Jazz Funeral

more important things to do, and Skip wondered if it was always that way, with her husband, for instance, in tender moments.
    Sougeron, of course, was well-aware that Melody was missing—she’d talked to Patty and George no fewer than three times on Wednesday, the day before. Whatever she’d said, she seemed to be regretting it.
    “How could I know, how was I supposed to know? I just figured Melody’d run away—typical unhappy teenager. I wasn’t even very sympathetic.”
    “How could you know that, Ms. Sougeron? Are you saying you know something that’s made you change your mind?”
    “Well, something’s happened to her, it’s obvious. Her brother gets killed and she goes missing? It can’t be coincidence.”
    “I expect you know Melody pretty well. Can you give me a sense of her? If I met her, whom would I meet?”
    “Well, if you could get past the attitude, she might be a pretty nice kid. But nobody’s ever been able to.”
    “She’s a troublemaker, is she?”
    “No.” She thought about it. “No, I wouldn’t say that. I guess boys are mostly troublemakers; girls are just twits.” Skip wondered if Sougeron would define the term. She waited.
    “Melody’s like a black cloud most of the time—a sullen, sour little girl.” Sougeron held her elbows and shivered deliberately, as if shaking Melody off. “And when she’s not sullen, she’s bitchy and disrespectful.”
    “How’s that?”
    The teacher shrugged. “It’s nothing you can put your finger on. It’s just her attitude. Oh, well, wait—there is something you can pin down. She cuts class and she lies.”
    “Lies? About what?”
    She shrugged again, obviously hating to be put on the spot. “About everything.”
    “Everything?”
    “Whether she did her homework. Where she was yesterday when she wasn’t in class. Everything.”
    “Do you have any idea how she gets along with her parents?”
    “Only a mother could love her, I’ll tell you that.”
    “You don’t know anything specific?”
    “She’s a behavior problem. What does that tell you?”
    “I don’t know. What does it tell you?”
    “She’s probably as much a problem for them as she is for me.”
    “How about her brother? Did she ever talk about him?”
    Sougeron shook her head. “She didn’t talk to me about anything. Spoke only when spoken to, and then with reluctance.”
    “Okay. She cuts class, she’s got an attitude—how does she manage to stay in school here?”
    “Well, believe it or not, she’s usually a pretty good student—but if she doesn’t like the subject, you can’t get her to do beans. And she’s a very good musician, most people think, but I’m no judge of all that. She can write, though. She’s not a bad poet at all.”
    “A poet? She wrote poems?” Skip’s heart started beating faster. If ever there was a window to the soul, surely it was a teenager’s poetry.
    “Songs, mostly.”
    “What about?”
    “Oh, you know. Love and beauty. Sadness. As if a kid that age could have a clue.”
    “Sadness? Can you remember any specifics? Do you have any of her work?”
    “No, I don’t save their work, I give it back to them. And I don’t really remember what she wrote about. She’s got a way with words, that’s all. But she’s not so brilliant anything stuck in my mind.” She stood. “Anything else?”
    Skip looked up, surprised. For a moment she’d almost forgotten the other woman, her mind occupied with trying to form a picture of the sullen, defiant teenager Sougeron had described. She hadn’t yet gotten to the meat of the interview. “A few things.”
    Sougeron remained standing.
    “Does she use drugs?”
    “I wouldn’t be surprised.”
    “Well, does she hang out with kids who do?”
    “Officer, this is a private school. Kids who use drugs are asked to leave.”
    In the unlikely event anyone finds out about it.
    “Who does she hang out with?”
    “Her best friend’s a girl named Blair Rosenbaum. And she’s got a boyfriend named Flip Phillips.”
    “Anyone else?”
    “Maybe the kids she plays music with. Joel Boucree’s one of them, I don’t know the other.”
    “Okay. Thanks for your help.”
    The school counselor was next, a sixtyish man who liked his gumbo and his fried catfish, judging by his shape. He was short, with a reddish neck, white moustache, and bushy white hair worn slightly long for New Orleans.
    “Mr. Nicolai, I’m Skip Langdon.”
    “Matthew,” he said with a broad smile, and Skip