Jazz Funeral

think I can wait.”
    Cindy Lou Wootten was one of Skip’s favorite people. She could talk about suspects—indeed whole cases—in a way no one else could. She would analyze and postulate long after anyone else —even Steve—would have been bored silly, and she was nearly always right. And the best part was, it was perfectly ethical to talk about cases with her (which it wasn’t with Steve) because Cindy Lou was a psychologist who frequently worked with the police department. A forensic psychologist, schooled in the dark corners of the criminal mind.
    But mostly, Skip thought, she was street-smart. She was a black woman from Detroit who claimed to have learned everything she knew about crime before she ever got to high school, and Skip half believed her.
    She also happened to be the most beautiful woman Skip had ever seen; but better still, she had a way about her, a kind of confidence and poise that Skip thought she might develop if she lived to be seventy-five. Nobody messed with Cindy Lou, not even Skip’s nemesis, the contentious Sergeant Frank O’Rourke. O’Rourke had once tried, and come a cropper. And playing out that tiny drama, Cindy Lou had earned Skip’s undying admiration.
    There was only one thing about the brilliant, beautiful Cindy Lou—she fell for all the wrong guys and was perfectly cheerful about it. If it had been anyone else, she would have suggested therapy. But she seemed more or less to enjoy the melodrama in her own life. Skip didn’t get it; she was just glad she had Steve Steinman—she wanted no part of the dorks Cindy Lou brought around.
    As usual, the sight of her friend made Skip feel dowdy and cowlike. Just a hair bigger than petite—and quite tiny of waist and hips—Cindy Lou arrived in chamois-colored linen walking shorts with matching jacket and immaculate white linen tank top. Skip was wearing black cotton slacks with a pink T-shirt—functional, that was about it. Oh, well, she thought, it wouldn’t matter if I had the good outfit. Everybody’d still look at her.
    “After lunch I thought I’d go terrorize a witness—probably bring her back for questioning. Care to join me?”
    “Always a pleasure.”
    “Let’s take my car.”
    “You’re not going to terrorize my favorite Cajun singer, are you?”
    “Afraid so. Why—is she also your favorite suspect?”
    “It’s nearly always the wife or girlfriend—you know that. But hell, I don’t know anything about this mess. Fill me in.”
    Skip told her on the ride over. As they stood in line for soft-shell crab po’ boys, she got ready for opinions—Cindy Lou always had plenty.
    But she wasn’t her usual bantering self. She was very solemn, very focused. “You’ve got to find Melody. That kid’s in a heap of shit.”
    “Tell me about it.” Skip was slightly abrupt, angry to be told once more what she already knew. It was hot and her hair felt damp.
    Cindy Lou said, “You think she did it?”
    “What’s the motive? Everybody says she and Ham were so damn close and loving.”
    “So what does that tell you?”
    “Too close maybe. He tries something with her, she goes nuts and stabs him.”
    “Uh-uh, I don’t think so. A sixteen-year-old kid is nearly grown. If he was a sicko, he’d have done it earlier.”
    “Maybe he did and she got tired of it.”
    “The wineglasses bother me.”
    “Oh, give me a break. Anybody’d who’d screw their little sister wouldn’t draw the line at giving her alcohol.”
    “They might. People are funny, you know? But I don’t know—the glasses just have an adult feel to them. Like two people were talking and one of them said the wrong thing.”
    “Betrayal.”
    “Yeah.”
    “Couldn’t that work for Melody too? Like maybe he said he was going to marry Ti-Belle and she got jealous? Or she wanted her band to play at JazzFest and he said no? Something like that?”
    Cindy Lou shrugged. “Let’s face it, there are only four choices—either she did it, she didn’t do it but she’s afraid she’ll be accused of it, or she saw something; and she ran away.”
    “Well, if we believe Andy Fike, she wasn’t kidnapped. What’s the fourth choice?”
    “A variation. She was seen seeing something and she’s being pursued. In which case, she could have been caught by now. Any way you slice it, she’s in a heap of shit.”
    Skip felt panic rising inside her. Yet she was helpless to do anything other than what she’d been ordered to do.
    “Who do you like best?”