Jazz Funeral (4 page)

“Did you call the police?”

“Of course.” The Brocatos spoke together, angrily. George said, “You know how much they did.”

Skip shrugged. At least there’d be a report.

“We spent all last night on the phone.” He spoke like a man who wasn’t used to being frustrated, who usually got what he wanted, and quick. He didn’t handle it well when he didn’t. His face reddened as he spoke, his voice rose. He was a child having a tantrum. “We called her boyfriend, we called a dozen of her other little friends, we called her teachers, we called Ham and Ti-Belle, and then we called Ham and Ti-Belle again. We called everybody in the whole fucking town, and then we called ‘em again.” Obviously it hadn’t sunk in yet that his son was dead. It was easier to be angry at his daughter.

“Has she done this before?”

They were silent for a moment, a moment too long. “Not really,” said George. “Once she stayed away for hours, but never the whole night.”

Skip thought maybe she had, that maybe Melody was a bit of a handful. George seemed comfortable with his anger, as if he was well-accustomed to it, as if Melody was possibly the only thing in his life he couldn’t control and he was nearly driven bats by it.

So of course she’d know that, and use it.

“We thought she’d be here tonight,” Patty said. “Are you sure she isn’t here? Can you send someone to check again?”

“Of course.” She called one of the uniformed officers and whispered to him, but she knew it was ridiculous to send him looking. If Melody were there, she’d have identified herself and come in to find out what was happening. Would have used her key and walked in, probably.

Skip said, “What was she wearing when she left for school?”

“White T-shirt,” said Patty. “And jeans. Running shoes. White socks.”

“Purse, backpack, anything like that?”

“Backpack—I think.” She closed her eyes a moment. “Yes.” She looked up. “I can see her going in, slinging it over her shoulder. Purple, bouncing against her hip.” In spite of the tragedy, she smiled at the memory. She might be a shallow woman—certainly had the earmarks of one—but Skip thought she loved her daughter.

Skip glanced at George and thought he was seeing the same thing on his mental TV—his daughter, running to her class. He looked hugely sad, as if the shock were starting to wear off, the adrenaline crash beginning. His face was grayish. He was suddenly no longer handsome. Just old.

“Is her toothbrush missing?”

“No,” said George. “We checked. She wasn’t going anywhere—they got her. They must have got her, that’s all.”

“Who’s got her, Mr. Brocato?”

“Whoever killed my son’s got her. Who the hell do you think I mean?”

“Do you know who that is?”

“How would I know that? If I knew that, wouldn’t I tell you?”

“I don’t know what you’d do, Mr. Brocato.”
But if you rant long enough, maybe you’ll say something truthful. Then again, probably not.

Patty said, “I don’t think she ever in her life looked forward to anything the way she looked forward to this party. If she’s not here, she’s dead. She’s a musician, you know.” She looked at Skip with limpid blue eyes, proud-mother eyes. “She’s a very fine singer. Professional quality.”

Sure. I’ll bet.

“Why did she have a key to this house?”

“Why, she and Ham were close. She’s close to Ti-Belle too. Looks up to her, like an idol.”

“But if she has a key, she must come here when they’re not home.”

Patty looked at her lap. “Oh. Why, yes.”

George said, “There’s no decent bus service from here to Uptown, you know. And Melody practices with her band after school. So she couldn’t be in an ordinary car pool. Patty had to come get her every day. She waits here sometimes. Till Patty can come.”

He spoke defensively, as if he thought Skip might accuse Patty of getting her nails done when she ought to be picking up her kid. Which was probably more or less the case, she thought.

“This was her second home,” Patty said. Was it her imagination, Skip wondered, or was her speech getting slower, more Southern? No, it wasn’t quite that. More country-sounding. It had a slightly pious note in it too. “She loves Ham and Ti-Belle so much. And they feel just the same about her. They encouraged her to use their home as hers.”

Skip said, “Does either of you have a key to the house?”

Both shook their heads; neither spoke.

“Is Ham’s car here?”

George’s head swiveled. “Yes, it’s the silver Celica.”

Skip told them she had no more questions. They seemed broken, these two, as if at the end of their ropes. But of course, their ordeal was only beginning.

Skip fought to keep herself from feeling their pain—from getting enmeshed in the giant emotions that were soon going to batter them like giant ocean waves, forcing them to the bottom, filling their mouths with sand, turning them over and over, around and around, flinging them wherever the ocean chose—the ocean of grief, the maelstrom of despair, the bottomless sea of feeling no one can fight off when someone close dies.

She went to find Ti-Belle again.

The singer was in her car, leaning against the back of the seat, drained. She reminded Skip of a gardenia turning brown at the edges. “Can I go back in?”

“After the lab people are done. Do you have a place you can go in the meantime?”

She nodded. “Do you mind if we do it fast?”

Skip smiled. “I’d be delighted.” She climbed into the front seat. “Who had keys to the house besides you and Ham?”

“Melody.”

“Anyone else? Your in-laws?”

She made a face. “No. Andy Fike. The house cleaner. I guess that’s all.” She shrugged. “Unless Mason still has one.”

“Could I have Andy’s address and phone number?”

“I’d have to go inside to get it.”

“I can get it if you’ll tell me where to look.”

“My Rolodex—on one of the tables in the bedroom.”

“Okay. Look, I’m sorry if it upsets you, but I need to ask where you’ve been.”

“Chicago. On business.” She was propped on one hand, leaning slightly, her head inclined, her hair falling over her shoulder as if she were posing for Vogue. She spoke casually. It was the pose that bothered Skip. Too studied; too perfect. As if she needed rigidity to hold her story together.

“Your plane was late?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You were late for your own party.”

“Oh.” A smile, a little rueful laugh. “Ham’s party. He’s a big boy. He can—” She stopped in mid-sentence; horror replaced bravado as she realized what she was saying.

Skip said, “It just seems odd you’d cut it so close.”

“The plane was late.”

“Did you call Ham?” She hadn’t, and of course she would have if she were telling the truth.

“Well, I did, but he didn’t answer.”

“What flight did you come in on?”

“I really haven’t the least idea. How could I, anyway? I just came back from a three-day business trip to find …” Clearly she couldn’t bring herself to use the words. “
This
–and you expect me to remember my flight number?”

“Maybe you still have your ticket. How about if we look at that?”

Ti-Belle put a hand to her forehead. “Look, could we have this conversation later?”

“I’d really love to, maybe over some iced tea or something, but I’ve got a murder to investigate.”

The singer winced at the word. Her eyes filled. “You don’t have to be so sarcastic.”

“Okay. Let me be straightforward. I’m a police officer and you really shouldn’t bully me or try to shine me on; it makes a real bad impression.”

“I threw away my ticket.” She seemed subdued.

“Can you tell me who you saw in Chicago?”

“Do I have to?”

“Why would you mind?”

The singer shrugged. “Okay. Mr. Jarvis Grablow. Mr. Grablow at Bluestime Recording.”

“That’s the only appointment you had in three days?”

“I can’t remember these people’s names.”

“Don’t you have your appointment book with you?”

“I—actually, my manager sent me a typed itinerary. I threw it away after the trip.”

“Okay, look. Just give me your manager’s name. I’ll check with him.”

She sighed and gave Skip a name and number.

“By the way, what’s Ham’s assistant’s name?”

“Ariel. Ariel Burge. Kind of looks like her name.” She seemed slightly cheered, happy to have Skip’s attention on someone else.

“How’s that?”

“I don’t know. Flighty or something.”

“Okay. I think that’s it for now. By the way, did I mention I’m a big fan of yours?”

“Thanks.” The reluctant witness actually managed a smile. Skip started to move off, but Ti-Belle yelled: “Oh, hey, I forgot something.”

“Yes?”

“Could I go back in and get my flight bag?”

“I’ll get it for you.” Ti-Belle had tossed it in a living room chair, and as Skip carried it back to her, she couldn’t help noticing it sported no airline tags.

There were still a few people left in the yard, standing in clumps—friends of Hamson’s, the uniforms said, who declined to go home, waited instead “to see if they could do anything.” Skip was horrified to see that Steve Steinman was one of them. She’d forgotten all about him. The place being New Orleans, and Ariel Burge being a great man’s assistant, another had to be she—ready to fetch and carry till she dropped as dead as Ham.

There were also people still arriving, and there probably would be for hours. Officers tried to send them away, and sometimes succeeded. But not often. Great clumps of onlookers were gathering on the sidewalks. The neighbors, after hurried suppers, had begun to stroll outdoors in T-shirts and shorts.

Skip found the folks from the restaurants packing up. The bartender, one Michael Boudreaux, had turned up first, and had noticed nothing unusual—except, of course, that the host wasn’t home. He’d called the caterer he worked for and had been told to wait.

“But didn’t it seem odd that no one was here? Like a member of the foundation?”

“What foundation?”

“The Second Line Square Foundation—the thing this was a benefit for.”

Boudreaux shrugged. “All I heard was the host’s little sister was s’posed to let us in. Tables inside, everything we needed—everything rented in advance. All we had to do,”—he gestured— “me and all the others, was go in and get what we needed.”

“But who was going to set up?”

“Me! That’s why I came early. Well, technically my boss—she was hired to do that and supply me, but she had another job.” He shrugged again. “I did the best I could—positioned everyone—I mean, the other caterers, and all that sort of thing, but—” He threw up his hands.

So Ham had enlisted Melody to help him. It made sense—Ariel probably worked for the Jazz and Heritage Foundation, and if he wanted to keep it clean, he wouldn’t use her for personal business. Ti-Belle was out of town—or something. And he himself couldn’t be spared during the festival. What better helper than Melody? She’d probably been thrilled to be delegated.

Now, which of the stragglers looked “flighty”? The one talking to Steve Steinman, she decided. Short and slightly plump, with the big-hair look, ill-considered atop such a small body. It was very pretty hair, chestnut-colored and wavy, but if she wanted people to take her seriously, she should probably stop gelling it out a foot on all sides. She was probably anything but flighty. She’d have to be damn good at her job to keep it.

The question was, how to approach her with Steve Steinman there? She wanted to tell him to go home, not to wait for her, to apologize for forgetting him, but she couldn’t in front of a witness. She’d have to be dismissive; she hated that.

“Pardon me,” she said. “Are you Ariel Burge? Could you excuse us, Mr. Steinman?”

Apparently, he was amused. She hoped Burge hadn’t caught the wink he gave Skip. Skip showed her badge. “Skip Langdon. Could you—”

“Ham’s dead?”

“What makes you think that?”

“I heard Ti-Belle yell it out to George. But I was trying to play hostess and got stuck in the back. I couldn’t get close enough to talk to her. Did he have a heart attack or what? What happened to him?” She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, had obviously come straight from work.

It was always a problem, trying to get information without giving any. Oh, well, the coroner’s wagon would arrive momentarily anyhow.

“I’m sorry. He
is
dead.”

Skip waited while Ariel fumbled with a tissue. “I knew it. It had to be something. He didn’t come to work this morning. Just didn’t come in at all. Only everyone was so busy no one noticed till about noon. He was never where he was supposed to be—always late, half the time didn’t remember. So that’s what we thought. I mean, everywhere he was supposed to be, whoever was there thought he was just somewhere else—do you understand?”

She was gibbering a bit, but it almost made sense. “You mean if you were supposed to meet him at the office and he didn’t show up, you just thought he was probably at the fairgrounds?”

She nodded. “And vice versa. I knew he was missing appointments—oh, yeah, and his father and stepmother were calling about every ten minutes, but things just get crazy at the last minute. I looked for him, of course. But that isn’t unusual. He disappears and I cover for him, you know? Track him down and light a fire under him. He’s like that.” She didn’t even notice she was using the present tense.

“Like what? Irresponsible?”

“No! Just overworked. He gets involved in things. He forgets what time it is.”

“And misses appointments.”

“Well, not usually, but it’s happened. He gets way behind schedule. He’s—he was—kind of a dreamer, the kind of guy who gets interested in something and forgets everything else. He’s not really …” She seemed to think better of finishing the sentence.

“Not really what?”

“Well, you wouldn’t call him a ball of fire. You kind of have to keep after him or his whole schedule falls apart. Anyway, it was about lunchtime that I kind of caught on he hadn’t been anywhere he was supposed to be that day.”

“What did you do?”

“Well, I was so worried, I drove out to his house, but he wasn’t home. I mean I guess he was… already dead.”