Jazz Funeral

by Smith, Julie

“You saw her leave with it.”

  “Yes. I came out and called her name, and then she came running down the stairs. I saw it but didn’t think about it till now.”

  “Did she have anything in the pack that she particularly needed?”

  Blair looked bewildered, thought about it. “No, I don’t think so.” She thought some more. “What do you mean? Drugs or something? Melody doesn’t do drugs.”

  “Oh, really?”

  Flip said, “Just a little pot.” He looked at Nicolai and flushed. The counselor stepped back a foot or two, pretended interest far across campus. “She likes it, though. She might do other stuff if she had access to it.”

  Skip nodded. She’d been like that herself. It wasn’t that the high was so great, just that it replaced the pain. “I appreciate you two being so honest.”

  Blair said, “Listen, I’m really sorry if I caused any trouble. I couldn’t talk about it before, I just couldn’t believe it had really happened, that she’d run away, I mean. I thought she’d come back, especially when she found out about Ham.”

  Skip was pissed. “Didn’t it occur to you she might have been kidnapped?”

  “Well, yes. But my telling what happened wouldn’t change that and wouldn’t help find her.”

  Skip had to admire a fine mind at work. “You’re right, I don’t guess it would. Why did you decide to tell me now?”

  She copped a quick glance at her boyfriend. “Flip made me.”

  Flip said, “Was there something else you wanted to ask me?”

  “Yeah. I wanted to know if she came to your house, and if you’re harboring her.”

  “No. Neither.”

  “Do you know where she is or even have any guesses?”

  “No. I’ll tell you what’s odd—she hates her mom, do you know that?” Once again he shot a guilty look at Nicolai, but the counselor was down on all fours, searching for something in the grass.

  “No. Why?”

  “They just don’t get along, I guess. And she never sees her dad, so she kind of always idolized Ham and Ti-Belle. That’s where she’d go.”

  She had, seeking succor in a fit of adolescent angst. “What’s the odd part?”

  “Well, even though she was really unhappy at home, she never mentioned running away. Sometimes she talked about going to live with Ham, wondering if he’d take her in. She never talked about just … leaving.”

  “Blair?”

  “To me either.”

  “Well, thanks, kids.” Hope you’ll be happy together.

  When they were gone, she told Nicolai she liked his style.

  “The invisible man act? Don’t be fooled. If you’d tried to get tough with those kids, you’d have known I was there.”

  You could hear the band from the street, but it wasn’t too loud to be a nuisance. The music was muffled. The home attached to the garage belonged to people who worked and therefore never heard a thing, Nicolai told her. Another group at the school had used the garage and put in the soundproofing. Melody’s gang had more or less inherited it.

  Skip knocked, yelled, finally made herself heard. A black kid let her in, a kid with a smile that could have sold breakfast cereal. “We be the Spin-Offs. Who you be?”

  “Also known as the Fuck-Offs,” said the little twerp on drums.

  “I be the long arm of the law.” She showed her badge.

  The black kid quit clowning. “You must be here about Melody.”

  “Uh-huh. Are you Joel or Doug?”

  “Joel Boucree. Uh, hello, Mr. Nicolai.” Skip had no idea how the counselor had managed to stay unseen till that point. Both boys suddenly dropped their terminally cool acts and remembered their manners. As introductions were performed, she took a shine to Joel. He was a friendly kid who looked at least as bright as a button. Maybe a solid gold button. He was light-skinned, on the thin side, conventionally handsome. But not too handsome (if there was such a thing). He was the kind of kid matchmakers would call “nice-looking.” She remembered what Matthew Nicolai had said about him: most likely to be most likely to succeed.

  The other kid, Doug Leddy, was a little white nerd. He had narrow shoulders, wore glasses, and a sneer. The kind of sullen little twit that gives teenagers a bad name. The kind Sharon Sougeron had described.

  Right after shaking hands, he sat back down, started pounding the drums again.

  “Don’t mind Doug,” said Joel. “He thinks attitude’s cool.”

  “Fuck off, Boucree.” He didn’t even give Nicolai a look.

  Skip said, “You’re pretty brave to say that in front of a police officer.”

  “You going to arrest me?”

  “No. I’m going to kill you if you don’t stop that noise.”

  He played an ear-bending coda first. Nicolai cocked an eye brow: Should he stop it? Skip shook her head.

  “Very nice. Now, fellows. Is Melody here?”

  “Here? Where? In Joel’s guitar case?”

  She spoke to Joel. “When did you see her last?”

  “Monday. We practice Mondays and Thursdays. I might have seen her at school Tuesday, but that was it. I went to Ham’s Tuesday night, but she wasn’t there.”

  Doug said, “You went to Ham’s? Melody didn’t even invite me. Goddamn—bitch!” He picked up a drumstick, walloped his snare drum, and threw the stick at the wall.

  Nicolai said, “Chill out, Dougie.”

  “Shit!”

  Joel said, “His parents are getting divorced.”

  “I don’t need you to fuckin’ speak for me, party boy.”

  “Listen, Melody didn’t invite me to that thing. Ham did.”

  “Oh, right, for a minute I forgot what a star you are.” To Skip, he said, “Did you know our man Joel played onstage at JazzFest for the first time when he was seven? Seven! He doesn’t ever let us forget either.”

  Joel looked hurt.

  “Do you get along this well with Melody? The three of you fight onstage?”

  Doug lowered his eyes. “We get along.”

  She’d guessed right. He couldn’t stand being called unprofessional. She said, “What’s it like, playing with Melody?”

  She’d hoped for Joel, but she got Doug. “She’s as good at the keyboard as any guy.”

  “Pardon me while I puke.”

  He gave her a puzzled look, apparently having no idea what he’d said wrong. “Joel brought her in when Gary graduated—he was our keyboard player before. I didn’t want to play with a chick. But she’s okay, man. She’s okay. Thinks she’s Janis Joplin, though.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, you know. That’s her favorite singer, and not only that, she identifies with her. Thinks Janis was some sort of misunderstood artist instead of a drugged-out mediocre musician who was really nothin’ but a bigmouth Texas redneck.”

  Joel said, “She was a great singer, though.”

  “Yeah, if you like screeching.”

  Joel grinned at Skip. “Doug’s really the misunderstood artist—you can tell ‘cause he puts down anybody who makes it. And some people who just have more talent than he does—like Melody.”

  “I said she was okay.”

  “Yeah, but you’re always knocking her singing.”

  “She’s not that good, man. I can’t help it—she’s nothin’ special.”

  “She’s the best you’ll ever play with.”

  Skip was getting tired of the bickering. “Did she ever talk to you guys about her brother?”

  “Yeah. Thought he walked on water.”

  “She didn’t do it, man,” said Doug. “I mean, Melody’s got a temper, she’s a perfectionist, she can be a pain in the ass, but no way she’d kill Jesus H-for-Hamson Christ.”

  Joel said, “Hey, what’s police work like? What’s it like being … out there?”

  She couldn’t tell if he was trying to distract her or what. “Why do you ask?”

  “Well, I mean, it’s kind of unusual. For a woman and all. I was just wondering why you went i
nto it.”

  Skip laughed. “Cause I’m a big broad and I can beat people up.”

  “Come on. Really.” He looked so serious, so quizzical, she was sorry she’d teased him.

  “Really? Well, really, I thought I might be good at it. I used to live in San Francisco, and while I was there I caught a mugger— just on the street. I saw him get an old lady’s purse and I got him.” She shrugged. “I guess I got hooked.”

  “How do you go about—you know—working on something like this?”

  “Finding Melody?”

  “Yeah, finding Melody.”

  “Well, I’m kind of just asking her friends what they think.” She could have said she was asking if they knew where Melody was, but some instinct made the sentence come out like it had.

  Joel lit up. “That’s what I’d do. That’s exactly what I’d do. You think I’d be a good cop?”

  “You might. But I hear you’re a good musician.”

  “Annh.” It was an unenthusiastic sound, a shrugging off. Probably people had told him all his life he was a good musician; hearing it was like getting a cheek pinched by a distant aunt.

  “So what about it, guys? You know where she is?”

  Doug said, “Hell, no.” And I wouldn’t tell you if I did, his manner said.

  “Joel?”

  “Not really.” But he hesitated.

  “You’ve got an idea, haven’t you?”

  “Well, I know what I’d do if I were her.”

  Doug said, “If you were her, and what, man? You killed your brother? You got kidnapped? Get real, man. You don’t know where the hell she is.”

  Joel ignored him. “See, I’ve been thinking about it. Her boyfriend … like, dumped her, is what I think. For her best friend.”

  Doug said, “How the hell do you know that?”

  “Well, they been together for two days. It’s kind of a clue.” He turned back to Skip. “So I think it got too much for her and she ran away. I mean, she couldn’t take it. So she split.”

  “Good. That could be it.”

  “The only question is, where’d she go?”

  “Well, she’d need money, right? So she’d go where she could make it.”

  Doug said, “She’s probably peddling her skinny ass right now.”

  “Would you can it, please?” said Nicolai.

  “Think about it,” said Joel. “She’s got a talent. She could use that. What can she do that she wouldn’t have to get hired for, wouldn’t have to prove who she is, wouldn’t have to take any shit of any description? Excuse my French.”

  Doug said, “Holy shit! She’s a street musician. She always used to talk about Ti-Belle doing that. That’s what it is. But wait a minute —why hasn’t she contacted us? She can’t just sing with no band.”

  “Well, I bet she went to the Quarter and found one.” Joel beamed, like the good student he was, fully expecting an A for this one.

  And Skip would have given him one if she could—that or a kiss. What else would a runaway do? Panhandle.

  But Melody didn’t have to. “The Quarter?” she said. “Sure. That’s where the bucks are.”

  And where you could get lost in the crowds, where there was a dim, tiny chance you wouldn’t run into someone you knew. Where Carlson from Missing Persons said they all went. But still, New Orleans for all its size was such a small town. “You wouldn’t just get out of here?” she said.

  “I wouldn’t,” said Joel. “I’d be scared to. You gotta remember, she’s only sixteen.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  On the off chance Ti-Belle was home, Skip drove the four or five blocks to Ham’s house and found her Thunderbird parked in the driveway.

  The singer came to the door in a melon-colored, terry-cloth robe. She looked fabulous, and anyone else in the same color would have looked like candy corn.

  “Oh, hello … uh …”

  “Skip. Sorry to drop in on you. I was in the neighborhood.”

  Ti-Belle didn’t seem unhappy to see her. “Come in. I was just changing.”

  “How are you doing?”

  The singer led her into the living room. “This is the first time I’ve been alone. I’ve been at the Brocatos’ all day.”

  “Are your relatives coming?”

  Ti-Belle tried a smile, but it didn’t quite work. “I think I’m going to have to gut this one out.” Before Skip could be so rude as to ask why, Ti-Belle said, “Excuse me. I’ll put on some clothes. Coffee? Tea?”

  “Nothing, thanks.”

  “I’ll just be a minute. Really.”

  If she’d been crazy enough to stab Ham, could she be crazy enough to come back with a weapon? It was the police way to think, but Skip couldn’t talk herself into it. If she’d killed Ham, it had been in anger, not because she was nuts. And you’d have to be nuts to assault an officer the day after your boyfriend was found dead.

  She said, “While you’re dressing, could I have a look in Ham’s office?”

  The singer thought about it a second, finally shrugged. “Why not?”

  Ham had been a careful record keeper. His income taxes were neatly filed, his canceled checks stored in his top desk drawer. He had a good income, partly from his festival salary, partly from earnings on his stock in Po’ Boys, but it looked as if he was the very personification of “generous to a fault.” He’d written checks to Ti-Belle amounting to nearly $25,000 since January. And at the bottom of each one was written the word “loan.” It was only late April; if he’d lent her comparable amounts the year before and the year before that, Ti-Belle owed him plenty. And she wasn’t the only one—he’d lent small amounts to Andy Fike and to lots of people whose names she didn’t recognize.

  There was one other interesting category of check—large donations to the Second Line Square Foundation. Once again, it was reasonable to assume this was his habit.

  He had savings, but they were going fast. In the four months of this year, he’d paid out nearly three-quarters of the amount he’d made the year before. He either had to quit spending or come up with some more money to make it through the year.

  Ti-Belle padded back in barefoot, wearing baggy calf-length pants and a floppy T-shirt. “Finding anything?”

  “Can I ask why Ham lent you so much money?”

  She colored. “You think I make a fortune, don’t you? Because you know my name and you’ve heard me sing, you automatically think I’m rich. Well, I’m not rich. I wasn’t even middle class until about a year ago. If you’re a musician—if you’re in any of the arts—how do you think you get from zero to a hundred? From singing on the street to the Ray-Ban stage?”

  She answered herself. “You borrow money, that’s how.”

  “Was Ham pressuring you to repay it?”

  “No. He was generous. I told you that.” Skip was about to ask about the fights, but Ti-Belle stomped out. “Jesus, I’m thirsty! Want some iced tea?”

  Skip followed her to the kitchen, which had been cleaned up. She wondered if Ti-Belle had scrubbed the dried blood herself. The singer was still talking, more or less to herself. “Nerves. I get thirsty when I’m stressed out. I’m supposed to sing tomorrow, and I don’t know what the hell to do.”

  “You mean sing at JazzFest?”

  She nodded. “I don’t see how I can not do it—but on the other hand, I don’t know if I should. I mean, I want to do it—for Ham. The whole festival is a memorial to him, did you know that? I think I have to do it, don’t you? But would it be crass?”

  “It’s a problem.” A PR problem, it seemed. An interesting thing to have on your mind the day after your lover’s death. Ti-Belle looked a little pale, but she wasn’t exactly puffy from crying.

  “What do you think? Should I or not?”

  It was the question Skip was hoping to avoid, but what the hell—Ti-Belle might think she owed Skip for the right answer, and it was obvious she’d already made up her mind what that was. All she needed was someone else’s stamp of approval.

  “
Well, frankly,” said Skip, “I think you’d be conspicuous by your absence. They’ve kind of got you in a box by making the festival a memorial—that way if you don’t feel up to doing it, it would look as if you didn’t really care.”

  Ti-Belle looked modestly at the floor for a moment, possibly to hide tears (or their absence). “I s’pose you’re right. I’ve kind of been thinking along those lines myself.”

  My turn, thought Skip, and plunged in: “Ti-Belle, I know this is painful for you, but I’m wondering if you know of anyone who might have a reason to kill Ham. Had he had any arguments with anyone? Any ongoing disagreements? Enemies?”

  “Well, no, this isn’t painful. It sort of helps—I do better if I keep my mind working. And I’ve been trying to think about that myself. In fact, I’ve kind of come up with a suspect list.”

  “You have?” Skip couldn’t quite conceal her astonishment.

  Ti-Belle looked proud of herself, almost smug. She slung hair out of her eyes, poured tea, and handed Skip a glass. “Well, just in my head. Let’s go to the living room—this place gives me the creeps.”

  She talked as she walked. Skip liked the way she stomped around barefoot. Even liked her slightly too frank revelations. Except for the obvious knowledge that she was gorgeous, she had an ingenuous quality about her, a kind of country style that befitted a career Cajun. “I gotta get out of this house. Soon. After the funeral, I guess.”

  “When’s that?”

  “Oh, Monday. When they decided to go on with JazzFest, George and Patty decided that’s what they’d better do.”

  “It’ll be a jazz funeral, I’ll bet.”

  Ti-Belle lit up. “Well, I’ll bet it will! That’s the only appropriate thing. Well, of course it will.”

  They had returned to the living room and sat, Skip on the sofa, Ti-Belle in a ladderback rocking chair. “About your suspect list. I’m all ears.”

  “Ariel comes to mind first of all. She’s a rejected lover, you know.”

  Skip made a note, hiding her eyes. “Ariel. Could I ask how you know that?”

  “Well, Ham, of course, after I mentioned she was always making goo-goo eyes. I thought he was so innocent he just hadn’t noticed. But he said he’d kind of, you know, done it with her once when they were both kind of drunk, and she never could forget. It embarrassed him, but he had to put up with it. He sure wasn’t going to fire her just because he was embarrassed. Ham wasn’t like that.”