Jazz Funeral

me.”
    Dully, the other woman faced her.
    “Do you need a doctor?”
    “Hell, no. I’ve already thrown up. Why? Do I seem out of it?”
    “A little. My name’s Skip Langdon, by the way.”
    “And you’re a cop? What kind of cop?”
    “I’m in Homicide.”
    “Oh. You mean someone called you? You knew?”
    “No, of course I didn’t know. I’m just a guest. But I need you to help me now. Can you?”
    Her eyes went dull again. “I don’t know.”
    “Can you tell me who else I need to talk to? Who else here was close to Ham?”
    “Ariel—Ham’s assistant.”
    “That’s all?”
    “All I can think of.”
    “Okay, here’s what I need you to do. Go out in the crowd, find a man named Steve Steinman, and send him to me. And don’t tell anyone what’s in here. Leave that to me.”
    “Ham’s video producer?” She looked baffled. “Is he a suspect?”
    “We’ll talk later.” Skip had to give her a gentle shove to get her out the door.
    The errand served a dual purpose. Skip needed Steve to call Homicide—she couldn’t use the phone in the house, for fear of disturbing prints. And she wanted to keep Thiebaud away from the family members. The nearest and dearest were always the most likely killers—and if Ham hadn’t died in a crime of passion, Skip didn’t know what you’d call a knife in the chest while playing Cajun chef. Better to keep the suspects separated.
    A quick tour of the house showed the only out-of-place object was the purple backpack. On a service porch were folding tables, boxes of glassware, tablecloths, plates—all the rented equipment you’d need for a big party.
    Otherwise, everything was immaculate, perfectly ordered, every bed made, every surface dusted—as if the place had just been cleaned for a special occasion. The house was strangely impersonal, as if decorated from a catalogue; better than a Hilton, say, but not much better. The living room was oddly like the bedroom—generic. But not done up with wing chairs and Audubon prints which was de rigueur in New Orleans homes of a certain class. More anywhere-USA generic. Nothing especially went with anything else, nor did anything clash.
    It was the last place you’d expect people like Ham and Ti-Belle to live. But the chatelaine was just up from the bayou country, Skip thought, and hadn’t yet gotten into decorating, had barely had time to buy fabulous clothes.
    The guests were banging on the front door, kicking at it, ringing the bell. What to do with them?
    The last thing she should do was let them disturb a crime scene, but there were a hundred people outside and more arriving all the time. One thing she might do was detain people for questioning, but most of them probably hadn’t seen much. Ham had been dead a long time—maybe since yesterday. Yet she didn’t have official word of that. She thought the best thing was to have the family, close friends, and caterers stay, send everyone else home.
    She found a phone on a slightly battered nightstand next to a king-size bed covered with an ordinary quilted spread, champagne-colored, clearly bought from a department store, and not recently. She was looking at it longingly when she heard Steve’s voice.
    She let him in, explained the problem, and told him to tell her sergeant, Sylvia Cappello, that Skip wanted the case. “Just tell her I’ve got it,” she said, “and I’ll talk to her soon.” She watched his eyes come alive with vicarious excitement—he had a layman’s yen to be a detective. “And tell her I need two more officers; plus a marked car for crowd control.” He envied her, she could feel it. She understood, but she had her own envy—he didn’t have to face that crowd. It was increasingly nervous and ugly, threatening to break in and ruin the only part of the scene that might not be totally hopeless.
    She stepped outside and held up her badge. “Ladies and gentlemen …” This was a crowd that was ready and waiting. She had their attention at once. “We need your cooperation. I’m going to have to ask you to step back a little bit for just a few minutes.”
    But they surged forward instead. Skip would have given her Marcy Mandeville for some backup, but she didn’t even hear sirens yet. Thiebaud was near the door, leaning against a handsome man in his early sixties who had his arm around her. He was graying, had a large head on a pair of large shoulders. Despite the informality of the occasion, he was wearing a suit. The singer was