Jazz Funeral

Cindy Lou said.
    “Ti-Belle, I guess. Just because she’s lying. But I can’t see a motive for her either. If she wanted to be with Nick, why not just leave Ham?”
    “You know the answer to that—the classic crime of passion. They’re having a friendly talk over a civilized glass of wine and he says, ‘Okay, get out of here, you Cajun slut. I never loved you anyhow—you dye your hair and give a lousy blow job.’”
    Skip laughed. “‘And not only that, but you can’t sing.’ That’s when she uses the knife—forget the blow job.”
    “Now you got it. That’s the sort of stuff people kill over.” Cindy Lou took a big bite out of her sandwich. “You know, we haven’t got a damn thing like this in Detroit.”
    “Must be why you’re here. Certainly can’t be the weather.”
    “You know why I’m here, honey. ‘Cause the average law-abiding southerner has a criminal streak two yards wider than any mob boss Detroit ever spawned.”
    “Listen. There’s something I think I need to tell you. The fact that the kid left on her own volition—and I guess we really think she did—doesn’t bode too well for her state of mind. We know for a fact her boyfriend dumped her for her best friend—there’s two big losses. Next she either kills her brother or sees him killed—big loss number three (even if she killed him), and number four if someone she trusts did. Then there’s the fear—either of the law or the murderer—which is also going to contribute to depression. And there’s the fact that she’s currently homeless and probably penniless. She probably feels like she doesn’t have a friend in the world.”
    “What are you telling me, Cindy Lou?”
    “I’m afraid she might be suicidal.”
    An imaginary clock ticked louder every second. “I never even thought of that.”
    “And by the way, I hope you’re not overlooking Andy Fike. Maybe he never saw Melody at all—just started that stuff to hide the fact he killed her and buried her in his courtyard.”
    Melody was becoming a flesh-and-blood kid to Skip—it was as if she’d known her and was missing her. She was starting to feel panicky every time she thought of the girl on the streets alone. “Cindy Lou, stop! She’s only sixteen.”
    “Well, you know how people are. No damn good.”
    “God, you’re professional.”
    “Honey, the more psychology I study, the less convinced I get that I’m ever going to understand the human animal.”
    Skip was ready for a change of subject. She made her voice playful. “Well, that reminds me, Cindy Lou. Who’re you dating this week?”
    Cindy Lou took the last bite of her sandwich. “Whoa, that was good! Well, this week is right, babe. I just broke up with a guy who couldn’t decide between me and this cute blond librarian. Male.”
    Skip shivered. “Sounds dicey.”
    “Oh, no problem. He wouldn’t sleep with either of us. He was into spiritual relationships.”
    “You meditated together?”
    “Breathed. He was into breathing. Don’t knock it if you haven’t tried it.”
    “I do it a lot, actually. Sweet potato pone?”
    Cindy Lou nodded, and they edged into the pone line. “This is different. You play music and trance out.”
    “No drugs?”
    “I’m telling you, girl—you get high. You get weird. I mean it.”
    “I don’t mean to be rude, but do you really need to get any weirder?”
    Cindy Lou ignored that. “So anyway, now I’m going out with this musician.”
    “Married?”
    “Uh-uh.”
    “Coked-up?”
    “AA all the way.””
    “Poor, then.”
    “Well, let’s put it this way. He’s doing pretty damn well for the amount of experience he’s had. I think he’s got a future.”
    “Uh-oh. I think I just got it. He’s young, right?”
    “And gorgeous.”
    “Okay, how young?”
    “Twenty-six.” Cindy Lou was thirty-four.
    “That’s not such a huge age difference.”
    “Yeah, but he lives with his mama.”
    “Well, gosh, Cindy Lou, big deal. You can always go to your place.” The truth was, he sounded a lot better than a lot of Cindy Lou’s bright ideas—especially if he was in AA. To be twenty-six and already done with addiction was a feat.
    “Yeah, we could. But then his mama has to look after the kid.”
    “He’s a single father?”
    “Yeah. Cutest little boy—you should see him.”
    “Okay, twenty-six, a single father, poor—”
    “Well, look, none of that’s really the problem. The thing is, I met him through his mama.”
    “Oh. She’s a