Jazzed

  Alice rubbed the back of her chair where her leather jacket was hanging. “Now I understand why you were so insistent about carrying our jackets to dinner. Just how long have you had this information about The Avant-Garde, anyway?”

  The Cheshire cat grinned again. “Well, Ian mentioned Sunday that he had visited the club when he lived in New York several years ago. When I called LeeAnn Tuesday to tell her about the trip, she suggested I check to see if I could find it online. I did, and it was. I wanted to surprise you.”

  Shaking her head, Alice scanned the information Annie had printed about the club. “You sly dog! You sure are good at keeping secrets. It says here the club is still owned by the son of the man who founded it back in the 1930s. Wow, he must be getting up there in age now. Suppose he’d remember a singer from the forties?”

  “Maybe,” said Annie, pointing at a section about midway down the page. “According to the website, all of the jazz greats from the past six or seven decades have performed at this club. The venue is as legendary as the musicians who have played there.”

  Excited about the prospect of learning more about the mystery singer, Kate, Annie, and Alice chattered while sharing a sampler platter of appetizers.

  Though still tired from the drive, Kate was rejuvenated by the thought of meeting the club’s owner and what he might tell them. “I’m so glad you two came to New York with me.” She folded her napkin and put it next to her empty plate. “I never would’ve ventured into Greenwich Village on my own. This is turning into a whole different adventure for me!”

  ****

  “It’s rather skinny for a legend, isn’t it?” Alice cocked her head and looked up at the dark green awning stretching over the sidewalk connecting the narrow building to Seventh Avenue. “The awning looks like it might be bigger than the club.”

  Annie gave Alice’s shoulder a good-natured nudge. “Don’t judge a legend by its cover. And it’s not about the building, silly. It’s about the music. And this place has heard the best.”

  Kate stood in front of the battle-scarred, dark wooden door and looked back at Annie and Alice. “The doors don’t open for another thirty minutes. Do you think we can get in?” She slowly tried the door and jumped with surprise when it opened. She held it ajar for Annie and Alice.

  A shiver of excitement ran down Annie’s spine. “I love this place already,” she said. Oh, the stories these walls could tell! Framed color shots of contemporary artists Winton Marsalis, Chris Botti, and Sylvia Brooks led to backlit black-and-white portraits of heavy hitters like Louis Armstrong and Lena Horne, creating a welcoming committee of music who’s-who lining the hallway from the front door to a stairway obviously leading to the club downstairs.

  Alice motioned Kate and Annie to a group of portraits farther down the hallway. “Look at these. Don’t they have a look similar to the photos Ernst Michaels printed for you? See the backlighting and curling smoke? They all have a moody look to them.”

  Studying the photos, Annie nodded. “I can’t wait to see what we find downstairs.”

  They found a tall, wiry, middle-aged, ebony-skinned man with a bobbing Adam’s apple, setting up the ticket booth. Introducing herself, Annie pulled out the matchbook and photos and explained the purpose for their visit.

  He shuffled through the photos, smiled in recognition of the images, and pointed to an elderly man sitting alone near the stage. “You’ll need to talk to the owner, Mitchell Grants. His family has owned the place for over seventy years. He grew up with these musicians. Let me see if he can speak with you.”

  The ticket booth attendant returned shortly. “Mr. Grants said he will see you now. His mind is like a steel trap, although his hearing is going. You’ll have to speak up and talk clearly.”

  “Thank you so much.” A jolt of excitement shot through Annie as she took the photos and matchbook cover from the man and surveyed the club. It was a dimly lit, tiny rectangle flanked on either side by a half dozen small square tables. The center was filled with round tables designed to seat four people. At the far end of the club, a line of lights illuminated a piano, drum set, and several microphones on the narrow stage. Framed record jackets lined the wood-paneled walls. Time stood still in this place. It looked just like the background of Leo Harmon’s photos except for the noted absence of hazy cigarette smoke.

  Mitchell Grants, a slight man dressed in a dapper suit, sat perusing a piece of paper under lamplight at a round table just left of the stage.

  “Please sit.” Grants motioned to three chairs. “What can I do for you? We have just a few minutes before the doors open.”

  After making introductions, Annie pulled the photos from her purse and recounted the story of finding the negatives. “A photojournalist in Maine, Ernst Michaels, said these looked like the work of a jazz photographer named Leo Harmon. There’s one singer I don’t recognize, and I found the negatives of her photos mixed among my family portraits.”

  Grants, his bald head shining through thin gray hair, sifted through the photos, stopping from time to time to comment about a musician or explain the club’s history. His parents had opened the club in 1935, drawing musicians from all over the country to perform different styles of jazz music. Although he never played or sang music himself, he grew up helping his parents run the place. As a young man, he married a vocalist and eventually took over managing the club. He inherited it when his parents died in the 1970s.

  “That’s my Gertrude, the fourth frame from the stage. We ran the club together for years. Wasn’t she beautiful? She died several years ago, God rest her soul. But I just couldn’t bring myself to close or sell the place.”

  The raspy voice fell silent and Grants continued flipping through the photos. Suddenly he stopped, blinked his eyes in surprise, and said a single word, “Asta.”

  Annie leaned over to see which photo caused him to react. “That’s her, the mystery singer whose photo negatives I discovered behind my grandparents’ portrait! Who is she?”

  Before he could respond, patrons began filling the club and stopping by the table to pay their respects to Grants. He looked up at Annie, Alice, and Kate, looking helpless as club regulars commanded his attention. “I must attend to the club now. Please stay and enjoy the music. If you come back tomorrow night, I’ll tell you the story of Asta. Come early.”

  The women agreed to return the next evening and thanked Grants for inviting them to stay for the night’s performances. Shortly after he left the table, a young woman arrived with a round of soft drinks, compliments of the owner. Soon the friends were swept up into the sound of contemporary jazz music, a treat for Annie—a longtime jazz fan—and an education for Alice and Kate, whose tastes in music fell more toward classic rock and pop, respectively.

  As soon as the bandleader announced a break, Kate threaded her way through the tables toward the restroom while Annie and Alice remained in their seats. “There is something magical about this place.” Alice swirled the ice around her glass of cola. “I might even become a jazz connoisseur.”

  Annie laughed. “Now that would be some sort of magic!”

  One by one, the musicians took their places on the stage, and a blushing Kate returned to the table. “We have another round of drinks coming. I met the nicest guy on my way back to the table. Actually, he is the trumpet player from the band. After we chatted a little, he said he’d buy us drinks if I promised to return tomorrow.” She smiled shyly. “I didn’t tell him we’d already decided to come back.”

  Alice looked at the stage as the drummer tapped out a beat, and the trumpeter casually lifted the horn to his lips. “He’s cute too!”

  A pink hue crept back into Kate’s cheeks. “His name is Cole Cutchins. He’s been performing here since he was a college student at Columbia University. He teaches music theory and jazz performance there.”

  Annie and Alice looked at each other and grinned. “Tomorrow will be an exciting night,” Annie said.

  12

  Asta’s dark eyes flas
hed as she stuck out her bottom lip and tossed long locks of hair behind her shoulders. “Don’t be silly. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t continue singing. I love it, and the audience loves me.” Her voice was calm and soft.

  Her boyfriend, a few years her senior, placed a hand on her arm. The club’s name blinked on and off in neon above them, casting an eerie glow on his face. “There’s no need for you to do this. People like us don’t parade ourselves onstage for the world to see.” His words were icy but controlled. He gently pulled her into the shadows as Mitchell Grants hurried by and entered the club. “Being with me should be validation enough of your worth. You don’t need the band or this club, and you certainly don’t need men ogling you.”

  She took a deep breath and removed his hand from her arm. “This isn’t about you or any other man. It’s about me and how I feel when I sing. I have to go in and get ready for the show. Don’t worry about the family name; people here just call me Asta.” Falling silent a moment, she studied his face and tried to read it. “Will you stay for the show?”

  He removed a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, throwing the spent match on the sidewalk between them. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  The smoke drifted between them, and Asta turned to leave. “I’ll see you later.”

  The club was already buzzing with musicians warming up and patrons arriving for cocktails before the show. Creative electricity bounced between ice-filled glasses, cigarettes, and musical instruments. Asta walked through the club to a dressing room backstage and wondered how much Mitchell had overheard outside. Thirty minutes until showtime. Too late to find out.

  The lone woman in the show, Asta had a dressing room to herself while the four band members shared a room across the hall. She enjoyed the quiet solitude before stepping onstage. It helped her tuck away one part of her soul and focus on the other. Her boyfriend’s words echoed inside her. “I will not tolerate my family’s good name being dragged down in association with a showgirl.”

  A showgirl? Is that how he saw her—as a fast and easy floozy, light on talent and heavy on makeup? All those years of classical voice and piano lessons, and he described her as a showgirl?

  Applying a light dusting of powder, Asta studied her face in the mirror and squeezed her eyes shut to keep tears from falling. “A lady doesn’t cry in public,” she whispered. She blotted her lipstick and checked the bobby pins holding her blond curls to one side as the drumbeat filtered through the walls.

  On cue, she stepped onto the stage, reveling in the spotlight, and poured her heart into the blues.

  Mitchell and his father watched from the back of the club, smiling as the young singer commanded the attention of everyone in the room.

  “This girl could be a star,” the elder Grants said, nudging his son’s arm.

  “Uh-huh,” Mitchell said, his eyes focused on the stage. “If she would ditch the rich boyfriend.”

  ****

  “They sure do feed us well here,” Alice said, tossing paper cups and napkins into the trash can. “Fuel to keep us alert during the workshops. As if the ham-and-cheese croissant wasn’t enough, the chocolate brownies were to die for.”

  Kate patted the waistband of her khaki pants. “We should have shared one sandwich among us. I ate too much.”

  Annie pulled her conference information packet from her bag and led the way to the exhibition hall. “We can walk it off in here before the afternoon session starts.”

  The huge hall was packed with fiber-art enthusiasts strolling among rows of booths, the hum of conversation almost drowning out the instrumental music piping through the sound system. Vendors from all over the country drew attention to their contributions to the fiber-arts realm with colorful displays, printed materials, creative dress, and varying degrees of persuasive conversation.

  “Wow. This is overwhelming,” said Kate, standing motionless in the doorway.

  Alice chuckled as she linked her arm through Kate’s and ushered her into the room. “This coming from the girl who drove us through New York City without flinching!”

  Looking at the exhibition diagram in her packet, Annie devised a plan of attack. She pointed to a section of tables on one side of the room. “We have about three chances to see the exhibits. Let’s go through these rows today. We can jump to the other side of the hall tomorrow and finish up the middle before we leave on Sunday. What do you think?” She looked at her watch. “We have about an hour before the next round of classes start.”

  Kate grabbed a small notepad and pen from her purse. “Mary Beth asked me to make a list of possible vendors for the shop.”

  The trio browsed through booths that tempted them with large varieties of hand-dyed yarn and fiber, knitting and crochet needles, quilt patterns, fiber dyes, and needle-felting supplies. They shared their experiences in the morning classes with one another until Annie disappeared into a display of machines that intertwined cutting-edge computer technology with various facets of the fiber-arts world. A few minutes later, a hands-on demonstration of how to create jewelry with fiber and beads lured Alice away long enough to start a necklace made from discarded fabric and an assortment of beads. Kate transformed into a butterfly, landing in one booth long enough to take a few notes before flitting to the next one. By the time Annie and Alice caught up to her, she had her notebook half-filled with suggestions for Mary Beth.

  “You’ve been busy,” said Annie, watching Kate flip through her pages of notes.

  Alice pulled the necklace-in-progress from her bag. “I’ve been productive too, although making a necklace wasn’t quite as exciting as Kate meeting that dreamy musician last night.”

  Annie and Alice exchanged a look and laughed as Kate turned tomato red. “Oh stop it, you two. I’m not exactly a man magnet.” She was smiling.

  “Oh, no?” Alice said, widening her eyes. “You could have fooled me!”

  Kate, unaccustomed to so much attention, looked down and shifted her weight from leg to leg. “Isn’t it time for the next session of workshops to start? I’m ready to learn all about creative displays and marketing for the shop.”

  Annie consulted her packet and then her watch. “We have five minutes to get to our classes. When they are over, why don’t we meet in our room to freshen up and call Mary Beth before we head to The Avant-Garde?”

  ****

  “Oh, Mary Beth, you should see this place! Our room is beautiful.” Kate stood at the hotel room window and gazed over Times Square, her cellphone held up to her right ear. “I wish you were here. How’s the shop?”

  Annie listened to Kate’s end of the conversation as she exchanged her floral cotton blouse for a turquoise sweater in preparation for walking in the night air. She didn’t feel the need to change her gray pants and sensible shoes.

  “Annie, would you like to talk to Mary Beth?” Kate held out the phone.

  Annie chatted with Mary Beth for a few minutes, describing the crocheting workshop she had attended and filling her in on the trip to the club. “I’m so sorry you couldn’t attend the conference, but I’m thankful you sent Alice and me in your place. Speaking of Alice, do you have time to speak with her?”

  Annie placed her hand over the phone. “Wow, you look fabulous! Here—say hi to Mary Beth.”

  Grabbing the phone, Alice mouthed “thank you” to Annie before addressing Mary Beth. “So I guess they already told you about Kate’s flirtation last night.” She paused and cast a guilty look toward the window. “Oh. Well, a good-looking musician sent us a round of drinks last night after she spoke to him during the band’s break. Did they at least tell you that we found out the name of the mystery singer?” Alice sent a thumbs-up to Annie as she listened to Mary Beth. “We’re going back tonight to see if we can make a connection between Asta, the Holdens, and Grey Gables. We’ll let you know. OK. We’ll call again. Bye!”

  “You are so silly!” Annie grabbed a pillow from the nearest bed and hurled it at Alice. “I’m not so sure Kate wanted to tell anyone about th
e trumpet player.”

  Catching the pillow in time to prevent it from messing her hair and makeup, Alice punched it and tossed it back on the bed. “I’m really sorry, Kate. I figured one of you would have told her. Next to getting Asta’s name, it was the highlight of the evening!”

  Kate adjusted the red belt around her waist, the only concession to color in her white tunic and pants. Her dark hair fell in contrast against the tunic sleeves.

  Alice stepped back and studied Kate’s look. “You look beautiful, and I have the perfect pair of earrings to match your outfit!” She rummaged through her suitcase in search of her jewelry case. Minutes later, she held up a dainty pair of earrings, one earring in each hand, made of red, white, and black glass beads. Motioning Kate to the mirror over the dresser, Alice held an earring up to each of Kate’s ears. “These will be stunning on you!”

  Kate watched quietly as Alice slid the earring posts into her pierced ears then looked at her reflection in the mirror. “I usually don’t wear dangle earrings. But they do look nice, don’t they?”

  “Alice was right,” said Annie, peeking around Alice’s shoulders to look into the mirror. “You look beautiful. You might attract the attention of a certain musician tonight!”

  Putting an arm around each of her friends, Alice grinned. “My thought exactly!”

  ****

  “It’s locked.” Kate pushed on the door again and glanced back at Annie and Alice.

  Alice reached over Kate’s shoulder and rapped sharply on the door to The Avant-Garde. “They’re expecting us. We just have to let them know we are here.”

  When the door finally opened, Cole Cutchins greeted them with a smile. “Welcome back! Come in; Mitchell is expecting you.” He ushered the women in the door and locked it behind them. “We don’t open for a while, so you have the whole place to yourselves.”