Jazz Funeral

to break his nose. “You believed him, of course, because you’re starstruck like some kid Melody’s age.”
    It felt as if the temperature had gone up ten degrees. Skip’s neck and face were scorching. Sweat was popping out at her hairline. She clenched the edge of her chair, to give her anger a place to go. And still wanted to fly at his face. She swallowed, trying to think, and wondered if her eyes were bugging out from the effort of control. Finally, she thought of Cindy Lou. What, she wondered, would Cindy Lou do in a situation like this?
    When the answer came, it was so right she almost smiled. Her fingers relaxed. Cindy Lou wouldn’t answer his insulting questions, would decline once and for all the bait he kept cramming down her throat. She wouldn’t sit here submissively, like some kid getting chewed out at school. She’d call him on his own bad behavior. Suddenly, Skip was calm as a Buddhist monk.
    She said, “Oh, Frank, don’t be such a bully,” got up and left.
    He shouted, “Young lady, you come back in here!”
    She tried not to laugh out loud. She wanted to look—sure he’d turned a gorgeous shade of watermelon—but she wasn’t turning full-face around. Instead she gave him only a glance over his shoulder. “That’s it for today, Frank.” She kept walking.
    He followed, bellowing, “Goddammit, Langdon, I’m your sergeant.”
    Now they were in the middle of the cavernous squad room. People were staring. Skip still felt cool as a gin and tonic. She stopped and turned around. “Fine. What would you like me to do?”
    “Follow up on Thiebaud, goddammit.”
    She nodded. “Of course.” And glided back to her desk. Actually, you didn’t really glide when you were six feet tall and didn’t tell your weight, but she felt she came close.
    Certainly she would follow up on Thiebaud. Just as she would if Frank were moldering in the grave. She was a professional. She’d follow up on other things as well. She simply wouldn’t mention them to Frank.
    First, she went to do what she’d intended all along, declining to be stopped by the fact that she’d now been ignominiously ordered to do so. She went to Nick’s to poke around.
    The housekeeper answered her knock. “Is Mr. Anglime here?”
    The woman disappeared, came back and said he wasn’t. All as Skip had suspected.
    “Okay. I wanted to talk to you anyway.” She produced her badge, explained her mission, and asked who had been at the house on Tuesday.
    The housekeeper, of course, said she couldn’t answer a question like that—that would be up to Mr. Anglime. But fortunately, along came a kid of about nine or ten who didn’t stand on ceremony. “Hey, are you the lady cop? What do you want to know?” And once again the housekeeper went in search of Mr. Anglime.
    He showed up shirtless, buckling his belt, hair uncombed. Skip was willing to bet he’d been having a little nap with the lovely Ti-Belle. “What the hell is this?”
    “I wanted to see if there was anyone here who remembered seeing Ms. Thiebaud on Tuesday.”
    “You think you can invade my house, disturb my guests, distress the staff—”
    “Mr. Anglime, this is a murder case. If you’ll let me know who was here Tuesday, I’ll gladly see them on their own turf.”
    “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
    “I’m trying to see if anyone can back up her story—and yours.”
    “Mine? What are you talking about? Lady, I’m Nick Anglime. Who the hell do you think you are, questioning what I say?”
    With those words, Skip’s stagestruck state shattered like a skim of ice. Suddenly she felt much more composed, for the first time in command with this man. She shrugged; even smiled. “It’s my job.”
    Something in her manner must have communicated itself—or else he simply realized he’d acted like a jerk. “I’m sorry. Of course it is—I don’t know what I was thinking of.”
    He let her in and said to the housekeeper, “Jessie, take care of Officer, uh …”
    “Skip.”
    He looked at her, puzzled.
    “It’s Langdon; but call me Skip, please.” They’d been through this; he wouldn’t remember the next time either.
    “Oh, yes.” He turned back to Jessie. “Help her any way you can.”
    Jessie looked as if she’d rather eat toad stew. “This way, please.” She led the way to the kitchen, where there was a beautiful, long pine table, as nice as most people’s dining room tables, and asked her to sit. A man was in the kitchen making