Jazz Funeral

iced tea—the same man who’d been with Anglime at JazzFest.
    “Hello,” he said, but didn’t introduce himself, just went on with his project as if she and Jessie weren’t there.
    “How may I help you?” Jessie asked, the prim words spoken in a soft black accent, just as warm and sociable as she’d been aloof before.
    When Skip repeated her mission, the housekeeper started reeling off names. There’d been a possible total of eleven people in the house Tuesday, including herself, aside from Anglime and Thiebaud.
    They were Jessie Swan, housekeeper; James Fayard, another housecleaner and handyman; Sabrina Kostelnik, ex-girlfriend; Mia Anglime, her daughter and Nick’s; Eric and Scott Anglime, Nick’s sons with a Rachel Anglime; Caroline Meyer (aka Meyer-Roshi), Zen consultant; Nanette Underwood, acupuncturist, herbalist, and massage therapist; Ricky Roberts, cook; April Thomas, clerical worker; and Proctor Gaither, old friend.
    When Jessie Swan got to Gaither, the man making tea, he waved to acknowledge that was he.
    Of these, house guests included Kostelnik, the three children, Meyer, Underwood, and Gaither. Of the other four, none lived in and only Swan was full-time. Yes, she, Jessie, had been there Tuesday and, sure enough, so had Ms. Thiebaud. “All day?” asked Skip, thinking it didn’t matter what she said—she was in her boss’s house and likely to lie anyway. She’d interview the others on their own turf.
    “All day and all day the day before and all day the day after,” said Swan.
    That should have been that, but Proctor Gaither spoke up. “Except for when she went shopping.”
    “Well, I didn’t know about that,” said Swan, slightly huffy.
    “Sure. Tuesday afternoon? Around three or four, I think.”
    “Well, I don’ know,” repeated Swan.
    Skip said, “When did she return?”
    But Gaither shrugged. “I don’t know. I just saw her leave, and then she was around for dinner.”
    So Ti-Belle wasn’t getting off the hook quite so easily.
    “Tell me something, Mr. Gaither.”
    “Proctor.”
    “Proctor. Doesn’t it get awkward with Ms. Kostelnik and Ms. Thiebaud around at the same time?”
    “Awkward?” He seemed genuinely to be considering the idea. “No, I don’t think you’d call it awkward.”
    “You wouldn’t?” She held her breath, not sure he’d answer.
    But he was surprisingly forthcoming, even glib. “Sabrina and Nick are very good friends—as long as they don’t spend too much time with each other. She’s having a hard time, he wants to do right by his kids, so he lets her stay here, and the two of them bend over backward staying out of each other’s hair. He wants her to learn a useful trade, so she can get by on her own. Nanette’s teaching her Oriental medicine.”
    “You don’t have to go to a special school for that?”
    Her touched his chest. “You’re asking moi ? I’m just an ol’ boy from Alabama.”
    “Just out for JazzFest?”
    He nodded. A shadow crossed his white-bread, good-ol’-boy face. “Getting divorced. Took some time off.”
    “This is some household.”
    “Never a dull moment. Nick’s a child of the sixties; look what he’s built here—an updated, upgraded, upscale commune, complete with resident guru—two if you count Nanette.” He shook his head. “No, she’s more like—don’t take this wrong, okay?— she’s more like a connection. Nothing illegal; nobody’d be so un-nineties as that—but she’s got what makes us feel good, even if it’s liver compresses nowadays.”
    “Do they work?”
    “Are you kidding? I don’t even know what they’re supposed to do. Nothing wrong with the massages, though.”
    Skip half turned back to Jessie Swan, who was still sitting primly, patiently. “Is she around? I’d like to talk to her.”
    Swan shook her head. “No’m. She and Sabrina went out some place with the roshi. Took the kids.”
    “Ricky Roberts?”
    “Day off.”
    “Popeye’s, here we come,” said Proctor. “By the way, he cooks only nonfat vegetarian, and he can do macrobiotic if you really want it.”
    Skip made a face; couldn’t help it, it just happened.
    “Don’t knock it—it’s some of the best food you ever had. The man’s an artist.”
    “Well, I’ll need the artist’s phone number,” she said to Swan. “Also April Thomas’s—she comes one day a week, I presume.”
    Swan nodded, and went to look up numbers.
    “What’s the roshi like?” she asked Proctor.
    “Quiet. The