I recounted for him other things he’d told me about jazz. When I was finished, he shook his head, smiling. “Whew! I’d say you learned your lessons well.” Consulting a schedule he’d pulled from his breast pocket, he added, “Tomorrow, you’ll have an opportunity to sample all kinds of jazz, and there’ll be a host of trumpet players to listen to this year because opening day is dedicated to the memory and spirit of Little Red LeCoeur. I had to push hard for that, but the organizers finally agreed. I’m sure they’ll have T-shirts and little trinkets with his image on them, so you can even bring home a memento of his influence.”
“Wayne, do you really think there’s any chance of finding those recordings you spoke of this morning?”
“I’m not sure. But I may know a lot more after tonight.”
“Someone has already responded to your challenge?”
“It could be a false lead, but if you don’t track them all down, you never know. I won’t say any more. I don’t want to jinx it.”
“You’re not superstitious, are you?”
“Everyone in this city is superstitious. I should have gotten a special gris-gris to wear till I find the cylinders. Maybe I’ll pick one up at Jazz Fest tomorrow.”
“I’ve heard that term, gris-gris, but I don’t remember what it is.”
“It’s a voodoo charm, a pouch containing a mixture of ingredients, which vary depending on what you need—something to bring you luck, protect you from evil, help you get a job, attract a lover, that sort of thing. You wear them on a string around your neck. I never have, but lots of people do. I wonder if Doris Bums knows about them. We should enlighten her.”
The bill came and Wayne and I had a good-natured debate over who would pay for lunch.
“This one’s on me,” he said. “After all, I chose the restaurant. You can buy me lunch tomorrow at the racetrack. That’s where the festival takes place.”
“I’ll be happy to buy you lunch tomorrow, so long as you let me take you to dinner at a restaurant later on. As wonderful as a Po’ Boy sandwich or other festival fare may be, they can’t compare to a lavish meal like the one we just had. You must let me treat you to a special place.”
“We’ll see.”
We exited the restaurant and stood for a moment in the shade of the gallery overhead, acclimating ourselves to the heat.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” I said. “I brought along the book you asked for.”
I pulled from my shoulder bag a hardback copy of my latest mystery, which I had already inscribed to Wayne.
“Wonderful! I’ll start it tonight.” He squeezed the book into his leather case along with his papers from the morning’s panel.
“I should probably bring a book to the mayor and his wife next week, shouldn’t I?”
“They might have it already,” he said. “Marguerite’s a big reader. Remind me, and I’ll give them a call and ask.”
“I’ll do that,” I said. “Thanks again for the wonderful lunch.”
“It was my pleasure.”
“What time shall we meet tomorrow?”
“Why don’t I stop by your hotel at nine-thirty and we can have breakfast before we leave for the track? That way I can bring you a copy of my book, and assuage my guilt about deserting you this afternoon and evening, considering that I talked you into coming here.”
“I’ll be happy to meet you for breakfast, but there’s no need to feel guilty. I intend to enjoy a leisurely promenade around the French Quarter. I spotted some artwork in Jackson Square I’d like to see again, and maybe I’ll even buy myself a straw hat, like yours.”
“Till tomorrow then. You know how to get back to your hotel?”
I nodded. Wayne gave me a peck on the cheek, checked the crease of his straw hat, slid the hat on his shaved head, and took off at a brisk pace.
I browsed a few windows en route to my hotel. In one, I saw a familiar face reflected back at me. I turned around. Across the street was mayoral aide Philippe Beaudin in his tan cowboy hat. He was talking animatedly with a muscular man in a black T-shirt, who had a ponytail hanging down his back and a windbreaker slung over one shoulder. I couldn’t see the man’s face because his back was to me, but he had a distinguishing feature that was hard to miss. Peeking out from his left sleeve, curled around his elbow, was the long tail of some animal tattooed on his arm.
Thinking I could save Wayne a call by asking Beaudin if the Amadours might have my book, I waved at him and called his name. He looked up with a frown and continued talking to the man.
I stepped off the curb. A big green bus advertising “Swamp Tours” pulled in across the street, and the clip-clop of hooves alerted me that a mule-drawn carriage was approaching. I took a step back. The carriage was blue, with purple fringe around the sunshade top. The driver had given his mule a red felt hat, and had cut holes in it through which the mule’s ears protruded. Everyone wears a hat in this heat, I thought wryly. That would have to be my first purchase.
The carriage passed and the bus moved out, and I crossed the street only to find both men gone. I looked down the street in one direction, and then the other. I’d only waited a moment to cross. Beaudin’s cowboy hat ought to be easy to spot in the crowd, I thought. But he’d disappeared. I stepped back into the street to get a better view. No man with a ponytail was visible; no tan hat stood out among the bobbing heads.
How strange, I thought. I was sure he’d seen me.
Chapter Four
Room 108 at the Royal Hotel, one of several “Royals” in the city, was a bright but cool haven when I returned there following lunch at Antoine’s. I’d stopped at the concierge desk first to learn that my package for Napoleon was still awaiting pickup. But another package, a thick envelope, had arrived for me. It was David Stewart’s mystery story. I briefly contemplated reading it right away, but knew I’d prefer to have a stretch of time in which to make notes and give his story my full attention. Airplane trips are perfect for that kind of work. Phones don’t ring, neighbors don’t stop in, and there are none of the myriad distractions that make it easy to put aside a project. I slipped the envelope containing his story into the same pocket of my airplane carry-on bag where I keep my plane tickets, and returned the bag to the top shelf of the closet.
My accommodations were on the ground floor; French doors opened out to a paved stone pathway, leading to a charming courtyard with a tinkling fountain where breakfast was served each morning. I couldn’t see the patio through the glass panes of the doors—a large bush on one side of the path obstructed my view, but also afforded a measure of privacy. Nevertheless, I drew the heavy drapes closed, slipped off the silk dress I’d worn for this morning’s book-and-author program and my lunch with Wayne, hung it up, and pulled the terry robe the hotel had thoughtfully provided from its hook on the back of the bathroom door. With the drapes closed, the dimmer light in the room allowed me to see the message light on my phone, which I hadn’t noticed when I’d come in.
I sat on the side of the bed and picked up the phone, and the pen and pad next to it. The first message was from my publisher’s new marketing director, Paulette Parr, who’d left details about my upcoming book signing at Bookstar. Paulette was a wonderfully organized young woman, supporting four children with the assistance of her mother. How she managed to keep track of all their schedules—after—school soccer, ballet lessons, play dates, pediatrician appointments—as well as the book tours of several dozen authors, never failed to impress me.
The second message was from my good friend of many years, Seth Hazlitt, who called to tell me his nurse’s cat had had a litter of calico kittens, and did I want him to put a hold on one for my nephew, Grady, and his new wife, who’d just bought their first house. I checked my watch. Seth would have a waiting room filled with patients now; I’d better put off my return call to a better time. For many years, Seth had been the only doctor in Cabot Cove, and had recently been talking about retirement. Of course, he’d mentioned it before, but there was always a chorus
of objections whenever he raised the topic down at Mara’s Luncheonette. But he’d finally taken the first step six months ago when he’d asked a lovely young woman, a graduate of Albert Einstein Medical School in New York City, to join his practice. Jennifer Countryman was a native of Maine who’d left home for the first time to go away to college. During her interview with Seth, she’d told him that her years of education, internship, and residency in big-city schools and hospitals made a return to her home state, and a small town medical practice, very attractive. With Cabot Cove only an hour’s drive away from her parents, who lived inland, the arrangement seemed perfect for her. And it was a great relief for Seth.
It took a while for a few of Seth’s patients to warm up to Dr. Countryman, but her sunny smile and professional competence eventually won them over. Her presence in the office meant Seth could take some much-deserved time for himself to putter in his yard, or steal a few afternoon hours out on a boat fishing, or on the golf course.
I deleted the messages and leaned back. The bed, queen-sized with wrought-iron head and footboards, was covered with a white linen duvet, and the sheets and pillowcases were white as well. I stifled a yawn—big meals make me sleepy—and decided an afternoon nap was just what I needed. I crawled beneath the sheets and fell asleep immediately, the smoothness of the linen pillowcase cool beneath my cheek.
It was nearly four when I awoke refreshed and ready to explore the interesting shops and other attractions of the French Quarter. A khaki skirt and matching cotton blouse were just right for the informal atmosphere of the area, where most tourists wandered around in T-shirts and shorts during the day, and T-shirts and jeans at night. I slipped on a pair of good walking sandals; ran a comb through my hair; put my wallet, room key, sunglasses, and a packet of tissues into a small purse; looped my reading glasses on a cord around my neck; and stepped out into the sunshine.
A proper hat was my first order of business, but a hike over to the Central Business District, where I knew there were department stores, was not appealing. Instead, I found myself strolling back to Jackson Square. With so many vendors at the park, there was bound to be one selling hats.
The square was almost as crowded as it had been at noon, but I was beginning to get my bearings. As I walked, I kept an eye out for Napoleon. A few of his competitors were there—a magician in a black cape doing card tricks on a folding table, and a pair of clowns dressed as Raggedy Ann and Andy. But no clown on skates with a top hat. At the corner, I could see a display of T-shirts pegged up on what looked like a laundry line tied to the square’s black iron fence. Were those baseball caps on a stand? I inched my way along until I reached the display.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Do you sell any hats other than baseball caps?”
The vendor, a red-headed man in his forties with a handlebar mustache, was folding a pile of shorts with “NOLA,” shorthand for New Orleans, Louisiana, sewn on the patch pocket, and stacking them on the table against the fence.
“Yeah, my wife’s around here somewhere. She’s got a box o’ hats.”
“Can you point me in her direction?”
“Stella,” he yelled. “Stella!”
A short woman in a sundress, her brown ponytail sticking out from the back of her baseball cap, broke away from the customer she’d been helping and turned to us. She hit her husband on the arm, and grinned at me.
“Don’t mind him. He loves to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Yell for me. Just like the line from Tennessee Williams’s Streetcar Named Desire where Stanley yells for Stella. He’s Stanley. I’m Stella. He’s been doing that for seven years.”
I thought Stella was remarkably good-natured for being able to smile at a joke she’d been subjected to for so long.
“The play was set in New Orleans, wasn’t it?” I said. “I’d forgotten that.”
“We even had a streetcar line named Desire at one time, but it doesn’t run anymore. There’s a bus on that route now.”
“A Bus Named Desire doesn’t have the same ring, does it?”
Stella laughed, although I was sure she’d heard that comment before.
“Stanley says you have a box of hats somewhere. I was hoping to get some protection from the sun, but I’d like something other than a baseball cap.”
“Oh, sure. They’re over here.”
She bent down, lifted the bottom of the tablecloth, revealing a pile of boxes and packing materials stowed beneath the table, dragged out a big carton, and folded back the flaps.
“I’ve got some felt hats from the end of the season, but it’s too hot for those now. Here are some straw hats. I’ll be getting more in next week, but of course that doesn’t do you any good right now. Do you like this one?”
She held up a straw hat with a wide brim and yellow checked ribbon around the crown. I tried it on and adjusted the brim so it was snapped down in front and up in back.
Stanley pointed to a small hand mirror hanging on the fence. “You can use that,” he said, “but I’ll tell you right now, that hat looks great on you.”
I scrunched down a little so I could see my reflection in the low-hanging mirror.
“Thank you. I like it, too.”
I straightened up. “How much is it?” I asked.
“For you...” Stanley said with a wink.
“Oh, Stanley, cut it out. Just give me a hand with this box.”
They wrestled the box back under the table and Stella stood, clapping the dust off her hands.
“I don’t suppose they change that much,” she said, “but it’s really last year’s hat. I could let you have it for half off.”
We agreed on a price and I paid for my purchase, leaving it on my head. Stella clipped the string holding the label, saying, “So you won’t walk around looking like Minnie Pearl,” referring to the country music singer-comic who always wore a hat with a dangling pricetag.
“Sure you don’t need anythin’ else?” Stanley asked, waving at his laundry line of colorful shirts. “Got any friends back home who’d like—you know?—a souvenir from New Orleans?” He pointed to his chest, and I noticed for the first time that he was wearing a shirt advertising the Jazz and Heritage Festival. Beneath the dates was the image of a curly haired man playing the trumpet.
“Is that a picture of Little Red LeCoeur?” I asked.
“Stella, we got us a live one here. How do you know about Little Red? You must be a ringer. You’re not a tourist after all. Only New Orleanians know about Little Red, New Orleanians or true jazz buffs. Which are you?”
“Neither one actually. It’s interesting to me that Little Red is so well known here in New Orleans, but his reputation never carried outside the city.”
“He deserves more attention, no doubt about it. He was a musical genius. But he never left his roots, never played nowhere else.”
“A good friend of mine is doing research on Little Red LeCoeur,” I said, “and looking for recordings he may have made around the turn of the last century.”
Stanley shook his head from side to side. “Never happen,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“He’ll never find any recordings by Little Red.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I’m an expert on Little Red LeCoeur. Been hearin’ about him from the old players since I was a little tyke in the bayous, huntin’ alligators and trappin’ crawdads. Read everthin’ I could find about the man. Never saw nothin’ about recordings.”
“Just because there’s nothing written doesn’t mean—”
“Oh yes it does.” His voice was louder now, and we were starting to attract observers.
Stella tapped her husband on the shoulder. “Calm down, Stanley. The lady doesn’t know what you do. Just tell her quietly, and patiently.”
“Yes, Stanley, please tell me what you know.”
He took a deep breath, and blew it out.
“Sorry about that. I get a little hot when people ch
allenge my knowledge. Don’t have any fancy degrees, but I know my jazz. And I know my Louisiana jazz the best.”
“And I don’t know much about either. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“That’s okay. I’ve got a big mouth. Don’t mind me.”
“Please continue, Stanley. By the way, my name is Jessica Fletcher, and you’re correct. I’m not from New Orleans. I’m from Maine. My friend, the one interested in Little Red LeCoeur, is Wayne Copley, the music critic.”
“Well, at least he’s a hometown boy. But he ought to know better. I could set him straight.”
“Okay. I’ll suggest he come here and speak with you. But in the meantime, won’t you tell me why you’re so certain Little Red never recorded?”
“LeCoeur came from a long line of Rada Houngan, voodoo priests, that’s why.”
Stanley leaned over to a man looking through his pile of shorts. “What size do you need?” he asked. The customer told him and Stanley turned away from me, pulled out a pair of red shorts, and lay them on top of the table.
I peered over Stanley’s shoulder.
“I’m afraid I don’t see how that proves—”
He turned around abruptly.
“I don’t know if you know voodoo, Mrs. Bletcher.”
“It’s Fletcher.”
“Huh? Oh, right. Mrs. Fletcher.”
“You were saying?”
“Voodoo. I don’t know if you know it, but it’s a very spiritual religion. I guess all of ’em are. But with voodoo, there’s lots of variations. It’s like each person kind of makes up his own version. You know? Anyway, over the years, some things stay the same, but other things, they just die out. Like LeCoeur’s. His kind of voodoo just died out.”
Murder in a Minor Key Page 4
