Free Murder in a Minor Key by Jessica Fletcher Page A

up along two sides. A flustered press aide was attempting to fill the bins as quickly as the press corps emptied them. Wayne studied their contents, retrieving press releases and biographical backgrounds on the acts scheduled for that day, flipped through samples of music magazines, and dropped them back in the bins.
    “How nice to see you again, ladies.”
    I looked up into the clear-blue eyes of Julian Broadbent.
    Wayne joined us, his hands full of papers.
    “Copely.” Broadbent nodded curtly.
    “Broadbent,” Wayne grunted in acknowledgment. He turned his back on the reporter. “Ladies, I’d like to introduce you to some of the musicians who are here.” He pushed us across the room toward a series of tables set up for press interviews. The musicians sat against the outside wall of the tent; across from each were two or three chairs, most of which were occupied. A pile of black-and-white glossies for autographing, and a set of black and blue pens, sat at each musician’s elbow.
    “Say hello to Oliver Jones,” he told me. Jones was a short, stocky black man with a sweet face and even sweeter smile.
    “Oliver is one of Canada’s many gifts to the jazz world, Jessica, Doris. He studied piano with Oscar Peterson’s sister, Daisy, in Montreal.”
    “I have one of your albums,” I said. “A friend, Peter Eder—he’s the conductor of our symphony orchestra back home—loves your music. So do I,” I added hastily. “You play so beautifully.”
    “Thank you. I hope you enjoy the concerts.”
    “I know I will,” I said.
    Doris and I were introduced to a few more musicians—the vibest, Terry Gibbs; a bass player, Ray Brown; and a saxophonist, Bobby Watson.
    Julian Broadbent trailed our little party, eavesdropping as Wayne greeted colleagues, and nodding at the musicians as if Wayne were including him in the introductions. When we finally left the press tent, he touched Doris on the shoulder. “Mind if I walk around with you today?”
    “Sure. Why not?” she said, taking his arm.
    Agreeing to meet us at the gospel tent later on, Julian and Doris went off to explore on their own, while Wayne and I stopped to read the program and choose which performances to see. He craned his neck to make out something off to our right. “I hear one of the brass bands,” he said. “Let’s catch up with them.”
    We hustled to get a good look at the small band of performers. Clad in bright-blue suits, gold sashes, and white gloves, they were slowly snaking their way around the field, stopping every so often to allow their leader, who was carrying a matching blue umbrella, to execute a little two-step dance. When we reached them, the players—two trumpets, a trombone, a sousaphone, a tuba, and a drum—were in the middle of a Dixieland tune that had me tapping my toe with the beat and clapping along with the other listeners.
    “This is a typical New Orleans brass band,” Wayne told me as we applauded at the end of the piece. “They’re sponsored by clubs in the African-American community, and have a long history in New Orleans. Brass bands were hired for every social occasion—weddings, funerals, picnics—and it became a wonderful tradition.”
    The band’s next song was one I recognized, “When the Saints Go Marching In.” The leader pumped his umbrella above his head and the musicians headed off in another direction.
    “I have something I want to talk about,” I said to Wayne. “Has anyone come forward with information for you about the cylinders?”
    “I have a few leads,” he replied, turning his attention to me and twirling a pencil between his fingers. “And the paper mentioned it in the article covering our panel.” He pulled a leafed-through copy of the magazine Wavelength from under his arm. “I’ve also got a little ad in here that should churn the waters.”
    I told Wayne about Stanley and the street merchant’s insistence on the futility of searching for recordings by Little Red. “I’m