Jazz Funeral (Skip Langdon #3) (Skip Langdon Mystery) (The Skip Langdon Series)

by Julie Smith

  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.”

  Skip spoke quickly to stem that train of thought. “So the last time you saw him was when—quitting time yesterday?”

  “There is no quitting time during the festival. We kind of work around the clock if we have to. But this party—this Second Line Square thing—it’s kind of his pet project. It’s—it was—really, really important to him. He’d hired the caterers and everything—all out of his own pocket—but nothing would do. But he had to make his own special gumbo for a couple of the performers. See, they’d been at his house when he’d made it before, and he promised them if they’d come and be nice to the rich people, he’d make it again.” She spread her arms. “He had a deal—what could he do? So just when things were at their hottest, he went home in the middle of the day to make gumbo.”

  “And that was the last time you saw him? When he left?”

  “No, he called and asked me to bring him some tasso. He’d forgotten it, and his special, personal recipe wouldn’t work without it.” She rolled her eyes. “So he said.”

  “You must have been snowed under too.”

  “And yet he wasn’t really demanding. Every now and then something like that came up, that’s all. He was a great guy, Offic —uh, Detective.”

  “Skip.”

  “He was the best. Everyone who worked for him adored him. Just one of those easygoing, teddy bear sweetie-pie pussycats, you know what I mean?”

  “I knew him a little bit. He seemed like that to me.” But she’d seen men like that get clobbered—not murdered, but good and beat up in domestic disputes she’d been out on. The wife would be furious, maybe still brandishing a poker or frying pan, and the teddy bear would be mouthing, “Now, honey, you put that thang down, baby doll,” blood running down his face, but eyes like velvet, voice like taffy, all hell breaking loose and still gentle as a cocker spaniel. She never knew what these sweeties did to inspire so much wrath.

  “Ariel,” she said, “when did you bring the tasso?”

  “About three.”

  “Was anyone else here?”

  “No. I mean, not that I saw. Ham just met me at the door and took the package.”

  “What was he wearing at the time?”

  “Wearing? I don’t know. Jeans, I guess. And, um, a T-shirt. Black. I know! A Radiators T-shirt.”

  “How did he seem?”

  “Seem? Anxious, I guess. Real worried. Like he always gets this time of year.”

  “Worried?”

  “Yeah. Like he just knows he can’t get everything done. He gets like a permanent crease between his eyes.”

  “Okay, I guess that’s it for now. May I call you if I have more questions?”

  “Sure.”

  Skip was halfway back to the house, intending to get Andy Fike’s address from Ti-Belle’s Rolodex, when she heard a kind of collective gasp, followed instantly by an excited buzz. Wheeling, expecting the worst, she saw only a gray-haired man in jeans and tank top getting out of a double-parked car. The car was a Jaguar and the man had a certain seen-it-all look. Who was he? And then a name floated up from the crowd, repeated over and over: “Nick Anglime, Nick Anglime.”

  He stood uncertainly, as if afraid to go any farther, and it looked as if he had good reason. Already people were starting to approach—neighborhood kids, mostly, the bolder ones. But, setting his lips, he apparently made a decision, moved forward. Ignored the kids. And Skip noticed for the first time how tall he was. It was easy for him to ignore people—he simply stared out over their heads. She remembered the phrase, “A giant of his generation.” Apparently it had meaning beyond his talent.

  “Officer,” he shouted. “Officer!” Obviously he meant one of the uniformed ones—Skip was wearing the linen shirt Jimmy Dee had picked—but his voice was so imperious she nearly answered anyway. His tone was that of a man calling for a waiter. But intimidation gave way to amusement—and an idea. She was about to meet the American Mick. She hoped Steve Steinman was watching.

  A uniformed policeman strode importantly in Anglime’s direction, but Skip headed him off. “It’s okay, officer. I’ll talk to him.” His face fell like a kid’s. Skip almost laughed.

  She pulled out her badge and approached Anglime, stood close to him and looked up, mentally measuring him. She was six feet, and he was about six inches taller; quite possibly the tallest man she’d ever seen, except for Hulk Hogan, whom she’d once glimpsed in
the Dallas airport.

  “Skip Langdon,” she said. “Can I help you?”

  “What’s happened? Is someone hurt?”

  Behind him, Skip saw the coroner’s wagon arriving—everyone would know soon. “I’m afraid so. The party’s canceled.”

  “But—what’s happened?”

  A kid grabbed at him. “Hey, Mr. Anglime. Do you really live in New Orleans?”

  “Later, please,” he said.

  Emboldened, two more kids came close. “Hey, Nick. Hey, Nick, how ya doin’?”

  He looked as if he’d like to swat them like so many gnats.

  What, thought Skip, am I doing here? Starfucking? Disgusted with herself, she went back to tell Steve Steinman good night. He happily lent her his rental car, saying he thought he could get a ride with Ariel. Declining the bait—for some reason she hadn’t yet figured out, she trusted Steve—she went back to work.

  At the moment she couldn’t really tell who was a neighbor and who wasn’t—certainly couldn’t see who lived where—so she decided to save the block canvassing for later. She went back in the house to check some things—yes, there was an unopened package of tasso in the refrigerator, and yes, Ham’s T-shirt said “Radiators” on it, obviously a promotional item for a local band.

  And Paul Gottschalk was through with the purple backpack. Eagerly, Skip opened it. It contained books, notebooks, pencils, pens, and money. Every book and notebook had the name “Melody Brocato” neatly printed on it.

  She left to interview Blair Rosenbaum, the kid Melody had visited the day before. As it turned out, she could have walked and probably should have—Blair lived about a block and a half away, in a neat brick house with an oak tree in front. It was almost fifties, it was so wholesome. Blair’s mom would have been a pretty blonde—someone who worked on it a lot, but still handsome—if it hadn’t been for the vertical worry lines between her eyes. Skip’s request to see Blair etched them a little deeper. But it was granted, on the condition that Mom could sit in on the interview.

  Blair was tall and lanky—maybe even anorexic. And yet she’d probably look elegant in most clothes—anything but the jeans shorts and oversized T-shirt she wore. It was the skull on the front of the shirt that really made the outfit, but elegant it wasn’t. Blair kept her brownish hair short, which emphasized her giraffeness, and also her almond-shaped eyes. She wasn’t a typical teenager, this kid—or not what most people thought of as typical. She was clearly smarter than most—a lot smarter. Skip knew that before she opened her mouth, knew it by the eyes, by the way she held her head, by a thousand nonverbal signals.

  And then there was her height. Skip had been “too tall”—her own description—as well. Now her height was an advantage, but at Blair’s age it had been a distinct liability. For Blair it wouldn’t be—no doubt she’d already found some of its advantages. Probably had a modeling contract and the self-confidence of a CEO.

  Her mother seemed ordinary in comparison. Blair was so exotic, she looked out of place in the comfortable living room with its earth colors and brass lamps. It was a tasteful room hung with oil paintings—real paintings, not family portraits, not prints, not photographs—which already made it unusual for this particular suburb. But Blair needed royal-purple. Or Italian leather furniture against a black-walled room. Abstract paintings that took up entire walls. High drama.

  Skip said, “I’m here about Melody Brocato.”

  The almond eyes, so knowing, flashed for a split second, cooled instantly. Blair nodded ever so slightly. “I thought so. Her parents have been calling all day.”

  “Can you tell me what happened between you?”

  “Between us? You mean, when she left? Nothing. I was on the phone. I never saw her go.” The girl shrugged. “Maybe she thought I was rude.”

  “For talking on the phone when you had a guest? Were you?”

  She shrugged again, a little defensively. Good: chinks in the armor. “We do that all the time. When one person gets a phone call, the other just does her homework. Or watches the tube.”

  “Then why would she think you were rude?”

  “She wouldn’t.”

  “Why did she leave, Blair? What happened?”

  “I don’t know. Nothing happened.”

  “Okay. Did you have a fight earlier?”

  “No.”

  “Can you think of any reason at all why Melody might have needed to leave suddenly?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know Hamson Brocato? Melody’s brother?”

  “Sure.”

  “What’s Melody’s relationship with him?”

  “They’re close. Really close. He’s a cool guy.”

  “Would Melody have gone to see him?”

  “Why not? He’s right in the neighborhood.”

  “Did you talk about him on Tuesday?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Did Melody fight with him recently?”

  Blair shifted her weight, becoming interested. “Not that I know of. Why?”

  “Have you heard from her since she left here?”

  “Since yesterday? No.”

  “Have you got any ideas about where she might be?”

  “Not unless she’s with Ham and Ti-Belle.”

  Yes you do. If you’re her friend, you do.

  But Skip knew Blair wasn’t going to open up. She had her story and she was sticking to it. Skip also knew how to shake her up. She said, “I think I should tell you something.”

  Silence. But Blair’s mother tensed. The interview would probably end up putting money in some cosmetic surgeon’s pocket.

  “I think I should tell you this is not a simple case of a runaway teenager. This is a murder investigation.”

  Both Rosenbaums gasped. Fear leapt into Blair’s eyes, her left hand went to her heart. “Melody—”

  “Melody’s brother Ham was killed yesterday.”

  “Omigod. Ham! Oh. Poor Melody.” Blair’s body rocked. “Does she know? Oh—you don’t know that. Ham’s dead and Melody’s missing. Omigod!”

  She was quick. She had put the two things together and realized they might be connected.

  “What time did Melody leave here?”

  “About five, I guess. Five-thirty, maybe. What time was he killed?”

  “We don’t know yet.”

  “Omigod! Ham! Melody’ll just die.”

  “Okay, you said they were really close. Had they fought lately? Were they getting along?”

  “They never fought. Ham was like—well, he was more like an uncle than a brother. You know, because of the age difference. He’s not that much younger than Melody’s mom, can you believe that?”

  Skip smiled. Blair was poised, but she was still sixteen.

  “Actually—Actually …” She made the word momentous, telegraphed that she was finally about to let Skip in on something. Something private, for those under twenty only. “Actually, he was more like a father than an uncle. Melody’s dad’s so old and everything—well, I don’t know if that’s it, he’s just not—he’s not—” She was losing resolve.

  “Not really a very good father.”

  “Well, maybe not. He’s not very …” She searched for the right word, gave up. “He’s kind of distant.”

  “And Melody’s mom?”

  Blair’s guard went up again. She executed another of her habitual shrugs. “She’s okay, I guess. But Melody likes Ham and Ti-Belle better than her parents.” She glanced at her mother, looking slightly guilty. “I mean, they’re young and hip, and Ti-Belle’s famous.” The elder Rosenbaum rolled her eyes, but Blair missed it. She had put a fist to her mouth. “Omigod. I can’t believe he’s dead.”

  “What did you think of Ham?”

  “Me? What did I think? I thought he was really cool. I mean, chubby, but, you know; cool. He knew a lot of sh—uh, stuff.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  “Oh, music. You know.”

  “What about drugs?”

  “Drugs! No
way.” Her eyes didn’t stray even slightly toward her mother. And her face was so scornful Skip might have believed her even if they had.

  “So who are Melody’s other close friends?”

  “I don’t know. The boys in the band, I guess. The ones she sings with. Doug Leddy and Joel Boucree.”

  “Was one of them her boyfriend?”

  “Not really.” Blair sounded uncharacteristically vague.

  “Did she have a boyfriend?”

  “Yeah. But I don’t know if they were too close anymore.”

  “Why is that?”

  Blair shrugged.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Flip, uh, Phillips.” She shifted in her seat, obviously uncomfortable.

  Seeing Blair was closing down again, Skip left her and went back to Ham’s block. Things were quieter now. Most of the neighbors had tired of the show and gone home. And most of the guests had gathered all the gossip there was and gone out in the world to spread it.

  Skip started at one end of the block on Ham’s side of the street, worked her way to the other, and came back down the block on the other side. When she was done, she had learned three things:

  No one had seen Ariel deliver the tasso at three o’clock Tuesday.

  Mrs. Thiel Greenleaf had been cutting some flowers in her front yard shortly before five o’clock that day and had seen Melody arrive at Ham’s just as Mrs. Greenleaf was going back in her house. (She hadn’t seen Melody leave.)

  And half the neighborhood knew Ham and Ti-Belle fought—long, loud, and often.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Melody had done what everyone does in the movies when something awful happens. She had hollered “No!” at the top of her lungs, as if she could make it stop, turn time back and erase disaster, regain her innocence, and start being grateful for the imperfect world she had known up to that instant to ward off this new, shattered one.

  She was embarrassed about that, felt silly. Oddly, the memory of her hysteria was almost as painful as the other memory—the moment in which everything had come apart. After yelling, she had simply stared for a moment, trying to hang onto history, to the moment before it happened, and then she had split. Forgetting her backpack, forgetting her name, practically. She had just run out of there and kept running until her lungs hurt, and then she’d settled for walking fast. Aimlessly at first, while she tried to figure out what to do.