Death, Deceit & Some Smooth Jazz

by Claudia Mair Burney

  She touched my arm. “Honey, they haven’t even finished processing the scene.”

  “But Car, I’ve seen enough to tell me it’s unlikely that the Jazz I know did this. You saw how it was in there. The scene is organized. That’s not a crime-of-passion scene.”

  “Bell, I’m a pathologist, not a behavioral scientist. I’m not sure what you’re talking about. I saw broken glass, evidence of a struggle, and a dead woman. How organized is that?”

  My gut told me I was on to something. At least I hoped that was what it was saying, as opposed toYou’re about to puke. “Her clothes were neatly folded. If they were about to get into, as Detective Maguire said, a little sumthin’-sumthin’, do you think they’d stop the action so she could put her clothes in a neat pile?”

  “I wouldn’t know her bedside manner. Besides, they used to be married. It’s not impossible that she’d have done that.”

  “Maybe he left and she took off her clothes while he was gone. Like she’d try to seduce him again when he got back.”

  I gazed back at the bed. All those candles glowing like the hope of love. Had he lit them knowing she was coming? Had he lied to me? For a moment I felt like I couldn’t breathe. Even the passing thought felt like a vise grip squeezing my lungs. It did worse to my heart. I shut my eyes and tried to remember I was a professional. I tried.

  Carly shook her head. “It still looks bad.”

  “There’s a broken mug near the door and urine on the floor, but she’s in bed. It’s weirdly organized. I admit, it may not all make sense yet, but it’s enough to make me doubt that Jazz, if he’d killed her, would have done it this way.”

  “So youare saying he could have done it.”

  “No. I’m saying——”

  “Bell, I asked you here because I wanted you to see this for yourself. Once I get her back to the morgue, I have to report what I see.”

  “What do you mean, Carly?”

  “I don’t know if I’ll find anything that will clear him. His prints and DNA might be all over her. He could have done this.”

  “Carly——”

  “I called the police on him.”

  I stared at her in disbelief. “You told them he was in my place?”

  “What else was I supposed to do?”

  “You could have let me talk to him first.”

  “I don’t trust a man with a dead ex-wife in his bed being at my sister’s apartment.” She paused, looking deeply into my eyes, pleading, speaking as a woman who had seen too many dead bodies. “How well do you really know him?”

  The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it?

  I closed my eyes. The Scripture had descended on me like the Holy Spirit in the form of a dove.How well doI know him?

  chapter three

  IMADE MY WAYback home after stopping for over three hours——pajamas, Amos, and all——at the twenty-four-hour Starbucks at Arborland Mall. My head was still reeling from what I had observed at the crime scene, despite feeding my nervous energy with extravagant amounts of Toffee Nut lattes and espresso fudge brownies.

  I’d put a few brownie crumbs inside Amos’s box, and when my first latte cooled down, I’d given him a few sips of that in the lid. He now seemed a little high-strung, too, throwing himself against the cardboard walls. Whether it was from the caffeine I’d shared with him, or my frayed nerves rubbing off, I wasn’t sure.

  Jazz’s presence was as palpable as if he’d been sitting beside me. Thinking of him, probably already on his way to jail, I made the effort to stop at the 7-Eleven near my place to get a box of tampons before I went home. I’d made such a fuss about them; it was the least I could do.

  After I’d gotten to my apartment building and parked my car, I scanned the lot for the blue police-issue Crown Victoria that Jazz drove. I hadn’t noticed it in my haste on the way out. Now I spotted the Crown Vic at the curb just beyond the front entrance of the building. I thought it odd that the police hadn’t impounded it yet.

  The poor Crown Vic. It looked so forlorn underneath the streetlight. I remembered when he’d parked it there once before, on the Friday night he’d waited hours for me to come home. That night we’d kissed in the triangle of light, and I’d still had some hope that we could be together. I recalled Jazz’s words to me earlier this evening, as sharp and unexpected as a knife wound to the heart.I just wanted us to be together…Do you feel like you’re capable of doing something you never thought you’d do…?

  My honest answer: Of course I’ve felt that way, but that doesn’t mean I’d do something wrong. Or somethingbeyond wrong.

  I stepped out of my car, grabbed Amos and my iPod, and locked the door behind me, ever aware of Jazz’s insistence that I keep my doors locked at all times. I sighed and shook my head.

  Now what am I supposed to do?

  A nagging question kept tugging at my consciousness:How well do I know him?

  The weight of the sadness that settled on me made me feel colder than I should have, even in the brisk December air. I shivered inside my coat, clutching Amos’s box and wanting nothing more than to hurry into my apartment, grab my Bible and my grandmother’s quilt, and get alone with God.

  I dragged myself up the three flights of stairs, hanging my head and cursing each step like Jesus did the unfruitful fig tree. By the time I’d made it to the last step, Amos’s box was nearly grazing the ground. I hobbled on the high-heeled golden monstrosities I’d grown to hate.

  My shoes didn’t like me, either. I tripped on the last step. Poor Amos slammed into one of the cardboard walls of his box. In a flash, I anticipated the two of us splattered on the hard ground, but a pair of hands caught me——not before I crashed my head into the chest that went with those familiar hands.

  “Ow,” I said as Jazz righted me. I touched my forehead where it felt like the imprint of one of his shirt buttons had formed. He still hadn’t gotten a coat.

  “You’ll break my ribs yet,” he said with what I hoped was mock seriousness. I peered up to see him shake his head at me. “You’re banned from wearing high heels, young lady——unless we’re in private, of course.” He gave me a wicked grin that belied the sobriety of the night’s events.

  My heart Riverdanced again. “What are you doing here?”

  He tried to pry Amos from my maternal grip. I resisted.

  “I was here when you left, remember? That whole ‘put the baby’s cage together’ thing. Give me the box.”

  “No. I thought you’d be——”

  He couldn’t wrench Amos from my hand. “You thought I’d be in jail?”

  My mouth went dry. “Actually, yes. I did.” I couldn’t tell whether my heart was beating so fast because he made me feel like a lovesick girl or because I was afraid of him.

  “Let’s just say I got a heads-up. No thanks to you.” The set of his jaw and the terse edge to his voice let me know he wasn’t pleased with me. We kept the sugar-glider tug-of-war going until it exasperated Jazz and he let go. “What? Do you think I’ll hurt him, too?”

  “Too?”

  “I didn’t mean ‘too.’ I meant——Bell, you know what I meant.”

  “No, Jazz, I don’t know what you meant. When did you come back?”

  “I just got here. I was debating whether or not I should wait for you. I wasn’t even sure you’d come back tonight. Considering…”

  An arctic blast of air, seemingly out of nowhere, sliced into us. Jazz rubbed his arms up and down the brown wool suit jacket——fabric that offered little protection against the harsh wind. “Are you going to let me in, or do you think I’ve been murdering women all night?” The brooding anger became evident in his sullen, menacing expression.

  I shuddered. “That’s not funny.”

  “It wasn’t meant to be.”

  We stood there for a moment, neither of us saying a word. I wished I could see inside his head, not like a psychologist but like a prophet. I needed a godly kind of certainty to assuage the onslaug
ht of images from the crime scene. I watched him. If I thought I had nervous energy, Jazz’s glowering agitation begged release——and soon. I didn’t want to be around when he found it. He scared me. I blurted out, “I didn’t call the police on you.”

  “It doesn’t take much to figure out what happened, Bell. Your sister called, told you to get out of the apartment, andshe called the police. You should have told me what was going on.”

  My hands clutched Amos’s box. It felt like my heart was beating in time to the jagged rhythm of the infamous shower scene inPsycho. Steady, girl, this is just Jazzy. I tried to keep my voice even. “It occurred to me that perhaps you already knew.” I echoed Carly’s question to me: “What was I supposed to do?”

  “How ’bout trust me?”

  “You showed up at my door out of nowhere with those scratches on your face. You’re the one who said you did something wrong, and a half hour later, I get a call that your wife——”

  “My ex-wife.”

  “Ex? She was half-naked.”

  “She had clothes on when I left. Let’s talk about this inside.”

  My heart had become a drum machine, and someone had turned up the speed. “What makes you think you’re going inside?”

  “Bell, I have never hurt you, not even when you hitme. ”

  I looked into his deep brown entreating eyes. They didn’t seem harsh. Still…“Why should I let you in?”

  “Because you know me. I just want to talk to you.”

  “Maybe I don’t know you at all.”

  “You don’t believe that.”

  I opened my coat, put Amos inside, hugged one arm to myself against the cold that had little to do with the weather. My heart was about to fly right out of my chest. Gooseflesh rippled up and down my arms. My knees shook in the silky pajamas. “How do you know what I believe? I haven’t seen you since the middle of November.”

  “You broke up withme. ”

  “How could I break up with you if I was never your girlfriend in the first place?”

  “We had something special, and you know it, regardless of what we called it.” He rubbed his arms again. “I don’t want to talk out here. I’m freezing, and so are you. If you don’t want to let me in, I’ll leave, but I’ll tell you this: Kate was alive and kicking——literally——when I left.”

  I leaned against my door, stalling for time, thinking about how much I’d enjoy an angelic visitation right now. “Why is it so important that you talk to me?”

  “I want you to hear what happened from me. I may not get the chance to talk to you again.”

  I wanted to ask why he didn’t think he’d get to talk to me again, but it occurred to me that none of the answers I imagined he would say were good. He could say he planned to run away or turn himself in and risk going to prison for the rest of his life.

  He didn’t look like a murderer. He looked like the guy I’d fallen in love with. The one with Daddy Jack Brown’s toothy smile and Addie Lee’s artistic streak. Fatigue framed his eyes. His scratches must still hurt——mine did. Maybe he hadn’t eaten. He certainly couldn’t go home. His loft was now an active crime scene.

  I had a WWJD moment. Whatwould Jesus do? Not in a rubber-bracelet, weird, Christian-subculture, Jesus-junk-wearing way, but in a breathing, incarnational, God-with-us way. Jesus had ascended to heaven; I’d have to be His presence here on earth. What wasI, the placeholder for Jesus, going to do?

  I reached inside my coat pocket and pulled out my keys. Jesus told us to visit those in prison, but should I hang out with someone who hadn’t quite made it there yet? Someone who could be dangerous? My instincts told me to let him in, give him a cup of coffee and something to eat, but what if…

  I looked into Jazz’s eyes.

  Am I right? Lord, is that what You’d do?

  Jesus was God, and He was a man——a strong, able-bodied carpenter. He could take Jazz. I considered my own frame, straining toward five-two, slightly overweight, and wearing heels——no match for a six-foot-tall cop in excellent physical condition.

  Could I trust my fractured instincts? Would it be kind or suicidal to let him in?

  God, don’t let me do something crazy.

  Just then Jazz took my hand in his. He bowed his head and began to pray the Ninety-first Psalm: “He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, ‘He is my refuge and my fortress; My God, in Him I will trust.’”

  I squeezed his hand, closed my eyes, and interrupted him with my own paraphrased psalm fromThe Message: “That’s right——he rescues you from hidden traps, shields you from deadly hazards. His huge outstretched arms protect you——under them you’re perfectly safe; his arms fend off all harm.”

  Jazz closed the space between us and rested his chin on the top of my head. I heard him take a deep breath. He wrapped his arms around me. “I would never hurt you, baby.”

  God, don’t let my feelings…

  I went back to the psalm, praying with all my might: “Yes, because God’s your refuge, the High God your very own home, Evil can’t get close to you, harm can’t get through the door.”

  Jazz placed his index finger on my lips. He repeated the words “Harm can’t get through the door.” He gathered me into his arms. “You even pray in the words ofThe Message. ”

  “How do you know it’sThe Message ?”

  “Your enthusiasm for it persuaded me to buy a copy. The first thing I read was the Ninety-first Psalm.”

  I smiled at him. “You pray in the New King James Version.”

  “What can I say? I’m a modern kind of guy. Let’s go inside, baby, please.”

  Had the Scripture spoken?“Harm can’t get through the door” ? Or did it count if you foolishly swung open the door and invited it in?

  I love this man. I don’t know what to do.

  In a still-small voice whispering inside, I heard the shepherd of my soul say,Let him in.

  I should have comfortedhim, but Jazz settled Amos in his cage and went into the kitchen to makeme a cup of tea. He came out with the same tray I’d used earlier. My other favorite Addie Lee mug, the one he had used earlier, held a steaming brew of Lemon Zinger sweetened with Splenda that I’d requested. Not that I really wanted another drink of anything, but Jazz wanted to do something for me. “Jazz, how many mugs like the one I broke earlier do you have?”

  “Just one. She made about forty for the gift shop at the Detroit Institute of Arts when they had some of her work exhibited a few years back. They’re almost impossible to get now.”

  “Can I still have yours?”

  “Of course. I want you to have it.”

  He didn’t know it was broken? Or was he that good of a liar?

  He set the tray on the coffee table and handed the mug to me. “Are you still cold?”

  “Yes.”

  “We should get you warmed up.”

  “What do you have in mind?” That just flew out of my mouth——nervous humor defending me against the thought that Jazz, my Jazz, could be dangerous.

  He grinned. “You don’t want me to answer that.” His fidgeting told me that he had his own case of nerves to contend with. He sat down next to me. Turned his knees and body toward me. “Can I get a blanket or something for you?”

  I nodded.

  Jazz gave my knee a little squeeze and went into my bedroom.

  I called out to him, “Get the quilt that’s folded on the chair.”

  Forget comfort food. I’d always found comfort in my great-grandmother’s arms, which I felt in the soft, worn fabric of the cloth of my family’s history. Ma Brown had pieced together a vibrant Star of Bethlehem, or North Star, out of odd bits of fabric from dresses, slacks, baby clothes, and beloved shirts. Each piece told a story. The star design itself, centered, in antique white fabric, had been a veritable map to help and freedom. The star points spread outward in bursts of color and texture, shooting from a center as multicolored as our family. It wou
ld be worth good money if I ever parted with it. Of course, it would have to be wrenched from my dead, bony fingers, I loved it so.

  I waited for Jazz to bring it to me.

  And waited.

  “Jazz, what’s taking you so long?” Gooseflesh crept up my arms.Is there something in my room he could hurt me with?

  I scanned the living room for something I could defend myself with if I needed to.

  Jesus, did I make a mistake in letting him in?

  “What are you doing in there? Making a new quilt for me?” Panic rose with my heart rate.

  “I’m coming,” he said.

  I didn’t have the patience to wait. I shot to my bedroom door as if a cannon had propelled me. Jazz lay sprawled out in my bed.

  He sprang up when he saw me. “Sorry,” he said, his cheeks pinking.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I just wanted to lie down for a minute.” He stood, grabbed the quilt off the chair, and gently wrapped it around my shoulders, as if I were made of glass and he was about to pack me in a box.

  Hmm…pack me in a box? Somebody get me out of this Alfred Hitchcock movie!

  “Are youthat tired?” I asked, shaking the morbid me-in-a-box thought from my head.

  He chuckled. “You don’t want to know.”

  I didn’t respond. I was preoccupied with trying to figure out if I should offer him the hospitality of my bed for the night. Not with me in it, of course. The shrill scream in my conscience suggested I should not.

  He gave me a quizzical glance. “Youdo want to know?”

  He had gone back to my original question about him being tired. I thanked God he hadn’t read my mind. “Yes, please.”

  “I’m way too keyed up to be tired. I laid on your bed…”

  “Please don’t say ‘hoping you would join me.’”

  He laughed and shook his head as if sharing a bed with me would be as absurd as him joining the Universal Soul Circus. “Uh. Actually, I hadn’t quite gone there, but…” A sly smile crept across his face.

  “Don’t start no stuff, Jazz.”

  “It won’t be none, baby, okay? I just remembered the time I picked your lock and came in here to watch the game. Your bed smelled like the vanilla and amber stuff you wear.”