Jazz Funeral

Orleans?”
    “Later, please,” he said.
    Emboldened, two more kids came close. “Hey, Nick. Hey, Nick, how ya doin’?”
    He looked as if he’d like to swat them like so many gnats.
    What, thought Skip, am I doing here? Starfucking? Disgusted with herself, she went back to tell Steve Steinman good night. He happily lent her his rental car, saying he thought he could get a ride with Ariel. Declining the bait—for some reason she hadn’t yet figured out, she trusted Steve—she went back to work.
    At the moment she couldn’t really tell who was a neighbor and who wasn’t—certainly couldn’t see who lived where—so she decided to save the block canvassing for later. She went back in the house to check some things—yes, there was an unopened package of tasso in the refrigerator, and yes, Ham’s T-shirt said “Radiators” on it, obviously a promotional item for a local band.
    And Paul Gottschalk was through with the purple backpack. Eagerly, Skip opened it. It contained books, notebooks, pencils, pens, and money. Every book and notebook had the name “Melody Brocato” neatly printed on it.
    She left to interview Blair Rosenbaum, the kid Melody had visited the day before. As it turned out, she could have walked and probably should have—Blair lived about a block and a half away, in a neat brick house with an oak tree in front. It was almost fifties, it was so wholesome. Blair’s mom would have been a pretty blonde—someone who worked on it a lot, but still handsome—if it hadn’t been for the vertical worry lines between her eyes. Skip’s request to see Blair etched them a little deeper. But it was granted, on the condition that Mom could sit in on the interview.
    Blair was tall and lanky—maybe even anorexic. And yet she’d probably look elegant in most clothes—anything but the jeans shorts and oversized T-shirt she wore. It was the skull on the front of the shirt that really made the outfit, but elegant it wasn’t. Blair kept her brownish hair short, which emphasized her giraffeness, and also her almond-shaped eyes. She wasn’t a typical teenager, this kid—or not what most people thought of as typical. She was clearly smarter than most—a lot smarter. Skip knew that before she opened her mouth, knew it by the eyes, by the way she held her head, by a thousand nonverbal signals.
    And then there was her height. Skip had been “too tall”—her own description—as well. Now her height was an advantage, but at Blair’s age it had been a distinct liability. For Blair it wouldn’t be—no doubt she’d already found some of its advantages. Probably had a modeling contract and the self-confidence of a CEO.
    Her mother seemed ordinary in comparison. Blair was so exotic, she looked out of place in the comfortable living room with its earth colors and brass lamps. It was a tasteful room hung with oil paintings—real paintings, not family portraits, not prints, not photographs—which already made it unusual for this particular suburb. But Blair needed royal-purple. Or Italian leather furniture against a black-walled room. Abstract paintings that took up entire walls. High drama.
    Skip said, “I’m here about Melody Brocato.”
    The almond eyes, so knowing, flashed for a split second, cooled instantly. Blair nodded ever so slightly. “I thought so. Her parents have been calling all day.”
    “Can you tell me what happened between you?”
    “Between us? You mean, when she left? Nothing. I was on the phone. I never saw her go.” The girl shrugged. “Maybe she thought I was rude.”
    “For talking on the phone when you had a guest? Were you?”
    She shrugged again, a little defensively. Good: chinks in the armor. “We do that all the time. When one person gets a phone call, the other just does her homework. Or watches the tube.”
    “Then why would she think you were rude?”
    “She wouldn’t.”
    “Why did she leave, Blair? What happened?”
    “I don’t know. Nothing happened.”
    “Okay. Did you have a fight earlier?”
    “No.”
    “Can you think of any reason at all why Melody might have needed to leave suddenly?”
    “No.”
    “Do you know Hamson Brocato? Melody’s brother?”
    “Sure.”
    “What’s Melody’s relationship with him?”
    “They’re close. Really close. He’s a cool guy.”
    “Would Melody have gone to see him?”
    “Why not? He’s right in the neighborhood.”
    “Did you talk about him on Tuesday?”
    “No. Why?”
    “Did Melody fight with him