Jazz Funeral

there’s no self about it.”
    “That’s one of the things I hate about the place.”
    “Now, Skippy, it has its up side.”
    Like the relationship she enjoyed with Allison. She’d grown up on State Street and knew she’d never get all this dirt if she hadn’t put in her preschool years in the neighbor kids’ sandboxes. Skip sighed. It was a hell of a trade-off. She said, “Do you happen to know if George is just a guy who drank too much in a crisis? Or is he in AA?” She was thinking of the wineglasses in Ham’s kitchen.
    “Let me think.” She was quiet only a moment. “I’m sure I’ve seen him drink. Sure—at weddings, things like that? I saw him with a champagne flute that time Lala Bettencourt married Bony Henderson.”
    “Bony?”
    “For Bonaparte. It only lasted six weeks, but not because George Brocato didn’t toast the happy couple.”
    “Tell me about Ham.”
    “Well, he was about thirty-four, I guess. Quite a bit older than we are, but I used to see him around, didn’t you? Before he got incredibly famous. I always thought he was kind of quiet and nerdy, but then he turned up with all these cool musician friends. Funny how much better a guy looks if he’s got an entourage.”
    “Look at George Lucas. What about the ex-wife?”
    “Oh, Mason. Went to Sacred Heart. Perfectly nice lawyer. I guess I haven’t really heard much about her, probably because there’s not much to hear; now Ti-Belle’s another matter. She just dropped from the sky, like Patty. How do these women do it? Now you see them, now you don’t, or vice versa. I don’t know a damn thing about Ti-Belle and neither does anybody else. Burns me up. It’s bad for my reputation.”
    Ti-Belle .
    She was just a little too mysterious to leave alone. When Skip was done with Allison, she dialed Ti-Belle but got no answer. That figured—she was probably at George and Patty’s. To go there or not? Somehow, it didn’t seem urgent enough to disturb the family. Instead, she drove out to Melody’s school.
    Country Day might not be in the country, but it looked as if it was. Both building and grounds bespoke money and taste, cultivated the look of an Eastern prep school. It was amazing, Skip thought, how relaxed you could get just walking around there—though maybe not if you were a teenager. Between hormones and insecurity, it would probably take more than a few trees to calm you down.
    At Country Day you reached the main building, a stately columned affair, by means of a circular drive, and when you entered, you were in a paneled living room. Coming through the big double doors, Skip stood for a second, taking it in. Eventually she decided to walk toward the sign that said “Headmaster’s Secretary.”
    Country Day prided itself on developing a high level of social skill in its students, and the members of the administration proved excellent exemplars to learn from. Despite the trappings, stuffiness apparently wasn’t the style here. The very mention of Melody’s name brought concerned murmurings and instant efficient activity.
    Skip was given the headmaster’s study for her interviews, and in five minutes was closeted with one Sharon Sougeron, Melody’s faculty adviser. In the brief time she had to study her surroundings, she realized she could have entered blindfolded, asked herself the question, “How will this room look?” and described it perfectly. The Uptown decorator, whoever she was, had struck again. Two wing chairs faced a leather sofa; the tables were shiny dark wood, the lamps brass, the prints Audubon, the walls paneled. A room in the same impeccable taste as a basic black dress, and every bit as daring. Ah, but the magnolia’s a nice touch, she thought, as a gust of lush scent wafted through the window.
    Sougeron was thirty-fiveish and a little on the plump side, with dark curly hair, worn short, and white, delicate skin. Between the curls and the curves and the pearly skin, she was the very picture of Southern womanhood, dressed in a white silk blouse and navy skirt, accessorized with chunky jewelry.
    She wore a wedding ring, and Skip had no doubt she was heterosexual, yet as soon as she opened her mouth, the word “butch” came instantly to mind. It was something in her voice and her manner that all the makeup and jewelry in the world couldn’t hide. She taught English, the principal had said, but Skip would have guessed gym.
    Her voice was brusque and dismissive, the voice of someone who had