Jazz Funeral (13 page)

“How are you doing?”

The singer led her into the living room. “This is the first time I’ve been alone. I’ve been at the Brocatos’ all day.”

“Are your relatives coming?”

Ti-Belle tried a smile, but it didn’t quite work. “I think I’m going to have to gut this one out.” Before Skip could be so rude as to ask why, Ti-Belle said, “Excuse me. I’ll put on some clothes. Coffee? Tea?”

“Nothing, thanks.”

“I’ll just be a minute. Really.”

If she’d been crazy enough to stab Ham, could she be crazy enough to come back with a weapon? It was the police way to think, but Skip couldn’t talk herself into it. If she’d killed Ham, it had been in anger, not because she was nuts. And you’d have to be nuts to assault an officer the day after your boyfriend was found dead.

She said, “While you’re dressing, could I have a look in Ham’s office?”

The singer thought about it a second, finally shrugged. “Why not?”

Ham had been a careful record keeper. His income taxes were neatly filed, his canceled checks stored in his top desk drawer. He had a good income, partly from his festival salary, partly from earnings on his stock in Po’ Boys, but it looked as if he was the very personification of “generous to a fault.” He’d written checks to Ti-Belle amounting to nearly $25,000 since January. And at the bottom of each one was written the word “loan.” It was only late April; if he’d lent her comparable amounts the year before and the year before that, Ti-Belle owed him plenty. And she wasn’t the only one—he’d lent small amounts to Andy Fike and to lots of people whose names she didn’t recognize.

There was one other interesting category of check—large donations to the Second Line Square Foundation. Once again, it was reasonable to assume this was his habit.

He had savings, but they were going fast. In the four months of this year, he’d paid out nearly three-quarters of the amount he’d made the year before. He either had to quit spending or come up with some more money to make it through the year.

Ti-Belle padded back in barefoot, wearing baggy calf-length pants and a floppy T-shirt. “Finding anything?”

“Can I ask why Ham lent you so much money?”

She colored. “You think I make a fortune, don’t you? Because you know my name and you’ve heard me sing, you automatically think I’m rich. Well, I’m not rich. I wasn’t even middle class until about a year ago. If you’re a musician—if you’re in any of the arts—how do you think you get from zero to a hundred? From singing on the street to the Ray-Ban stage?”

She answered herself. “You borrow money, that’s how.”

“Was Ham pressuring you to repay it?”

“No. He was generous. I told you that.” Skip was about to ask about the fights, but Ti-Belle stomped out. “Jesus, I’m thirsty! Want some iced tea?”

Skip followed her to the kitchen, which had been cleaned up. She wondered if Ti-Belle had scrubbed the dried blood herself. The singer was still talking, more or less to herself. “Nerves. I get thirsty when I’m stressed out. I’m supposed to sing tomorrow, and I don’t know what the hell to do.”

“You mean sing at JazzFest?”

She nodded. “I don’t see how I can not do it—but on the other hand, I don’t know if I should. I mean, I want to do it—for Ham. The whole festival is a memorial to him, did you know that? I think I have to do it, don’t you? But would it be crass?”

“It’s a problem.” A PR problem, it seemed. An interesting thing to have on your mind the day after your lover’s death. Ti-Belle looked a little pale, but she wasn’t exactly puffy from crying.

“What do you think? Should I or not?”

It was the question Skip was hoping to avoid, but what the hell—Ti-Belle might think she owed Skip for the right answer, and it was obvious she’d already made up her mind what that was. All she needed was someone else’s stamp of approval.

“Well, frankly,” said Skip, “I think you’d be conspicuous by your absence. They’ve kind of got you in a box by making the festival a memorial—that way if you don’t feel up to doing it, it would look as if you didn’t really care.”

Ti-Belle looked modestly at the floor for a moment, possibly to hide tears (or their absence). “I s’pose you’re right. I’ve kind of been thinking along those lines myself.”

My turn
, thought Skip, and plunged in: “Ti-Belle, I know this is painful for you, but I’m wondering if you know of anyone who might have a reason to kill Ham. Had he had any arguments with anyone? Any ongoing disagreements? Enemies?”

“Well, no, this isn’t painful. It sort of helps—I do better if I keep my mind working. And I’ve been trying to think about that myself. In fact, I’ve kind of come up with a suspect list.”

“You have?” Skip couldn’t quite conceal her astonishment.

Ti-Belle looked proud of herself, almost smug. She slung hair out of her eyes, poured tea, and handed Skip a glass. “Well, just in my head. Let’s go to the living room—this place gives me the creeps.”

She talked as she walked. Skip liked the way she stomped around barefoot. Even liked her slightly too frank revelations. Except for the obvious knowledge that she was gorgeous, she had an ingenuous quality about her, a kind of country style that befitted a career Cajun. “I gotta get out of this house. Soon. After the funeral, I guess.”

“When’s that?”

“Oh, Monday. When they decided to go on with JazzFest, George and Patty decided that’s what they’d better do.”

“It’ll be a jazz funeral, I’ll bet.”

Ti-Belle lit up. “Well, I’ll bet it will! That’s the only appropriate thing. Well, of course it will.”

They had returned to the living room and sat, Skip on the sofa, Ti-Belle in a ladderback rocking chair. “About your suspect list. I’m all ears.”

“Ariel comes to mind first of all. She’s a rejected lover, you know.”

Skip made a note, hiding her eyes. “Ariel. Could I ask how you know that?”

“Well, Ham, of course, after I mentioned she was always making goo-goo eyes. I thought he was so innocent he just hadn’t noticed. But he said he’d kind of, you know, done it with her once when they were both kind of drunk, and she never could forget. It embarrassed him, but he had to put up with it. He sure wasn’t going to fire her just because he was embarrassed. Ham wasn’t like that.”

“How long has Ariel worked for him?”

“Oh, three years, I guess.”

“Did that incident happen before or after you came on the scene?”

She threw back her head, hair falling prettily about, and laughed as if she was truly delighted. “See, I’m not dead. I can laugh a little bit. If it was after I met him, then I’d be the one with a motive, wouldn’t I?”

“You sure would.” Skip held her gaze, smiling just as broadly as Ti-Belle.

“Well, it was before. Of course. Whatever else you say about Ham, he was an honorable man.”

“Everyone says so.” Saint Ham. “Who else is on the list?”

“His dad and his uncles.”

Skip was shocked. “Acting in concert?”

“Oh, God, I hope not. But I s’pose anything’s possible.”

“Why would his dad and his uncles want to kill him?”

“Business disagreements. They were always arguing about what to do with the damned sandwich places.”

“And what was the basis of the argument?”

She leaned forward, defiant. “Frankly, I never asked. I just never was that interested.”

“How did you know about the arguments?”

“Oh, Ham’d be in his study talking on the phone, and then he’d come out all red in the face and huffing and puffing. And he’d say, ‘Dad’s crazy.’ Or ‘Uncle Joseph doesn’t have an ounce of business sense.’ Or something like that, which meant he was sick and damn tired of talking about it and don’t get him started. Which I wouldn’t have dreamed of.”

Skip said, “Is that all your suspects?”

“Well, I can’t decide about Patty.” She paused and gave it some thought. “Yeah, I guess she’s one. Just ‘cause they hated each other. Patty and Ham.”

“Why?”

“Jealousy, looked like to me. Just plain old jealousy, pure and simple. Patty married his dad pretty soon after his mom died. He was a dweeby teenager who was probably always trying to get attention, and cramping Patty’s style.”

“I take it you don’t much like Patty either.”

“Well, I don’t mind her. It’s just that she’s so …” She searched for the word.

“What?”

“Worthless, I guess. Once I said she had pretty nails and asked her how she kept ‘em so nice. She held ‘em out, all ten of ‘em for me to see, like some kind of window display, and said, ‘Honey, I don’t do shit.’ With this big Southern Belle smile. Like she was real proud of it. I mean, if you’re a parasite, do you really have to brag about it?” She was getting looser and looser as she warmed to her subject. “No wonder Ham couldn’t stand her. That poor boy needed a mother, and his dad married a Barbie doll.” For a moment her eyes filled with tears, presumably at the plight of the motherless, dweeby Ham. “That gumbo he was making—you know when he learned to make it? Then. When he was a kid. Patty didn’t cook, and his dad wouldn’t hire a housekeeper, so poor little Ham taught himself to make gumbo. It was his mom’s recipe, except for the tasso. He was so proud of thinking of that.” She cupped her face in her hands and brushed hard with the fingers. Skip couldn’t tell if the tears were real. It occurred to her that, in Ti-Belle’s estimation, just about everybody Ham knew had a motive for killing him.

“You haven’t mentioned Melody,” she said. “Is she on the list too?”

“Melody?” She sounded thunderstruck. “Never! Little Melody? She adored Ham. And he adored her.”

“She was on the scene.”

“I know, and I’m worried. Maybe they got her too.” Her chin trembled.

Skip said, “I hear she adores you too.”

Ti-Belle looked puzzled. She nodded. “We’re close. We’re real, real close. But she hasn’t called. Why hasn’t she called if she’s all right?”

“We’re looking for her. Just as hard as we can.”

Ti-Belle smiled dreamily, free-associating the way people do when they’re trying to get their minds off something. “She’s such a sweetheart. Reminds me so much of me at her age. Wantin’ a ticket out. Wantin’ it real bad.”

“Ticket out? You mean … suicide?”

“Oh, never. Not in a million years. Do I look to you like that kind of person?”

“I thought you meant Melody.”

“She’s just like me. That’s what I’m saying. Look, Melody’s life’s not a pretty picture. Whose is at that age? Honey, that’s what the blues is about. Being sixteen and wantin’ out.” Right then she had such a bruised, bluesy air about her, so world-weary, so knowing, that she really should have been sitting around in her underwear, chain-smoking and playing cards between tricks.

“What’s so terrible about Melody’s life?”

“Her parents don’t give a shit about her.”

“I keep hearing she’s the apple of George’s eye.”

“La-di-da.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Look, you could be his favorite person in the world and you still wouldn’t notice. If he hugged you, you’d probably catch a chill. And Patty’s into makeup and hypochondria. Melody needs something.” She leaned back, her point made. “And that’s the blues. It’s being in a town way too small for you, and itching. Just itching. Crying yourself to sleep but never losing hope ‘cause you got your music.”

The words were like something she might have said onstage to introduce a song, but the pain in her face told Skip how heartfelt they were. She was enthralled. And wondered if this was the blues too—perhaps a true artist didn’t have to sing, just to tell her story. “And what was that town for you?”

“St. Martinville. I grew up with Cajun music, and it was the only thing in my life that made it worthwhile. We were dirt-poor and I was miserable—maybe my life was no worse than any other kid’s, maybe I was just more sensitive. My little brother didn’t seem to take it so hard. Maybe that’s what makes you sing—you just take things too damn hard. Anyhow, I wanted out of there in the worst kind of way. I got a scholarship to LSU and that was it. In the summer I’d come down here and sing in the Quarter, make enough money to go back to school a little while longer. Finally quit school—it did what it was s’posed to do. Got me out of there and over the hump.”

“You could make enough, just on the street?”

“Oh, yeah. On a good day you might rake in two or three hundred dollars. But I waitressed some too.”

“Did you talk about it with Melody?”

“Sure. That and everything else.” Unexpectedly, she lost her animation, sat rigid, as if remembering something, and burst out: “Oh God, oh God, oh God, don’t let anything happen to that kid!”

“Do you have any idea where she’d go if she ran away? Any special friends or relatives she might try to reach?”

Ti-Belle shook her head.

“Listen, on another subject—I hate to bring this up, but I have to ask you about your relationship with Ham.”

She smiled, an ironic smile, bittersweet. “You mean, did I have reason to kill him? Oooooh, yes. And I loved him to pieces. We fought all the time. Absolutely all the time. Honestly, I don’t think it was ever going to get better either. I think I might have ended up leaving him.”

“What did you fight about?”

“Ham couldn’t … he wouldn’t … I don’t know, he just couldn’t take any kind of change at all. He was so passive, it was like living with a giant oak tree instead of a man. Just somethin’ growin’ in the middle of the road, stopping traffic. You realize this is the house he lived in with his wife?” She was angry now, her voice rising, her eyebrows working. “His wife! I’ve got no idea why I agreed to move in here. I guess I just loved him so much it never occurred to me there could be problems. But then after we’d been together awhile, we needed a place that was ours, not his. And certainly not hers. Well, he wouldn’t even talk about it. He said this was where he lived. I mean, he’d rather keep it than me!

“He wouldn’t let me buy new furniture. Now I don’t mean he wouldn’t give me the money; I might have cash-flow problems, but I do have charge accounts. I mean, I’d buy something new, have it delivered, and he’d get anxious. He said it was mine, not his, and that made him feel pushed. Pressed. Smothered. Something like that, I never could quite get it. So I’d say, fine, let’s go pick out something together, or even, you go out and get something. You see what this stuff is?” She indicated the contents of the room. “Just any old thing. But if he picked out something he liked, then he’d have to decide what he liked, which he knew he couldn’t do. He was just too damn neurotic. So I had to put up with this shit. I couldn’t pick out something, and he wouldn’t go with me to get something, and he wouldn’t do it himself. You see why I wanted to kill him sometimes?” Her voice had risen almost to a scream.