Jazz Funeral

by Smith, Julie

  “No!” Melody got one and looked at it. It was so repulsive, she slung it off and reached for the soap. “Oh, God! It looks like a crab.”

  “Well, that’s pretty conclusive. Never mind. You don’t have to bring it out.”

  When she’d pulled up her pants and returned to Richard’s living room, where she’d never sat before, her shrink explained to her about crab lice. She could hardly bear to sit, so strong was the feeling of being unclean, unworthy; filthy. “They thrive in pubic hair. So you can get them even if you use a condom. Or you can get them from the bedding.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “What?”

  The Boucrees. Now she’d contaminated their bed. She felt like a roach—a big nasty thing that carried disease. Ignoring the question, she said, “What’s the prognosis?”

  Richard smiled. “You’ll live. There’s a drugstore remedy for it. All you have to do is wash your clothes and all your bedding, apply the shampoo, and the little suckers drop dead.”

  “How much is the cure?”

  “How much have you got?”

  “About five dollars.” Five dollars, no home, no plan. Now her shelter was problematic. If she didn’t wash her bedding, the crabs would take up permanent residence. How could she wash it?

  “Where are you staying?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Melody, we have to talk. Come on, I’ll fix you something to eat.” She looked at her watch. “I have a client in half an hour.”

  “On Saturday?”

  Richard shrugged. “Not everybody’s on nine-to-five.”

  “What happens when she comes?” Melody tried to keep the fear out of her voice. If Richard went into her office, to a place where Melody couldn’t go, she could phone the police, Melody’s parents, the FBI if she felt like it.

  “Look, I’ve got the money. I can get the stuff if you tell me what it’s called, but I don’t have access to a shower right now.”

  “Melody, are you living on the street? Or what?”

  “I’m not ready to talk about it.” This was a phrase she’d learned in therapy, that Richard herself had taught her.

  “You can stay with me, you know. I won’t turn you in.”

  Melody didn’t believe her. She didn’t trust Richard—her parents had hired her—and besides, there might be laws. Therapists had to report child abuse; maybe they weren’t allowed to harbor runaways. She knew perfectly well adults were capable of lying if they thought it was for your own good—they even lied to each other. How many television dramas had she seen in which a police negotiator talks down a potential roof-leaper with promises that that can’t be kept?

  She followed Dr. Richard into her crammed and messy kitchen. “Bagel and cream cheese?”

  Melody nodded. “Sure.”

  Richard kept talking as she cleared a place on the kitchen table, found a bagel, cut it, and popped it in the microwave. “You must have been through a lot the last few days.”

  A funny wall had come up that made it okay to talk to Richard right now. It was a numbness; Melody wasn’t feeling things at the moment. “It’s been an education,” she said, and even as the words came out, realized they sounded bratty, far too la-di-da to be sincere.

  Richard turned and caught her eyes. “Look, I’m really sorry about Ham.”

  Melody nodded, turned away.

  “Something truly awful must have happened to keep you away from home at a time like this.”

  “Lots of things.”

  “It’s funny—I haven’t heard from your parents.”

  Melody’s heart leaped; that was good. “You haven’t?”

  “I guess they don’t realize how close we are.”

  Close! We aren’t dose. You’re my parents’ hired gun.

  “But of course they’re right not to ask if I’ve heard from you. I wouldn’t tell them if you didn’t want me to.”

  Sure you wouldn’t.

  Richard put the bagel on the table. Melody fell upon it. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was.

  Richard kept talking. “You can take a shower while I’m seeing my client. We can put your clothes through the washer. I’ll go get your medicine while you wait.”

  “And then I can go?”

  “I hope you won’t. Your parents are beside themselves.”

  “I thought you hadn’t talked to them.”

  “Melody, they’ve been on TV and in the paper, begging you to come home—haven’t you noticed?”

  For some reason, that gave her a lump in her throat. Maybe she should just go home. Maybe none of this was worth it. And then she remembered that her life had been irrevocably changed—she had lost more than one kind of innocence. She couldn’t go home.

  “Flip dumped me for Blair,” she blurted.

  “Why, the little creep.”

  Melody laughed. She liked that about Richard, that way she had of being on her side. But it would extend only so far, and she had to remember that.

  “Well, I fixed him. I went out and caught the crabs from the first boy I met.”

  “So was he cute?”

  “He was a doll. And you know what? I sang with the band—he has this band—I sang and people stood around and listened, just like it was a real performance. I’m a pro now, Dr. Richard.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “And I had this love affair, but it’s over now, and I think I’m falling in love again.”

  “With someone else?”

  “Uh-huh.” Richard had poured her orange juice, which she now picked up and drained.

  “You’ve only been gone since Tuesday.”

  “Well, I’ve been busy.”

  Richard let her smile fade. “But you were so close to Ham. You can’t make his death go away, Melody. No matter how much you cram into your life, how late you stay up, how much pot and alcohol you do, how many guys you sleep with—Ham’s still going to be dead.”

  There it was. The shrinkage. She knew Richard couldn’t have a conversation like a normal person—she was what she was—but it still made Melody mad. “Ham’s the reason I ran away in the first place!”

  She blurted it, and now she felt hot tears on her cheeks. Damn! She didn’t need this.

  “Ham? But what did he do to you?”

  “He didn’t feel me up, if that’s what you mean. That’s all anybody over twenty ever thinks about. No, my brother did not molest me. There’s other things that happen. Things so weird nobody’d believe them.”

  “I’d believe them, Melody.”

  She sounded so sanctimonious. Melody could have punched her. “Look, I just want to get out of here.”

  “You need to be home with your family.”

  Watch it, Melody, watch it. She’ll betray you in a minute. Everyone else has.

  She said, “I like being on my own.”

  “What happens when you run out of money? You haven’t even got enough for the crab stuff.”

  “I have friends. People on the street look out for each other.”

  “Won’t you at least talk to your mother? I’ll call her.”

  “No!”

  “Okay, okay. Look. My client’s coming in a minute. Why not go take a shower? And then I’ll take you to get the medicine.”

  No way. But she didn’t say it. She didn’t know what to say. Really, all there was to do was run. The minute Richard was out of her sight, she was dead. The whole damn thing had been an exercise in futility.

  Richard said, “Melody, are you afraid I’ll betray you?”

  Still she didn’t say anything.

  Richard left the room and came back with an unplugged phone and a prescription. She fished in her purse for her car keys. “Look, take my car and the phone.” She pulled out two twenties. “And this. Go get your medicine, then come back and take your shower. I’ll give you a change of clothes so you don’t have to wait for yours to get washed. While you’re gone, I’ll be incommunicado. If my house burns down, I can’t even call the fire department.”


  “Why would you do that?”

  “Because you’ve been through something really bad and I want to help you.”

  “You don’t even know what it is. You haven’t popped the question.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Whether or not I killed my brother.”

  “That’s because I don’t care. If you killed him, I’m sure you had a good reason. And you’ve still been through something really bad.”

  The doorbell rang. “It’s my client. Quick, go out the back. Don’t forget the phone.”

  Once in the car, Melody had a wonderful sense of exhilaration, of having put something over on the enemy. She wondered if she should steal the car. She could drive to Memphis, maybe. Ti-Belle had gone there. She could even go to California. No, she couldn’t get that far on forty dollars. Houston, maybe. But what would she do when she got there?

  I can’t do it. I’m scared.

  She hated herself for being chickenshit. If she didn’t get out of New Orleans, she was going to get caught.

  Did she want to get caught? Dr. Richard had taught her to ask questions like that.

  But it wasn’t that, she thought. Weighing all the options, for a few days it was probably safer in New Orleans. Kids like her stayed in the Quarter for months and never got caught. She’d have to leave Joel’s, though. She’d have to figure out a way to make some money and go back to the Quarter. To the runaway underground.

  She found a K&B and got the stuff. It was probably gross beyond belief, but nothing could be worse than feeling like Typhoid Mary. She wondered if she were getting little bugs and nits on Richard’s front seat.

  Driving back, the exhilaration started to give way. It was being replaced by gratitude. And a weird feeling of tenderness for Dr. Richard. Richard didn’t have to help her. Why was she doing it? Melody didn’t know, couldn’t even begin to figure it out, but she almost loved her for it. Almost because she didn’t dare go for it.

  Still, she was so grateful. So very grateful. She couldn’t ever remember anybody but Joel being this nice to her.

  Joel.

  She wondered if he’d like to go to Houston or somewhere.

  But that was preposterous. Joel went to Country Day. He wasn’t a liberated minor like Melody, a former and about-to-be professional singer making her own way in the world.

  Hang on to that thought, Melody. Just hang on.

  That’s what would get her through. Keeping her eye on the goal. Focusing.

  As she drove up to Richard’s house, she saw another car parking, kind of a scruffy one, not very well taken care of. A third car was there too, a nondescript dark one. She barely noticed it until she was in front of it—and then only because she caught a sudden movement. She hadn’t realized there was anyone in the car.

  A young woman got out of the scruffy car, the one that had just arrived, and turned into Richard’s driveway. She was a big woman, a woman who looked as if she could take care of herself.

  Richard hadn’t said she had two clients. She’d said come back after the one and they’d straighten things out. What was this woman doing here?

  Melody put it together with the two cars. Cops. What else could it be? One was watching the house, the other going inside to wait for her.

  Her scalp prickled, literally itched with fear.

  Bitch! I should have known! Everybody has at least two phones—why did I believe her?

  Carefully, so as not to attract attention, she drove to the end of the block and turned the corner. Then she floored it.

  Asshole! She meant herself.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Skip had a fleeting impression of short blond hair in the handsome little Accord that drove by as she was parking; drove by and hesitated. As she turned into Richard’s driveway, she glanced back for a second look and the car took off. Not only took off, but she had the definite feeling the driver had been looking at her, checking her out.

  Grateful she hadn’t yet tossed her keys in her purse, she hopped back in the car and followed. Another car pulled out ahead of her and momentartly slowed her progress. But to her amazement, it speeded up instantly, took the corner as if it was the one chasing the Honda. And once around the corner, applied pedal unceremoniously to metal. If Melody was the one in the Accord, she had more than one nemesis. Skip’s heart started beating fast.

  The car had been parked on Richard’s street when Skip drove up. She hadn’t noticed anyone in it, but then she hadn’t looked. And if it were someone tracking Melody, they would have hunched down anyway.

  The Honda went through a yellow light, which promptly turned red, and the dark car ran it. Skip would have followed, but traffic was heavy. There was no way.

  She peeled out on green, and had gone five blocks before she realized there wasn’t a prayer. Neither car was in sight and there were too many places they could have turned off—she hadn’t been able to get a plate number on either one, and had only the most cursory of descriptions. She radioed the detective bureau and asked the desk officer to phone Madeleine Richard, ask her if she had a little silver Accord.

  Three more blocks, four more, drivers honking and cursing. Nothing.

  The desk officer radioed back—Richard’s phone didn’t answer.

  Damn! Damn, damn, damn! She kept driving, kept looking fruitlessly, depressed and panicky, mentally urging Melody on.

  Drive, baby, drive. Outrun that son of a bitch. You can do it. She kept saying it over and over: You can do it. Her whole being went into it, backing Melody up, until it seemed as if she was putting more energy into that than into actually trying to find her.

  After half an hour she stopped, near tears, knowing it was hopeless. Her adrenaline should have been flowing, she shouldn’t have been so worried, so emotionally involved, but all she could think of was how close the second car had been to the Honda, how close the murderer to Melody.

  Here’s wishing you a green light, baby.

  She went back to Richard’s. It was a wonderful old Victorian camelback, near Audubon Park. With no Accord parked in front.

  Richard wore khaki shorts, T-shirt, and a very worried look. She was pretty, with longish dark hair that was slightly wilted in the heat. She had a lot of color in her face and very white teeth.

  The worried look gave way to disappointment when she saw Skip.

  “Dr. Richard? Skip Langdon.” She showed her badge.

  Richard looked suddenly very frightened.

  “Do you own a silver Accord?”

  “Yes. I lent it to someone. Has there, uh—been an accident?” Her voice was urgent.

  “No. Not that I know of. But I need to talk to you about it.”

  Richard relaxed a little. “Come in. Would you like some iced tea?”

  The living room had a light, airy, lace-curtain look. It was done up in chintz and antiques, and had a window seat, which gave it a welcoming warmth.

  “What a nice room,” Skip blurted. Richard smiled, seemed to relax.

  “You don’t sound like a detective.”

  “Don’t I?” Skip smiled back. “I’d love some tea.”

  When she came back, Skip said, “Could you tell me where your car is right now?”

  “I thought maybe you could tell me.”

  “Are you saying it’s been stolen?”

  “I told you. I lent it to someone.”

  “Melody Brocato’s your client, isn’t she?”

  “I’m afraid that information’s confidential.”

  “Dr. Richard, let me tell you something. The person driving that car was last seen being pursued by someone in another car—a dark-colored American job, fairly old. Does that ring a bell?”

  She looked alarmed. “No. Not at all.”

  “Do you mind telling me who you lent your car to?”

  “Yes!” She answered immediately. Then stood up and walked to the window, stared out. “Let me think a minute.”

  Skip kept quiet.

  “I think I have to tell you,”
she said finally. “It’s Melody. She came here with a problem. I lent her my car to—”

  “Dr. Richard, every second you stall could endanger Melody’s life. What problem?”

  She shook her head slightly, waved a hand. “A nothing problem. A minor medical thing—but she didn’t know it was minor. I tried to get her to talk, and honestly I think I’d have succeeded if I could have had a little more time, but I had a client I couldn’t cancel. I lent her my car to go get the medicine, thinking that would show I trusted her, hoping maybe she’d—”

  Skip was losing patience. “What on earth made you think she’d bring the car back?”

  “She wanted to take a shower.”

  “A shower. We’re talking life and death here!”

  Richard’s smile turned very cold. “Well, I expect it felt like that to Melody. Detective Langdon, have you ever had crab lice?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “That was Melody’s medical problem. Would you agree that’s none of your business?”

  “So she did tell you she had no place to take a shower.”

  “Yes, but that’s about all. Except that she was in love. It’s her second guy since her boyfriend dumped her the day she ran away.”

  “Why’d she run away?”

  “That’s what she wouldn’t say.”

  “But she’s got a guy with no shower.”

  “And she sang with a band once or twice. She didn’t say much about that either.”

  “What’s the time frame?”

  Richard shrugged. “She was only here about half an hour. My client came, Melody left, she didn’t come back, and you showed up. That’s about it.”

  “Do you have any idea who’s chasing her?”

  “I’m afraid I think the same thing you do.” The worried look came back.

  “If she gets in touch again, get her to come back; or at least find out where she is; get as much information as you can and call me.”

  “I’ll do everything I can,” Richard said in a peeved tone, and Skip knew she had a right to it.

  “Look, I’m sorry—I know you will, and none of what I asked is going to be easy. But I can’t stress how important this is.”

  She liked Richard. Watch out, she told herself, and went back to headquarters to check her record. Richard had no Louisiana criminal past and she did own the Honda, which was her only car, according to the DMV. Still, she could have borrowed the dark car. Could she have chased Melody herself?