Jazz Funeral

went into the kitchen, where she now found Paul Gottschalk from the crime lab and told him what she had.
    Back outside, she found George holding both women’s hands, the three standing almost in a circle, making a barrier with their backs against the other guests. Skip felt for them, wished she could take them someplace private to talk.
    “This is an awful thing,” she said. “I’m so sorry.” She let a beat pass. “Ms. Thiebaud, could you leave us for a few minutes?”
    “Ti-Belle,” said the singer, and left, eyes glazed. It seemed a strange time to get friendly.
    George spoke before Skip had a chance. “Detective. We have to tell you something. Our daughter’s missing.”
    Patty broke in: “Could someone have kidnapped her? They killed Ham and they—could they have taken her?”
    “Can either of you think of a reason why anyone would want to kill him?”
    “No!”
    “No.”
    “Or Melody?”
    “Melody!” Patty screwed up her face to cry, apparently not having dealt with the idea her daughter could be dead.
    George simply said “No” again, and patted his wife’s hand.
    “Was Melody here with Ham yesterday?”
    Patty spoke again. “We kept calling and calling—Ham wasn’t home. But Melody—”
    George said, “Patty.” Just the word. As obvious as kicking her. He was telling her to shut up.
    Skip said, “Mrs. Brocato, I take it you’re Ham’s stepmother?”
    “Yes.”
    “And Melody is his half sister?”
    “They couldn’t have been closer if they were full blood. Even with the age difference.”
    George said, “Melody’s only sixteen. Ham was thirty-four.”
    “Why do you think she was here when Ham was killed?”
    “We don’t,” said George.
    Patty said, “But if they kidnapped her—”
    “Mrs. Brocato, why would she have been here?”
    Her husband answered the question. “She goes to Country Day. It’s such a short walk, she often comes over after school.”
    “Is Ham usually home?”
    He shrugged, and Skip saw what he was trying to avoid saying—Ham wasn’t.
    “Does she have a key?”
    He nodded. Skip remembered the purple backpack on the chair in the entrance hall.
    “What happened yesterday? When did you last hear from her?”
    Patty said, “When I dropped her off, she said she was going to a friend’s house after school. I was supposed to pick her up about five-thirty. But she wasn’t there.” Patty had trouble saying the last few words, and for a moment she looked her age, looked like a woman who’d had children and suffered, not merely like a perfect shape on which to hang lovely clothes.
    She put a hand over her mouth until she was back in control. “Blair—her friend—said Melody had left about half an hour before. Just left, without saying good-bye. Blair said she had no idea why. She was on the phone at the time—heard the door close, but that was it.” Patty shrugged. This was obviously old material to her, a road she’d been down all too often in the last few hours. “I came here to look for her—it was so close—I was sure she’d be here. But no answer. Nothing.”
    “Did you call the police?”
    “Of course.” The Brocatos spoke together, angrily. George said, “You know how much they did.”
    Skip shrugged. At least there’d be a report.
    “We spent all last night on the phone.” He spoke like a man who wasn’t used to being frustrated, who usually got what he wanted, and quick. He didn’t handle it well when he didn’t. His face reddened as he spoke, his voice rose. He was a child having a tantrum. “We called her boyfriend, we called a dozen of her other little friends, we called her teachers, we called Ham and Ti-Belle, and then we called Ham and Ti-Belle again. We called everybody in the whole fucking town, and then we called ‘em again.” Obviously it hadn’t sunk in yet that his son was dead. It was easier to be angry at his daughter.
    “Has she done this before?”
    They were silent for a moment, a moment too long. “Not really,” said George. “Once she stayed away for hours, but never the whole night.”
    Skip thought maybe she had, that maybe Melody was a bit of a handful. George seemed comfortable with his anger, as if he was well-accustomed to it, as if Melody was possibly the only thing in his life he couldn’t control and he was nearly driven bats by it.
    So of course she’d know that, and use it.
    “We thought she’d be here tonight,” Patty said. “Are you sure she isn’t here? Can you send