by Janet Dawson
“Then she met Slade.” I reached for a napkin, since the waffle cone had leaked. My fingers were sticky with melted ice cream.
Mary smiled at me over her cone. “Yes, she met Slade. She was quite smitten. I never met him, but I certainly heard all about him and she sent me a picture. I thought he looked a little too brooding and enigmatic for my taste. But what do I know? I’m a middle-aged lady in my forties and I’ve been on exactly two dates since my husband died.”
Her description of Slade made me smile. “Enigmatic? That’s certainly a good description. No one seems to know much about him.”
“That’s part of the attraction, I’m sure. He plays the guitar, like a thousand other guys in this town, living by night at those clubs on Frenchmen Street and Bourbon Street. He’s something different from the kind of guy her husband was, the kind of guy a nice young woman from Mid-City goes out with. Except…he moved in after a short time, and Laurette told me her parents were upset about that. They don’t like him.” Mary paused, a thoughtful look on her face. “You know how some women, they meet a guy and everything—and everyone—else goes out the window?”
I nodded. “Yes, I do. Suddenly the woman has no time for her friends. That’s happened to me. I had a friendship go by the wayside because of it.”
“I was afraid that might be happening with Laurette, because of Slade. It seemed like she was throwing everything away, including the possibility of going back to school and looking for a better job, just so she could be at Slade’s beck and call. And now,” Mary added, “you tell me Laurette has gone off with him, somewhere, but nobody knows where and she hasn’t been in touch with her family. I can understand why they are worried. I would be, if one of my kids did that.”
“Had she ever talked about leaving town?”
Mary nodded. “She mentioned Florida, last year after Hannah died. A cousin lives in Pensacola, I think. But I didn’t think she was serious about it. Maybe she changed her mind.”
“Someone else suggested Pensacola,” I said. “It’s worth following up. But I wouldn’t think there would be that much in Pensacola to attract a musician. Not like New Orleans, with all those clubs you mentioned.”
“True enough.” Mary looked thoughtful. “Maybe they’ve just moved to a different place in New Orleans.”
It was possible, I thought. But something about buying the SUV and loading it up made me think they’d left town.
“Or another town with a big music scene,” I said. New York City? Los Angeles? But Austin was closer. “When was the last time you talked with her?”
“I called her a couple of weeks ago,” Mary said. “Just to see how she was doing. She sounded good, happy. I didn’t have a clue that anything was going on. If Laurette was giving off signs of doing something like this, I certainly didn’t pick up on them.”
Chapter Seven
Daisy Lasalle was channeling Billie Holiday, singing “Fine and Mellow” in a rich contralto. She had a white gardenia tucked into her curly dark hair and her sleeveless white silk dress set off her tawny skin. Backing her was a combo that included horns—trombone, saxophone and trumpet—plus drums, guitar, bass and a guy in a lemon-yellow shirt, playing the upright piano that was against the wall between the bar and the stage. Daisy and the rest of her band were up on the stage. The saxophonist and the bass player were women, and the rest of the musicians were male.
The Spotted Cat Music Club was on Frenchmen Street, in the New Orleans neighborhood known as the Faubourg Marigny. On this mild evening in April, it was a popular destination, the street clogged with traffic and people. The club itself occupied a weathered, two-story building with windows on either side of its recessed entrance. Inside, a railing separated the doorway from the raised stage at the front. A long bar took up most of one wall. Small tables, chairs and benches filled the space opposite the bar. In front of the stage was a small dance floor, where a few couples swayed to the music. The club’s familiar logo, painted on the wall between the piano and the front window, was a cat with spots, wearing a hat and playing the saxophone.
The set had just started when we walked into the Spotted Cat. Daisy saw her brother and gave him a wave and a smile, then focused on making music. We claimed a table on the wall opposite the bar.
“I’m buying,” I said. “What are you drinking?”
“Abita Amber,” Antoine said.
I crossed over to the bar and waited my turn. Abita was the local brew, its brewery located in Covington, on the other side of Lake Pontchartrain. Amber was popular, but I’d acquired a taste for the rich dark version called Turbodog. I paid the bartender and carried the bottles over to the table where Antoine sat.
Daisy segued into a smoky-voiced rendition of “You Don’t Know What Love Is.” She looked to be a few years younger than Antoine, late twenties, I guessed. As she sang her way through the first set, she plumbed the Great American Songbook, switching from jazz to blues to the popular songs of the forties and fifties, equally at home with all of them. She finished the set with a playful version of “Up a Lazy River.”
As the audience applauded, Daisy said, “Thank you. We’re going to take a little break now, but don’t go away, we’ll be back.”
The band dispersed as customers dropped bills into the tip jar in front of the stage. Several musicians made a beeline for the bar. Others went outside. The piano player stuck a cigarette in his mouth as he walked out the front door and joined a group of smokers on the banquette, some with cigarettes and others with vaping devices. As a Californian, I was used to the Bay Area’s strict smoking regulations, but New Orleans was different.
Daisy stepped off the stage and wound her way through a cluster of customers to join us at our table. Antoine stood up and brother and sister enveloped each other in hugs. Then she stepped back and tilted her head to one side. “Hey, there, big brother. What brings you to my turf?”
“This and that. Baby sister, I’d like you to meet my friend Jeri Howard, from Oakland, California. Then I’ll buy you a drink.”
“Why, thank you. Jack on the rocks, just a little one.”
“Coming right up.” Antoine headed for the bar, which was three-deep in people.
Daisy turned to me with a smile. “So, Jeri Howard from Oakland, how do you know Antoine?”
“I’m a private investigator. I met your brother a few years back at an investigators’ convention.”
“Are you in town on business, or pleasure?”
“It started out as a vacation,” I said. “My father and I were here birding and seeing the sights.”
“I have a friend who’s into birdwatching,” Daisy said. “She goes out to Bayou Sauvage a lot.”
“We were just there a few days ago,” I said. “Beautiful place. We saw lots of birds. And an alligator.”
Daisy laughed. “It’s not unusual to see an alligator out in the bayous. I guess if you haven’t seen one before…”
“I haven’t, except in zoos,” I confessed. “This particular critter swam toward us as we walked out on the dock to look at birds.”
“What got you interested in birdwatching?” Daisy asked. “Me, I don’t pay that much attention to them, except to think that they’re pretty. And I love to hear them sing.”
“I got interested in birds about the same time my father did,” I said. “He was curious about the birds showing up on his patio and I had a lot of birds in my yard. I wanted to identify them, and the birds I saw on my walks, so I bought a book about birds of the Bay Area. My father took a birding class and joined the Audubon Society, started going on field trips. A friend of his was supposed to come with him to New Orleans but at the last minute he couldn’t go. So Dad talked me into coming with him. The past week has been a lot of fun. It’s always good to have an excuse to visit the Big Easy.”
Daisy raised her hands. “Who says you need an excuse? Just come on down when the spirit moves you. We’ve got the best music, and the best food.”
“I certainly have enjoye
d the food,” I told her. “Dad developed a taste for K-Paul’s, and I love Bayona. And there’s great music everywhere. We’ve been to Preservation Hall twice. Tennessee Williams supposedly said, ‘America has only three cities: New York, San Francisco, and New Orleans. Everywhere else is Cleveland.’ Of course, I don’t know if he actually said that, but it’s a great quote. At least I saw it on a T-shirt in one of the shops in the French Quarter.”
“Well, I agree wholeheartedly,” Daisy declared. “Whether Tennessee Williams said it or not. Where’s your father now? Did he stay at the hotel?”
“He left for home today. The vacation is over. It’s now a case.”
“I see.” Daisy glanced up as Antoine returned with her drink. She took a sip, set the glass on the table and fixed her brother with a look. “Jeri tells me she’s working on a case. Now, did you come to hear me sing? Or is there something else on your mind?”
He laughed. “You know me too well. As a matter of fact, we’re looking for information on a guy.”
“I figured.” Daisy nodded, pulling her face down in a mock grimace. “You only come to see me when you want information.”
“That is not true.” Antoine defended himself, spreading his hands wide. “I like to hear you sing. Ever since you were doing it in the shower when you were just a little girl. Besides, I took you out to brunch on your birthday.”
“Well, I’ll let you have points for that.” Daisy sipped her Jack Daniel’s. “Tell me about this guy.”
“He’s a musician, plays the guitar.”
She laughed. “Yeah, we got a few of those in this town.”
“I’m thinking you or the folks in your band might have heard of him,” Antoine said.
“What’s this guy’s name?” Daisy asked.
“He goes by Slade,” I told her.
“Slade, hmmm?” Daisy thought for a moment. “That tickles my memory. Somebody said something about him. Now who was it?” She swirled her glass and the ice cubes tinkled. Then she beckoned to the woman who played saxophone. The sax player was short and stocky, her hair in cornrows. “Zina,” Daisy said, “this is my brother, Antoine, and his friend from California, Jeri.”
“Hey.” Zina raised one hand. The other held a bottle of Abita Amber. “How y’all doing?”
We returned her greeting and Daisy told her why we were there. “You ever hear of this guy Slade? Plays guitar.”
“I heard of him, indeed.” Zina nodded. “He plays here and there, round the way. Last I heard he was gigging on Bourbon Street.” Zina waved in the direction of the front door. “You want to talk to Rick, the piano player. He knows Slade, might have played with him a time or two. That’s Rick in the yellow shirt, out there with all the other nicotine fiends.”
Rick’s lemon-yellow shirt made him easy to spot among the smokers clustered outside the music club. Antoine and I left Daisy at the table and headed out to the street, where we were enveloped in the cloud of cigarette smoke. Rick was tall and skinny with a white-blond buzz cut. He looked us up and down through a pair of narrowed blue eyes. “You’re Daisy’s brother, right? The private eye?”
“Right,” Antoine said. “And this is Jeri Howard. She’s also a private eye.”
Rick took a puff of his cigarette and dropped it to the pavement, grinding out the butt with his boot. “To what do I owe the honor? Am I in trouble?”
“Looking for a guitar player named Slade,” I said. “Zina says you know him.”
Rick frowned. “Wouldn’t say I know him. Played a few gigs with him. But it’s not like we’re friends or anything.”
“What can you tell us about him?” Antoine asked.
The piano player shook his head. “Not a whole lot. Keeps himself to himself, you know what I mean? I got a buddy who can probably tell you more about him. His name’s Troy. Another guitar player. In fact, come to think of it, he crashed in Slade’s apartment for a couple of weeks. That was sometime last year.”
I backed away from another smoker and coughed. “Where can we find Troy?”
Rick pointed to the other side of Frenchmen Street. “He’s playing a gig over at Café Negril. I saw him earlier, hauling his gear inside.”
“Thanks for the info,” I said.
We went back inside. “We gotta go,” Antoine told his sister. “Rick gave us the name of someone who knows Slade, and this guy is playing over at Café Negril.”
Daisy downed the rest of her drink and stood up. “That’s cool. I’ve got to start the next set. It was nice to meet you, Jeri. As for you, big brother, I’ll see you Monday night at Auntie Lola’s.”
Antoine looked confused. “Monday night?”
“Monday night at seven, and you’d better show up.” Daisy put her hands on her hips. “It’s Auntie’s eightieth birthday. The whole family is coming. Mama is making that carrot cake you like so much.”
“Auntie Lola, carrot cake. I’ll be there, I’ll be there.” Antoine raised his hands in supplication, then pulled his phone from his pocket. “I’m putting it on my calendar right now. Wait, it’s already there. Guess I’d better set myself a reminder.”
“Or two. Or three,” his sister said, shaking her head. “I don’t know about you. I have to remind you about everything. And while I’m at it, don’t forget that the band is playing at Jazz Fest in a couple of weeks.” She gave him a quick hug and headed back to the stage, where the band had assembled. With a flourish, they swung into “Mambo Italiano,” that old Rosemary Clooney stalwart.
We carried our beer bottles with us as we left the Spotted Cat. Café Negril was on the other side of Frenchmen Street, but there was music coming from the nearby intersection of Frenchmen and Chartres, drawing us toward that instead. A large crowd had gathered around a group of kids who looked like they were in middle school. With trombone, trumpet, sax and snare drum, the kids were giving the bands inside the clubs a run for their money, playing a lively version of “Roll With Me, Knock With Me.” They were passing the hat, in this case a cardboard box, which was now loaded with coins and greenbacks. We stopped to listen and I found myself moving. Like the other people around me, I was unable to resist dancing to the infectious music.
As the kids started their next number, we headed across the street to Café Negril. I’d finished my beer, so I pitched the bottle into a receptacle. The sign outside the venue declared that the club had live music 365 nights a year. Inside, a huge Bob Marley mural loomed large on the wall behind the stage. Opposite that was a counter where patrons ordered food. The floor space on the right was crowded with tables. On stage a band was playing straight-up rhythm and blues. They finished “Rockin’ Pneumonia” and drove right into the old Chuck Berry song, “Nadine.” We asked around and determined that Troy was the lead guitarist. He had a head of dirty blond curls and wore a black New Orleans Saints T-shirt over baggy black jeans. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties, deep into his music zone, concentrating as he worked the strings on his electric guitar.
“They just started the set,” Antoine said. “Let’s get drinks and wait for the break.”
We found a table, ordering drinks. Since I’d already had a beer this evening I switched to sparkling water. I wanted to keep my wits about me.
The music was great. After songs by the three R&B Kings—Albert, Earl and Freddie—the band swung into Fats Domino’s “Blue Monday.” Antoine asked me to dance and we went out onto the floor. “You’re a pretty good dancer,” he said into my ear.
“It’s been a while. I should do this more often.”
“You’re in New Orleans now. It’s all about the music. And the food.”
We stayed on the floor for the next song, which had also been recorded by the great Fats, “I Hear You Knocking.” When the song finished, the band took a break. Troy positioned his red Fender on a guitar stand and stepped off the stage, heading for the bar. Antoine and I intercepted him, introduced ourselves and offered to buy him a drink.
The guitar player looked wary as he examined us. “W
hy?”
“We need information on a guitar player who calls himself Slade,” I said. “Rick down at the Spotted Cat suggested we talk with you.”
Troy still looked suspicious. “How do you know Rick?”
“We don’t, actually,” Antoine said. “I’m Daisy Lasalle’s brother and Rick plays piano in her band.”
Troy’s face relaxed. “Okay. Daisy’s cool. I’ll take that drink. Rum and Coke.”
Antoine moved to the bar. When he returned, I let Troy take a swallow before I spoke. “Rick says you used to live with Slade.”
The guitarist shrugged. “I wouldn’t call it living with him. Crashed on his sofa for a couple of weeks, that’s all. I was in a bind and I stayed there until I could get a place of my own.” He took another sip of his drink and grimaced. “I’m glad I got out of there when I did.”
“Why is that?” Antoine asked.
“Slade’s kind of a weird dude,” Troy said. “Not the easiest guy in the world to live with.”
“How so?” I asked.
Troy sipped his rum and Coke. “It’s all about him. Everyone else is playing second fiddle. You know what I mean?”
“I do.”
“On the other hand,” he added, “I’ve been told I’m not the best roommate either. I’m messy. And I snore. Big time.” He took another swallow of his drink. “Anyway, he doesn’t live in that apartment anymore. He moved in with his girlfriend. Laurette, a nice-looking lady.”
“You’ve met her?” I asked.
“Yeah, same night he did. I was playing here that night, and so was Slade. He was subbing with the band on guitar. It was a fix-up deal, you know.”
“No, we don’t know,” Antoine said. “Tell us what you mean.”
“This lady I know, she told me she was going to be here at Café Negril that night, with some friends from work. She wanted to introduce one of her girlfriends to Slade. She thought they’d hit it off, you know, be cool together.”
“What’s this lady’s name?” I asked. “And how does she know Slade?”
