For the first time in nearly a month, not a single tourist occupied a table or barstool in Bertram’s bar. The unhappy Cajun was wandering around with a rag in his hand, cleaning imaginary dust off the empty tables as Lilly, Carla, and Eddie watched him from Wyatt’s favorite booth.
“Honey, take a break, and come sit with us,” Lilly said.
“I’m going broke in this place!”
“Relax, Bert. You made so much money in the last two weeks, you could take the rest of the year off and not worry about it.”
“You never know about those things,” he said. “We could have another recession anytime now.”
“Or maybe an earthquake,” Eddie said.
Bertram cracked a smile. “At least I got you in here drinking. That right there would keep most bars in bidness.”
“Got that right,” Eddie said. “Now, if you don’t stop whining and bring us another round I’m gonna move my bidness down the street.”
Bertram rubbed his palms and hurried behind the bar, Eddie and Carla holding hands.
“You two look so happy,” Lilly said.
“Eddie is my knight in shining armor,” Carla said. “I’ll never be able to repay him.”
“Oh, I’ll think of something,” Eddie said.
Since Bertram was bringing fresh drinks, Lilly quickly finished the one she had. “What did he do that’s so wonderful?”
“Something I didn’t think possible. He persuaded the Godfather of New Orleans to clear my grandfather’s name.”
“Frankie Castalano hired Tony to find the horn an unknown man had given him when he was a teenager. His father Paco, the local head of the mob at the time, took it from him thinking it would cause him to concentrate more on family business.”
“Now I remember. Maybe I can use this in my next book,” Lilly said. “Tell me more.”
“A mob hung Carla’s grandfather for a crime he didn’t commit. Frankie’s dad and granddad were behind the murder leading to the hanging. I helped Tony find the horn, and he persuaded Frankie to act in Carla’s behalf.”
“What did he do?”
“Leaked the story to a Picayune reporter. It didn’t matter anymore because his father, the last person involved in the crime is dead.”
“And the horn?”
“Lost for forty years. Thanks to Jason Fasempaur, Frankie now knows the name of the person who gave him the horn.”
“You wouldn’t be talking about me, now would you?”
It was Jason and Mama coming through the front door. “Where have you two been?” Eddie said.
“Like Bertram says, we had a little bidness to attend to. Now, my whistle needs wetting in the worst way.”
Mama hugged Lilly and Carla after scooting into the booth. A horse drawn carriage passed on the street outside the window, its hooves echoing against Bertram’s picture window.
“Bert,” Lilly yelled. “You have customers.”
Bertram’s grin had returned when he peeked out the kitchen door.
“Well, look what the cat drug in,” he said, bringing drinks for Jason and Mama Mulate. “Not you, Mama. That no good with you.”
Mama grabbed Jason’s arm, cuddling against him. “I love this no good, I’ll have you know.”
“Yeah, yeah! We heard that before.”
“This time it’s true,” she said. “At least until Jason returns to Paris.”
“If I still have a job left,” he said. “I’m ten days overdue already.”
“Hell!” Bertram said. “They can’t eat you.”
Jason grinned. “Literally, no, but figuratively, I’m a pork chop.”
“Then do like my old pappy used to say. If you ain’t got no control over the situation, start drinking and don’t sweat it no more.”
Jason hoisted his glass. “Sounds like a plan. Call us a taxi when we reach that point.”
“You got it, bro,” Bertram said.
Lilly gazed at Jason. “Now, you have my curiosity piqued. Who gave the horn to Frankie Castalano?”
Jason smiled and sipped the whiskey before answering. “Frankie thought the horn had belonged to King Oliver because of the name King engraved on the bell of the horn.”
“Who is King Oliver?” Lilly asked.
“Joseph Oliver, a New Orleans cornet player that started out in Storyville. His peers nicknamed him King because when it came to playing the cornet, there was no one better.”
“How do you know it wasn’t him that gave Frankie the horn?”
“Not possible. Oliver died in 1938. Frankie didn’t receive the horn until ’59. I recognized Frankie’s horn the first time I saw the photo.”
“A horn is a horn. They all look pretty much the same to me,” Bertram said.
“This one doesn’t. It’s a King Silver Tone, the bell made of solid sterling silver and engraved with the name King.”
“But not for King Oliver,” Lilly said.
“That’s right. King is the model name of the horn. As it turns out, King Oliver in a manner of speaking did give it to Frankie.”
“Now I am confused,” Lilly said.
“H.N. White manufactured lots of King Silver Tones over the years. Frankie’s is unique.”
“How so?”
“It’s an artist horn, made by an independent craftsperson specifically to suit the individual style of the artist intended to play it. It was stamped by H.N. White, but it’s unquestionably one-of-a-kind.”
Bertram left to mix more drinks, Lilly continuing to look confused.
“How do you know all this?” she asked.
“Because I knew the craftsperson’s symbol stamped on the case. The man is dead, but his son still lives here in New Orleans. I’ve known him forever and gave him a call.”
“He told you who his dad made the horn for?”
“Yes, but there’s more to the story.”
“I’m listening,” Lilly said.
“King was a talented musician but not much of a businessman. He lost everything during the Great Depression and spent his last days working as a janitor in a recreation hall in Savannah, Georgia.”
“That’s horrible!” Lilly said.
“Someone he had mentored eventually became world famous. King had given him his first professional horn when he was just starting out. That person had a horn specially made for him by my friend’s father.”
“Who?”
“Louis Armstrong.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“King Oliver was already dead before Satchmo could deliver the horn. He kept it, finally deciding to give it to a promising New Orleans’ cornet player.”
“Frankie?”
Jason nodded. “According to the newspaper, he was performing in town at the time. Tony verified it. He apparently knew about Frankie’s recital and decided to deliver the horn in person.”
“I’m surprised someone didn’t recognize him,” Mama said.
“Someone did; Frankie’s music teacher. The recital had started, Frankie playing his solo when Satchmo walked down the aisle. He apparently knew Frankie’s teacher. After giving him the horn, he swore him to secrecy and then left the building without causing a fuss. Frankie’s teacher kept the secret to his grave.”
“The instrument must be worth a fortune for historical value alone,” Lilly said.
“Frankie doesn’t need the money, or the exposure. He was just happy to get it back.”
Mama squeezed Carla’s hand. “I’m so glad to see you two back together.”
“Mom will never stop cooking spaghetti dinners for him, even if I end up hating his guts.”
Eddie’s eyes rolled. “I haven’t given you any reason to hate me.”
“Not yet,” Carla said. “But the first blue-eyed bombshell you flirt with will get me quite upset.”
“She would have to be flirting with me, and I’d just turn the other way,” Eddie said.
Carla grinned. “That’s like asking a bulldog not to slobber when he sees a bone.”
“You’re the only bone I’m looking at,” Eddie said.
“I love you, Eddie Toledo, though my expectations aren’t high.”
Eddie bit her earlobe. “You’re hurting my feelings. We’re a team now. Carla is an expert on the history of this city. After solving her grandfather’s mystery, we’re working on another puzzle together.”
“Such as,” Mama said.
“The Metairie Cemetery mystery,” Carla said.
Before Mama could quiz them further, Wyatt descended the stairs.
“Hey, Buddy,” Jason said. “Come sit with us. We have terrific news for you. Matthieu Courtmanche didn’t commit suicide.”
“That’s good to know,” Wyatt said.
“Well, don’t you feel a bit of relief?”
“Thanks, Jason. Of course, I do,” Wyatt said. “I have other things on my mind right now.”
He wasn’t smiling and Mama noticed.
“Something wrong, baby?”
“I’ll be okay.”
“One of your moods?”
“Too bad I don’t do well with alcohol.”
“Tell Mama what’s wrong.”
“A woman.”
“Latitia Boiset?”
When Wyatt glanced at Eddie and Carla, Eddie averted his gaze to the floor.
“Who is she?” Lilly asked.
“New Orleans’ own Creole Angel,” Jason said. “The lead singer for a group called Brass & Sass.”
“What happened to her?” Lilly said.
“She left for Paris without telling me she was going. Though we just met, I feel as if I’ve known her forever.”
“You have,” Jason said.
Bertram came out of the kitchen before Jason could explain.
“Cowboy, something came while you was gone,” he said, handing Wyatt an envelope.
“What is it?” Lilly asked.
“A letter from France,” Bertram said.
Wyatt took the letter and slid out of the booth. “Thanks. I have to go.”
They watched as he disappeared out the door of Bertram’s bar without a word of explanation.
“That boy has a moody streak,” Eddie said.
“I been dealing with it for years now,” Bertram said.
“Who sent the letter?” Lilly asked.
“Miss Latitia, one of the prettiest women I ever seen,” he said. “It almost made me blush.”
“You read Wyatt’s mail?” Mama said.
“Dirty job, but someone has to do it.”
“That is just wrong,” Mama said.
“You better tell us now,” Carla said.
“Or what?”
“Or we’re going to kick your Cajun ass,” Lilly said, putting him into a headlock.
“Okay, okay,” he said. “She and her band is coming back to N’awlin’s next month, and she wants to spend some time with Cowboy.”
When another carriage passed on the street, Mama scooted closer to Jason.
“You didn’t tell Wyatt about Elise.”
“One of these days he’ll need to hear the story. Right now, I think he has other things on his mind.”
###
On the Twelfth Day, Mardi Gras would begin. Until then, the Quarter was almost deserted. Wyatt sat alone on a levee overlooking the Mississippi, a full moon illuminating river traffic that never slowed. After smelling the perfume on Latitia’s envelope one more time, he stuffed it in his pocket.
A jazz band had cranked up on Bourbon Street, dulcet notes of a cornet solo piercing the silence of the night. The wail of a distant siren, along with the mournful horn of a passing tug, joined the city’s serenade.
Fog moved up from the river as Wyatt pulled the jacket around his neck. He desperately needed a sugary beignet and cup of hot coffee, and Cafe du Monde wasn’t far away.
####