Heaven doubted there would be an official visitation for Evelyn Edwards, so she was surprised to see the name up on the directory—“Edwards, Parlor C”—with an arrow pointing discreetly down one hallway. She found parlor C, a small room intended for someone who didn’t die surrounded by dozens of loved ones and friends. Six people would have filled up the space around the casket, an elegant wooden one gleaming with brass fittings—and thankfully closed. This was definitely not just a plain pine box. There were also two tall flower stands, each holding a dozen calla lilies, no other flowers around. The whole deal was quite tasteful.
Heaven realized that for all the deaths she had been around in the last few years, grieving had not been her role. Tasha Arnold, who had died in Cafe Heaven, had been buried back in New York. Heaven did attend the funeral of Pigpen Hopkins, one of the local barbecue champs, but that was more circus than solemn. None of the others had been friends that she had felt a responsibility to see through to their resting places. The finality of seeing this container that now held Evelyn gave her pause. She had been good at distancing herself from the gruesome scene on the stage, but being in this little visitation room brought it all back. She didn’t hear the footsteps.
“Well, sugar, what brings you here?” Suddenly Ella Jackson was standing beside her.
Heaven started, then jumped back into the present. “Ella, did you pay for this woman’s, you know, arrangements?”
“Heaven, you are the nosiest piece of work. What business is it of yours?”
“None, other than the bond that comes between people who find someone dead. We have that bond, both of us. Did that, or something else, prompt you to pay for this beautiful casket?”
Ella looked away. “That detective friend of yours was giving me the twenty questions for the second time the other day. She said they hadn’t located any family, that this one here was still being held in the morgue.” Ella glanced over at the casket. “I have never known my daddy, and my momma, bless her heart, died four years ago. I don’t know where my no-good brother is, and I don’t have children. I’ve been successful, yes, but if I died, Heaven sugar, there would be no one except one of my managers to take care of my cold body, lay it to rest. This one here didn’t have no retinue, no busboys to see after her. I can afford it. Tomorrow they’ll send her back to Oklahoma. The funeral home found out where her momma is buried. Even a bitch like Evelyn deserves this little bit of respect.”
“Very well put,” a voice behind them said. Detective Bonnie Weber stood, filling up the doorway.
Heaven smiled guiltily. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, you know, H, you’ve seen those cop shows on TV. The detective always checks out the crowd at the funeral for suspicious behavior. This is as close as I’ll get to that,” Bonnie said, giving Ella a look.
Heaven knew she’d been caught. “Gosh, I’ve got to go. I’m due at the Ruby for the walk-through.” She tried to scoot past Bonnie as quickly as possible without making eye contact. “Bye now,” she said as she hurried down the hall, wishing she could be a mouse in the corner of that room to hear the conversation between Ella and Bonnie. Just when Heaven had her all softened up, Bonnie would come in for the kill. Bonnie would probably want to thank her for that later.
“All the road managers, up on the stage,” the stage manager yelled.
“And all the volunteer ushers down here,” Mona yelled, and held up a flashlight so her crew could see her.
The Ruby Theater was filling up slowly. Most of the musicians had come into town the day before the big concert. These weren’t traveling musicians, like the rock ‘n’ roll boys who go out with a crew of eighty and have to work every night in a row to pay for all the fancy lights and sound equipment. Jazz artists usually had an easier pace—and lots less money to take home.
This Friday night concert was billed as the Voices of Jazz. The Ruby Theater was reputed to have good acoustics for singers and they’d gotten some big names: Sam Scott, Nancy Wilson, Shirley Horn, Tony Bennett, Ray Charles, and Harry Connick, Jr. Boots Turner’s Big Band was playing both Friday night in the Ruby and Saturday on the outdoor stage.
Also unlike the rock ‘n’ roll boys, these musicians didn’t hide in their hotel rooms until it was time to go onstage. Tony Bennett was standing talking to the drummer from the Turner band. Nancy Wilson and her manager, the famous Sparky Jones, who had also managed Nat King Cole, were talking intently to the stage manager. Of course, this was a unique gig. Everyone was curious about the Ruby and the jazz museum. It was a festival atmosphere.
Mona saw Heaven walk in and waved her over. “Isn’t this exciting? Do you think anyone will, rehearse?”
Heaven shook her head. “I wouldn’t think so. Sound check will be tomorrow. This was just so the stage manager could walk through the program and find everyone a place backstage, which couldn’t have been easy. Imagine six star singers needing six star dressing rooms at the same gig.”
“You know all about this from Iris’s dad, don’t you?” Mona said. She and Heaven hadn’t known each other during Heaven’s rock ‘n’ roll phase.
“Well, yes, from Dennis and his band, and later I was a rock ‘n’ roll lawyer, representing bands. I’ve spent lots of time backstage.”
“I forget about your lawyer days,” Mona said uncertainly. She always felt uncomfortable bringing up that period of Heaven’s life.
Heaven smiled. “Yes, it was rock ‘n’ roll that also ended my career as an attorney, when I did that tiny little drug deal for my band. Rock ‘n’ roll giveth rock ‘n’ roll taketh away.”
Mona was counting her volunteers as they came down to the side of the stage. “Well, it could have been worse. You could have been incarcerated. I’ve realized lately that we all make some mistakes, and boy can they be doozies.”
Heaven wondered if Mona was talking about Heaven or Mona’s former friend Sam Scott or Mona’s run-in with Evelyn Edwards.
But Mona was preoccupied with her assignment. “I’m missing only two ushers. I think I’ll start my little speech . . . you know, bring your own flashlight, know where the bathrooms are, and all that.”
“I’m going outside to check on the buffet area for tomorrow night. I ordered trash cans and set up tables, and I want to make sure they’re in the right place.” Heaven felt guilty whenever she discussed her old run-in with the law. It had happened over ten years ago, and she still couldn’t believe how she’d shot herself in the foot and put her daughter at risk. What if she’d gone to jail and Iris had gone to live in England as an adolescent? The thought made Heaven’s skin clammy. As she was walking up the aisle of the Ruby, lost in the past, shouting burst out on the stage.
Two old black gentlemen were doing the yelling. Between them stood Sam Scott, elegantly dressed in a suit that looked like an Armani, her short silver hair perfectly cropped. Heaven reached up unconsciously to touch her own unruly red locks.
“Don’t put my dressing room next to hers, oh no,” one of the old men was saying.
“You still a damn fool, cutting off your nose to spite your face. And there’s no cause to be rude to Sam, no cause at all,” the other man was saying in somewhat calmer, but no less forceful, tones.
“Come on, Lefty,” Sam Scott was saying, her famous voice soaring to the back of the theater as she pulled his arm. The acoustics were swell in here, Heaven thought. “Boots, don’t you start no shit and there won’t be no shit, you hear me?” she said with her beautiful, long fingers pointed right in Boots Turner’s face. “You keep that bitterness to yourself, that old, tired bullshit that you been carrying with you all these years.”
Now it was Lefty’s turn to pull on Sam’s arm. “Come on, honey. Let it go.”
Every person in the theater was watching this scene playing out on the stage. You could hear a pin drop.
Nolan Wilkins saved the day. He marched into the fray. “This is all my fault,” he said bravely. “I’m Nolan Wilkins, the mayor’s liaison for the Eighteenth and Vi
ne district. I’m the one who suggested that Boots and Sam have dressing rooms next to each other. I didn’t know you two were on the outs. I remember, Ms. Scott, when you sang with Boots Turner, so I thought it would be nice . . . well, obviously I was wrong and I want to apologize.”
A sigh of relief went through the crowd. Heaven was impressed with the way Nolan had handled the situation.
She looked over at her friend Mona Kirk. Mona was frozen, staring at the stage; her face was pale, her eyes huge and round. Heaven was fearful for her friend. Not that she believed that Mona would hurt a flea, no, of course not. But she had been so angry with Evelyn, and her death could have been a terrible accident, maybe one that Mona didn’t even know she was responsible for. Now she had to deal with an old emotional hurt. Heaven hoped Sam Scott would agree to meet with Mona. Whether they were able to resume their friendship or not, Mona needed the chance to say her piece.
All of a sudden a familiar line of handsome young men moved past Heaven down the aisle of the theater toward the stage. Each carried a platter or large bowl of food in his arms, wafting steam and good smells through the air. Behind the food procession came, of course, Miss Ella, resplendent in another fabulous outfit, a brown gabardine suit from the World War II era. A jaunty brown pillbox with a shock of veiling was perfectly placed on top of another good hairdo. Heaven wondered if Ella traveled with her own hair stylist. As Ella walked past Heaven she gave her a wink and then a swift and perfectly targeted kick to Heaven’s shin with a vintage platform high heel. Heaven instinctively grabbed her leg, holding on to a theater seat for balance. “Hello to you, too,” she called after Ella.
Miss Ella took charge. Behind her were two or three young women bearing paper plates and plastic eating utensils, napkins, and big pitchers of tea and lemonade. “I thought you all might need a bite to eat while you get situated,” Miss Ella said grandly. “I see my friend Nancy Wilson, who comes to my restaurant in New York.” She waved up at the stage. “And lord-a-mercy, there’s Tony Bennett. You all must be starved.” The boys set the food on the edge of the stage, in front of the lights, and everyone gathered around, grabbing plates and giving air kisses to Miss Ella. Then, just as the atmosphere had taken a decided turn for the better, Ella Jackson pointed her arm dramatically toward the stage and said loudly, “Oh, and there’s that famous Boots Turner, one of those traveling musicians that we all hear about. Boots, honey, have you left a girl in every port? How about a family in every port?”
Boots Turner was staring intently at Ella Jackson, as if he were trying to place her. Had they met before?
Ella hurried on, not giving the crowd a chance to start talking. “It’s too bad you didn’t make it here last week, Boots. You could have met someone you left behind. Yes, a little girl that was your daughter. Her name was Evelyn Edwards, and now she’s dead. Now it’s too late, Mr. Traveling Musician.”
If the fight between Lefty and Boots had stopped the room, this positively froze it. Boots Turner, shaking his head, walked slowly toward the edge of the stage. Ella Jackson was standing below, looking up at him, her hands on her hips, daring him to deny her claim. Everyone else looked away, shifting uncomfortably and stuffing food into their mouths. But there was no opportunity to hear what Boots Turner had to say to her accusation.
Two security guards came running into the theater with stricken looks on their faces. “Everyone stay right where they are. No one goes in or out. Someone robbed the jazz museum! The Charlie Parker sax is gone!”
An hour later, they were finally released from the Ruby. Thanks to Ella’s food, if not her big mouth, the wait hadn’t been totally wasted. Eating and trying to figure out her words to Boots Turner kept Heaven busy. She had watched them both like a hawk, but every time Boots Turner tried to talk to Ella, she would turn away with some comment like “You know what I’m talking about, old man!” Heaven was dumbfounded. Boots Turner looked genuinely puzzled. The name Evelyn Edwards didn’t seem to bring any recognition to his face. And if Ella had any proof she wasn’t going to give it up now.
Just when Heaven’s opinion of Miss Ella had softened, what with her buying such a nice casket for Evelyn, she’d twisted the knife in this old man. Not that musicians weren’t dogs. A trail of children across the country has been the calling card of more than one player. Suddenly, Heaven remembered the photos she had discovered in Evelyn’s office. Two different families with the same man. Now, maybe that was the clue to this puzzle.
No one else seemed to be very interested, or maybe they were just respecting Boots Turner’s feelings. Even those who had appeared happy to see Ella initially were avoiding her as they waited unhappily.
The minute the security guard said that no one could leave, everyone wanted to leave, had a perfectly good reason why he should be able to leave, absolutely must leave. As search teams went methodically through all the gear that had been hauled in, singers who were not youngsters anymore sat in the theater and fussed at their road managers to get them out of there. Mona was busy tending to her volunteers, who all had families to feed at home or something equally compelling to do. Sam Scott and Lefty kept to themselves, sharing a plate of food at the back of the room. Nolan Wilkins, with another disaster on his hands, ran back and forth between the theater and the museum, trying to assure all this high-priced talent that everything would be all right soon.
Now that they could leave, Heaven looked around for Mona. She didn’t see her friend anywhere, so she took off and drove toward fifth Street before her better judgment led her back to the cafe. As she drove she let her mind rest on the most disquieting part of a disquieting evening. She kept recalling her conversation with her daughter about the jewel thefts that occurred where Jim Dittmar played. Another coincidence? Jim Dittmar was around when rich ladies lost their jewels in Europe, now he was around when Kansas City lost the jewel of its new museum.
Heaven wanted to call Jim at his parents’, but it was after ten and she was afraid it was too late if he wasn’t home. She didn’t know what checking up on him would prove anyway. So she called the restaurant to make sure they were okay, then she called Hank.
Tonight’s drama was too big not to share with someone, and it was a good excuse to call. “First, the old guys were going at it on the stage of the Ruby,” she explained in rapid-fire delivery, “the two men who have been fighting over the singer Sam Scott for years, one’s a jazz pianist and one’s a baseball player. The piano player didn’t want his dressing room next to hers—Sam Scott’s, that is. Her husband, the baseball player—of course, he’s been retired for years—took umbrage. Then Miss Ella crashes the party with enough catfish and collard greens to feed the homeless for a week. Then the most important piece of jazz memorabilia, certainly the most expensive one, is swiped before the museum is even open.”
Hank wasn’t quite up to speed on the sax. “I know who Charlie Parker is. Did he leave his favorite sax to the city?” he asked.
“Oh, no. Kansas City bought it at an auction in London. And it cost a bundle, $119,000, I think I remember reading. And when the mayor bought it, there was a big uproar, of course. Not everyone in the city thought it was a good use of city funds.”
“How was it stolen?” Hank asked.
“Very easily, it seemed to me,” Heaven said. “Because they were still working in the museum, the alarm system wasn’t on, but the exhibits were already in place. They had a team of security working both in the building and outside because they were setting up stages and there was all kinds of expensive rented equipment. I think they felt safe. The thief cut the glass of the showcase with a glass cutter and those little suction cups, and just took the sax out. They found the glass on the floor. I don’t know how he or she got the actual sax out of the area, though. There were lots of people around.”
“Heaven . . .”
“I know what you’re going to say next,” Heaven said, secretly glad Hank was always so concerned.
“Heaven, please be careful. This is the second incid
ent concerning this jazz museum, and I have a feeling it’s not the last bad thing that will happen before the dedication is completed. I love you and I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“I don’t want anything to happen to me, either,” Heaven said. “I miss you.”
“I miss you, too, but I’m so busy . . . if I took this course in Kansas City, which I couldn’t do, I wouldn’t see you for days at a time anyway.”
“Have you met any cute girls?” Heaven teased, knowing Hank would hate her asking.
“Heaven, stop trying to drive me away. If you want to end our relationship, just say so. Don’t try to make a triangle where there is none.”
Heaven thought for just a minute about Jim Dittmar. Was she trying to create a triangle? She laughed nervously. “What if I did say so? Don’t tell me you’d just disappear in the sunset?”
Hank was losing patience. “How can I reassure you over the phone? You’re trying to pick a fight. If you told me to go away, I’d show you the error of your ways. Not talk you out of it, show you.”
Heaven felt foolish, as always. “Good answer.”
“Here’s the story, and who knows if it’s true. These things become part of jazz lore,” Jim Dittmar explained. He was sitting in a diner, the Town Topic, in downtown Kansas City with Bob Daultman, Louis Vangirov, and Louis’s father. Louis was having his first bowl of Town Topic chili, a frightening concoction that Jim Dittmar insisted was a musician’s rite of passage. “Parker was playing a gig in Toronto in 1953, the Quintet of the Year, they called it.”
The Cornbread Killer Page 14