The Axeman's Jazz

Anne house that was now a duplex. It was a funny arrangement, Skip thought, a girl in the city living with an aunt. But if she could see anyone doing it, it was Missy.
    I just wonder what Auntie thinks when her young niece spends the night with her boyfriend
.
    But the minute she walked in, she could see that Ms. Enright was no ordinary Southern aunt. She was blond, overweight, dressed in a pair of black shorts and a pink tube top that would have fit Missy, and rather beautiful. She had the kind of skin that looked as if it would break if you touched it, but was unmarked by wrinkles (though she must have been on the lying side of forty-five). Her hair was caught up in a ponytail on the right side of her head—a ponytail that swung halfway down her back. Her feet were bare, unless you counted the toenail polish. Her face was heart-shaped and she was one of those heavy women who don’t gain weight above the neck.
    “Come in.” She led Skip into the most interesting room she’d seen in New Orleans. The walls were covered with traditional art—masks, sculptures, paintings, and artifacts from just about everywhere, as far as Skip could see. There was one deep, comfortable sofa, but other than that, the furniture was equally exotic, much of it Asian. The rugs were many and colorful—Chinese, Persian, Iraqi—and an antique Chinese kimono was encased in a comer of the room, displayed as an artwork.
    “What is it?” said Enright, and Skip realized she’d gasped.
    “No wing chairs.”
    Enright laughed.
    “It’s a breathtaking room.”
    “I travel a lot.” She sat down and motioned Skip to do the same.
    Deciding on a different strategy for this interview, Skip had already identified herself as a police officer. But Missy’s aunt seemed far sharper than she’d expected. She wasn’t sure her plan would work.
    Playing for time, she said, “You travel for your work?”
    “Sort of. I run a business out of my home—designing clothes that I have made up in various cheap-labor countries. And then, of course, I have to go to more exotic countries still to get inspiration.” She paused only for a second, having made the clear statement that she was in the middle of her workday. “How can I help you, Officer?”
    “I’m investigating a string of burglaries in your neighborhood.”
    “Damn!”
    “I know. The last thing you want to hear about.”
    Enright got up and walked to the door. “I’ve really got to do something about this door.”
    It was one of those with a window in it, a window that could be broken, the deadbolt turned by a hand reaching inside. “You’re not kidding—with all this art.”
    “What should I do?”
    Skip was about to suggest calling the department’s community relations officer when she remembered she was posing as someone from Burglary. She shrugged. “You could have the whole door replaced.”
    “That’s it! It’s ugly, anyway. I could buy a beautiful door.”
    Hoping she was sufficiently distracted, Skip seized the moment, giving the dates of the two murders. “I was wondering if you saw or heard anything on either of the nights the burglaries occurred—the ninth and the fourteenth.”
    “Excuse me a moment.” She padded off and came back with a leather Filofax. “Let’s see—last Tuesday and Thursday.” Her voice turned wry. “I’ve really got to give you guys credit for promptness.”
    Skip felt a blush starting. “We’ve been kind of overloaded.”
    “Oh, I know—so many of the damn things.” She waved a hand, letting Skip see that her nails had been painted with the natural colors reversed—white with pink half-moons. “What time were the burglaries?”
    “Well after dark, we think. Let’s say after nine.” After the latest twelve-step meetings were over.
    Enright sighed. “I was home both nights. Some social life, huh? Didn’t hear a thing. Who got hit, by the way? The Livingstons?”
    “To tell you the truth, I can’t talk about it.”
    “I just thought it was across the street, since you’re asking me.
    “Could I ask if anyone else lives here?”
    “Just my darling niece, Missy McClellan.” Her friendly features softened even more. “Missy McClellan from Hattiesburg, Mississippi?” She said the sentence with a question mark, like a Hattiesburg girl. “Poor Missy.”
    “Poor Missy?”
    She waved her
trompe l’oeil
hand again. “Little girl in the big city. Very earnest. I love her to death in spite of it.”
    “Can you remember if