Murder in a Minor Key by Jessica Fletcher

carrying the delicious scent of barbecue smoke. My stomach rumbled. Since it was less than four hours since Wayne and I had left Antoine’s, I was surprised to find myself feeling hungry. I followed my nose to the source of the tempting smell and reached the door. Outside was a courtyard of red brick paving on which sat an elaborate wrought iron chair, its peeling white paint revealing the original black of the metal. Nestled next to the chair were large pottery planters filled with red geraniums and trailing ivy.
    “Do you need any help?”
    “Oh, I didn’t see you,” I said, startled at the voice.
    “It takes a while till your eyes adjust to the light.”
    “Are you Simon West?”
    “I am.”
    Marking his place in a book and rising from his chair at a highboy secretary tucked in a corner was a thin, dour-faced man who I judged to be in his forties, despite hair that was completely white, although thick eyebrows revealed he’d had dark hair in his youth. He wore a powder-blue shirt, the same hue as his remarkably blue eyes. He pulled a navy jacket from the back of a chair and shrugged into it, frowned, and slipped the book he’d been reading into a side pocket.
    “There’s a lot more upstairs if you care to look,” he said, standing at the desk and pointing to a narrow flight of stairs adjacent to the back door. He didn’t move from his place, perhaps hoping that I would disappear above and leave him in peace to continue reading.
    “Or did you have something specific in mind?” he asked.
    “I saw your gramophone and thought I’d see if you had any old cylinder recordings.”
    Obviously agitated, he pulled at the cuffs of his shirt, and came to where I stood.
    “You’re the third customer to ask me that question today,” he said. “What in heaven’s name is going on?”
    I told the irritated store owner about Wayne’s announcement that morning and his campaign to bring to light recordings of Little Red LeCoeur.
    He huffed softly and tugged on one ear. “I should thank Copely,” he conceded. “I sold a fireplace fan and a set of andirons this afternoon to a couple who came in looking for cylinders. By the way, that gramophone plays records. A cylinder player is a different machine altogether.”
    “I know, but since you had one thing related to old recordings, I thought it was worth asking you about another.”
    “I did have some old cylinders at one point, but it’s been quite a while since I’ve seen any in the marketplace. Collectors pick those up pretty quickly.”
    “Do you know if any of them featured LeCoeur?”
    “Not that I recall. They were mostly classical compositions or opera singers. Copely should check with local collectors and see if they can help.”
    “I’m sure he’s already done that. He’s been searching for these recordings for a long time now.”
    West squinted at me, and cocked his head to one side.
    “Have you been in my shop before?” he asked. “You look familiar.”
    I introduced myself and we shook hands. I told him that I’d been on the panel with Wayne that morning. “You may have seen my picture in the paper,” I offered.
    “That must be it,” he said, brightening. “I like a mystery now and then myself. Right now I’m reading P. D. James. You know this one?” He pulled the paperback from his pocket, Cover Her Face.
    “I know both the book and the author. Phyllis is a good friend and a wonderful writer. Practically by herself, she’s changed attitudes toward mystery writing, or ‘crime writing’ as they say in England, and inspired a new level of appreciation.”
    He smiled for the first time. “Please tell her when you speak with her how much I’m enjoying this book.”
    “I’ll be sure to let her know. She’ll be delighted you’re reading this particular one. It was her first novel.”
    West pulled up his cuff and glanced at his watch. “Look, it’s just about closing time,” he said. “Can you stay awhile? I’d love to talk more