Murder in a Minor Key Read Free Page A

frenzied days that followed the turn of the last century.”
    Wayne peered over the half glasses perched on his nose. His eyes roamed up and down the rows of occupied seats.
    “For years, I’ve tracked rumors that claim the existence of those cylinders. So far, they still elude me. But if those recordings exist, I aim to uncover them. They represent an important link between Little Red and those who came after him.”
    “I’ll bet they’re worth some money, too, aren’t they?” Broadbent put in.
    Wayne looked momentarily taken aback before replying, “They will have tremendous worth as a historical treasure, Mr. Broadbent, linking the traditions of Ragtime, Dixieland, and more modern jazz. Every jazz musician today owes a debt to Little Red. Oh yes, his influence isn’t as obvious as that of others—Bolden and King Oliver, Louis, then Roy Eldridge, who bridged the gap between the older style of trumpet playing in New Orleans and Chicago with the modem giants—Dizzy and Sweets Edison, Fats Navarro and Miles Davis. But even though today’s artists never heard Little Red play—which I hope to rectify by finding those cylinders—his legend, which has been passed down by word-of-mouth, has had a profound impact on the way our current jazz stars think about the music they create.”
    Letting his gaze rest on Broadbent, he added, “And with today’s sophisticated digital recording capabilities, I’m certain they can be remastered and released to the benefit of all musical aficionados, yourself included, of course.”
    He again addressed the audience. “As to their monetary worth, I believe were there to be any fiduciary gains, they would go to any legatees of the LeCoeur family, should they survive.”
    Wayne cleared his throat, and carefully wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. He let the silence in the auditorium grow. Looking up, he took a deep breath, audible throughout the room.
    “Go home,” he boomed, startling those whose attention had wandered. “Search your attics and your storerooms. Scour the secondhand merchants and antique dealers. Bring me any cylinders you may find, and perhaps”—his voice rose—“together, we can make musical history.”
    Silence greeted this pronouncement. And then a rumble of voices swelled, filling the auditorium, as people rose from their seats, gathered up their belongings, and started for the doors, intending, I was sure, to hurry home to search their attics for wax recordings of Little Red LeCoeur to bring to Wayne.
    Charlie Gable saw his program breaking up without his own closing comments, and rushed to stem the exodus. “Hold on, folks,” he said.
    About half the room turned back to the stage.
    “Before you go, let’s have a hand again for this morning’s authors: historian Doris Burns, jazz critic Wayne Copley, investigative reporter Julian Broadbent, and mystery writer Jessica Fletcher.”
    There was some spirited applause from those who hadn’t yet made it out the door.
    “Don’t forget to visit your local bookstore to purchase the books written by these good folks, or you can order autographed copies from the Book Club Breakfasts website.” He rattled off the web address for his book club. “And thank you all for coming.”
    As the auditorium emptied, those of us on the panel got up from our seats. I looked around for Charlie, to offer my thanks for including me in the program, but he was deep in conversation with a man dressed in a blue pinstriped suit, and holding a tan cowboy hat. The serious expression on Charlie’s face discouraged me from approaching them.
    Julian Broadbent swiveled his seat around and regarded Wayne with a disdainful air. “Quite the little drama queen, aren’t you,” he sneered.
    Wayne pulled his glasses from his nose and let them dangle from the purple cord looped around his neck. Unperturbed, he gathered up his papers, inserted them in his leather case, and gently took my elbow to guide me off the stage. Looking