by Smith, Julie
“Mrs. Brocato? I’m Skip Langdon with the police department.”
“Oh.”
Thiebaud wailed, “George, he’s dead! I can’t believe it.”
People always said they couldn’t believe it. But it was out, and at least Thiebaud had held her tongue until now. Patty Brocato’s face cracked, but the fear in her eyes didn’t resolve itself, give way to shock or grief. Instead she looked more frightened still. A maverick sound fell out of her throat, and she drew in her breath. Finally she said, “Melody?” the word almost a whisper, as if she didn’t dare speak it.
It was a question, but Skip wasn’t sure what the answer was. She said, “Your daughter? Ham’s sister?”
Patty Brocato nodded, eyes alert, fixed on Skip.
“She isn’t here. Is she with you?”
Patty shook her head, hand at her mouth. “She’s gone.” It was a whisper. Her head kept shaking, shaking. Her son was dead, her daughter was “gone,” and none of it was happening, said the head. Skip understood the impulse.
George Brocato struggled to his feet, pulled Thiebaud after him, kept an arm around her. “What happened?” he asked.
“We’ll talk. Can you wait a minute?” As if they had something better to do. Skip told the uniforms to get the names of everyone at the party and send them home. As fast as they’d go.
Then she told the Brocatos their son had been murdered. Thiebaud filled in the details. More officers arrived, and two coroners’ assistants. “I have to leave you for a moment.” She got another officer to sit with them while she went back inside to preserve the one piece of evidence she knew must exist yet was so fragile it could be destroyed with the flick of a finger.
She went into the ordinary bedroom with the ordinary bedspread. She’d noticed an answering machine near the phone, and she wanted to know what was on it. The messages were all for Ti-Belle—and there were lots of them, apparently a backlog of several days.
That wasn’t good enough. She returned to a room that looked like a study, one to which she’d paid little attention when she toured the house a few minutes before. The walls were wood-paneled, the furniture utilitarian, masculine. There was a computer, fax machine, copier, CD player, and other machines, some she didn’t recognize. She had no doubt every one of them was state of the art. The answering machine looked as if it would hold an entire library of messages. Carefully, keeping to the edge so as not to destroy any prints, she punched the button marked “messages.” The tape rewound for so long she nearly decided not to listen, just to tell the crime lab to get the two machines.
But then she thought, maybe just one or two, and ended up playing them all. She’d been right. There was important evidence here. The tape might even help the investigation fix the time of death. Most of the callers had left the day and time.
Most of the messages were of two types. There were frantic ones from various people—mostly from Ariel, Ham’s assistant, asking where the hell he was. These had all been made today, indicating Ham simply hadn’t been anywhere he was supposed to be all day.
The other type of message, interspersed with the “where-are-you” ones, began the tape—on Tuesday night, apparently—and continued throughout Wednesday. These were from “Dad” and “Patty,” desperately trying to find their daughter Melody.
Skip went into the kitchen, where she now found Paul Gottschalk from the crime lab and told him what she had.
Back outside, she found George holding both women’s hands, the three standing almost in a circle, making a barrier with their backs against the other guests. Skip felt for them, wished she could take them someplace private to talk.
“This is an awful thing,” she said. “I’m so sorry.” She let a beat pass. “Ms. Thiebaud, could you leave us for a few minutes?”
“Ti-Belle,” said the singer, and left, eyes glazed. It seemed a strange time to get friendly.
George spoke before Skip had a chance. “Detective. We have to tell you something. Our daughter’s missing.”
Patty broke in: “Could someone have kidnapped her? They killed Ham and they—could they have taken her?”
“Can either of you think of a reason why anyone would want to kill him?”
“No!”
“No.”
“Or Melody?”
“Melody!” Patty screwed up her face to cry, apparently not having dealt with the idea her daughter could be dead.
George simply said “No” again, and patted his wife’s hand.
“Was Melody here with Ham yesterday?”
Patty spoke again. “We kept calling and calling—Ham wasn’t home. But Melody—”
George said, “Patty.” Just the word. As obvious as kicking her. He was telling her to shut up.
Skip said, “Mrs. Brocato, I take it you’re Ham’s stepmother?”
“Yes.”
“And Melody is his half sister?”
“They couldn’t have been closer if they were full blood. Even with the age difference.”
George said, “Melody’s only sixteen. Ham was thirty-four.”
“Why do you think she was here when Ham was killed?”
“We don’t,” said George.
Patty said, “But if they kidnapped her—”
“Mrs. Brocato, why would she have been here?”
Her husband answered the question. “She goes to Country Day. It’s such a short walk, she often comes over after school.”
“Is Ham usually home?”
He shrugged, and Skip saw what he was trying to avoid saying—Ham wasn’t.
“Does she have a key?”
He nodded. Skip remembered the purple backpack on the chair in the entrance hall.
“What happened yesterday? When did you last hear from her?”
Patty said, “When I dropped her off, she said she was going to a friend’s house after school. I was supposed to pick her up about five-thirty. But she wasn’t there.” Patty had trouble saying the last few words, and for a moment she looked her age, looked like a woman who’d had children and suffered, not merely like a perfect shape on which to hang lovely clothes.
She put a hand over her mouth until she was back in control. “Blair—her friend—said Melody had left about half an hour before. Just left, without saying good-bye. Blair said she had no idea why. She was on the phone at the time—heard the door close, but that was it.” Patty shrugged. This was obviously old material to her, a road she’d been down all too often in the last few hours. “I came here to look for her—it was so close—I was sure she’d be here. But no answer. Nothing.”
“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.
CHAPTER THREE
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.
