Free Murder in a Minor Key by Jessica Fletcher Page B

concerned that you’ll be terribly disappointed after putting in all this effort,” I said. “I know how much it means to you.”
    He listened intently. Then a smile creased his face, and he patted my arm. “You know, Jessica, I’ve heard that argument for years. But I’m not the only one looking for them; there was an ad in the paper a few weeks ago. So I think the odds are good. If nothing else, my research may clear up the mystery and determine once and for all if the recordings were ever made. And if they were, what happened to them.” He grinned. “Either way, I’ll have enough material for another book.”
    “You devil. And here I was worrying for nothing.”
    Wayne and I continued on, starting with zydeco, sampling some bebop, and listening to stride piano. Two hours later, Doris, Julian, Wayne, and I exited the gospel tent, our cheeks red and foreheads gleaming. The gospel tent had had rows of folding chairs, but few people had stayed in their seats once the concert had begun. We all stood, swaying, moved by the music, hands clapping, feet tapping. It was a physical as well as spiritual experience.
    “What wonderful, talented young people,” I exclaimed, fanning my face with my straw hat.
    Wayne was smug. “Picked a good one, didn’t I?” he said.
    “They were terrific,” Doris agreed. “Sure got me hopping.” She bounced lightly on her feet, holding on to the new gris-gris—a small red pouch suspended from a string around her neck—that she had purchased at a voodoo stall. “This has already brought me good luck.”
    “Brought me luck, too,” Broadbent said.
    I saw an intimate look pass between them that caused a blush to rise on the young woman’s cheeks, and realized that Broadbent had been on his best behavior with Wayne today so he could pursue Doris. Unlike the cool reception she’d given the mayor’s aide, she seemed not to mind Julian’s attentions. Wayne was doing his best to ignore Broadbent, and considering that their last meeting had nearly resulted in blows, I was grateful for the truce.
    Wayne clapped his hands. “Well, I’m hungry. Anyone else ready to eat?”
    We followed Wayne, but we would have known which way to go anyway. The spicy aroma in the air intensified and led the way. At the food stalls, clouds of steam rose from griddles, grills, and kettles used for cooking gumbo, jambalaya, étouffée, grillades, and other Louisiana specialties. Sandwich stands featured muffulettas, made with Italian meat and cheese and an olive spread, and po-boys with a variety of ingredients piled on French bread. A couple walked by, balancing paper plates bearing small mountains of boiled crawfish. Nestled in with the bright-red crustaceans were chunks of yellow corn on the cob and red-skinned potato.
    “Want to try some fried alligator?” Broadbent growled, putting an arm around Doris.
    “Don’t tease,” she replied, ducking away from his side. “What’s it taste like anyway? And don’t say ‘chicken.’ ”
    He chuckled. “The all-purpose comparison?” he asked. “No, I don’t think it’s anything like chicken, and it might be an acquired taste. It’s a little bit oily.”
    “I’ll skip it then,” she replied.
    He turned to me with one eyebrow raised. “Are you game?”
    “I’m adventuresome,” I said, “but I don’t think I’m that adventuresome.”
    Doris and Julian wandered off to inspect a gumbo stand, while Wayne and I lined up for po’boys, fried oysters for him, crawfish for me. I insisted on paying for our sandwiches, and despite his scowl, he agreed.
    “That looks mighty good, Wayne Copely,” a hearty voice said from behind as we left the stand with our sandwiches. We turned to see Mayor Maurice Amadour bearing down on us. He wore a well-tailored yellow-and-white-striped seersucker suit, buttoned over an imposing stomach, a straw boater, and a big grin. He clapped a beefy hand on Wayne’s shoulder and poked his face toward me.
    “You must be that