Who Killed Jenny Schecter? Ch. 02

Still chewing, Carmen wiped her mouth with a napkin. "She said she thought you did it." She picked a sliced black olive off the pizza and popped it in her mouth.

"How ... how did you know?"

"Lots of people thought you did it. You were everybody's number one suspect."

"I know." There was silence while they eat. "Did you think I did it?"

Carmen had her mouth full of pizza and couldn't talk, but she shook her head no.

"Mwha nog" ("Why not?) Shane had a big bite in her mouth, too. It was really good pizza.

When she could talk, Carmen said, "Three reasons. First, you don't have it in you. You couldn't kill a mosquito. I've been told every one of you at that party had some grudge with Jenny that night, that all of you were pissed at her. They told me she stole the only prints of that movie and hid them in the attic, and that you found it. They said she fucked up your relationship or reconciliation or whatever it was with what's-her-name—"

"Molly."

"Right, Molly. But here's the thing about you. You're totally incapable of rage. Whenever you get angry, even when you have good cause to be pissed as all hell, you turn it all in on yourself. You're self-destructive, not destructive of someone else. You're not just a very forgiving person, you are actually too forgiving. You'd have bent yourself up into a pretzel trying to figure out why Jenny wasn't really to blame, that somehow it was you, not her, who somehow magically made her do whatever she did. That's all parts of one reason."

"What's the second?" Shane asked warily.

"You're too slow. You know how long it takes you to process stuff and sort things out. Even if you were sore as hell at her, and had a big confrontation with her, if you'd wanted to kill her it would have taken you three days to decide, and another week work out when and how." The only thing you do spontaneously is go down on some pussy, Carmen thought, but didn't bother saying. She'd been one recipient herself.

"Maybe it was an accident. Maybe I didn't mean to kill her."

"Yup. But that's where the third reason comes in. It's the same as why Alice didn't do it. If you had accidentally killed her, pushed her, or something, and she drowned, you're still the last person on earth, you or Alice, who could go up to the TV room and sit there munching popcorn and calmly watch a goodbye video. If you'd have accidentally killed her, they'd have found you beside the body crying your eyes out and moaning and weeping and just one sick mess. Instead of the whole neighborhood hearing Alice screaming and pitching a Magnitude 8 hissy-fit they'd have heard you sobbing and wailing. And then you'd have fucked yourself up with a ton of drugs and booze and you'd have run off and fucked Cheri Peroni blind. But this time you didn't do anything like that. Your ability to conceal such a crime, a murder no less, and act normally for days and weeks afterward is about as likely as you giving the pope a blowjob."

They eat silently for a while.

"I was crying and upset, you know."

"I know. But that was because you and Bette discovered Jenny in the pool, and you both jumped in and pulled her out. You were crying and upset because Jenny was dead, she was your lover, and you were grieving. That's completely normal, and because you behaved just as somebody would in those circumstances, it means you didn't do it."

Carmen finished eating, and wiped her hands on a napkin. "There's two pieces left. You want one?"

"No, I'm fine."

"I'll take them home to Terri."

They walked home slowly, eating ice cream cones, Carmen carrying a small take-out box of leftover pizza. "So what else did Alice say?"

"She said we had to get her out, and the only way to do that was find Jenny's murderer. She wanted me to do it, but she said I'd need help. She said I couldn't do it alone, but I could do it if I had the right partner, which was you. She said I had really good instincts and intuition, but that you were really smart, and logical and good at solving puzzles, and you were articulate and could do the talking."

"Jeez, she must be really desperate to get out, if we're her only hope."

"She is. She tried to put on a brave face, but she lost it."

"Poor Alice."

"She said you might not want to do it, because of working with me, that is, and said she'd contact you and talk you into it."

"Maybe she did. I had my phone on the charger and walked out without it when I went to the store. In fact, it's still up in my room."

They got to the stoop of Carmen's house. There was a light on next to the door.

"Well, it's getting late," Shane said. "I'll let you get some sleep."

"Where are you going?" Carmen asked.

"Uh, I dunno. I'll find a hotel or something," Shane said.

"Shane, it's eleven o'clock at night. You can stay here."

"Gee, Carmen, I don't think my sleeping with you is a good idea-"

She watched as Carmen's eyebrows knotted and her nostrils flared in anger. "Shane McCutcheon, have you lost your fucking mind? If you lay one hand on me I swear I'll punch your lights out. No, you idiot, you're sleeping on the couch in the living room. That's what I meant."

Shane blushed a deep scarlet, and mentally kicked herself for her own stupidity and verbal clumsiness. The noise level in her ears was at a roar, as it often was, and her mouth and tongue didn't seem to be working. She had never meant to suggest sex, but had merely thought Carmen was suggesting some sort of girlie sleepover thing, that they share Carmen's bed with a foot of space between them, or something. She hadn't even thought it out, but never intended it the way it sounded.

Carmen stood before her with her fists clenched and balled on her hips. The expression on her face softened to something like pity. "Come in. You sleep on the couch. I'll get you a pillow and a blanket," she said, and ran up the stairs. Shane walked in and sat down on the living room couch. Carmen returned a minute later and put the pillow on the end of the sofa, and sat the blanket down next to Shane.

Shane sat and looked up at her, her forearms across her knees and her hands hanging limp between them. "I'm sorry," Shane whispered. "But see, that's why I need your help. I just don't know how to say the right things."

Carmen shook her head as she regarded poor, beaten-puppy-dog Shane. "You're pathetic," Carmen murmured, but her tone was different, half amused and half sorrowful. And then she did something Shane wouldn't have expected in a thousand years: Carmen leaned forward and kissed her gently on the forehead.

"Good night," she said, and turned and went back up the stairs.

Shane watched her go, then stood up and kicked off her shoes then pulled her sweatshirt up over her head. She thought about it for a moment, and then unbuckled her belt and dropped her jeans. She put her clothes on the wing chair next to the couch, unfolded the blanket and laid down on the couch with it over her body. She reached up and turned off the floor lamp by her head. The room went dark, but there was enough light coming in from the street that after a minute her eyes had adjusted and she could make out the dim shadows and shapes of the furniture in the room. Outside, she could hear the night sounds of San Francisco, and what might have been a cable car two blocks away. She looked up at the darkness of the ceiling, and thought about what Carmen had said: "You're pathetic."

"I know," Shane whispered.