by Julie Smith
Steve’s video—to be shown to civic groups and potential backers, would be snippets of JazzFest interspersed with interviews supporting Ham’s position—the Tower Records folks, for instance, telling the home folks how many European tourists come in to buy tapes of their beloved New Orleans music, how they beg to know where they can go hear it. There’d be statistics, numbers, every kind of educational rah-rah, all softened by the stuff that soothes the savage breast.
Ham lived in Old Metairie, what passed for a suburb in New Orleans. Folks who moved there from Uptown were sometimes wept over, practically kissed good-bye and packed off with a team of huskies. Yet, if you took the expressway, it was about a ten- minute drive from downtown. Ham hadn’t actually crossed the line into Jefferson Parish—he was in the five-street transition area “near the cemeteries,” where you could get both the suburban safety of Metairie and the social correctness of a New Orleans address.
As they tooled down Metairie Road, past the landmark cemeteries, Steve said, “Okay, tell me what to expect.”
“Lots of food. Jambalaya, crawfish pie—”
“What else? Who’ll be there?”
“Big names in music. And the creme de la creme, I’ll bet. I don’t really know because it’s the first time he’s done this, but it’s predictable when you think about it. He’s probably invited everybody in town who’s got money, and he’ll lure them here with celebrities. All the musicians he can get—and that’ll be plenty.”
“Rub elbows with Ti-Belle Thiebaud and eat five pounds of crawfish.”
“Well, we know she’ll come. Aaron Neville’s not such a sure thing.”
“Aaron Neville! You’re kidding!”
“Hey, baby, have you forgotten where you are? Aaron Neville, Alan Toussaint, Wynton Marsalis—it could all happen.”
“Holy shit.”
“There’s even rumbling about Nick Anglime.”
“Oh, sure.”
“Well, it’s not all that farfetched. He’s moved to New Orleans. To Audubon Place.”
“Sometimes I wonder about you, Detective. Do you ever check out any of these rumors?”
“What rumors?”
He guffawed. “What rumors! I come to this town every four months maybe, and I never get here that there’s not some new story about a different celebrity who’s moved here.”
“Well, Allison Gaillard’s husband’s cousin, who just moved to town, lives next door to the realtor who sold him the house.” She watched him double over. He’d have been on the car floor if not for his seat belt. Skip didn’t see what was so funny.
“I don’t get it,” she said.
“If you only knew how many of those stories I’ve heard.”
“Okay. Fifty bucks says Anglime shows.”
“Hell, no. Dinner at Arnaud’s.”
“Done.” It was a bet you couldn’t really lose, or she might not have made it. She was aware there was truth to what he was saying. Those sorts of rumors did fly—sometimes you were even shown the building that some movie star had just bought from someone your boss’s wife’s sister knew really well. But somehow the star was never seen around town, and eventually you saw somebody else watering the flowers at the house and knew you’d once again fallen for urban folklore.
So far she hadn’t heard of an Anglime sighting. And if there’d been one, the word would be out. Even Skip, who had barely been born in his heyday, knew “the American Mick.” She liked his stuff, along with Dylan’s and the genuine Mick’s. She thought she’d have done well in the sixties. The music was good and people swore all the time. It was a decade with rebel appeal, and she was nothing if not a rebel—sometimes to the despair of the New Orleans Police Department.
“Somehow,” said Steve, “I didn’t picture Ham in this setting.”
It was a gracious neighborhood, dignified without being stuffy —too many kids for that sort of thing. The trees were grown, the ivy trained. The houses were several decades instead of several centuries old.
“Why not?”
He thought a minute. “Oh, hell, it’s not Ham. It’s Ti-Belle.”
“I see what you mean. But she’s a new addition. He originally moved here with his wife Mason.”
“Mason. That’s a weirder name than Ti-Belle.”
“What do you expect? She’s from a good family. I guess they were your basic young affluent couple with a yen to send their kids-to-be to Country Day, which is right in the neighborhood.”
“This is hardly the country, but you’re right—what should I expect? Uh, Skip, here’s what I didn’t expect—that little black and white bunny over there.”
“Where?”
“Oh, just hopping around on somebody’s lawn. With three baby bunnies. There it was another a block back.”
“Look, there’s some more over there. They’re all over the neighborhood. Someone moved to Covington and let their pet rabbits loose when they left—I forget who—but they did what rabbits do.”
Steve had lost interest. “What happened to Mason?”
Skip shrugged. “What usually happens, I guess. Realized she got married too young. She’s been gone five years, and Ham just never moved. Then when Ti-Belle came on the scene, I guess—well, I don’t know. I’m seeing your point more and more. She’s like an exotic flower in a bed of busy Lizzie.”
Steve spoke in a different tone, suddenly excited. “What’s going on?”
They had just rounded the corner and come into view of Ham’s house. It was obvious it was Ham’s house because there was most assuredly a party in progress—but it appeared to be on the front lawn. “Must be damn crowded if they’re spilling out on the sidewalk.”
She parked half a block away, and as they came closer, she noticed the noise seemed odd, unlike party noise. It was a little too shrill, a little uncertain. No one was eating, and stranger still, no one was drinking. The clump of guests clustered on the yard seemed to get quieter as she and Steve approached, to follow their movements visually. It made Skip self-conscious. What did they want? She thought she saw people she knew in the crowd, but she couldn’t be sure. No one spoke to her.
Steve said, “Did someone die?”
CHAPTER TWO
“Let’s go around back.”
Good smells wafted. Ham had hired a lot of caterers, in keeping with local custom—the idea was to get a dozen or so crews from different restaurants to set up little backyard booths, each serving one dish so people could sample and stroll.
A trailer parked in the driveway had put on vast caldrons of crawfish to boil. They’d be dished up in baskets and devoured at newspaper-covered tables. But the tables hadn’t been set up.
The restaurant crews, who had portable cooking units, were trying to look busy, but mostly they looked simply forlorn. Some had set up and started cooking, some hadn’t; none was serving. A confused-looking bartender was surrounded by bottles, but had no table on which to assemble a bar.
“At $250 a pop,” fumed a red-faced man, “you’d think we’d at least get a drink.”
Skip saw her brother, Conrad. Not her favorite person, but a truly great information source. “Hey, Conrad. You remember Steve?”
Conrad looked as if he cared for Steve slightly less than Jimmy Dee did. “Hey, Steve.” He didn’t bother speaking to Skip.
“Where’s Camille?” Skip liked her brother’s new wife a lot better than she liked her brother.
“Around front, I guess. Trying to figure out what’s going on. You seen Ham?”
She shook her head. “We just got here.”
“Well, looks like you beat Ham and Ti-Belle.” He looked disgusted.
The shrill, uncertain buzz they’d noticed was developing a hysterical note. This was a party that wasn’t fun. Bemused, Skip and Steve worked their way back around to the front.
“Ham I could see,” said Skip. “He could have had to work late—it’s his busiest time. But where’s Ti-Belle?”
“Oh, ‘bout two houses away, I’d say. Approac
hing at a dead run, having just parked a Thunderbird with a squeal of wheels.”
Skip had heard the squeal, but had paid it no mind. Now she saw a very thin woman coming towards them, hair flying, long legs shining brown, sticking out from a white silk shorts suit. Over one shoulder she carried a lightweight flight bag. Golden-throated Ti-Belle Thiebaud, the fastest-rising star on the New Orleans music scene.
Steve said, “I’d know those legs anywhere.”
She never performed in any garment that wasn’t short, split, slit, or halfway missing. Some said the whole country would know those legs soon. They said she was going to be bigger than large, larger than huge.
Thiebaud was approaching at a dead trot, fast giving way to a gallop. She was wearing huge hoop earrings. She had giant black eyes and shining olive skin, flyaway blond hair that looked utterly smashing with her dark complexion. Her skin clung to her bones, hanging gently, as naturally as hide on a horse. She probably didn’t even know what a Nautilus machine was—no doubt started the day with coush-coush and syrup and didn’t set her fork down till she went to bed. Obviously she’d never worked out a day in her life and never needed to. Skip had seen her perform, but never up close. She thought she might have just laid eyes on the most gorgeous woman in Louisiana, if you didn’t count her pal Cindy Lou Wootten.
“How’d Ham get her?” she blurted.
A black man waved at the singer, tried to slow her progress, pretend it was a party: “Hey, Ti-Belle.”
Thiebaud paid him no mind, but cast a look at the crowd in general. Skip saw twin wrinkles at the sides of her nose—one day they’d be there permanently, if she worried a lot in the meantime.
“Hi, y’all.” She was trying to smile, but it wasn’t working. “Excuse me a minute.” She let herself in and closed the door behind her.
Almost immediately, a scream that could have come from anyone—the hottest Cajun R&B singer in America or any terrified woman—ripped through the nervous buzz.
Skip’s eyes locked with Steve’s. “Stay here.”
For a second everyone froze; and then the heroes in the crowd started for the door. It was locked. Thwarted, they looked around, confused.
Skip pushed her way past them, badge held high. “Police,” she said. “Everybody stay back.”
She rang the doorbell.
“Miss Thiebaud! Police!”
The door opened and she saw the look in Thiebaud’s eyes. Gratitude. Thank God you’re here, said the eyes. You take over and be the grown-up.
Skip walked in and closed the door behind her, turning the lock. There was a purple backpack on a chair in the foyer. “What is it?”
“Ham. Ham’s dead.” Thiebaud turned around and padded toward the kitchen. Halfway there she said, “I think. I think he’s dead.”
Ham Brocato was lying on the floor with a kitchen knife in his chest, buried almost to the hilt.
He wore jeans and a black T-shirt with something written on it, Skip couldn’t tell what. He was very white, very pale, as if lividity were well along, as if his blood had already settled on the other side of him. The floor was black with dried blood. But even if he hadn’t been so pale, even if the spilled blood hadn’t been so dark, you could have told from his eyes that he was dead. They were open, cloudy, staring at nothing.
He had been cooking. Smoke filled the house, along with the smell of burned roux. The stove was still on, very low, under a heavy iron pot. Neat piles of chopped vegetables sat on the kitchen counter—onion, green pepper, scallions, tomatoes. There was a pile of shrimp too, lying on the white butcher paper it had come in. It stank. The vegetables looked withered. Two nearly washed wineglasses were upended in the dish drain. An open bottle of wine sat half empty on a kitchen counter.
Thiebaud looked at Skip anxiously. “I’m sorry,” said Skip.
“He’s dead?”
“Yes.”
Thiebaud’s face twisted and she threw herself against a wall. Something came out of her that could have been a sob, but was more like an anguished sound with no name, a sound loud and almost musical; unconsciously so, Skip thought.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes. I have to throw up is all.”
“Listen, I’m going to have to ask you to go outside. This is a crime scene.”
“I can’t—” She put a hand to her mouth and started down the hall, made it only halfway.
Damn! Who knows what else she did before I got here?
“I’m really sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to wait outside.”
“This is my house!”
“Is there someone out there who can take care of you?”
“I have to brush my teeth!”
Skip put a hand firmly on the small of her back and guided her to the door. “Does Ham have family members here?”
“Oh, my God! George and Patty—they’re invited. And Melody. Ham’s little sister. Oh, no! That poor little girl!”
“Okay, we need to tell them. Anybody else?”
“I don’t know.” She seemed to be having trouble thinking.
“Ms. Thiebaud. Look at me.”
Dully, the other woman faced her.
“Do you need a doctor?”
“Hell, no. I’ve already thrown up. Why? Do I seem out of it?”
“A little. My name’s Skip Langdon, by the way.”
“And you’re a cop? What kind of cop?”
“I’m in Homicide.”
“Oh. You mean someone called you? You knew?”
“No, of course I didn’t know. I’m just a guest. But I need you to help me now. Can you?”
Her eyes went dull again. “I don’t know.”
“Can you tell me who else I need to talk to? Who else here was close to Ham?”
“Ariel—Ham’s assistant.”
“That’s all?”
“All I can think of.”
“Okay, here’s what I need you to do. Go out in the crowd, find a man named Steve Steinman, and send him to me. And don’t tell anyone what’s in here. Leave that to me.”
“Ham’s video producer?” She looked baffled. “Is he a suspect?”
“We’ll talk later.” Skip had to give her a gentle shove to get her out the door.
The errand served a dual purpose. Skip needed Steve to call Homicide—she couldn’t use the phone in the house, for fear of disturbing prints. And she wanted to keep Thiebaud away from the family members. The nearest and dearest were always the most likely killers—and if Ham hadn’t died in a crime of passion, Skip didn’t know what you’d call a knife in the chest while playing Cajun chef. Better to keep the suspects separated.
A quick tour of the house showed the only out-of-place object was the purple backpack. On a service porch were folding tables, boxes of glassware, tablecloths, plates—all the rented equipment you’d need for a big party.
Otherwise, everything was immaculate, perfectly ordered, every bed made, every surface dusted—as if the place had just been cleaned for a special occasion. The house was strangely impersonal, as if decorated from a catalogue; better than a Hilton, say, but not much better. The living room was oddly like the bedroom—generic. But not done up with wing chairs and Audubon prints which was de rigueur in New Orleans homes of a certain class. More anywhere-USA generic. Nothing especially went with anything else, nor did anything clash.
It was the last place you’d expect people like Ham and Ti-Belle to live. But the chatelaine was just up from the bayou country, Skip thought, and hadn’t yet gotten into decorating, had barely had time to buy fabulous clothes.
The guests were banging on the front door, kicking at it, ringing the bell. What to do with them?
The last thing she should do was let them disturb a crime scene, but there were a hundred people outside and more arriving all the time. One thing she might do was detain people for questioning, but most of them probably hadn’t seen much. Ham had been dead a long time—maybe since yesterday. Yet she didn’t have official word of that. She t
hought the best thing was to have the family, close friends, and caterers stay, send everyone else home.
She found a phone on a slightly battered nightstand next to a king-size bed covered with an ordinary quilted spread, champagne-colored, clearly bought from a department store, and not recently. She was looking at it longingly when she heard Steve’s voice.
She let him in, explained the problem, and told him to tell her sergeant, Sylvia Cappello, that Skip wanted the case. “Just tell her I’ve got it,” she said, “and I’ll talk to her soon.” She watched his eyes come alive with vicarious excitement—he had a layman’s yen to be a detective. “And tell her I need two more officers; plus a marked car for crowd control.” He envied her, she could feel it. She understood, but she had her own envy—he didn’t have to face that crowd. It was increasingly nervous and ugly, threatening to break in and ruin the only part of the scene that might not be totally hopeless.
She stepped outside and held up her badge. “Ladies and gentlemen …” This was a crowd that was ready and waiting. She had their attention at once. “We need your cooperation. I’m going to have to ask you to step back a little bit for just a few minutes.”
But they surged forward instead. Skip would have given her Marcy Mandeville for some backup, but she didn’t even hear sirens yet. Thiebaud was near the door, leaning against a handsome man in his early sixties who had his arm around her. He was graying, had a large head on a pair of large shoulders. Despite the informality of the occasion, he was wearing a suit. The singer was white, rigid. Without warning her eyes rolled back and she started to fall. Her companion struggled to catch her.
Attention shifted to Ti-Belle, and then, almost simultaneously, a marked car squealed around the corner. Skip breathed a sigh of relief. She got Thiebaud seated on the ground, head forward on the flagstones. The singer came around. “What is it?”
“You fainted.”
The man knelt.
“George!” Thiebaud reached for him, he still squatting and trying to keep his balance, she trying to lean close enough to get some comfort, finally having to hop over on her butt. Giving up the balancing act, he sat down and held her.
