Jazz Funeral

can’t just sing with no band.”
    “Well, I bet she went to the Quarter and found one.” Joel beamed, like the good student he was, fully expecting an A for this one.
    And Skip would have given him one if she could—that or a kiss. What else would a runaway do? Panhandle.
    But Melody didn’t have to. “The Quarter?” she said. “Sure. That’s where the bucks are.”
    And where you could get lost in the crowds, where there was a dim, tiny chance you wouldn’t run into someone you knew. Where Carlson from Missing Persons said they all went. But still, New Orleans for all its size was such a small town. “You wouldn’t just get out of here?” she said.
    “I wouldn’t,” said Joel. “I’d be scared to. You gotta remember, she’s only sixteen.”

CHAPTER EIGHT
    On the off chance Ti-Belle was home, Skip drove the four or five blocks to Ham’s house and found her Thunderbird parked in the driveway.
    The singer came to the door in a melon-colored, terry-cloth robe. She looked fabulous, and anyone else in the same color would have looked like candy corn.
    “Oh, hello … uh …”
    “Skip. Sorry to drop in on you. I was in the neighborhood.”
    Ti-Belle didn’t seem unhappy to see her. “Come in. I was just changing.”
    “How are you doing?”
    The singer led her into the living room. “This is the first time I’ve been alone. I’ve been at the Brocatos’ all day.”
    “Are your relatives coming?”
    Ti-Belle tried a smile, but it didn’t quite work. “I think I’m going to have to gut this one out.” Before Skip could be so rude as to ask why, Ti-Belle said, “Excuse me. I’ll put on some clothes. Coffee? Tea?”
    “Nothing, thanks.”
    “I’ll just be a minute. Really.”
    If she’d been crazy enough to stab Ham, could she be crazy enough to come back with a weapon? It was the police way to think, but Skip couldn’t talk herself into it. If she’d killed Ham, it had been in anger, not because she was nuts. And you’d have to be nuts to assault an officer the day after your boyfriend was found dead.
    She said, “While you’re dressing, could I have a look in Ham’s office?”
    The singer thought about it a second, finally shrugged. “Why not?”
    Ham had been a careful record keeper. His income taxes were neatly filed, his canceled checks stored in his top desk drawer. He had a good income, partly from his festival salary, partly from earnings on his stock in Po’ Boys, but it looked as if he was the very personification of “generous to a fault.” He’d written checks to Ti-Belle amounting to nearly $25,000 since January. And at the bottom of each one was written the word “loan.” It was only late April; if he’d lent her comparable amounts the year before and the year before that, Ti-Belle owed him plenty. And she wasn’t the only one—he’d lent small amounts to Andy Fike and to lots of people whose names she didn’t recognize.
    There was one other interesting category of check—large donations to the Second Line Square Foundation. Once again, it was reasonable to assume this was his habit.
    He had savings, but they were going fast. In the four months of this year, he’d paid out nearly three-quarters of the amount he’d made the year before. He either had to quit spending or come up with some more money to make it through the year.
    Ti-Belle padded back in barefoot, wearing baggy calf-length pants and a floppy T-shirt. “Finding anything?”
    “Can I ask why Ham lent you so much money?”
    She colored. “You think I make a fortune, don’t you? Because you know my name and you’ve heard me sing, you automatically think I’m rich. Well, I’m not rich. I wasn’t even middle class until about a year ago. If you’re a musician—if you’re in any of the arts—how do you think you get from zero to a hundred? From singing on the street to the Ray-Ban stage?”
    She answered herself. “You borrow money, that’s how.”
    “Was Ham pressuring you to repay it?”
    “No. He was generous. I told you that.” Skip was about to ask about the fights, but Ti-Belle stomped out. “Jesus, I’m thirsty! Want some iced tea?”
    Skip followed her to the kitchen, which had been cleaned up. She wondered if Ti-Belle had scrubbed the dried blood herself. The singer was still talking, more or less to herself. “Nerves. I get thirsty when I’m stressed out. I’m supposed to sing tomorrow, and I don’t know what the hell to do.”
    “You mean sing at