Jazz Funeral

stopped now. The board voted unanimously to make it a memorial to him.”
    It was a graceful solution, Skip thought. She collected her sandwich—and when she got to the fairgrounds wished she’d waited. The food booths beckoned, and the lines were only medium-long. By Sunday there’d be nearly eighty thousand people here. It was a wonder anyone ever got a bite, but everyone seemed to. Some people, it was said, went for the food alone.
    Skip found Ariel holding a clipboard and looking harried, her wild mane blowing about her face. She had on a white tank top, pink shorts, and lipstick that exactly matched the shorts. Skip wondered how women did that sort of thing. Did they go instantly from clothing counter to makeup counter or did they already have every color of lipstick there was? And how did they get their brains to focus on a thing like that? She might have been born here, but she was never going to understand the South.
    Ariel said, “We’re going crazy without Ham. I know I should be with his parents today, but there’s no one else—”
    “Ariel!” It was a man’s voice which sounded as harried as Ariel’s own.
    “Coming!” she screeched. To Skip, she said, “I’ve got to go—some prima donna’s probably got Perrier in his trailer instead of Evian water. Is it important?”
    “Yes, and I’ll be quick. As his assistant, you’re in the best position to know if anyone had a motive to kill Ham. Did someone have a vendetta against him? Had he fought with anybody? Gotten any phone calls that—” Ariel put up a hand to stop her.
    “Absolutely not.” Though she had been in the act of turning away, racing back to her duties, she stopped and gave Skip a big smile. It seemed as if her cheeks got a little pinker, but maybe it was just the rosy glow of her outfit. “Ham was one of those rare people who was loved by everyone who knew him. Everybody loved that man, and that’s the God’s truth.”
    “Why?”
    “Why?” She looked thunderstruck. “Why did we all love him?”
    Skip nodded.
    “Because he was a wonderful person.” She teared up a little. “I still can’t believe this.”
    “Ariel. I know this is hard. I’m not trying to start an argument, believe me. I just want to know what he was like.”
    “Well, he was such a take-charge guy. But so sweet at the same time. I never heard him raise his voice to one person, and I never heard anyone raise their voice to Ham. How many producers could you say that about?”
    “Not many.” Probably not any .
    “Do you know what a nerve-wracking job this is?”
    “Ariel!” The voice had a tinge of anger now.
    Ariel seemed not to notice. “His employees loved him, his family loved him, the musicians loved him, the public loved him—he knew everybody, and he made all our lives a little better.” She was regaining her composure, sure of her ground here. “You know what? Even his ex-wife loved him.”
    “Do you know her? Mason Brocato?”
    She shook her head slightly as if to wake herself, glanced at her watch and stepped away. “I’ve gotta go.”
    Skip looked at her own watch. One-thirty. Plenty of time to see Mason before school got out. But first she had a piece of key lime pie.
    She had a moment of doubt, not at all sure Mason had ever used Ham’s name, much less kept it. But there it was, under “Attorneys.” Mason Brocato, on Gravier Street.
    Mason was just back from lunch, as what lawyer wouldn’t be at that time? She was hanging up a plum-colored suit coat. The matching skirt was a mini that revealed slightly pudgy legs, but otherwise Mason was sleek. Her extremely short haircut was carefully sculptured, a work of art that probably had to be recarved every two weeks. Her skin was olive, her eyes grayish.
    “I’ve just come from George and Patty’s,” she said. “It’s so horrible. And awful about Melody too. What’s going on, officer?”
    “Call me Skip.”
    “Is Melody a …” She couldn’t bring herself to finish. “Is she a . .”
    “Is she a suspect?”
    Mason smiled. They understood each other.
    Skip said, “Should she be?”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “Do you know of any reason she’d want to kill Ham?”
    “She’s just a kid.”
    “A kid could have reasons.”
    “You mean like incest or something? I hardly think …” Her smile had a frozen quality.
    Skip shrugged. “Or an argument. Did Melody have a temper?”
    “No. Yes. I think sometimes she did, but it’s been five years since I’ve seen