Jazz Funeral

by Smith, Julie

  It took Fike a good ten minutes to get to the door. Skip would have given up, but a neighbor urged her to keep trying: “Andy sleep a lot, and he sleep hard, but he in there.” The old lady cackled like it was the neighborhood joke.

  When he finally pulled it all together, he shouted down from the balcony, “What in hell can I do for you?” He was leaning on the metal railing.

  “Disheveled” would have been far too mild a word for his appearance. His brown hair—which desperately needed shampoo—stood up all over his head. His clothing looked as if it had been slept in, possibly for several nights running. His skin was pale, his face almost emaciated. He was either very wasted or coming down from something ugly. Crack was Skip’s guess.

  Skip held up her badge and identified herself.

  “What can I do for you, officer?”

  “Let me in and I’ll tell you.” She wasn’t crazy about going into this particular monster’s den, but damned if she was going to stand on the street and shout.

  “Well, aren’t you the pushy one.”

  “Don’t whine, Andy. Do you have a courtyard? We can talk there.”

  “Oh, butch, butch, butch.” But he started downstairs, no doubt delighted not to have to rush around hiding his drugs. He opened a gate that led to an unkempt courtyard. “I was having a beautiful dream too.”

  “Andy, how long have you been loaded?”

  “Why would that be your business?” He led her to a round table, plopped down in one of two Kmart chairs pulled up to it. Skip remained standing.

  “I thought maybe you hadn’t heard about Ham, that’s all.”

  For the first time, his drug-induced bravado slipped. “Ham?” He spoke in a high-pitched quaver. “Ham’s my brother. What about Ham?”

  “You haven’t had the TV on the last couple of days?”

  “I haven’t done shit, lady, except lie around blasted. So arrest me, okay?” He offered his wrists for cuffing.

  “Did you see Ham on Tuesday?”

  “Yeah, I saw him. I cleaned his house, like a good little fairy. Like I do every Tuesday. And then I get paid and I buy myself some rock and that’s all she wrote. Is there some law against that?”

  He sounded so outraged—just Joe Citizen fighting the gestapo—that she had to wrestle an incipient laugh. But she figured he needed a quick sobering up. “That and murder,” she said.

  She thought he lost color, but he had none to lose; it must have been an illusion. “Ham’s dead?”

  She nodded, waiting.

  “But I just saw him—he paid me ten bucks extra, the crazy fool.”

  “What time did you leave him?”

  “I don’t know. Two, I guess. Three, maybe.”

  “Did he have any visitors?”

  “No, but he—” Fike stopped himself.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” He looked down, wouldn’t meet her eyes.

  “He was expecting somebody? Was that it?”

  “Ham didn’t tell me everything.”

  “Andy, pay attention. This is a murder investigation; you know as well as I do that if I went in your house right now I’d find plenty of good reasons to arrest you. And I don’t even need that. I could take you down to Homicide right now and ask you the same questions over and over, keep you there till you got very uncomfortable. Already you don’t feel too good, do you? You want to spend the rest of the day with me?”

  “You bitch.”

  “Don’t mess with me, Andy, or I’m going to make your life a living hell.”

  “Oh, go to it, officer. Make my life a living hell. Things have been way too great lately. I need some variety.”

  Obviously, threats weren’t working. She was going to be in this weedy old courtyard all day if she didn’t get something out of the sorry heap in the plastic chair. She sat herself down in the other one.

  “What happened to you, Andy? You weren’t always this big a mess, were you?”

  A faraway look came into his eyes, as if he could barely remember. “I’m a musician,” he said, whispering.

  “Uh-huh, and you got depressed, didn’t you? Your friends started dying on you.”

  “The plague, man. I can’t handle it anymore.”

  “But Ham gave you a job, kept you in rock.”

  “He never knew. He wouldn’t have let me in the house.”

  “But he was pretty nice to you, and he’s dead.”

  “Oh, shit.” It was beginning to sink in.

  “So just tell me, who he was expecting?”

  “Oh, hell. Ariel. Why should I protect the bitch? He didn’t have any goddamn tasso for his gumbo.” He shrugged. “I could have gone to get it, but I told him I was in a hurry. Shit! A hurry for what? This shit? The bitch killed him! Fuck!”

  “Are you telling me Ariel killed him?”

  “I thought that’s what you were telling me.”

  “Let’s start over. Did you leave before Ariel got there?”

  He looked away for a long time before answering. “Yeah. Shit! I don’t believe what I’m doing with my life.”

  “Can you think of any reason Ariel would have to kill him?”

  “No. He was good to his employees. Nice as pie to me.” He paused and stared into the distance. “He was a real good guy,” he said after a while, still staring straight ahead, not looking at Skip and not, she thought, speaking to her.

  She thanked him and left.

  She went to Mama Rosa’s, ordered a meatball sandwich to go, and phoned the Jazz Festival office. A polite young man said Ariel had gone to the fairgrounds.

  “You mean the festival’s happening?” She hadn’t thought to wonder whether it had been canceled.

  “Well, Ham would have killed us if we stopped now. The board voted unanimously to make it a memorial to him.”

  It was a graceful solution, Skip thought. She collected her sandwich—and when she got to the fairgrounds wished she’d waited. The food booths beckoned, and the lines were only medium-long. By Sunday there’d be nearly eighty thousand people here. It was a wonder anyone ever got a bite, but everyone seemed to. Some people, it was said, went for the food alone.

  Skip found Ariel holding a clipboard and looking harried, her wild mane blowing about her face. She had on a white tank top, pink shorts, and lipstick that exactly matched the shorts. Skip wondered how women did that sort of thing. Did they go instantly from clothing counter to makeup counter or did they already have every color of lipstick there was? And how did they get their brains to focus on a thing like that? She might have been born here, but she was never going to understand the South.

  Ariel said, “We’re going crazy without Ham. I know I should be with his parents today, but there’s no one else—”

  “Ariel!” It was a man’s voice which sounded as harried as Ariel’s own.

  “Coming!” she screeched. To Skip, she said, “I’ve got to go—some prima donna’s probably got Perrier in his trailer instead of Evian water. Is it important?”

  “Yes, and I’ll be quick. As his assistant, you’re in the best position to know if anyone had a motive to kill Ham. Did someone have a vendetta against him? Had he fought with anybody? Gotten any phone calls that—” Ariel put up a hand to stop her.

  “Absolutely not.” Though she had been in the act of turning away, racing back to her duties, she stopped and gave Skip a big smile. It seemed as if her cheeks got a little pinker, but maybe it was just the rosy glow of her outfit. “Ham was one of those rare people who was loved by everyone who knew him. Everybody loved that man, and that’s the God’s truth.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” She looked thunderstruck. “Why did we all love him?”

  Skip nodded.

  “Because he was a wonderful person.” She teared up a little. “I still can’t believe this.”

  “Ariel. I know this is hard. I’m not trying to start an argument, believe me. I just want to know what he was like.”

  “Well, he was such a take-cha
rge guy. But so sweet at the same time. I never heard him raise his voice to one person, and I never heard anyone raise their voice to Ham. How many producers could you say that about?”

  “Not many.” Probably not any.

  “Do you know what a nerve-wracking job this is?”

  “Ariel!” The voice had a tinge of anger now.

  Ariel seemed not to notice. “His employees loved him, his family loved him, the musicians loved him, the public loved him—he knew everybody, and he made all our lives a little better.” She was regaining her composure, sure of her ground here. “You know what? Even his ex-wife loved him.”

  “Do you know her? Mason Brocato?”

  She shook her head slightly as if to wake herself, glanced at her watch and stepped away. “I’ve gotta go.”

  Skip looked at her own watch. One-thirty. Plenty of time to see Mason before school got out. But first she had a piece of key lime pie.

  She had a moment of doubt, not at all sure Mason had ever used Ham’s name, much less kept it. But there it was, under “Attorneys.” Mason Brocato, on Gravier Street.

  Mason was just back from lunch, as what lawyer wouldn’t be at that time? She was hanging up a plum-colored suit coat. The matching skirt was a mini that revealed slightly pudgy legs, but otherwise Mason was sleek. Her extremely short haircut was carefully sculptured, a work of art that probably had to be recarved every two weeks. Her skin was olive, her eyes grayish.

  “I’ve just come from George and Patty’s,” she said. “It’s so horrible. And awful about Melody too. What’s going on, officer?”

  “Call me Skip.”

  “Is Melody a …” She couldn’t bring herself to finish. “Is she a . .”

  “Is she a suspect?”

  Mason smiled. They understood each other.

  Skip said, “Should she be?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Do you know of any reason she’d want to kill Ham?”

  “She’s just a kid.”

  “A kid could have reasons.”

  “You mean like incest or something? I hardly think …” Her smile had a frozen quality.

  Skip shrugged. “Or an argument. Did Melody have a temper?”

  “No. Yes. I think sometimes she did, but it’s been five years since I’ve seen her much. There’s a lot of difference between eleven and sixteen.” Mason rummaged in her bag—a black leather one, as sleek as the rest of her outfit—came up with cigarettes, and stared at them apologetically. “I still do this. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Of course not.” What’s another dry-cleaning bill?

  As Mason lit up, Skip segued into the delicate part of the interview. “I’m wondering what your relationship with Ham was like.”

  She blew smoke. “Fine. Very good. What’s not to like?”

  Skip smiled. “I keep hearing everybody loved him.”

  “Maybe they did. I didn’t—after a while.”

  “Oh, really?” Why not? seemed too rude, even to Skip’s ears.

  “He was a nice man. A very nice man. Just a little maddening to live with, that’s all. There were times when I could have killed him—is every marriage like that?”

  Skip remembered the reports of Ham’s and Ti-Belle’s fights.

  “While we’re on the subject, could I ask what you were doing Tuesday afternoon?”

  She started. “I was here.” As if as an afterthought, she said, “Are you asking if I have an alibi?”

  Skip smiled again, hoping she didn’t seem so smarmy Mason would smash her teeth in. “I guess I am.”

  The gray eyes narrowed. “From when till when?”

  “Oh, say noon till six or seven.”

  Mason checked her calendar. “I had lunch with Belinda Causey and got back here about two. I had a client at three—do you want his name?”

  “Please.”

  “My God.” She sat back in her chair. “You’re really serious.”

  “Just routine. As they say on television.”

  “Okay. Gray Paulson. He left at four-thirty. Then my secretary, Elise, left about five-thirty. I stayed till six and then went home.”

  “Do you still have your house key, by any chance?”

  “A house key?” And then the light dawned; or else she was a good actress. “Oh, you mean to Ham’s house. You know, I haven’t the least idea.” She shook her head. “I honestly can’t remember giving it to him.”

  Skip nodded. “Okay. Thanks.” She paused, sizing Mason up. She was tougher than Ariel and hadn’t recently been in love with Ham. “If everyone loved Ham so much, why did someone kill him?”

  “Why are you asking me?”

  “Because I think you probably knew him better than anybody.”

  Mason was silent. “I probably did,” she said finally. “I probably did.”

  “I mean, you said there were times when you wanted to kill him. Was he pushy? Was he aggressive and abrasive?” Ariel had called him a take-charge guy—Skip had never known such a person who didn’t have enemies. “How did he push people’s buttons?” This was a key question, she thought: Ham had been killed in anger.

  Mason ground out her cigarette, slowly, thoughtfully, obviously not in pique. “He certainly wasn’t aggressive or abrasive. Quite the opposite.” She gave Skip a good hard stare out of eyes that were starting to have a nasty glint in them. “He was such a goddamn wimp, I could have bashed his head in.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  She sighed. “You wouldn’t unless you had to live with him. Listen, I can’t imagine why anyone who didn’t would want to kill him. Who could be bothered? How could he raise that much emotion in anybody? Always trying to please, never wanting to hurt anyone’s feelings.” Her hands contorted like claws. “Aaaargh!”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Skip got to Country Day just after school let out. If she hadn’t had a watch, she’d still have known—carpooling moms clogged the street; kids swarmed like puppies and were just about as cute.

  She tried to picture Melody here. The Brocatos had given Missing Persons a picture and description—black curly hair, blue eyes, medium height, slender build. In the picture—which they’d passed on to her—Melody’s nose looked a little longer than teenage girls usually wanted, and she looked more skinny than slender —especially her face, which was almost pointy. She probably thought she wasn’t pretty; it was a rare kid her age who thought she was. Melody wasn’t, quite, though what she was missing had nothing to do with nose or figure. She had masses of gorgeous hair, and with a little detail work, was easily capable of being a knockout. What she didn’t have was self-confidence. She looked scared. On the other hand, her vulnerability made her attractive in a way—made you want to protect her. But it might not have that effect on everyone. There would be people who’d see it as a window to opportunity. Skip shuddered, hating to think of Melody on her own.

  Maybe on her own with a murderer.

  What was she like in her natural habitat, wearing jeans and T-shirt? Did she ever smile? Did she smile too much, pretending?

  Skip spotted Blair walking with a guy who wasn’t tall enough for her. She got out of the car, waving.

  Blair waved back, reminding Skip of a model in a commercial—there was something languid and liquid about the movement. She loped over with her friend, whose fashion statement ran to clean wrinkles. He was a handsome boy, olive-skinned, brown-eyed, who should have been wearing Top-Siders but had opted for Reeboks. He looked as if he belonged on a sailboat, or at least a squash court. He’d probably been born in a country club.

  Blair said, “We were looking for you.”

  “You were?”

  “Mrs. Murray asked Flip to wait for you.”

  Skip turned to the boy. “You’re Flip?”

  He stuck out his hand, a credit to his upbringing. “Basil Phillips. What can I do for you?” The kid got right down to business.

  “I wonder if there’s someplace we can talk.” She left off the word “alone,
” but looked at Blair in a way she hoped was clear.

  Blair said, “We both need to talk to you.”

  Skip came alert. “You’ve heard from Melody?”

  “No. We just want to tell you something.” She glanced around. “Mr. Nicolai’s coming right out.”

  Flip said, “Blair, I’ll do it. Look, officer …”

  “Skip.”

  He flushed, hardly able to deal with it. “Skip. What happened was, Blair and I …” He was obviously too discreet to complete the sentence. “I decided to quit seeing Melody, and I made the mistake of phoning Blair while she was there.”

  Skip wanted it nailed down. “You and Blair became an item behind Melody’s back—is that what you’re saying?”

  Blair looked down, but Flip held her gaze. His granddad had probably been a Confederate general. “That’s about it,” he said.

  “You dumped her, in other words.”

  He winced. “I was going to tell her Tuesday night.”

  Skip turned to Blair. “So what really happened at your house?”

  “I guess she was starting to suspect something—that’s all I can figure. Anyhow, when Flip called, I said I’d have to call back, but maybe I looked guilty or something. She figured it out—I don’t know how. She just knew. She grabbed the phone and yelled at him and he said something to her—”

  “I said I was sorry.” He had his hands in his pockets and his cheeks were still pink. Being caught out of school apparently wasn’t done among the Phillipses.

  “And what did she say?”

  “She didn’t answer.”

  “She handed the phone back to me,” said Blair, “but before I could figure out what to do, she was out of there. Disappeared for a minute and came back running.”

  Nicolai joined them silently.

  “Disappeared where? Where were you at the time?”

  “We were in the kitchen. I guess she went in my room.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  Blair closed her eyes, held her hands in front of her face, willing her brain to work. Her eyes flew open. “Her pack! She went to get her pack.”