Murder in a Minor Key Read online

  “What was different then?”

  Stanley’s customer had drifted down to the next vendor, and I knew he was anxious to be rid of me.

  “Well, for him, music was one of the most important parts of voodoo rituals. Still is, actually. But for Little Red, music was an expression. You know? Of his spirit. It wasn’t supposed to be commercial. It was for ceremonies and communing with the loa—those are the voodoo gods. There wouldn’t have been recordin’s, photographs, drawin’s. Anythin’ that captured the soul and bound it to the earth was bad.”

  I pointed to his shirt. “How would you know what he looked like if there weren’t any photographs or portraits of him?”

  Stanley dropped his gaze to his shirt, pulled the hem down, and angled his head.

  “An educated guess, maybe. Ever‘one says he had hair like cayenne pepper and a temper to match. Lots of the old timers knew ’im, so this is probably based on their descriptions.”

  “And you say recording was against Little Red LeCoeur’s religion.”

  “Absolutely!”

  “But Wayne’s been hearing about these cylinders for years. Couldn’t someone have secretly recorded Little Red without his knowledge?”

  “Wishful thinking. Equipment in those days was big and bulky. You had to play or speak right into the microphone. You couldn’t hide behind a rock and record somebody from a distance.”

  “Then you’ve never heard the rumors about these recordings?”

  “Oh, I’ve heard them, all right, but I know they’re nonsense. Just another wild-goose chase for the uneducated.”

  “Well, I don’t think Wayne is exactly uneducated.”

  “Didn’t mean to insult your friend. Copely knows his jazz, that’s for sure. I read his column all the time. But this time, he’s being taken in. Tell ’im not to pay good money for bad karma. He’ll never find recordings of Little Red LeCoeur. Not genuine ones anyhow.”

  “I’ll certainly tell him what you said. And thank you for taking time from your work to explain all this to me.”

  “You’re very welcome, Mrs. Fletcher. Jazz is my favorite topic. I hope you’ll get a chance to come out to the Fairgrounds Race Track while you’re here, and—you know?—listen to some world-class playing.”

  “I intend to do that very thing tomorrow.”

  “We’ll be there, too. Maybe we’ll see you again.”

  “I’ll look for you.”

  I saw that Stella was busy with a customer, and asked Stanley to say good-bye to her. Leaving their booth, I scanned the work of the artists and craftspeople that lined the park, but my heart wasn’t in it. My mind was full of what Stanley had told me.

  Was Wayne simply the victim of false rumors, leading him on a vain chase for a prize that didn’t exist? I hoped not. He was so sure those recordings could be found. Maybe Stanley didn’t know as much as he thought he knew, I comforted myself. But he was acquainted with Little Red’s religious beliefs, and if Little Red had been a devout man, as he was assumed to be, then Stanley could be right, and the wonderful music of the famed trumpeter might never be heard by his successors. Even though I was not knowledgeable about jazz, I felt the loss for this generation not to have access to the genius of a talented musician of another era.

  Mulling over the possibility of Wayne’s disappointment, I walked between the iron filigree stanchions that served as streetlights, and through the open gates into Jackson Square. The peaceful setting inside the park was an odd contrast to the frivolity outside its iron boundary, and I welcomed the opportunity to walk quietly without being jostled by my fellow visitors to the city.

  I reached the far side of the park and crossed Chartres Street, entering the flagstone passageway called Pirates Alley, which borders St. Louis Cathedral and the Cathedral Garden. Distracted by my thoughts, I almost missed the vibrant multicolored palette—yellow, red, green—of the brick and wooden buildings with fanlights, iron lacework galleries, and other decorative structural details so unlike the spare New England architecture my eyes were accustomed to seeing. The cheerful aspect of the buildings, and the smiling faces of the young people who passed me on their way to the Square, raised my spirits, and I arrived at Royal Street intent on not permitting Wayne’s worries to become mine.

  Royal Street was an avenue of beautiful buildings, fashionable boutiques, fine restaurants, and elegant antiques shops. One store in particular appealed to me because among the gold pocket watches, silver candelabra, framed etchings, and snuff boxes arrayed in the window was a highly polished mahogany gramophone. A bell tinkled overhead when I pushed open the door to Simon West’s Antiques.

  In the center of the shop, a gleaming brass-and-crystal chandelier hung over a walnut table, its surface covered with small decorative pieces. Recessed lighting in the ceiling, obviously on a dimmer, was kept low to allow customers to observe the effect of the antique fixture.

  I pulled off my new straw hat and fluffed my hair. My eyes swept the shadowy perimeter of the room, taking in the beautiful seventeenth- and eighteenth-century chests and sideboards, each with its complement of gold-edged china and cut crystal goblets, or silver epergne and other lovely mementos of another age.

  A breeze wafted through an open door at the back of the shop, carrying the delicious scent of barbecue smoke. My stomach rumbled. Since it was less than four hours since Wayne and I had left Antoine’s, I was surprised to find myself feeling hungry. I followed my nose to the source of the tempting smell and reached the door. Outside was a courtyard of red brick paving on which sat an elaborate wrought iron chair, its peeling white paint revealing the original black of the metal. Nestled next to the chair were large pottery planters filled with red geraniums and trailing ivy.

  “Do you need any help?”

  “Oh, I didn’t see you,” I said, startled at the voice.

  “It takes a while till your eyes adjust to the light.”

  “Are you Simon West?”

  “I am.”

  Marking his place in a book and rising from his chair at a highboy secretary tucked in a corner was a thin, dour-faced man who I judged to be in his forties, despite hair that was completely white, although thick eyebrows revealed he’d had dark hair in his youth. He wore a powder-blue shirt, the same hue as his remarkably blue eyes. He pulled a navy jacket from the back of a chair and shrugged into it, frowned, and slipped the book he’d been reading into a side pocket.

  “There’s a lot more upstairs if you care to look,” he said, standing at the desk and pointing to a narrow flight of stairs adjacent to the back door. He didn’t move from his place, perhaps hoping that I would disappear above and leave him in peace to continue reading.

  “Or did you have something specific in mind?” he asked.

  “I saw your gramophone and thought I’d see if you had any old cylinder recordings.”

  Obviously agitated, he pulled at the cuffs of his shirt, and came to where I stood.

  “You’re the third customer to ask me that question today,” he said. “What in heaven’s name is going on?”

  I told the irritated store owner about Wayne’s announcement that morning and his campaign to bring to light recordings of Little Red LeCoeur.

  He huffed softly and tugged on one ear. “I should thank Copely,” he conceded. “I sold a fireplace fan and a set of andirons this afternoon to a couple who came in looking for cylinders. By the way, that gramophone plays records. A cylinder player is a different machine altogether.”

  “I know, but since you had one thing related to old recordings, I thought it was worth asking you about another.”

  “I did have some old cylinders at one point, but it’s been quite a while since I’ve seen any in the marketplace. Collectors pick those up pretty quickly.”

  “Do you know if any of them featured LeCoeur?”

  “Not that I recall. They were mostly classical compositions or opera singers. Copely should check with local collectors and see if they can help.”

  “I’m s
ure he’s already done that. He’s been searching for these recordings for a long time now.”

  West squinted at me, and cocked his head to one side.

  “Have you been in my shop before?” he asked. “You look familiar.”

  I introduced myself and we shook hands. I told him that I’d been on the panel with Wayne that morning. “You may have seen my picture in the paper,” I offered.

  “That must be it,” he said, brightening. “I like a mystery now and then myself. Right now I’m reading P. D. James. You know this one?” He pulled the paperback from his pocket, Cover Her Face.

  “I know both the book and the author. Phyllis is a good friend and a wonderful writer. Practically by herself, she’s changed attitudes toward mystery writing, or ‘crime writing’ as they say in England, and inspired a new level of appreciation.”

  He smiled for the first time. “Please tell her when you speak with her how much I’m enjoying this book.”

  “I’ll be sure to let her know. She’ll be delighted you’re reading this particular one. It was her first novel.”

  West pulled up his cuff and glanced at his watch. “Look, it’s just about closing time,” he said. “Can you stay awhile? I’d love to talk more about mystery writing. I can offer you some iced tea and cookies. Or a glass of brandy if you prefer. The patio is pleasant this time of day.”

  I was taken aback by the transformation of West from grumpy proprietor into congenial host, but since I had no immediate plans, I decided to accept his invitation.

  “I’ll consider staying for tea on condition that you tell me the source of that enticing aroma coming from the back of your shop.”

  “I’ll even introduce you to the chef. He’s my neighbor, and his kitchen is just across the courtyard. We can probably talk him into giving us a taste of whatever he’s making.”

  “I don’t want to impose.”

  “No imposition at all. Food is a passion in New Orleans. He’s hoping to open his own restaurant and is always eager to try out recipes on his friends. Come, you can sit outside while I lock up.”

  Simon ushered me out the back door and pulled a second chair next to the one I’d seen earlier. “I’ll be right back with the tea. Thanks for agreeing to stay. It’s not often I get to meet a famous author, and one whose interests parallel mine. I promise to tell you anything you want to know about wax cylinders if you’ll let me quiz you about mysteries.”

  “That sounds like a fair exchange.”

  “And then, if you’re hungry and can still stand my company, we can walk down to Brennan’s.”

  He went to close the store, and I sat down, enjoying the warm evening now that the sun no longer beat down on my head. The sound of a saxophone being played somewhere on the street drifted into my consciousness and I sighed at the mournful tone.

  West returned a few minutes later with two glasses, a pitcher of iced tea, and a plate of cookies on a small tray table. He dropped into his chair. “Let me ask you a couple of questions, and then it’ll be your turn.”

  “All right,” I said, balancing my hat against a flowerpot. “Go ahead.”

  We chatted for a half hour about writing and the publishing business. His questions were not very different from the ones I regularly encounter on my book tours: Where do I get my inspiration? How much do I write each day? How do I promote my books? What kind of research do I do?

  I told him that a location like New Orleans can provide a lot of inspiration. That when I’m working on a book, I start early, write every day, and try to finish ten pages before lunch. That the next morning, I edit my pages from the day before, and that helps me start the new ones. That the publisher is responsible for promotion, but that I help out by going on book tours and talking with readers and booksellers.

  “As to research,” I said finally, hoping he’d take the cue, “I enjoy learning new things. And one of the ways I do that is by talking to experts like you.”

  “Ah,” he replied sheepishly, realizing I was waiting for the opportunity to ask him some questions. “You’ve been very patient.” He refilled my glass. “So, wax cylinders,” he said. “What would you like to know?”

  “When were they made? What did they look like? What are they worth? I just want some general information.”

  You know that Thomas Edison invented the phonograph in the eighteen seventies?”

  “Yes.”

  “His earliest recordings were made on tinfoil wrapped around a little drum, but I’ve never seen those, if any of them survive. The foil was very fragile and ripped easily.”

  “So they started making wax recordings.”

  “That’s right. I believe they became the standard some time in the late eighteen eighties. They were about four inches in length and two inches in diameter, and the earliest ones were brown. Black cylinders came in around nineteen-oh-two.”

  “Would Little Red LeCoeur have recorded on brown or black cylinders?”

  “I’m not sure really.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “If he recorded on brown, however, the cylinder probably wouldn’t have any identification marks on it. The older ones didn’t.”

  “How would you know what was on them?”

  “Well, if you had the original packaging, it was on a slip inside the case. Otherwise, you had to listen to it.”

  “They didn’t use labels?”

  “Nowhere to put them without interfering with the recording surface. As the production of cylinders became more sophisticated, the manufacturers began engraving information along the edge.”

  “If nothing is written on the early ones, how do you know what’s on the cylinder and the date it was recorded?”

  “You can approximate the age of a cylinder by listening to it. The oldest ones announce the song and the performer at the beginning of the recording. Later on, the announcement included where the recording was made, and sometimes a particular record number, or a description of the performer. Those are the clues to age.”

  “Are wax cylinders very rare?”

  “Not really. But they are brittle, and break easily. And the wax is soft so if they’ve been played a lot, the quality can be poor. Down here in Louisiana, it’s hard to find ones in good shape.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Mainly because of the mold.” He waved a hand around. “Feel this humidity?”

  I nodded.

  “Humidity means mold, and mold eats wax.” He dropped his hand. “Once the cylinder is eaten by mold, it’s virtually impossible to repair.”

  “How valuable are wax cylinders?” I asked. “Does it depend on the date?”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “Like all antiques, it depends on the rarity. Standard two-minute black cylinders can go for as little as five or ten dollars. Three-minute cylinders are not as plentiful and their price is higher, maybe sixty or seventy dollars if they’re in good shape. But for a rare recording of an artist with historical importance—”

  “Like Little Red,” I interjected.

  “Yes. For that, the value is incalculable.”

  I sat silently, contemplating the difficult road that lay before Wayne. Even if he found a cylinder Little Red had recorded, it might be cracked or worn or moldy. So many negative possibilities argued against his being able to achieve his dream of bringing the music of Little Red LeCoeur to the public.

  Simon West interrupted my reverie. “Jessica?”

  “Yes?” I replied. “I’m sorry, I was lost in thought.”

  He drummed his fingers on the arm of the painted chair. “If you happen to find a cylinder of Little Red LeCoeur ...” He hesitated, trying to find the right words.

  “Yes?”

  “I know a collector who would pay us handsomely for it,” he stated smugly.

  “I could never do that.”

  “Why not?” he demanded. “Do you know what that cylinder would be worth?”

  “I believe I just asked you that question,” I replied. I realized that although I’d received
some interesting information from Simon West, it was well past time to take my leave of him. My friendship with Wayne was far more important than any monetary gain West could offer, and I was offended that he thought my ethics could be so easily compromised.

  I picked up my hat. “This has been very pleasant, Mr. West. However, I really must leave now. I have another appointment.”

  West realized he might have made a blunder. “It was just a possibility,” he said. “Something to think about.” He walked me to the door. “We could bring in Wayne as well,” he added weakly. Changing tacks, he said, “I haven’t had a chance to introduce you to my neighbor.”

  “Perhaps another time,” I said. “Thank you for the information, and the tea.” I turned down Royal Street toward my hotel, and took a deep breath. The humid hot air felt strangely refreshing.

  Chapter Five

  “Would you like another beignet, ma’am?”

  “Thank you, no. If I’m not careful, New Orleans is going to be the ruination of my figure.”

  “Then how about more coffee?”

  “Yes, please, it’s very good.”

  “I’ll bring some right away.”

  I was sitting in the quiet courtyard at my hotel Friday morning, waiting for Wayne. I’d been up early, taken my exercise in a brisk walk that followed a recommended circuit provided by the hotel, and now, showered and dressed for the day, was reading the morning newspaper. Since Wayne was notorious for being late, I’d gone ahead and ordered the hotel’s continental breakfast, which included fresh orange juice, New Orleans’s famous chicory coffee, and two beignets—puffy, square, doughnutlike pastries wearing a heavy coating of powdered sugar, a good portion of which had threatened to settle on the napkin on my lap. I’d struggled not to make too much of a mess; the delicate flavor was worth the effort. “I don’t know a soul who can eat those neatly,” the waitress, a blonde with a big bosom, had said when she’d set the plate in front of me. “Even a knife and fork are no help.”

  It was another sunny day, only slightly less hot than the one before, with the promise of temperatures approaching ninety, and still no rain in sight. The Times-Picayune reported that the drought was causing local farmers concern, particularly so early in the season when water was essential to establishing new crops.