“I have a few leads,” he replied, turning his attention to me and twirling a pencil between his fingers. “And the paper mentioned it in the article covering our panel.” He pulled a leafed-through copy of the magazine Wavelength from under his arm. “I’ve also got a little ad in here that should churn the waters.”
I told Wayne about Stanley and the street merchant’s insistence on the futility of searching for recordings by Little Red. “I’m concerned that you’ll be terribly disappointed after putting in all this effort,” I said. “I know how much it means to you.”
He listened intently. Then a smile creased his face, and he patted my arm. “You know, Jessica, I’ve heard that argument for years. But I’m not the only one looking for them; there was an ad in the paper a few weeks ago. So I think the odds are good. If nothing else, my research may clear up the mystery and determine once and for all if the recordings were ever made. And if they were, what happened to them.” He grinned. “Either way, I’ll have enough material for another book.”
“You devil. And here I was worrying for nothing.”
Wayne and I continued on, starting with zydeco, sampling some bebop, and listening to stride piano. Two hours later, Doris, Julian, Wayne, and I exited the gospel tent, our cheeks red and foreheads gleaming. The gospel tent had had rows of folding chairs, but few people had stayed in their seats once the concert had begun. We all stood, swaying, moved by the music, hands clapping, feet tapping. It was a physical as well as spiritual experience.
“What wonderful, talented young people,” I exclaimed, fanning my face with my straw hat.
Wayne was smug. “Picked a good one, didn’t I?” he said.
“They were terrific,” Doris agreed. “Sure got me hopping.” She bounced lightly on her feet, holding on to the new gris-gris—a small red pouch suspended from a string around her neck—that she had purchased at a voodoo stall. “This has already brought me good luck.”
“Brought me luck, too,” Broadbent said.
I saw an intimate look pass between them that caused a blush to rise on the young woman’s cheeks, and realized that Broadbent had been on his best behavior with Wayne today so he could pursue Doris. Unlike the cool reception she’d given the mayor’s aide, she seemed not to mind Julian’s attentions. Wayne was doing his best to ignore Broadbent, and considering that their last meeting had nearly resulted in blows, I was grateful for the truce.
Wayne clapped his hands. “Well, I’m hungry. Anyone else ready to eat?”
We followed Wayne, but we would have known which way to go anyway. The spicy aroma in the air intensified and led the way. At the food stalls, clouds of steam rose from griddles, grills, and kettles used for cooking gumbo, jambalaya, étouffée, grillades, and other Louisiana specialties. Sandwich stands featured muffulettas, made with Italian meat and cheese and an olive spread, and po-boys with a variety of ingredients piled on French bread. A couple walked by, balancing paper plates bearing small mountains of boiled crawfish. Nestled in with the bright-red crustaceans were chunks of yellow corn on the cob and red-skinned potato.
“Want to try some fried alligator?” Broadbent growled, putting an arm around Doris.
“Don’t tease,” she replied, ducking away from his side. “What’s it taste like anyway? And don’t say ‘chicken.’ ”
He chuckled. “The all-purpose comparison?” he asked. “No, I don’t think it’s anything like chicken, and it might be an acquired taste. It’s a little bit oily.”
“I’ll skip it then,” she replied.
He turned to me with one eyebrow raised. “Are you game?”
“I’m adventuresome,” I said, “but I don’t think I’m that adventuresome.”
Doris and Julian wandered off to inspect a gumbo stand, while Wayne and I lined up for po’boys, fried oysters for him, crawfish for me. I insisted on paying for our sandwiches, and despite his scowl, he agreed.
“That looks mighty good, Wayne Copely,” a hearty voice said from behind as we left the stand with our sandwiches. We turned to see Mayor Maurice Amadour bearing down on us. He wore a well-tailored yellow-and-white-striped seersucker suit, buttoned over an imposing stomach, a straw boater, and a big grin. He clapped a beefy hand on Wayne’s shoulder and poked his face toward me.
“You must be that famous mystery writer Phil was jawing to me about.” He stuck out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Miz Fletcher.”
I wiped my hand on a napkin and placed it in his paw.
“I understand you’re going to sample some of our down-home Louisiana hospitality next week,” he said, continuing to hold my hand. “My wife Marguerite and I are tickled you can come. She’s a big fan of yours, reads all your books.”
“How nice,” I murmured, withdrawing my hand.
But he hadn’t heard my reply. He was on to another topic, urging Wayne to bring his sister Clarice to the party, too. “Haven’t seen her since the funeral,” he declared loud enough to make heads turn, and Wayne cringe. “Make her come with you. She needs to get back in the social whirl again. Marguerite will take care of her. Even find her a new husband. What do you think? Will she come?”
“It’s very kind of you to invite her. I’ll let her know.”
The mayor grinned at me, and I hoped he wasn’t planning to offer to find me a new husband, too. “So, Miz Fletcher, how do you like the Big Easy? Appropriate name, don’t you think?”
I nodded, realizing I wasn’t going to be able to slip a word in edgewise.
“Crime is down for the third year in a row,” he told me, raising his voice so he could be easily overheard. “New police chief has it all under control.”
I looked past the mayor and saw Broadbent holding a platter of crawfish with both hands. Amadour caught the direction of my gaze and abruptly left to spread his sunshine on a new prospect, hailing Julian like a long-lost brother, and fussing over Doris.
Wayne heaved a sigh at the mayor’s departure.
“He’s a bit dramatic,” he said apologetically, “but he’s got this city moving ahead. New industry’s coming in, and the bankers are happy. He’s done a good job.”
“Do you really think he’s considering a Senate race with Lunsford’s seat open?” I asked.
“If Phil has anything to say about it, he will,” Wayne replied. “He makes no secret of his ambition. With Lunsford out of the way, Maurice stands a good chance of being nominated. No wonder he’s such a fan of Broadbent’s.”
Philippe Beaudin broke through the spectators who surrounded our little party and cajoled the mayor into following him to his next appointment. The mayor waved to us and plunged through the crowd, turning this way and that, shaking hands and bussing cheeks, not missing anyone wanting to touch him.
We ate our lunches in blessed silence, savoring the delicious flavors of the food even though it had gotten cold. Following our meal, the four of us headed toward the main stage for the Marsalis family concert. We passed through a section of the fair devoted to traditional country crafts. Around us were booths displaying a host of handmade items—clothing, jewelry, quilts, soaps, candles, toys, boxes, dried flowers, and clocks. Doris’s eyes lit up.
“Been here, done this,” Broadbent complained, holding up Doris’s shopping bag in one hand and pointing at it with the other.
Wayne tapped me on the shoulder. “We’ll go ahead,” he said, indicating Broadbent, “and hold some seats in the VIP tent. You ladies shop awhile, but don’t be late.” He looked at his watch. “You’ve got twenty minutes.”
Doris was delighted. “You’ve got to see some of this voodoo stuff,” she told me. “It’s incredible.”
We headed for a line of stalls selling an assortment of strange-looking voodoo paraphernalia. Doris stopped at one and greeted its proprietor, a wizened black woman in a striped turban and long purple robe with gold braid at the neck, waist, and wrists.
“This is Ileana Montalvo,” Doris announced proudly. “She’s a voodoo priestess we met earlier.”
The priestess, who had been sitting in a chair shuffling a deck of tarot cards, slowly got to her feet and limped toward me. She was a diminutive woman, her brown eyes bright despite her age, which I guessed to be in the mid-seventies. She studied my face intently.
“lleana picked out this gris-gris for me,” Doris said, fingering the small red pouch that lay against her chest. “To help with the research.”
“That’s nice,” I said, wondering why Doris was so excited about what looked to me to be simply a keepsake sold to tourists.
“And it’s already worked,” she said, her voice full of laughter. “She’s agreed to let me interview her tomorrow.”
The woman smiled at Doris. “I be good for your research,” she said. “Only give you truth, no nonsense like you see on TV.”
Thinking a voodoo charm might be an entertaining gift to give friends back home, I perused the items on the table, including a rack of gris-gris like the one Doris was wearing. They were hanging in groups of colors, red, orange, pink, blue, and white, each cluster identified by a hand-lettered sign indicating the benefit to be derived—Psychic Power, Do Well in School, Peace & Protection, Money & Good Luck, Win-in-Court, Enemy Be Gone, Lucky Lotto & Gambling, Good Memory—I could use that last one myself at times. In a basket were voodoo dolls, their wood and moss bodies covered with dark burlap. On several dolls, colored string tied off the bulge that defined the head. Tiny cowrie shells were sewn on for the eyes and mouth. Others had clay heads with tiny holes for eyes, and painted hair.
The old woman cleared her throat, and gestured to me with her hand. “May I see?”
“See what?” I asked.
“Your hand.” She leaned over the table to take my wrist, and cupped my hand with both of hers, peering down at the lines in my palm, her nose inches away. She traced one crease with a gnarled finger, shivered, and looked up.
“You’re a good person,” she said, searching my eyes, “but sometin’ not right here.”
“It isn’t?” I said, surprised. “No.” She shook her head sadly. “Don’t see what it be. Mist over it. But you must take care. There’s evil near you.”
Despite the heat of the day, I felt a chill creep up my spine. I rubbed the goosebumps on my arms. Was this just a clever act to sell me some trinket?
“Not what you tink,” she answered my thought in a raspy whisper. She squinted at her rack of gris-gris, her wrinkled hand hovering near the Enemy Be Gone. Changing her mind, she bent to rummage in a box on the ground, and pulled out a small packet of green felt tied up with raffia.
“Here.” She thrust it into my hands. “Take it.”
I started to pull out my wallet.
“Put your money away,” she insisted, backing away from the table and wiping her hands on the front of her dress.
“What is it?” I asked, turning the packet over to see a small, carved skull sewn on the other side.
“A juju. For protection. Keep it with you.”
“Thank you. I appreciate your concern, but I really don’t need it.” I laid the packet on the table.
She became visibly upset, mumbling and pacing the small space behind the table. “Bad luck. Bad luck to leave it here.” She picked up the packet and offered it to me again, her eyes pleading with me to take it. “It be good magic, blessed by the spirits.”
“All right,” I conceded, taking the juju and reluctantly tucking it in my bag.
Doris had watched this exchange solemnly. “Come on, Jessica,” she pressed nervously. “We’d better go. We’ll miss the concert.
I thanked the priestess, who seemed relieved, and followed Doris down the aisle toward the concert stage. How strange, I thought. What did she see? I’ve never believed in psychic powers. Oh, I’ve had the occasional “female intuition.” I’ve even felt a strong compulsion to be guarded in certain situations which, indeed, became threatening. But caution in those risky cases was just prudent. What you need when you place yourself in danger is not ESP, but good solid preparation and a thorough knowledge of the people you’re dealing with so there won’t be any surprises. Policemen often tell me that the more they know about a case, the more they find their “hunches” come true. But I wasn’t working now, not writing about crime, not investigating cases, not talking to suspects. So what could have influenced the voodoo priestess?
“I hope you’re not upset, Jessica,” Doris said as we approached the expanse of lawn in front of the concert stage. The area was filled with clusters of people, children chasing each other, and families gathered around their flags, either standing or sitting on blankets and lawn chairs.
“Not at all,” I told her.
“Do you think it was an act?”
I hesitated. “I might have thought so,” I said, reasoning it through, “if she’d wanted money for the juju, but it doesn’t make sense to give it away. She has the booth to sell her merchandise at the fair. That’s why she’s here. She must have very strong faith in her voodoo beliefs to feel the need to protect me, more than the need to sell me something.”
“Faith. Of course,” Doris said. “There’s so much commercialism in voodoo, you tend to forget that it’s a genuine religion.”
I hooked her arm in mine. “That’s enough of that,” I said. “Let’s see if we can find Wayne and Julian.”
The Marsalis concert was thrilling, and included a lesson in jazz for the children that was appreciated even more by the adults. Mayor Amadour presented the members of the family—Ellis Marsalis and his four sons, Branford, Wynton, Delfeayo and Jason—and posed for pictures on stage, clearly tickled to be associated with the celebrities. That wasn’t the last time we saw the portly mayor that afternoon. We met him again when we walked into the tent for the five o’clock performance by Blind Jack, a trumpeter whom Wayne had described as the natural successor to Little Red LeCouer. Taking seats in the front row, we waited to meet the musician, who was deep in conversation with his manager and the mayor.
Wayne crossed his legs and jiggled his foot impatiently. “I want you to meet Blind Jack before he plays. It’s always such pandemonium after.”
“Your mayor sure gets around,” Doris commented.
“It’s an election year,” Broadbent reminded her. “And this is one of the city’s biggest events.”
Philippe Beaudin walked up to the mayor and whispered in his ear. Amadour excused himself to Blind Jack and his manager and walked to the back of the tent, Beaudin on his tail, where he greeted an elegantly dressed couple.
“Contributors,” Broadbent muttered, rising to follow the mayor. “I’ll be right back.”
Wayne jumped to his feet and intercepted Blind Jack before his manager could lead him away, or anyone else could gain his attention. Holding the musician’s elbow, he took a step toward Doris and me. Blind Jack was an old man, stooped and frail, a fringe of white curls outlining his shiny pate. His hand shook as he adjusted a pair of dark glasses that rested on his nose, but his voice, while low and gravelly, was strong.
“Jack, I want you to meet some friends,” Wayne said, waving us over.
“Wayne, my man. Where y’at? Good to see you.” He chuckled at his own joke. “Where you been? You haven’t written me up in a while.”
“Jack, I’ve written more columns about you than any other player,” Wayne said. “You know you’re my idol—after Little Red, that is.”
“That Little Red, he was a wonder,” Jack said, shaking his head from side to side.
Wayne introduced us. “This man is a genius on the horn,” he said as Doris and I took turns shaking his hand.
“It’s lovely to meet two such charming ladies,” he declared.
“We’re looking forward to listening to you,” I said. “Wayne has been anticipating your performance all day.”
“He’s a good boy, Wayne is,” Jack kidded, groping behind him for Wayne’s arm. He held on tight, and leaned into Wayne’s side.
“You hear about Elijah?” he asked in a low voice.
“Yes, but let
’s not discuss it here.”
Doris and I looked at each other.
“Jack, I want us to sit down and discuss Little Red’s recordings,” Wayne said, keeping his voice low.
“Find any yet?”
“Not yet, but I have a new lead to run by you.”
“All right,” Jack agreed. “Maybe I can help you out. Why don’t you meet me after my late show at Café Brasilia. We’ll sit on my veranda and down a couple of Cokes together.”
“It’s a deal.”
“Did you know Little Red personally?” I asked.
Blind Jack swiveled his head in my direction. “I was a young pup, Mrs. Fletcher, when Red was an old man, like me today.”
“Was he still playing?”
“Oh yes, Red played to the end.” He paused, remembering. “Never recorded when I knew him. But he might’a had in his younger days. Wayne, here, will discover it if he did.”
Blind Jack’s manager put an end to our conversation. “You’ve got five minutes,” he said as he passed us carrying a microphone stand.
“Okay, okay. You got my horn?” Jack shuffled around following the sound of his manager’s voice.
“It’s next to your chair, where it always is,” the manager called back.
Jack addressed us. “I gotta go. It’s nice to have met you, ladies. Wayne, I’ll see you later.”
Age had claimed Blind Jack’s fragile physique, but when he raised his trumpet to his lips, the strength of his soul shone through. He played with all the force and vigor of youth, but overlaid with a wisdom and grace youth had yet to discover. Wayne sat next to me, entranced. Sometimes he listened with his eyes closed, nodding at nuances that escaped me. Other times, he rocked from side to side, or tapped his feet, his whole body involved with the music. I concentrated on the melodies and the variations that Blind Jack and his accompanists played, striving to decipher the secret language of jazz, and taking pleasure in the process.
Philippe Beaudin came up to me at the end of the performance. “Mrs. Fletcher, did you enjoy the concert?”
“Very much so,” I replied.
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