The Axeman's Jazz

like cars and computers and things. So I got me some ideas. I did some inventin’, got some patents.”
    “Ah.”
    “Problem was gettin’ the parts manufactured. Make a long story short, I just never figured out how to do it.” He took a sip of his coffee. “Oh, well. Why should I work? My wife did. Keep ’em barefoot, pregnant, and bringin’ home a paycheck, you got a happy woman. You just got to make one thing clear—she better turn that check over to little ol’ you.”
    Skip had heard Allison Gaillard flirt-tease and she could more or less simulate the cadences. “Now, Lamar,” she said, letting one corner of her mouth turn up, but not the other, going heavy on the eye contact. “Is that what she did?” Her syllables were low and soft, as gently coaxing as if she were begging him to touch her breasts.
    He laughed. That tone always made them laugh when Allison did it.
It worked,
she thought with surprise. “ ‘Course she didn’t. But what you gon’ do? Can’t live with ’em. Can’t live without ’em.”
    “Lamar, you’re a character, you know that? I bet living with you was the hardest thing she ever did.”
    He twisted himself into a pretzel, just dying laughing at what he apparently thought was affectionate joshing. While he was splitting his sides, she thought about Steve Steinman and how much fun it would be to tell him she’d finally gotten the hang of being Southern, that all you had to do was dip your dart in curare, then wrap it up in silk and velvet before you threw it. Your victims never knew what hit them—even when they were taking it out on their own victims. Before you knew it, there was poison all over the parish, but also yards and yards, miles and miles, of gorgeous, tattered fabric.
    When Lamar saw her to the door, he kept her there for five minutes, extracting promises to visit again, swearing he was going to write to her boss and tell what a good interviewer she was, how she’d gotten all his secrets without even trying. Sweat was running down his face by the time he let her go. “Whew,” he said. “Weather’s out of control. We gotta get those rocks back on the moon.”
    What all that accomplished she wasn’t sure, except that, so far, Alex’s dad hadn’t alibied him for the night of either murder. If he were ever arrested, of course, it might be a whole different story—suddenly Lamar might claim he and his son had spent the evening playing gin rummy.
    With the Axeman’s JazzFest only hours away, her palms sweating as if she were about to have her appendix out, and no idea what else to do, she decided to talk to Abe’s ex-wife and to Missy’s aunt.
    Cynthia Morrison had other ideas. A pinched brunette with too much red lipstick, she said she was sorry, she and her ex-husband were “on terms that prohibit giving personal references.”
    “To tell you the truth,” said Skip, “he didn’t give you as a reference. His law firm has applied for a contract with the city, and frankly it would be very embarrassing if they got the job and something surfaced later. Your ex-husband would be the man assigned to the position, and we just don’t know enough about him. He seems to be new in town, and to tell you the truth, nobody really knows him but you.”
    “Are you kidding? Know somebody you’re married to? I’m the last person in town who knows the guy.”
    Skip wasn’t about to quit now. “It sounds as if you know him a little too well.”
    Morrison drew in her breath, made her face a mask. “He’s the father of my children. I’m not going to stand in the way of his getting a job.”
    “I’m getting the feeling you’re withholding something.”
    “Not at all. Provided it’s a middle-level job at an unimportant agency, I’m sure he’ll do it perfectly well.”
    “Does he have any history of violence, Mrs. Morrison?”
    She sucked in her breath again, and this time there was a note of alarm in her voice. “Why do you ask?”
    “Just routine.”
    “I’m sorry. I really can’t help you.”
    Was there something there or was she just being ornery? Morrison swallowed and spoke again. “None that I know of.”
    But do you suspect something?
Skip couldn’t read her. It was obvious she wanted to get at Abe somehow or other—was she wrestling with her conscience, trying not to lie? Holding something back to protect her children? Or was she afraid of him?
    Ms. Sally Enright, aunt of Missy McClellan, lived on the top floor of a wonderful old Queen