Jazz Funeral by Julie Smith Page A

fact—one of only ten or twelve blacks in the whole school, I’m ashamed to say. Joel Boucree works his little butt off; if we had to vote, faculty and students, on ‘most likely to succeed,’ Joel’d probably win hands down, even though he idn’t much of a jock. But he hasn’t got any need to spend the next twenty years provin’ himself. People have been tellin’ him all his life who he is, and he’s real good at pleasin’ adults, so he probably likes what they say. All he’s got to do is live up to it. Now Melody’s not so good at pleasin’ adults—she’s probably got to make her mark, one way or another. You see what I mean?”
    Skip wasn’t sure she did, but if she said so, she’d never get away. She said instead, “Does Melody strike you as more unhappy than any other melancholy teenager?”
    He shrugged. “Probably not. Just more frustrated than most. Something’s bothering her, though. She probably ought to be in therapy.”
    “Why do you say that?”
    He thought about it. “I guess she just seems like she needs someone on her side.”
    “I thought—” Skip stopped herself. That was the role she thought Ham had played. She rephrased: “Did she ever talk to you about her brother?”
    “Yep. She’s crazy about him.”
    “Do you know about any trouble between the two of them?”
    Nicolai looked astonished, as if he’d just caught on to something important. “You think she murdered him.”
    “He’s dead and she’s missing. So far I don’t think anything more than that.”
    “Well, she didn’t kill her brother. She loves him more than anything on this earth.”
    “She told you that? I didn’t realize the two of you were that close.” She hadn’t really thought that much about their relationship—it just didn’t seem to her the sort of thing a kid would tell a counselor.
    “I’ve been around a long time. Some things you just know.”
    Oh, great. How much of what you told me is true and how much is stuff you “just know”?

CHAPTER SIX
    Clearly, Joel Boucree, Doug Leddy, and Flip Phillips were next on the agenda, but talking to kids was a delicate business. It usually required an adult witness and parental permission. Often, it was accomplished only after difficult negotiations. However, to her surprise, Skip found the principal almost unnaturally helpful. The Brocatos, apparently, had leaned on her.
    The proposal was this—the principal herself, Mrs. Murray, would phone the kids’ parents and lean, in turn, on them, and she’d get Matthew Nicolai to sit in. In return Skip would do the interviews after school. Murray would hold Flip, but Skip would interview the boys in the band off campus, at a nearby garage where they practiced every Thursday afternoon.
    Skip leaped at it—it would save tons of time and tears, and other things were pressing anyway. She headed toward an address on Burgundy, fairly near Esplanade, where she’d been told she’d find Andy Fike, Ham’s housecleaner.
    It took Fike a good ten minutes to get to the door. Skip would have given up, but a neighbor urged her to keep trying: “Andy sleep a lot, and he sleep hard, but he in there.” The old lady cackled like it was the neighborhood joke.
    When he finally pulled it all together, he shouted down from the balcony, “What in hell can I do for you?” He was leaning on the metal railing.
    “Disheveled” would have been far too mild a word for his appearance. His brown hair—which desperately needed shampoo—stood up all over his head. His clothing looked as if it had been slept in, possibly for several nights running. His skin was pale, his face almost emaciated. He was either very wasted or coming down from something ugly. Crack was Skip’s guess.
    Skip held up her badge and identified herself.
    “What can I do for you, officer?”
    “Let me in and I’ll tell you.” She wasn’t crazy about going into this particular monster’s den, but damned if she was going to stand on the street and