least once before in the rejuvenation ritual. Gloves like those the Axeman probably used.
    Putting them on to avoid leaving prints of her own, Skip opened the drawers and found more gloves, a whole box of them. She took a clean pair and replaced the used ones.
    Di’s bed was made, her bedroom in perfect order except for the outfit she’d worn that morning, which had been tossed on a chair. An armoire held clothes, but there was also a closet. Skip looked first through an antique bureau, finding a drawer containing a pile of scarves, at least two being different-colored twins of the two she’d already seen.
    Jesus
, she thought,
if I could find a typewriter, I could get a warrant.
    And in the bottom of the closet was a Smith-Corona portable, thirty years old if it was a day. Skip’s heart threatened to crash through her sternum in a percussive frenzy, fall out on the floor, and hop around the room. She covered her chest with her hand to quiet it, like some sixth-grader pledging allegiance.
    Did she dare to type something out, something to compare with the Axeman’s notes?
    No.