Death Before Facebook (29 page)

He touched her under the chin, a gesture she wasn’t quite sure she liked. She drew back a little.

He said, “Tell me what’s wrong, little one.”

“Nothing. I just…”

“I thought you said you were depressed.”

He held out an arm and she snuggled into it. “Oh, I am. Mrs. Julian was my music teacher. Did you see her at the funeral? Nothing happening under her hat. I mean nothing—all lights out.” She shrugged, which wasn’t easy with his arm around her. “And then she died.”

He poured them both some more wine. “Maybe that’s a good thing.”

“That she died?”

“She wasn’t really living, anyway.”

“It’s just so—”

“Final.”

“Exactly. How did you know I was going to say that?”

“Because I know you, my dear. You don’t really know how well, do you?”

Nervously, she drained off half her wine. “What do you mean by that?”

“Oh, just that I’ve been watching you. I’ve watched you, and I understand you. I know you.” He pulled her tight against him. His warmth was lovely, and his body too, so much bigger than hers yet still not fat; a good body for a man his age, a very good body. It was nice to be held by a man.

She simply lay against him, pressing her body to his, not wanting anything except what she already had, enjoying him completely.

He kissed her cheek and moved near her mouth.

“No,” she said. “I don’t think so.”

He moved away.

“Why not?” He gave her a little more wine, poured the rest of the bottle into his own glass.

“I don’t know. I guess I just don’t feel sexy tonight.”

“Uh-huh, that’s what I thought.” How did he keep reading her mind? “Come here.”

He lay down on the couch and positioned her against him, tight against him, so she could feel every inch of him. She fit neatly into the curve he made for her, found it comforting and cavelike.

He put an arm around her and stroked her hair.

They stayed like that for a long time, until her mind started to wander, until she found herself thinking about him fuzzily. Thinking she wanted him.

But only if they could do it very, very slowly, building up, maybe touching an inch of each other’s bodies at a time, maybe for an hour before going on to the next inch.

She realized that was what they had been doing.

She was gently massaging a small patch of his thigh, folded protectively over her.

She thought he had probably been rubbing her butt a long time.

She turned toward him, thinking the back of his neck was the next place she wanted to touch.

She was wearing a short dress, with black tights. It was easy for him to insinuate a hand between her legs. She was surprised that her tights were wet.

As she felt his hand against her, something exploded inside her, something was set loose that traveled up her body and had to come out her mouth.

She already controlled the back of his neck. She touched it in such a way that his lips came to her, received her loneliness and the flow of love and lust and deep, despairing longing that she had for him.

When it was over, they were still wearing their clothes, or most of them. Her tights were on the floor, but her dress felt as if it would cut off her circulation at the neck.

Pearce’s pants were around his ankles.

He groped for them. “What did you say to me a minute ago?”

She was embarrassed. “I said something? ‘Yes, yes’ or ‘Don’t stop?’ Something like that?”

“It sounded like something else.”

He was unnerved. So unnerved she had a good idea what it was she’d said. It was something she had thought, but hadn’t meant to say.

“‘Oh, God, baby, that feels great’?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” He was shaking his head as if he’d just been through something awful.

What she had said was “Thou art god.” It was her religious goal never to make love with anyone she didn’t feel that way about. Witches in books said it, and their mates said, “Thou art goddess,” which was as it should be, Lenore thought. To her, it meant she celebrated his masculinity. But since she didn’t know any male witches she had to figure anyone she said it to would take her for a maniac. Would probably figure she’d stalk him.

How the hell to get out of this one? She hoped she hadn’t said it more than once.

She touched his face and gave him a kiss. “How old did you say you were? Twenty-four?”

He gave her a grin.

“Want another drink?” That was good for forgetting.

“Sure.”

She headed toward the bathroom, and when she came back found him going through her kitchen cabinets. “Uh-oh, we finished the wine. Hey, Caitlin’s not here! I just realized I can go out. You want to go somewhere and have a drink?”

She saw him hesitate. He wanted to go home. She wanted him with her a while longer. “My treat,” she said, and took his hand. “Oh, Pearce, you don’t know how much I need it. There’s a place on Magazine Street. Why don’t we walk?”

He gave her a nice-daddy smile. She could use a nice daddy right now.

“Come on,” she said, practically pulling him out the door.

She stopped on the way to pick up her purse, but she hadn’t put her tights back on, just slipped on her shoes, and her dress was thin. When they were outside, she realized she’d made a big mistake. But if she went back in, she might lose him.

She was pretty sure she had an old sweater in the trunk of her car. Too bad about her legs, but it would be something.

“Aren’t you going to be cold?” he said, and it surprised her. She wanted him with her so much right now, she somehow had the idea he’d be opposed to anything she wanted. She hadn’t imagined he’d be this thoughtful.

“I’ve got a sweater in the trunk.” She skipped forward to open it, and what she saw made her draw in her breath. “Oh, my God!”

“What is it?”

“Geoff’s backpack. I remember now—we went to a restaurant the night before he died, and he didn’t want to leave it in the car. He must have forgotten it.” She fingered it, thinking of Geoff; gentle, strange Geoff, to whom she had never said, and never thought of saying, “Thou art god.”

“What’s in it?”

“I don’t know. It’s Geoff’s. Was Geoff’s,” she forced herself to say.

Pearce grabbed for it. “Let’s open it.”

“No. It’s not mine.”

“Lenore, are you crazy? Maybe there’s a clue to the murder in there.”

Something in her resisted. “Not yet. Somehow I can’t do it yet.”

“Look. Let’s don’t go out. Let’s go over to the Winn-Dixie on Tchoupitoulas and get some beer or something. And we won’t open the backpack till we get back—we can be thinking about what’s in it.”

Why? Why don’t we just forget it for now?

But she didn’t say it because she didn’t want to lose his attention again. Maybe he’d forget about what she’d said when they made love, maybe convince himself it hadn’t happened. “Okay,” she said. “Beer for you and wine for me.”

“No, wine’s okay. Your car?”

“Sure.” She felt a little woozy from the first bottle of wine, but it seemed stupid to say so, considering that morning’s escapade.

When they returned, wine and backpack in hand, Pearce made a big show of opening the wine, pouring it, “letting the suspense build.”

What could be in there anyhow? Probably a couple of videos he forgot to return.

Finally, the moment arrived. “Here.” He handed over the backpack. “You do the honors.”

She opened it and saw that she’d guessed right.
The Little Mermaid
was lying right on top. Tears sprang to her eyes and spilled out. Suddenly all the grief she felt for Geoff came welling up, tearing at her heart, making her chest hurt, her throat close.

The thought of him in his little boy’s room in his parents’ house, lying alone on his bed and watching
The Little Mermaid
, was somehow the saddest, sweetest thing she knew about him.

Pearce put an arm around her, but she shrugged it off. This was a grief that had to be felt alone.

“What is it?” he said.

“The movie.
The Little Mermaid
.”

He picked it up and stared at it. “The movie?”

Done with solitude, she threw her arms around his neck. “Ohhh, Pearce.” He drew back, possibly in bewilderment, and then gingerly held her till she wound down.

When she was able, she said, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.” He stroked her head as if she were a little girl. “It’s okay, but what happened?”

“I don’t know exactly. I just felt sad all of a sudden.”

“Shall we see what else is in there?”

She nodded and handed him the backpack.

He pulled out a book of some sort. It was covered with what looked like Chinese silk, woven into a gorgeous blue design and bound in burgundy leather. A ribbon bookmark from its bottom.

“It looks like a journal,” said Pearce. He opened it, and Lenore saw that Geoff’s spidery handwriting covered the two pages thus revealed. Covered them completely, not even a 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.

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, why would he kill him?”

“It might not have anything to do with the flashbacks. Maybe that’s a blind alley.”

“Oh, sure.”

“I don’t know—maybe it was Pearce and he’s protecting him. Maybe he’s Pearce’s lover.”

“Was, you mean. Was. He likes me now, remember?”

She turned away smiling, intent on washing lettuce for the burgers. Dee-Dee was definitely interested. He’d had so many friends who died, he’d been too depressed even to think about romance for a long, long time. Maybe he had sex with someone or other—Skip didn’t know—but he sure didn’t have relationships.

The doorbell rang.

“That’ll be Cindy Lou. I asked her for dinner.”

“How come you never ask anybody good when I’m home?”