Murder in a Minor Key (7 page)

I was taken aback by the transformation of West from grumpy proprietor into congenial host, but since I had no immediate plans, I decided to accept his invitation.

“I’ll consider staying for tea on condition that you tell me the source of that enticing aroma coming from the back of your shop.”

“I’ll even introduce you to the chef. He’s my neighbor, and his kitchen is just across the courtyard. We can probably talk him into giving us a taste of whatever he’s making.”

“I don’t want to impose.”

“No imposition at all. Food is a passion in New Orleans. He’s hoping to open his own restaurant and is always eager to try out recipes on his friends. Come, you can sit outside while I lock up.”

Simon ushered me out the back door and pulled a second chair next to the one I’d seen earlier. “I’ll be right back with the tea. Thanks for agreeing to stay. It’s not often I get to meet a famous author, and one whose interests parallel mine. I promise to tell you anything you want to know about wax cylinders if you’ll let me quiz you about mysteries.”

“That sounds like a fair exchange.”

“And then, if you’re hungry and can still stand my company, we can walk down to Brennan’s.”

He went to close the store, and I sat down, enjoying the warm evening now that the sun no longer beat down on my head. The sound of a saxophone being played somewhere on the street drifted into my consciousness and I sighed at the mournful tone.

West returned a few minutes later with two glasses, a pitcher of iced tea, and a plate of cookies on a small tray table. He dropped into his chair. “Let me ask you a couple of questions, and then it’ll be your turn.”

“All right,” I said, balancing my hat against a flowerpot. “Go ahead.”

We chatted for a half hour about writing and the publishing business. His questions were not very different from the ones I regularly encounter on my book tours: Where do I get my inspiration? How much do I write each day? How do I promote my books? What kind of research do I do?

I told him that a location like New Orleans can provide a lot of inspiration. That when I’m working on a book, I start early, write every day, and try to finish ten pages before lunch. That the next morning, I edit my pages from the day before, and that helps me start the new ones. That the publisher is responsible for promotion, but that I help out by going on book tours and talking with readers and booksellers.

“As to research,” I said finally, hoping he’d take the cue, “I enjoy learning new things. And one of the ways I do that is by talking to experts like you.”

“Ah,” he replied sheepishly, realizing I was waiting for the opportunity to ask him some questions. “You’ve been very patient.” He refilled my glass. “So, wax cylinders,” he said. “What would you like to know?”

“When were they made? What did they look like? What are they worth? I just want some general information.”

You know that Thomas Edison invented the phonograph in the eighteen seventies?”

“Yes.”

“His earliest recordings were made on tinfoil wrapped around a little drum, but I’ve never seen those, if any of them survive. The foil was very fragile and ripped easily.”

“So they started making wax recordings.”

“That’s right. I believe they became the standard some time in the late eighteen eighties. They were about four inches in length and two inches in diameter, and the earliest ones were brown. Black cylinders came in around nineteen-oh-two.”

“Would Little Red LeCoeur have recorded on brown or black cylinders?”

“I’m not sure really.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “If he recorded on brown, however, the cylinder probably wouldn’t have any identification marks on it. The older ones didn’t.”

“How would you know what was on them?”

“Well, if you had the original packaging, it was on a slip inside the case. Otherwise, you had to listen to it.”

“They didn’t use labels?”

“Nowhere to put them without interfering with the recording surface. As the production of cylinders became more sophisticated, the manufacturers began engraving information along the edge.”

“If nothing is written on the early ones, how do you know what’s on the cylinder and the date it was recorded?”

“You can approximate the age of a cylinder by listening to it. The oldest ones announce the song and the performer at the beginning of the recording. Later on, the announcement included where the recording was made, and sometimes a particular record number, or a description of the performer. Those are the clues to age.”

“Are wax cylinders very rare?”

“Not really. But they are brittle, and break easily. And the wax is soft so if they’ve been played a lot, the quality can be poor. Down here in Louisiana, it’s hard to find ones in good shape.”

“Why is that?”

“Mainly because of the mold.” He waved a hand around. “Feel this humidity?”

I nodded.

“Humidity means mold, and mold eats wax.” He dropped his hand. “Once the cylinder is eaten by mold, it’s virtually impossible to repair.”

“How valuable are wax cylinders?” I asked. “Does it depend on the date?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Like all antiques, it depends on the rarity. Standard two-minute black cylinders can go for as little as five or ten dollars. Three-minute cylinders are not as plentiful and their price is higher, maybe sixty or seventy dollars if they’re in good shape. But for a rare recording of an artist with historical importance—”

“Like Little Red,” I interjected.

“Yes. For that, the value is incalculable.”

I sat silently, contemplating the difficult road that lay before Wayne. Even if he found a cylinder Little Red had recorded, it might be cracked or worn or moldy. So many negative possibilities argued against his being able to achieve his dream of bringing the music of Little Red LeCoeur to the public.

Simon West interrupted my reverie. “Jessica?”

“Yes?” I replied. “I’m sorry, I was lost in thought.”

He drummed his fingers on the arm of the painted chair. “If you happen to find a cylinder of Little Red LeCoeur ...” He hesitated, trying to find the right words.

“Yes?”

“I know a collector who would pay us handsomely for it,” he stated smugly.

“I could never do that.”

“Why not?” he demanded. “Do you know what that cylinder would be worth?”

“I believe I just asked
you
that question,” I replied. I realized that although I’d received some interesting information from Simon West, it was well past time to take my leave of him. My friendship with Wayne was far more important than any monetary gain West could offer, and I was offended that he thought my ethics could be so easily compromised.

I picked up my hat. “This has been very pleasant, Mr. West. However, I really must leave now. I have another appointment.”

West realized he might have made a blunder. “It was just a possibility,” he said. “Something to think about.” He walked me to the door. “We could bring in Wayne as well,” he added weakly. Changing tacks, he said, “I haven’t had a chance to introduce you to my neighbor.”

“Perhaps another time,” I said. “Thank you for the information, and the tea.” I turned down Royal Street toward my hotel, and took a deep breath. The humid hot air felt strangely refreshing.

Chapter Five

“Would you like another beignet, ma’am?”

“Thank you, no. If I’m not careful, New Orleans is going to be the ruination of my figure.”

“Then how about more coffee?”

“Yes, please, it’s very good.”

“I’ll bring some right away.”

I was sitting in the quiet courtyard at my hotel Friday morning, waiting for Wayne. I’d been up early, taken my exercise in a brisk walk that followed a recommended circuit provided by the hotel, and now, showered and dressed for the day, was reading the morning newspaper. Since Wayne was notorious for being late, I’d gone ahead and ordered the hotel’s continental breakfast, which included fresh orange juice, New Orleans’s famous chicory coffee, and two beignets—puffy, square, doughnutlike pastries wearing a heavy coating of powdered sugar, a good portion of which had threatened to settle on the napkin on my lap. I’d struggled not to make too much of a mess; the delicate flavor was worth the effort. “I don’t know a soul who can eat those neatly,” the waitress, a blonde with a big bosom, had said when she’d set the plate in front of me. “Even a knife and fork are no help.”

It was another sunny day, only slightly less hot than the one before, with the promise of temperatures approaching ninety, and still no rain in sight. The
Times-Picayune
reported that the drought was causing local farmers concern, particularly so early in the season when water was essential to establishing new crops.

I turned to the police page, which featured an interview with the city’s superintendent of police, Jimmy Johnson. A photo accompanied the article and depicted a handsome, African-American man, about fifty, wearing a dress uniform emblazoned with multiple medals on his left shoulder. He was shaking the hand of Mayor Maurice Amadour, and both men were smiling at the camera. The mayor was quoted as congratulating the police department for the continuing drop in the crime rate.

Superintendent Johnson, the article related, had praised the hard work of NOPD’s Operations Bureau, in particular the District Investigative Unit assigned to street crime in the French Quarter, and had issued a list of security recommendations for tourists to ensure their well-being during their stay:

Tourists are advised to travel in pairs; avoid walking alone at night in out-of-the-way parts of the city; keep hotel doors securely locked, and admit no one unfamiliar to the occupants.

I scanned the police blotter along the side of the page. Superintendent Johnson’s advice came a day too late for a pair of elderly ladies visiting the city from Tallahassee, Florida. The police report noted that they were attacked when they opened the door to an armed robber, who knocked one down and hit the other on the side of her head when she refused to relinquish her handbag. The latter was in serious but stable condition at Tulane University Medical Center.

Another report announced that teenage suspects had been taken into custody, accused of being behind a series of hit-and-run muggings of tourists in the French Quarter.

Too, another statue was found missing from a family tomb in Lafayette Cemetery. In its place, the thief had left a lace cross and a purple candle, wrapped up in a green ribbon. Investigators were consulting voodoo specialists for an interpretation.

Finally, there was a list of overnight arrests made for drunken and disorderly conduct.

“That’s enough to spoil anyone’s appetite,” the waitress said, cocking her head toward my reading material. “They keep telling us that crime is down, but there’s plenty around to keep you quaking in your sandals.”

She filled my cup halfway with coffee and then topped it with hot milk. Eyeing the extra place setting, she added, “Still waiting for someone?”

“Yes. I’m sure he’ll be here shortly.”

“May I join you?”

I looked up to see Doris Bums. Her face was scrubbed clean of makeup, and a sprinkling of freckles decorated her nose. A large pair of sunglasses were perched on the top of her head, holding her straight hair away from her face. She wore a pink plaid sundress with narrow straps exposing her freckled shoulders, and she could have passed for sixteen years old, a tall sixteen, but sixteen nevertheless.

“Please do. You look fresh and ready for a day in the sun. Are you going to Jazz Fest?”

“I was hoping I could tag along with you and Wayne. I’ve never been there before.”

“Of course. Wayne should be here any minute.”

“Did I hear my name being bandied about?”

“Good morning,” Doris and I said in unison.

Wayne pulled out a chair, sank into it, and fanned his face with his straw hat. The waitress ambled off to get a third place setting.

“No comments about the ‘late’ Wayne Copely? You ladies are too good to me. My apologies nevertheless. My sister called just as I was stepping out the door, and love that she is, she does go on and on. Jessica, she has invited you to Sunday dinner, a rare treat since Clarice’s cook is superb. She stole her away from one of the cousins in the Long family, and of course, they haven’t talked to her since. Clarice promised Alberta her own cottage at the back of the garden, which clinched it. That plus a kitchen that looks like the
Starship
Enterprise, all chrome and stainless steel and enormous burners on the gas stove. Cost my brother-in-law a fortune, may he rest in peace. All the chefs in town have been trying to pry Alberta’s recipe for étouffée out of her for years. But she holds tight to it like a waterlogged cat on a downstream log. I have to beg Clarice to let me come over when Alberta makes étouffée, so you must come. These invitations are like gold. And she knew you were in town because I’ve talked about you. She gets all excited when I mention going somewhere with a woman.”

Wayne put his hand on Doris’s arm.

“My dear, I’m so sorry to talk of an invitation that doesn’t include you. Isn’t that like me? So rude! But I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

“Think nothing of it, please. As it happens, I already have plans for Sunday.”

While Wayne had been recounting the call from his sister, the waitress had returned and set down napkins, utensils, and coffee cups, and handed menus to Doris and Wayne.

“Are the beignets from Café du Monde?” Wayne asked.

“Of course, sir.”

Wayne closed his menu and tapped it on the top of Doris’s.

“In that case, I recommend the continental breakfast. I hope you’re not one of those bacon-and-egg people. You must try the beignets. Jessica, you’ve already eaten? Yes?”

Wayne didn’t wait for a reply. He addressed the waitress.

“We’ll have two continental breakfasts with café au lait, and give us a lagniappe on the beignets, please. Jessica, you’ll have another, won’t you? Have you been down to Café du Monde yet?”