Jazz Funeral Read Online Free PDF

giant ocean waves, forcing them to the bottom, filling their mouths with sand, turning them over and over, around and around, flinging them wherever the ocean chose—the ocean of grief, the maelstrom of despair, the bottomless sea of feeling no one can fight off when someone close dies.
    She went to find Ti-Belle again.

CHAPTER THREE
    The singer was in her car, leaning against the back of the seat, drained. She reminded Skip of a gardenia turning brown at the edges. “Can I go back in?”
    “After the lab people are done. Do you have a place you can go in the meantime?”
    She nodded. “Do you mind if we do it fast?”
    Skip smiled. “I’d be delighted.” She climbed into the front seat. “Who had keys to the house besides you and Ham?”
    “Melody.”
    “Anyone else? Your in-laws?”
    She made a face. “No. Andy Fike. The house cleaner. I guess that’s all.” She shrugged. “Unless Mason still has one.”
    “Could I have Andy’s address and phone number?”
    “I’d have to go inside to get it.”
    “I can get it if you’ll tell me where to look.”
    “My Rolodex—on one of the tables in the bedroom.”
    “Okay. Look, I’m sorry if it upsets you, but I need to ask where you’ve been.”
    “Chicago. On business.” She was propped on one hand, leaning slightly, her head inclined, her hair falling over her shoulder as if she were posing for Vogue. She spoke casually. It was the pose that bothered Skip. Too studied; too perfect. As if she needed rigidity to hold her story together.
    “Your plane was late?”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “You were late for your own party.”
    “Oh.” A smile, a little rueful laugh. “Ham’s party. He’s a big boy. He can—” She stopped in mid-sentence; horror replaced bravado as she realized what she was saying.
    Skip said, “It just seems odd you’d cut it so close.”
    “The plane was late.”
    “Did you call Ham?” She hadn’t, and of course she would have if she were telling the truth.
    “Well, I did, but he didn’t answer.”
    “What flight did you come in on?”
    “I really haven’t the least idea. How could I, anyway? I just came back from a three-day business trip to find …” Clearly she couldn’t bring herself to use the words. “ This –and you expect me to remember my flight number?”
    “Maybe you still have your ticket. How about if we look at that?”
    Ti-Belle put a hand to her forehead. “Look, could we have this conversation later?”
    “I’d really love to, maybe over some iced tea or something, but I’ve got a murder to investigate.”
    The singer winced at the word. Her eyes filled. “You don’t have to be so sarcastic.”
    “Okay. Let me be straightforward. I’m a police officer and you really shouldn’t bully me or try to shine me on; it makes a real bad impression.”
    “I threw away my ticket.” She seemed subdued.
    “Can you tell me who you saw in Chicago?”
    “Do I have to?”
    “Why would you mind?”
    The singer shrugged. “Okay. Mr. Jarvis Grablow. Mr. Grablow at Bluestime Recording.”
    “That’s the only appointment you had in three days?”
    “I can’t remember these people’s names.”
    “Don’t you have your appointment book with you?”
    “I—actually, my manager sent me a typed itinerary. I threw it away after the trip.”
    “Okay, look. Just give me your manager’s name. I’ll check with him.”
    She sighed and gave Skip a name and number.
    “By the way, what’s Ham’s assistant’s name?”
    “Ariel. Ariel Burge. Kind of looks like her name.” She seemed slightly cheered, happy to have Skip’s attention on someone else.
    “How’s that?”
    “I don’t know. Flighty or something.”
    “Okay. I think that’s it for now. By the way, did I mention I’m a big fan of yours?”
    “Thanks.” The reluctant witness actually managed a smile. Skip started to move off, but Ti-Belle yelled: “Oh, hey, I forgot something.”
    “Yes?”
    “Could I go back in and get my flight