Like Dizzy Gillespie's Cheeks

Eight

A clump of snow hit my arm as I knocked the doorknocker a couple times. I waited for a moment and let myself in. I took my gloves off, and the tips of my fingers expanded in the heat of the room. My olfactory senses kicked in as the familiar scent of Ben and his Old Spice cologne filled my nostrils. I walked further in the foyer and yelled for Lisa.

"Hello. Lisa?"

To the left of the foyer was a beautifully carved wooden banister and a carpeted staircase. Old family pictures, including one of Ben's mom and dad in wedding attire, both smiling like they lived in a world where all men were truly created equal, a family picture that included Ben and his sister Elsa, who was five years older than Ben, and various other grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins who were either dead or so rarely in touch that they might as well have been dead, lined the wall that led to the second floor.

To the right of the foyer was a trunk—the trunk that I came for. It was a steamer trunk, about three feet by two feet by two feet. Ben got it when he went off to Juilliard in the '40s. Apparently, the trunk contained all of his music mementos and who knows what else. Lisa found the key in his safe deposit box and wanted me to have the trunk, if I wanted it. Of course, I did.

"We're back here, Sam."

We ... I wondered who else was there. Lisa was divorced with a college-age son, who I doubted came home to attend the funeral. Maybe it was the lawyer, the funeral director, or perhaps the gardener. I guessed all the way to the kitchen, where I found Lisa leaning against the counter holding a coffee mug. Next to her was a woman facing the window, with her back to me.

"Hi, doll," Lisa said as she put down her coffee and hugged me with the warmth of a relative. I looked over her shoulder and found it odd and very unnatural that the woman looking out the window still hadn't turned around.

As Lisa pulled out of our embrace, she left a tear on my cheek and wiped one from her eye. She turned to introduce the mystery woman. "Sam, this is Kate Buckley. I understand, you've met. Ms. Buckley, Sam Greene."

Kate turned around as though on cue. Her beauty distracted my anger.

"Ms. Buckley called to ask me a few questions, and I told you were coming over, so I invited her."

"I see." I approached Kate politely, as not to upset Lisa, with my hand extended.

"Ohhh, that's quite a grip, Mr. Greene." I shot her a sarcastic smile, attached with all sorts of bad vibes. A waft of cigarette smoke breezed by my keen nostrils. I knew Lisa didn't smoke, so I figured it must have been trapped in Kate Buckley's sweater. A beautiful woman who smokes, huge turnoff.

"Ms. Buckley said ..."

"Please. Call me Kate," Kate said with a gleaming Cheshire grin.

Lisa started the sentence again. "Kate mentioned you were too busy and distracted last night at Andy's Place to engage in a conversation, so I thought you two could get together here, where there are no distractions."

"How nice," I said. "The only problem is I can't stay. I've only got time to pick up the trunk. Maybe some other time." I couldn't help but smile at Kate as her grin evaporated.

"Really? When might I have some of your precious time?" Kate shifted her weight and crossed her arms as the tension began to build. I could sense that Lisa felt it as she fumbled with her mug and the coffee maker to occupy herself for the moment.

"Tonight, I've got a gig at the Museum."

"I know, I'm going."

"What the hell are you talking about?" This was getting too weird.

"It's a long story. What about tomorrow?" She shifted her weight back to the other side.

"Tomorrow is Ben's funeral. Go back to the thing about tonight." Now I crossed my arms.

"We have a mutual friend." She paused. I held out my hands as if to say, "Are you going to tell me, or are we playing twenty questions?"

I finally broke the silence. "And that friend might be ..."

"Max Seligman."

"Max?"

"Yes, Max." Now I paused, trying to figure it out. I didn't have to, though; she explained.

"I'm stringing a piece on jazz, and Max and I have worked together a lot in the past. Anyway, I helped him out a little on tonight's event, and asked him if he had a source knowledgeable in jazz. He referred me to you. Then Ben Webster died, and the Tribune wants a sidebar to run tomorrow. I found out you were very close to Ben, so you're pretty much, what we call in the magazine business, a 'fountain.'"

Max knows this woman? Why didn't he warn me about her? I felt invaded. I'm a source? A fountain? Whatever the hell that means. People talking about me behind my back makes me very nervous. And what does "stringing a piece of jazz" mean?

"Listen, this is all too weird. I really need to go." I walked over and gave Lisa a kiss on the cheek. "I'm sorry about this. I'll see you tomorrow." I looked at Kate Buckley and didn't know what to say, so I said nothing. I turned and walked toward the door.

"I've got a deadline," she yelled after me in desperation.

"Call me after the funeral, or call Max for another source." I grabbed the trunk, and as I struggled to my car, I wondered how the hell Lisa managed to get this trunk from the attic to the foyer.