The Axeman's Jazz

That was inviting a stroke from stress. And anyway, she heard someone on the stairs now. Pulling off the gloves, she called, “Di? Oh, Di? Di, are you home?”
    She had safely reached the living room and was standing tentatively, like a person who’d just arrived by the time Di came in.
    She put a hand to her throat. “Oh, Di. There you are. I saw your door open and I got worried.”
    Di had changed to shorts and a worn white T-shirt with a faded French Quarter scene on it, obviously a knockabout rather than a formal one. She had a white paper bag in her hand. “My door was open? But I remember locking it.”
    Skip shrugged. “It was like this. Shall we look to make sure no one’s here?”
    Soberly, Di nodded. They looked in the closet, in the armoire, even under the bed, Skip doing the work, Di hovering nervously. Skip said, “Do you have jewelry? Why don’t we check it?”
    Di opened a bureau drawer, pulled out a box, pronounced everything safe. “I guess I forgot to lock up. I was going to color my hair, but I thought I didn’t have enough stuff for more than a touch-up.” She opened her paper bag, pulled out hair color and conditioner. “I guess I got in too big a hurry.”
    “Are you sure? Who else has a key?”
    “No one. Not even a neighbor.”
    “Let’s look at the lock.”
    There were no scratches, no signs of forcing. The door had two locks—an ordinary button one and a deadbolt. Without the deadbolt, a credit card could have done the honors.
    “Think back,” said Skip. “Did you put the bolt on?”
    “I thought I did. But I was starving—Alex was supposed to feed me, but he didn’t, the rat. And I was pissed because I had to go out to the drugstore. So I guess I could have forgotten. But I think I’d at least have remembered to close the door.”
    There were windows open too—in almost every room. Someone could have come in that way and left through the door. But maybe they hadn’t. And Skip knew something Di didn’t—that the door hadn’t actually been open.
    She said, “I guess you’re okay, then. I’ll get out of your hair. I just felt bad about interrupting your visit with Alex and I wanted to apologize.”
    “Oh, no problem. I was done there, anyway. Listen, I’m still starving. Want a cheese-and-tomato sandwich? I usually don’t eat cheese, but every now and then I’ve got to have protein or I feel like I’ll faint.”
    Skip hadn’t eaten either, and she was so glad not to be offered a scrumptious plate of celery and carrot sticks, she accepted instantly. As Di sliced seven-grain bread, lite cheddar (no salt, no fat), and tomatoes, Skip set the table and poured iced tea.
    “I’m glad you came over,” said her hostess. “You know, I always knew there was something about you you weren’t telling. I wouldn’t have picked you as a detective, exactly, but maybe as a writer or something like that. I never believed that civil-service stuff.”
    “But I do have a civil-service job.”
    Di set down the sandwiches, motioned for Skip to sit. “Only technically. There was something special about you, something exotic. I always saw it.” She chewed. “How’s the case coming?”
    Skip nearly choked.
    “You know what you should be doing? I have a feeling you should be looking in the inner-child group. Everybody in there knew that poor girl was alone at Abe’s last night. And Tom Mabus came now and then. There’s a connection there—do you see it?”
    “Yes. Now that you mention it, I think I do. But you know, I’m really starting to feel close to those people. It’s hard to see anyone in there as a killer.”
    “Well, you just have to be objective about it. Have you noticed how angry Alex can get?”
    “Do you think he did it?”
    “Alex? He’s a narcissist, but I don’t see him killing. Only in the heat of passion. Not like this.”
    “How do you know these murders weren’t crimes of passion?”
    “I just know.”
    “How?”
    “It just doesn’t feel that way to me. They’re premeditated.”
    “What do you think the motive is?”
    “You really want to know?”
    “Sure.”
    “You know I’m a therapist. I’m just not practicing now.”
    “I thought you were a hypnotherapist.”
    “Oh, well, I am, but you have to be a therapist first; then you learn hypnosis. It’s a specialty, not like being a paralegal or something.”
    “I see.”
    “Well, speaking as a therapist, I think he’s showing off. I think he’s just trying to get