Jazz Funeral

number?”
    “I’d have to go inside to get it.”
    “I can get it if you’ll tell me where to look.”
    “My Rolodex—on one of the tables in the bedroom.”
    “Okay. Look, I’m sorry if it upsets you, but I need to ask where you’ve been.”
    “Chicago. On business.” She was propped on one hand, leaning slightly, her head inclined, her hair falling over her shoulder as if she were posing for Vogue. She spoke casually. It was the pose that bothered Skip. Too studied; too perfect. As if she needed rigidity to hold her story together.
    “Your plane was late?”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “You were late for your own party.”
    “Oh.” A smile, a little rueful laugh. “Ham’s party. He’s a big boy. He can—” She stopped in mid-sentence; horror replaced bravado as she realized what she was saying.
    Skip said, “It just seems odd you’d cut it so close.”
    “The plane was late.”
    “Did you call Ham?” She hadn’t, and of course she would have if she were telling the truth.
    “Well, I did, but he didn’t answer.”
    “What flight did you come in on?”
    “I really haven’t the least idea. How could I, anyway? I just came back from a three-day business trip to find …” Clearly she couldn’t bring herself to use the words. “ This –and you expect me to remember my flight number?”
    “Maybe you still have your ticket. How about if we look at that?”
    Ti-Belle put a hand to her forehead. “Look, could we have this conversation later?”
    “I’d really love to, maybe over some iced tea or something, but I’ve got a murder to investigate.”
    The singer winced at the word. Her eyes filled. “You don’t have to be so sarcastic.”
    “Okay. Let me be straightforward. I’m a police officer and you really shouldn’t bully me or try to shine me on; it makes a real bad impression.”
    “I threw away my ticket.” She seemed subdued.
    “Can you tell me who you saw in Chicago?”
    “Do I have to?”
    “Why would you mind?”
    The singer shrugged. “Okay. Mr. Jarvis Grablow. Mr. Grablow at Bluestime Recording.”
    “That’s the only appointment you had in three days?”
    “I can’t remember these people’s names.”
    “Don’t you have your appointment book with you?”
    “I—actually, my manager sent me a typed itinerary. I threw it away after the trip.”
    “Okay, look. Just give me your manager’s name. I’ll check with him.”
    She sighed and gave Skip a name and number.
    “By the way, what’s Ham’s assistant’s name?”
    “Ariel. Ariel Burge. Kind of looks like her name.” She seemed slightly cheered, happy to have Skip’s attention on someone else.
    “How’s that?”
    “I don’t know. Flighty or something.”
    “Okay. I think that’s it for now. By the way, did I mention I’m a big fan of yours?”
    “Thanks.” The reluctant witness actually managed a smile. Skip started to move off, but Ti-Belle yelled: “Oh, hey, I forgot something.”
    “Yes?”
    “Could I go back in and get my flight bag?”
    “I’ll get it for you.” Ti-Belle had tossed it in a living room chair, and as Skip carried it back to her, she couldn’t help noticing it sported no airline tags.
    There were still a few people left in the yard, standing in clumps—friends of Hamson’s, the uniforms said, who declined to go home, waited instead “to see if they could do anything.” Skip was horrified to see that Steve Steinman was one of them. She’d forgotten all about him. The place being New Orleans, and Ariel Burge being a great man’s assistant, another had to be she—ready to fetch and carry till she dropped as dead as Ham.
    There were also people still arriving, and there probably would be for hours. Officers tried to send them away, and sometimes succeeded. But not often. Great clumps of onlookers were gathering on the sidewalks. The neighbors, after hurried suppers, had begun to stroll outdoors in T-shirts and shorts.
    Skip found the folks from the restaurants packing up. The bartender, one Michael Boudreaux, had turned up first, and had noticed nothing unusual—except, of course, that the host wasn’t home. He’d called the caterer he worked for and had been told to wait.
    “But didn’t it seem odd that no one was here? Like a member of the foundation?”
    “What foundation?”
    “The Second Line Square Foundation—the thing this was a benefit for.”
    Boudreaux shrugged. “All I heard was the host’s little sister was s’posed to let us in. Tables