Jazz Funeral

a bigger one.”
    “Uh-uh. Mason made some real bad investments. She went into business with a guy she was living with who was just a wee bit younger and kind of needed a boost to get started—well, it was like this: he had a house, which he sold to get the money to buy this photography studio, and then he moved in with Mason.”
    “Excuse me—did you say photography studio?”
    “In New Orleans, Louisiana—not exactly the home of big-time advertising and hotshot slick companies.”
    “So what was he taking pictures of?”
    “I think he thought he was a photojournalist—I don’t know. But at first, business didn’t come and she lent him money and then some did and he bought more equipment and he was always on the verge of getting some great job with some company that needed an annual report, and she lent him more and more money.”
    “How could she be that dumb?”
    “Well, she wasn’t that dumb. The business would almost catch on and then wouldn’t quite—you know how that can be? And he’d pay her back a little when it was doing well. What finally did her in was his sick mom.”
    “Cancer?”
    “Oh, no. Mom wasn’t really sick. That was just the boyfriend’s story. It turned out Mom owned the house the b.f. claimed to have owned, and he owed her the money he’d invested in his studio. So Mason took out a third mortgage to lend him money for his mother’s illness, having already taken out a second to keep the business going, which she had bought into and therefore had a vested interest in.
    “But then, without telling her, the boyfriend decided it was never going to work and declared bankruptcy; and since Mason was his partner—and still solvent—the creditors came after her.”
    “What a lowdown centipede.”
    “Well, we still haven’t hit the punch line. Have you heard about the Formosan termites that are eating the Quarter?”
    “No, but I think I saw some the other night, swarming the lightposts. Is that where she lives—the Quarter?”
    “Yes. And she’s got termite damage to beat the band. Which she can’t afford to fix. So she’s selling her house for a song—Kitsy hopes—and finding an apartment.”
    Skip was reeling. “What about the boyfriend?”
    “Oh, she dumped him a month ago,”
    “What’s his name?”
    “Chas Gegenheimer. Not very romantic, is it?”
    “Omigod, he took my brother’s wedding pictures. Gorgeous galoot.”
    “Well, I hope he’s hot in the sack too.”
    “Allison. How many phone calls away is the answer to that one?”
    “Well, if you could see me, you’d know I’m blushing. I know already, of course.”
    Skip was silent for a moment. Allison had a daughter about two years old and a good marriage, she’d thought.
    “Don’t be a dork, Skippy. How could I spend all day on the phone if I had time for silly stuff?”
    “I didn’t say a word.”
    “Your silence was eloquent. I do not know firsthand, but believe me, I know. However, I really must protect my sources.”
    Skip hung up laughing. She had seriously underestimated Allison during their college days. The woman was her idol now—the world’s greatest detective, and she never even had to step outdoors.
    She called her brother, Conrad.
    “My sister, the cop,” he said, “calling her favorite source.” With Conrad, this passed for nice—he usually grumped at her. She figured his new wife, Camille, was the source of the new personality.
    “How’s the ticket situation?”
    “I’m hurtin’. Glad you called.” They had a deal. He gave her information, in return for which she fixed his parking tickets—or so she told him. She paid them herself.
    Lately, they were costing more, though. Knowing she’d be calling eventually, he tended to ignore them, letting the penalties get out of hand.
    “One big one or two littles?”
    “I thought you were a big wheel down there.”
    “Conrad, there’s such a thing as discretion. If I do it too much, they’re going to make me stop.”
    “How big and how little?”
    “Under fifty dollars is little.”
    “Six littles or two bigs.”
    “Jesus, don’t you ever park legally?”
    “I’m storing up nuts for the winter.”
    “Okay, four littles, but still only one big.”
    “No way.”
    “Okay two bigs, dammit. How well do you know Chas Gegenheimer?”
    “Who?”
    “The photographer at your wedding.”
    “Oh. Not at all. He’s a friend of a friend.”
    “Who’s the friend?”
    “Your victim’s ex-wife, as a matter of