Jazz Funeral

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