Murder in a Minor Key

by Jessica Fletcher

  The ovation from the New Orleanians that greeted my description of their city made me blush. I hadn’t intended to wax so poetic, but I wouldn’t take back a word. Visiting New Orleans was an adventure, and as different from my hometown of Cabot Cove, Maine, as it could possibly be. I was eager to explore it again on this visit.

  When the applause died down, Charlie spoke up.

  “Mrs. Fletcher, thank you. You make us see our own city with fresh eyes.”

  He checked his watch.

  “We’re coming to the end of this session of Book Club Breakfasts, but we still have time for a few more questions.”

  The lady in the flowered dress waved her straw hat at Charlie. “I have a question for Doris Bums, too,” she said.

  “Go ahead, ma’am.”

  “Ms. Bums, do you have another project you’re working on?”

  “I’m so glad you asked me,” she said, beaming.

  Doris Bums was a historian, the youngest woman ever to be made full professor at Princeton. She was striking, tall and narrow with an angular face, lively brown eyes, and short brown hair that curved softly toward her delicate chin, not precisely what you’d expect a historian to look like, but just right somehow.

  “Mrs. Fletcher is right about the wonderful possibilities in New Orleans. I’m currently researching a book on the history of cult religions. Since a sizable percentage of the population practices voodoo, this is a great place to start. As long as I have the floor, I’ll add that I’m staying at the Royal Hotel for the next two weeks, and would appreciate hearing from any of you in the voodoo community. I’m making tape recordings of what voodoo means to those who practice it, and how their traditions may differ from their neighbor’s. If you can give me a half hour or so, I’d love to get you on tape.”

  There was a rustle of papers around the auditorium as people noted the name of the hotel. Wayne leaned forward and pulled the table microphone to him. “Speaking of recordings,” he said, “as long as we’re asking for research assistance here—this okay with you, Charlie?”

  Gable nodded. “We’ll let you have the final word, Wayne, in this question-and-answer session.”

  Wayne fingered the floppy yellow paisley bow tie that rested on his royal-blue shirt. He took his time pulling a large white handkerchief from the jacket pocket of his cream-colored suit and dabbing it across his shaved head. The spotlights pointed at the stage were hot; it was nearly noon and the air conditioning in the large room was struggling to counter the heat wave outside.

  Finally, he spoke.

  “As my good friend Jessica Fletcher noted, we have an appreciation for our past. And like my colleague Ms. Burns, I’m also interested in recordings, but old ones, not new ones. In fact, I’m looking for original cylinder recordings made in Thomas Edison’s day.”

  He paused.

  “You can help.”

  He fell silent again to let his suggestion sink in.

  “As many of you know,” he continued, “I’ve been hunting details on the life of Alphonse LeCoeur, known as Little Red. He played trumpet ’round about the same time as Buddy Bolden. They may even have known each other, perhaps played together. No surviving recordings of either of these talented gentlemen have ever come to light, but rumors about Little Red’s recordings have persisted, and I believe he did, indeed, put down some tracks on wax cylinders.”

  I listened as Wayne mesmerized the audience with tales of a moody, cerebral horn player, an introspective man who lived his life in the bayous, and rarely played in public, but one who deserved a place in the pantheon of jazz greats. He described how the celebrated musicians of the day found their way to Little Red’s shack, to coax him to perform with them, or just to listen in wonder to a talent shared with so few. Wayne’s voice rose and fell like a preacher exhorting his congregation.

  “He drew the other musicians of his day like ants following a trail of honey,” he intoned. “They were hungry for his sound, in awe of his skill, his ‘chops’ if you will, and jealous of his talent. Some claimed Little Red was possessed by a voodoo spirit, a loa. When under its spell, the notes that poured from his horn were magic—sweet, melodic, inventive music, in sharp contrast to the boisterous style of Buddy Bolden that was so popular in the frenzied days that followed the turn of the last century.”

  Wayne peered over the half glasses perched on his nose. His eyes roamed up and down the rows of occupied seats.

  “For years, I’ve tracked rumors that claim the existence of those cylinders. So far, they still elude me. But if those recordings exist, I aim to uncover them. They represent an important link between Little Red and those who came after him.”

  “I’ll bet they’re worth some money, too, aren’t they?” Broadbent put in.

  Wayne looked momentarily taken aback before replying, “They will have tremendous worth as a historical treasure, Mr. Broadbent, linking the traditions of Ragtime, Dixieland, and more modern jazz. Every jazz musician today owes a debt to Little Red. Oh yes, his influence isn’t as obvious as that of others—Bolden and King Oliver, Louis, then Roy Eldridge, who bridged the gap between the older style of trumpet playing in New Orleans and Chicago with the modem giants—Dizzy and Sweets Edison, Fats Navarro and Miles Davis. But even though today’s artists never heard Little Red play—which I hope to rectify by finding those cylinders—his legend, which has been passed down by word-of-mouth, has had a profound impact on the way our current jazz stars think about the music they create.”

  Letting his gaze rest on Broadbent, he added, “And with today’s sophisticated digital recording capabilities, I’m certain they can be remastered and released to the benefit of all musical aficionados, yourself included, of course.”

  He again addressed the audience. “As to their monetary worth, I believe were there to be any fiduciary gains, they would go to any legatees of the LeCoeur family, should they survive.”

  Wayne cleared his throat, and carefully wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. He let the silence in the auditorium grow. Looking up, he took a deep breath, audible throughout the room.

  “Go home,” he boomed, startling those whose attention had wandered. “Search your attics and your storerooms. Scour the secondhand merchants and antique dealers. Bring me any cylinders you may find, and perhaps”—his voice rose—“together, we can make musical history.”

  Silence greeted this pronouncement. And then a rumble of voices swelled, filling the auditorium, as people rose from their seats, gathered up their belongings, and started for the doors, intending, I was sure, to hurry home to search their attics for wax recordings of Little Red LeCoeur to bring to Wayne.

  Charlie Gable saw his program breaking up without his own closing comments, and rushed to stem the exodus. “Hold on, folks,” he said.

  About half the room turned back to the stage.

  “Before you go, let’s have a hand again for this morning’s authors: historian Doris Burns, jazz critic Wayne Copley, investigative reporter Julian Broadbent, and mystery writer Jessica Fletcher.”

  There was some spirited applause from those who hadn’t yet made it out the door.

  “Don’t forget to visit your local bookstore to purchase the books written by these good folks, or you can order autographed copies from the Book Club Breakfasts website.” He rattled off the web address for his book club. “And thank you all for coming.”

  As the auditorium emptied, those of us on the panel got up from our seats. I looked around for Charlie, to offer my thanks for including me in the program, but he was deep in conversation with a man dressed in a blue pinstriped suit, and holding a tan cowboy hat. The serious expression on Charlie’s face discouraged me from approaching them.

  Julian Broadbent swiveled his seat around and regarded Wayne with a disdainful air. “Quite the little drama queen, aren’t you,” he sneered.

  Wayne pulled his glasses from his nose and let them dangle from the purple cord looped around his neck. Unperturbed, he gathered up his papers, insert
ed them in his leather case, and gently took my elbow to guide me off the stage. Looking back at Broadbent, he said, “When one has substantive material to discuss, drama comes naturally.”

  “Are you suggesting my work isn’t substantive?”

  “Nonsense. You’re a fine writer.” Wayne emphasized the final word.

  “Oh, is this another snide ‘day job’ comment?”

  Broadbent was getting hot. He stood quickly, sending his chair rolling to the back of the stage. His six-foot frame towered over Wayne.

  Doris Bums stood watching the exchange, an amused smile playing over her mouth.

  Wayne gazed down at his black-and-white “spectator” shoes. He licked his right index finger and leaned over to wipe a smudge off the toe of his left shoe. Straightening, he looked at Broadbent and said, “You must admit, your writing is far superior to your abilities, such as they are, on the saxophone.”

  “At least, I know how to play. You only know how to complain.”

  “Criticism is a noble, if occasionally underappreciated, profession,” Wayne announced to me in an easily heard aside.

  “Noble, is it? You’re about as noble as a swamp rat.”

  By this time, I was tugging at Wayne’s arm, attempting to draw him away before a battle-royal ensued. It was Charlie Gable who jumped between the mismatched combatants, the man in the blue suit at his side.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce Mayor Amadour’s top aide, Philippe Beaudin. Philippe, please say hello to our distinguished speakers. This is Ms. Bums and Mrs. Fletcher, and of course you know Mr. Copely and Mr. Broadbent.”

  Philippe Beaudin flashed a dazzling smile that was probably a powerful weapon in the political arena. Smoothly, he greeted each of us with murmured compliments, gently calming the waters and distracting Broadbent and Wayne from their rancorous exchange.

  “The mayor hopes you’ll be his guests at a party he’s throwing during the Jazz and Heritage Festival,” Beaudin said. “There’ll be the usual warm Louisiana hospitality, good food, stimulating company, and wonderful music, which I know you’ll all enjoy. Lots of politicos for you to pursue, Mr. Broadbent.”

  He winked at Broadbent, smiled at Wayne and me, and said, “Wayne, tell these nice folks what a wonderful host our beloved mayor is.”

  “You do just fine in the telling yourself, Phil,” Wayne responded.

  Beaudin turned to Doris Burns. A flicker of interest lit his eyes; his voice dropped, becoming husky.

  “A few of our voodoo disciples will be present, cher,” he said, using the familiar Cajun endearment. He moved closer. “Fertile ground for your research. I hope I’ll see you there.”

  “Please tell the mayor I’ll be happy to attend,” she said coolly, apparently accustomed to discouraging unwanted male attention.

  “I’ll do just that.”

  Beaudin donned his cowboy hat, and pulled a sheaf of papers from his breast pocket, handing them around. “The directions and other details are here,” he said brusquely, all business now that his mission was accomplished. “You can let Charlie know if you’re coming and he’ll have transportation arranged if you need it. I look forward to seeing you all again.” He tugged on the brim of his hat and left the stage.

  Broadbent jogged after Beaudin as the mayoral aide swiftly walked up an aisle in the direction of the auditorium exit. “Phil, is the mayor eyeing former Senator Lunsford’s seat?” I heard him inquire loudly, reverting to his investigative reporter role and apparently having forgotten his confrontation with Wayne. I couldn’t hear Beaudin’s reply as the two men barreled through the double doors to the lobby.

  “Well, that was a timely interruption,” Doris Burns noted. She turned to me. “I understand we’re staying in the same hotel. Would you like to walk back together?”

  “Wayne and I planned to have lunch at one, but you’re welcome to join us.”

  “Please do, Ms. Burns,” Wayne jumped in. “New Orleans is famed for its unique cuisine and we are titillating our palates today at Antoine’s.”

  “Please call me Doris, both of you. But may I take a rain-check on lunch? I really should prepare in case today’s invitation to tape voodoo followers brings in some calls.”

  Wayne assisted us down the narrow stairs at the side of the stage and we followed him to the lobby outside the auditorium. The young man who had asked Julian Broadbent about his saxophone playing was perusing posters on the wall. He turned when he heard our voices.

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said. “I’m David Stewart. I write for the Tulane student newspaper. I was hoping you might give me a short interview.”

  “You go ahead,” Wayne urged. “I’ll walk Doris to the hotel, and meet you there when you get back. That gives me time to confer with the chef at Antoine’s to see what special dishes we should order today. I promised you a gustatory delight, and so you shall have it. Doris, my dear, are you sure you won’t reconsider?”

  Wayne ushered Doris to the door, delighted at the possibility of another acolyte to introduce to the delights of the Crescent City. He tucked her hand under his arm and escorted her out the door, his short, sturdy physique a contrast to her tall, slim one.

  “I won’t keep you long, Mrs. Fletcher,” Stewart said. “I already have a lot of notes from this morning’s program, and I just need to fill in some details.”

  He flipped back the cover and the first few pages of a narrow notebook with spiral binding at the top, the classic “reporter’s notebook,” and pulled a pencil from behind his ear; the eraser was chewed down, and there were teeth marks denting the yellow paint. A nervous young man.

  “What would you like to know, David?”

  “Uh, how long will you be visiting New Orleans?”

  “I’m not sure exactly. My publisher has arranged a few interviews for me with local media—I have to call about the times and locations—and there will be a signing at Bookstar.”

  “Are you going to the Jazz and Heritage Festival?”

  “Oh yes. It’s one of the reasons I came here. But whether I’ll stay for both weekends is uncertain.”

  “Have you been to it before?”

  “No. This will be my first Jazz Fest.”

  He scratched a note on his pad.

  “You know it’s a pretty big event out at the racetrack,” he said. “It can get pretty confusing. There’s thousands of performers, and so many people it’s hard to walk.”

  “I’ll feel overwhelmed, I’m sure, but Wayne Copely has promised to escort me.”

  He stared at the page he was writing on, a blush rising on his face. “You know,” he said, “if he can’t make it one time—if you need any help getting—you know, like around, I’d be happy to take you.”

  “Oh, David, that’s very generous of you, but I believe Mr. Copely has a full schedule planned for me.”

  “Well, just in case he can’t make it, you can always call me.”

  He reached into the front pocket of his well-worn jeans and produced a card on which he had already scribbled his name and phone number.

  “I’ll keep it in mind,” I said, opening my shoulder bag and tucking his card into a side pocket. “I really must go now. I don’t want to keep Mr. Copely waiting.”

  David rushed to open the door for me. A blast of hot air nearly pushed us back inside. The sun was blinding.

  “You know, I do a little mystery writing myself,” he said, tugging at his wispy beard as we stepped outside.

  “Oh?”

  “I had a story published in a magazine once. It took first prize in a student writing contest.”

  He was talking fast now.

  “Would you, uh—could you, ah, maybe read my latest mystery story sometime, if you have the time, that is?”

  “I’m going to be pretty busy while I’m down here,” I said.

  “Oh, yeah, of course. I shouldn’t have asked. It’s not important anyway. It’s just a silly story.” He tucked his head down and studied his sneakers.

&nb
sp; I sighed. Would-be mystery writers often pressed their work upon me, and the task of reading so many manuscripts could become burdensome. I longed to turn them down, but as a former teacher, I also hated to discourage literary effort.

  “Listen,” I said, “why don’t you drop off a copy at my hotel. I’m staying at the Royal. I’ll read it on the plane on my way home. Just be sure to include your address so I can write to you and return your story.”

  “Really? Oh, cool! Thanks so much. I’ll go get it right now.”

  “That’s not really necessary ...”

  But my words went unheard. He had already sprinted halfway down the street.

  The French Quarter was awash with tourists as I made my way back to the hotel, and the tide swept me toward Jackson Square. Walking slowly, I followed the crowd, my progress hindered by knots of people who’d stopped to admire the colorful artwork hanging the length of the cast-iron fence that surrounded the park, or to consider the work of caricaturists and portrait painters who’d set pictures of movie stars and other familiar faces atop makeshift easels to entice tourists to sit for them. The square was named for An-drew Jackson, and his statue took pride of place at its center. I glimpsed Jackson through the iron pickets of the fence. The victor in the Battle of New Orleans in the War of 1812 was silhouetted against the white expanse of the St. Louis Cathedral, sitting astride a rearing horse and tipping his hat to all the visitors, most of whom ignored his sculptured likeness in favor of the surprising variety of live entertainment along the pedestrian walkway. Clowns, magicians, tarot card readers, tap dancers, and musical trios, duos, and solos all vied for the attention of the flood of visitors who were happy to comply, tossing coins into hats or open instrument cases on the flagstone in front of the performers.