Jazz Funeral (23 page)

For the ninety-ninth time she wondered where the hell Melody was. How could a kid that young just disappear? And why didn’t she call? She didn’t want to think about possible answers.

She said to Nick: “I’m sorry. I was just thinking about Ham’s little sister.”

He smiled. “Your protegee.”

“My missing protegee.”

He put his arms around her. His sweetness made her think of Ham, and she felt panicky, as if she were about to lose it, before she could get her mind back on Melody again. Even so, her voice sounded whiny and she had to sniff as she said, “You just don’t know, Nick. You don’t have any idea.”

George had lived with this damn family for nearly sixty years, but he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“Who are you assholes?” he roared.

“Who are you calling asshole?” his brother Joe roared back.

“His son’s dead and not even buried yet—can’t you give him a break?” He knew Patty meant well, that she was defending him, but he couldn’t help it, he found her voice unbelievably irritating, almost wanted to cross over to his brothers’ side so as not to be associated with her.

He hollered, “Patty, for Christ’s sake, shut up!”

Joe and Philip, Rod’s kid, started yelling at once. Joe said, “You’re going to ruin it for us, George. Thirty years we put into this business, and we can cash in, we can retire in style, and you gotta stand in the way.”

“Bullshit! Bullshit!” screamed Philip “Don’t put it on Uncle George. It’s you and Dad against the rest of us.”

George’s brother Rod shouted, “I swear to God you’re disinherited.”

“Disinfuckingherited! You can’t disinherit me. I’m a share holder in the fucking company. What you think, you can just throw me out? You crazy old man!”

George winced. Had the board meetings always been this way? Or did this one seem so brutal because he was rubbed raw? Usually he would have been furious because they hadn’t cancelled out of respect for him—as if they’d understand the concept. But not today—today he hurt too much, and not just because of Melody and Ham. Because of them too. His brothers, his sisters-in-law, his nieces and nephews—the damn hypocrites who had come to his house yesterday to offer condolences and today were trying to sell him down the river.

He couldn’t summon an ounce of fury—only sadness and bewilderment, a sense of everything caving in on him. He really didn’t feel like fighting. For all he cared, they could take the damn company and—He stopped himself. That was what they wanted. That was why they’d refused to cancel the meeting. They wanted to hit him when he was down.

I can’t let them get way with it.

The words formed somewhere in the back of his mind, like an echo, a vague reminder of something he’d forgotten. But he had to start caring, had to muster some of the old fire. Had to get through this.

I’ll need Patty’s help.

The thought surprised him. Usually he considered Patty a necessary hindrance. He needed her to serve on the board and to vote the way he told her to, but this was his show and he didn’t need her horning in.

Well, that was before. Today, he did need her. He squeezed her thigh under the table. Startled, she looked at him. He gave her a little nod. It meant: “Help me,” but would she know that after he’d just told her to shut up?

A couple of the younger ones were now putting in their two cents worth, the ones who were mad about Philip’s saying it was Joe and Rod against everyone else, because it wasn’t. It would be a lot simpler if it were—it was split more or less down the middle, and Ham’s death could make the difference. Only Hilary wasn’t here today, and Hilary sometimes went one way, sometimes the other, depending on whether or not she was mad at her dad. Christ, he sometimes thought that was what the whole thing was about—getting back at each other. Maybe hurting each other just for the hell of it. He’d thought that about Ham.

A truly amazing thought ran through George’s brain:
Do I sound like they do?

Patty was talking. “Ladies and gentlemen, I honestly don’t think we’re going to accomplish a goddamn thing this morning.”

Her voice was icy; haughty. George wasn’t sure he’d ever heard her sound like that. “I do not like any of your attitudes, and I am absolutely appalled at your lack of respect for our bereavement. I move we table the motion until the next meeting.”

The room was dead silent. George stared at his wife as if at a stranger. Where was the shrew with the nasty, desperate wail? He hadn’t known she had this in her—this strength, this ability. It unnerved him.

Somehow, it was done and they were out of the conference room, George feeling almost as if he were underwater. He had thought to work today, for an hour or so at least, but now he saw that that was impossible. He just wanted to get out of here; he wanted to look for Melody. But the receptionist hailed him as he and Patty walked by.

A woman was waiting for them. He didn’t recognize her at first, though obviously she thought he would.

“Hi,” she said, and smiled with her head tilted a little, tomboy-style. “I’m Skip Langdon. We talked at your son’s house.”

Patty caught on first. “Oh, yes. Detective Langdon.”

He took her in his office—it was small for three people, but he certainly wasn’t going to conduct a police interview in the reception room.

She said, “It sounded like quite a meeting you were having in there.”

George simply sat in stony silence. How dare she!

“Listen, I’m sorry to be rude, but I could hear every word. And I’m afraid I have to ask you some fairly personal questions.”

He raised an eyebrow, a gesture that always intimidated Ham and Patty, and sometimes some of the nephews.

“I understand you and Ham had some business differences.”

“Where in hell did you hear that?”

She shrugged. “I don’t think that matters. I just need to hear the story from you and not somebody else.”

“You heard right. Ham and I had our differences.”

“I understand it was a pretty important difference.”

“Could I ask how this could possibly matter to you?”

“I’m trying to find out if he had any enemies, Mr. Brocato.”

“Now wait a minute—”

But she held up a hand. “Not you, of course. But things got pretty volatile in there.”

“You honestly think one of his own relatives could have murdered him? Over a few sandwich stands?”

She might as well have rolled her eyes for all her expression left to the imagination. “I just need to know his part in the business.”

Patty nudged him, mouthed something. Why the hell didn’t she leave him alone?

He said, “All right, Detective Langdon, I’m gon’ tell you everything. Why? Because I have nothing to hide. Poor Boys is considering selling out to a large conglomerate for a very tidy sum of money. S’pose to give ‘em an answer on Monday, but turns out we still can’t agree. Can’t even agree to go ahead and take a vote.” He sighed and resumed. “Many board members believe this is the best way to go and that we can still retain our power in the company if we make the right deal. Others believe that greater profits are to be made by pouring a little more money into our own small company and beginning to diversify. Ham was on one side. Patty and I are on the other.”

“I see. Is Melody a shareholder as well?”

“Well now, that’s a stupid question and you know it. We’re not about to let a sixteen-year-old vote, now are we?”

His rudeness had the desired effect. Her cheeks reddened and her voice got a little louder. “Someone would have to vote her shares. Would that be you or Ham?”

“What the hell are you—”

Now she was spreading her arms, all coolness again. “Mr. Brocato, I take it a lot of money is at stake. They were two important players in a very big game.”

“I vote Melody’s shares, dammit. Tell me something—why aren’t you out finding my daughter?”

“I’d like to be, but I’m talking to you right now.” She enunciated very carefully, stopping just short of contemptuousness. And then her voice turned sweet as pie again. “However, I did find something out that you might want to know.”

George could feel himself sitting up straighter.

“Her boyfriend had dumped her.”

“That sorry Phillips boy. I warned her about that little wrinkled-clothes so-and-so.”

Patty said, “Flip? But he worshiped her.”

“Anyway, that’s why she left Blair’s.”

“Well, that explains it all.” Patty always did jump to conclusions. “She did run away, then.”

“Oh, Patty, come on. Her brother’s dead!”

The detective broke in. “If y’all don’t mind, I really need to fill in a few details about Ham’s life. The other night I felt as if—well, it wasn’t the best time to talk.”

Patty said, “We appreciate that, Detective.” Why couldn’t she keep her damn mouth shut?

“What do you need filled in, Ms. Langdon?” She’d given them a present—the news about Melody—and now she expected something back. Didn’t it embarrass her to be so transparent?

“I was wondering if Ham had any enemies.”

“Enemies! Ham? Why, Ham was the best-liked young man in Orleans Parish.”

“He got along okay with his ex-wife?”

“So far as I know.”

“And Ti-Belle?”

George merely nodded, not about to dignify that with an answer.

“Melody?”

“He loved that girl more than anything. They got along like wildfire, because of the age difference, I think—by the time she came along, Ham was too old for sibling rivalry. She was more like his niece than anything else.”

“Can you think of any reason why Melody would want to run away?”

“Well, sure,” said Patty. “The boyfriend.”

“Anything else?”

“Detective, we’ve been over and over this ground.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“In our own minds. With each other. Wouldn’t you in our position?”

Langdon settled back a little in her chair and looked George in the eye. She smiled, friendly as a fox. “I guess I would. I wonder if you could tell me who Ham’s lawyer was.”

“Jimmy Calhoun, I think. Why do you need to know that?”

“Sometimes it’s helpful in these cases.” She was cagey, George thought. Not someone you’d want working against you.

Patty said, “George, I think we should tell her about Andy Fike.”

He shrugged.
Why not?

Patty did.

And in the end George was glad. Because the smart-ass detective did a slow burn all during the telling of it. “Did you call the police at all?”

“No.”

“Are you crazy? Do you want your daughter found or not?”

“We investigated on our own.”

She put a hand over her face, shook her head and more or less moaned.

She’d pretty much lost it. George liked that.

After a brief and utterly unfruitful visit to Andy Fike, in which Fike acted as if he were the severely wronged party and even pretended he couldn’t remember what Melody was wearing, Skip sat down disgustedly at her desk. She would have liked to spend about half an hour running or riding a bicycle instead, to let off a little steam, but there was far too much to do.

Ham’s financial problems worried her. He needed cash, pure and simple—she already knew that. And that would certainly explain why he was so eager to sell the family business. A man who needed cash might have been pretty active in campaigning among the board members to get his way; which in turn might have made someone wildly opposed want to get rid of him.

Skip sighed. It was possible, but it didn’t seem likely. She dialed Jimmy Calhoun: Ham hadn’t left a will.

“So what does that mean?” asked Skip. “Who inherits?”

“Well, he never got around to getting divorced,” Calhoun said. “At least he didn’t do it through our firm. And, hell, we were at St. Martin’s together—he’d have come to me. Matter of fact, we had lunch a few weeks ago and I nagged him about it. He said I was worse than Ti-Belle.”

“He did?” That didn’t square with what Ti-Belle had told her about the relationship.

“Well, no, actually. But I did nag—thought he might want to marry that little Cajun before she got away. But I don’t know—he just looked kind of unhappy when I brought it up.”

“So does Mason inherit?”

“Absolutely. If there aren’t kids, the wife gets the loot.”

When she got off the phone, she started to feel the first pangs of lunch lust. She thought of the tuna fish sandwich she’d brought, and decided it was going to be seriously inadequate. How to beef it up? Potato chips were too salty, a piece of fruit too wimpy. Now, an order of fries—that was more like it. And after lunch, she had a plan. A plan involving Ti-Belle. The phone rang.

“Lunch?”

“Cindy Lou Wootten. Where you been, girl?”

“Working my butt off, same as you. But listen, I got to eat, you got to eat—and you’ve got a case to fill me in on.”

This beat the hell out of a lonely tuna sandwich. “I’ve got a little chore out at the fairgounds—how about we eat at JazzFest?”

“If you can get us in free, I’ll be there in ten.”

“I think I can wait.”

Cindy Lou Wootten was one of Skip’s favorite people. She could talk about suspects—indeed whole cases—in a way no one else could. She would analyze and postulate long after anyone else —even Steve—would have been bored silly, and she was nearly always right. And the best part was, it was perfectly ethical to talk about cases with her (which it wasn’t with Steve) because Cindy Lou was a psychologist who frequently worked with the police department. A forensic psychologist, schooled in the dark corners of the criminal mind.

But mostly, Skip thought, she was street-smart. She was a black woman from Detroit who claimed to have learned everything she knew about crime before she ever got to high school, and Skip half believed her.

She also happened to be the most beautiful woman Skip had ever seen; but better still, she had a way about her, a kind of confidence and poise that Skip thought she might develop if she lived to be seventy-five. Nobody messed with Cindy Lou, not even Skip’s nemesis, the contentious Sergeant Frank O’Rourke. O’Rourke had once tried, and come a cropper. And playing out that tiny drama, Cindy Lou had earned Skip’s undying admiration.