The Axeman's Jazz

Kitty was all over me, rubbin’ against my legs like I was a hundred pound bag of catnip.”
    “Did you go in?”
    He flushed. “Well, I didn’t.”
    Skip knew what he wanted to hear, and she provided it. “You did exactly the right thing.”
    “There might have been something….”
    “No, there wasn’t. You knew she was dead. A ten-year-old kid would have known. Anyway, if you had gone in, it would have interfered with the investigation. Where’s the cat, incidentally?”
    “Oh, I … well, I hope I didn’t do wrong. I brought her here and fed her. Then she went under the bed and hasn’t come out yet. Don’t blame her, do you?”
    “You had cat food?”
    “I, uh … gave her some chicken. What’s going to happen to her?”
    “I guess that’ll be up to Linda Lee’s relatives. Meanwhile, we could call the humane society.”
    “Oh, no, I’ll take care of her. I mean, if that’s all right.”
    “I think that’s fine. But I have to ask you something painful, Mr. Ogletree. Did you see the body well enough to be able to identify it?”
    “It isn’t Linda Lee?”
    Skip’s heart sank. Not only didn’t she know that, she didn’t even know who Linda Lee was.
    “Well, sir, you’re the only person who knows Linda Lee who’s seen the body.”
    Ogletree flushed, obviously once again embarrassed at not having done a good enough job.
    “It’s okay. Someone else can identify her.”
    “I’ll look again if you like.” His frown was two deep slices flanking his nose.
    “No need, sir.”
    “I’ll be glad to.”
    Sure you would, Mr. Ogletree. If ever anyone gave the lie to studies linking stress and early death, it’s got to be you. You probably also eat an oyster po’ boy a day, never exercise, and drink a six-pack before breakfast. I bet you live to a hundred and twelve.
    She said, “Tell me about Linda Lee. What was her full name?”
    “Linda Lee Strickland from Indianola, Mississippi. She moved in about six weeks ago, right from Indianola, didn’t even have a job yet. Then she went to work for that restaurant-supply place … I forget their name.”
    “Simonetti’s.”
    “Got a good job, she said. I don’t really know—maybe she just said that so I wouldn’t worry about the rent.”
    “How well did you know her?”
    “Pretty well, I guess. I used to take over little seafood scraps for Miss Kitty and we’d talk awhile. Come to think of it, I guess I could tell you about every cat she ever had and all the cute things they did, but I don’t really know much else about her. I sure wish I could help you on that, but I don’t think I can.”
    “Did you meet any of her friends?”
    “I never saw anyone there. She was a quiet girl—real good tenant.”
    “Was she friendly with anyone else in the building?”
    “I don’t know anything about her personal business.”
    He spoke so primly Skip suspected the other tenants were men. Sure enough, they were Mr. Davies, who “traveled for” a cosmetics company, and Mr. Palmer, who worked “for the city.”
    Honorifics only.
Curtis Ogletree, you should be in a museum
.
    After reassuring him once more that he’d done just fine, Skip returned to Linda Lee’s. The body was gone; Paul Gottschalk from the crime lab had removed the purse and said she could go through it.
    In it was a wallet containing Linda Lee Strickland’s credit cards and driver’s license, comb, blusher, and address book. No lipstick.
    No lipstick? Did the asshole open the bag, take out her lipstick, write the A on the wall and leave with it? Keep it for a souvenir, maybe?
    “Paul, was she wearing lipstick?”
    “You mean you didn’t notice?”
    “I don’t think she was.”
    “She was. Tiny trace left. Like she’d put it on a long time before and maybe eaten or drunk something that took it off.” He sounded bored, nodded at the A on the wall. “We’re comparing samples.”
    “Any other lipsticks found in the house?”
    He shrugged. “Two or three. Wrong colors, but we’re checking anyway, Officer Langdon.”
    “Excuse me, but do I detect a note of testiness? Am I being pushy or something?”
    “Shit.” He shrugged again. “It’s the heat.”
    Understanding completely (but resenting the fact that he hadn’t apologized), she more or less tiptoed around after that, trying to figure out who Linda Lee Strickland had been.
    Everything screamed small-town girl without much money or education. A nice respectable girl from a blue-collar family grown into a