Jazz Funeral

someone to check again?”
    “Of course.” She called one of the uniformed officers and whispered to him, but she knew it was ridiculous to send him looking. If Melody were there, she’d have identified herself and come in to find out what was happening. Would have used her key and walked in, probably.
    Skip said, “What was she wearing when she left for school?”
    “White T-shirt,” said Patty. “And jeans. Running shoes. White socks.”
    “Purse, backpack, anything like that?”
    “Backpack—I think.” She closed her eyes a moment. “Yes.” She looked up. “I can see her going in, slinging it over her shoulder. Purple, bouncing against her hip.” In spite of the tragedy, she smiled at the memory. She might be a shallow woman—certainly had the earmarks of one—but Skip thought she loved her daughter.
    Skip glanced at George and thought he was seeing the same thing on his mental TV—his daughter, running to her class. He looked hugely sad, as if the shock were starting to wear off, the adrenaline crash beginning. His face was grayish. He was suddenly no longer handsome. Just old.
    “Is her toothbrush missing?”
    “No,” said George. “We checked. She wasn’t going anywhere—they got her. They must have got her, that’s all.”
    “Who’s got her, Mr. Brocato?”
    “Whoever killed my son’s got her. Who the hell do you think I mean?”
    “Do you know who that is?”
    “How would I know that? If I knew that, wouldn’t I tell you?”
    “I don’t know what you’d do, Mr. Brocato.” But if you rant long enough, maybe you’ll say something truthful. Then again, probably not.
    Patty said, “I don’t think she ever in her life looked forward to anything the way she looked forward to this party. If she’s not here, she’s dead. She’s a musician, you know.” She looked at Skip with limpid blue eyes, proud-mother eyes. “She’s a very fine singer. Professional quality.”
    Sure. I’ll bet.
    “Why did she have a key to this house?”
    “Why, she and Ham were close. She’s close to Ti-Belle too. Looks up to her, like an idol.”
    “But if she has a key, she must come here when they’re not home.”
    Patty looked at her lap. “Oh. Why, yes.”
    George said, “There’s no decent bus service from here to Uptown, you know. And Melody practices with her band after school. So she couldn’t be in an ordinary car pool. Patty had to come get her every day. She waits here sometimes. Till Patty can come.”
    He spoke defensively, as if he thought Skip might accuse Patty of getting her nails done when she ought to be picking up her kid. Which was probably more or less the case, she thought.
    “This was her second home,” Patty said. Was it her imagination, Skip wondered, or was her speech getting slower, more Southern? No, it wasn’t quite that. More country-sounding. It had a slightly pious note in it too. “She loves Ham and Ti-Belle so much. And they feel just the same about her. They encouraged her to use their home as hers.”
    Skip said, “Does either of you have a key to the house?”
    Both shook their heads; neither spoke.
    “Is Ham’s car here?”
    George’s head swiveled. “Yes, it’s the silver Celica.”
    Skip told them she had no more questions. They seemed broken, these two, as if at the end of their ropes. But of course, their ordeal was only beginning.
    Skip fought to keep herself from feeling their pain—from getting enmeshed in the giant emotions that were soon going to batter them like giant ocean waves, forcing them to the bottom, filling their mouths with sand, turning them over and over, around and around, flinging them wherever the ocean chose—the ocean of grief, the maelstrom of despair, the bottomless sea of feeling no one can fight off when someone close dies.
    She went to find Ti-Belle again.

CHAPTER THREE
    The singer was in her car, leaning against the back of the seat, drained. She reminded Skip of a gardenia turning brown at the edges. “Can I go back in?”
    “After the lab people are done. Do you have a place you can go in the meantime?”
    She nodded. “Do you mind if we do it fast?”
    Skip smiled. “I’d be delighted.” She climbed into the front seat. “Who had keys to the house besides you and Ham?”
    “Melody.”
    “Anyone else? Your in-laws?”
    She made a face. “No. Andy Fike. The house cleaner. I guess that’s all.” She shrugged. “Unless Mason still has one.”
    “Could I have Andy’s address and phone