Jazz Funeral

puffing. And he’d say, ‘Dad’s crazy.’ Or ‘Uncle Joseph doesn’t have an ounce of business sense.’ Or something like that, which meant he was sick and damn tired of talking about it and don’t get him started. Which I wouldn’t have dreamed of.”
    Skip said, “Is that all your suspects?”
    “Well, I can’t decide about Patty.” She paused and gave it some thought. “Yeah, I guess she’s one. Just ‘cause they hated each other. Patty and Ham.”
    “Why?”
    “Jealousy, looked like to me. Just plain old jealousy, pure and simple. Patty married his dad pretty soon after his mom died. He was a dweeby teenager who was probably always trying to get attention, and cramping Patty’s style.”
    “I take it you don’t much like Patty either.”
    “Well, I don’t mind her. It’s just that she’s so …” She searched for the word.
    “What?”
    “Worthless, I guess. Once I said she had pretty nails and asked her how she kept ‘em so nice. She held ‘em out, all ten of ‘em for me to see, like some kind of window display, and said, ‘Honey, I don’t do shit.’ With this big Southern Belle smile. Like she was real proud of it. I mean, if you’re a parasite, do you really have to brag about it?” She was getting looser and looser as she warmed to her subject. “No wonder Ham couldn’t stand her. That poor boy needed a mother, and his dad married a Barbie doll.” For a moment her eyes filled with tears, presumably at the plight of the motherless, dweeby Ham. “That gumbo he was making—you know when he learned to make it? Then. When he was a kid. Patty didn’t cook, and his dad wouldn’t hire a housekeeper, so poor little Ham taught himself to make gumbo. It was his mom’s recipe, except for the tasso. He was so proud of thinking of that.” She cupped her face in her hands and brushed hard with the fingers. Skip couldn’t tell if the tears were real. It occurred to her that, in Ti-Belle’s estimation, just about everybody Ham knew had a motive for killing him.
    “You haven’t mentioned Melody,” she said. “Is she on the list too?”
    “Melody?” She sounded thunderstruck. “Never! Little Melody? She adored Ham. And he adored her.”
    “She was on the scene.”
    “I know, and I’m worried. Maybe they got her too.” Her chin trembled.
    Skip said, “I hear she adores you too.”
    Ti-Belle looked puzzled. She nodded. “We’re close. We’re real, real close. But she hasn’t called. Why hasn’t she called if she’s all right?”
    “We’re looking for her. Just as hard as we can.”
    Ti-Belle smiled dreamily, free-associating the way people do when they’re trying to get their minds off something. “She’s such a sweetheart. Reminds me so much of me at her age. Wantin’ a ticket out. Wantin’ it real bad.”
    “Ticket out? You mean … suicide?”
    “Oh, never. Not in a million years. Do I look to you like that kind of person?”
    “I thought you meant Melody.”
    “She’s just like me. That’s what I’m saying. Look, Melody’s life’s not a pretty picture. Whose is at that age? Honey, that’s what the blues is about. Being sixteen and wantin’ out.” Right then she had such a bruised, bluesy air about her, so world-weary, so knowing, that she really should have been sitting around in her underwear, chain-smoking and playing cards between tricks.
    “What’s so terrible about Melody’s life?”
    “Her parents don’t give a shit about her.”
    “I keep hearing she’s the apple of George’s eye.”
    “La-di-da.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “Look, you could be his favorite person in the world and you still wouldn’t notice. If he hugged you, you’d probably catch a chill. And Patty’s into makeup and hypochondria. Melody needs something.” She leaned back, her point made. “And that’s the blues. It’s being in a town way too small for you, and itching. Just itching. Crying yourself to sleep but never losing hope ‘cause you got your music.”
    The words were like something she might have said onstage to introduce a song, but the pain in her face told Skip how heartfelt they were. She was enthralled. And wondered if this was the blues too—perhaps a true artist didn’t have to sing, just to tell her story. “And what was that town for you?”
    “St. Martinville. I grew up with Cajun music, and it was the only thing in my life that made it worthwhile. We were dirt-poor and I was miserable—maybe my life was no worse than any