about mystery writing. I can offer you some iced tea and cookies. Or a glass of brandy if you prefer. The patio is pleasant this time of day.”
I was taken aback by the transformation of West from grumpy proprietor into congenial host, but since I had no immediate plans, I decided to accept his invitation.
“I’ll consider staying for tea on condition that you tell me the source of that enticing aroma coming from the back of your shop.”
“I’ll even introduce you to the chef. He’s my neighbor, and his kitchen is just across the courtyard. We can probably talk him into giving us a taste of whatever he’s making.”
“I don’t want to impose.”
“No imposition at all. Food is a passion in New Orleans. He’s hoping to open his own restaurant and is always eager to try out recipes on his friends. Come, you can sit outside while I lock up.”
Simon ushered me out the back door and pulled a second chair next to the one I’d seen earlier. “I’ll be right back with the tea. Thanks for agreeing to stay. It’s not often I get to meet a famous author, and one whose interests parallel mine. I promise to tell you anything you want to know about wax cylinders if you’ll let me quiz you about mysteries.”
“That sounds like a fair exchange.”
“And then, if you’re hungry and can still stand my company, we can walk down to Brennan’s.”
He went to close the store, and I sat down, enjoying the warm evening now that the sun no longer beat down on my head. The sound of a saxophone being played somewhere on the street drifted into my consciousness and I sighed at the mournful tone.
West returned a few minutes later with two glasses, a pitcher of iced tea, and a plate of cookies on a small tray table. He dropped into his chair. “Let me ask you a couple of questions, and then it’ll be your turn.”
“All right,” I said, balancing my hat against a flowerpot. “Go ahead.”
We chatted for a half hour about writing and the publishing business. His questions were not very different from the ones I regularly encounter on my book tours: Where do I get my inspiration? How much do I write each day? How do I promote my books? What kind of research do I do?
I told him that a location like New Orleans can provide a lot of inspiration. That when I’m working on a book, I start early, write every day, and try to finish ten pages before lunch. That the next morning, I edit my pages from the day before, and that helps me start the new ones. That the publisher is responsible for promotion, but that I help out by going on book tours and talking with readers and booksellers.
“As to research,” I said finally, hoping he’d take the cue, “I enjoy learning new things. And one of the ways I do that is by talking to experts like you.”
“Ah,” he replied sheepishly, realizing I was waiting for the opportunity to ask him some questions. “You’ve been very patient.” He refilled my glass. “So, wax cylinders,” he said. “What would you like to know?”
“When were they made? What did they look like? What are they worth? I just want some general information.”
You know that Thomas Edison invented the phonograph in the eighteen seventies?”
“Yes.”
“His earliest recordings were made on tinfoil wrapped around a little drum, but I’ve never seen those, if any of them survive. The foil was very fragile and ripped easily.”
“So they started making wax recordings.”
“That’s right. I believe they became the standard some time in the late eighteen eighties. They were about four inches in length and two inches in diameter, and the earliest ones were brown. Black cylinders came in around nineteen-oh-two.”
“Would Little Red LeCoeur have recorded on brown or black cylinders?”
“I’m not sure really.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “If he recorded on brown, however, the cylinder probably wouldn’t have any identification marks on it. The older ones didn’t.”
“How would you
I was taken aback by the transformation of West from grumpy proprietor into congenial host, but since I had no immediate plans, I decided to accept his invitation.
“I’ll consider staying for tea on condition that you tell me the source of that enticing aroma coming from the back of your shop.”
“I’ll even introduce you to the chef. He’s my neighbor, and his kitchen is just across the courtyard. We can probably talk him into giving us a taste of whatever he’s making.”
“I don’t want to impose.”
“No imposition at all. Food is a passion in New Orleans. He’s hoping to open his own restaurant and is always eager to try out recipes on his friends. Come, you can sit outside while I lock up.”
Simon ushered me out the back door and pulled a second chair next to the one I’d seen earlier. “I’ll be right back with the tea. Thanks for agreeing to stay. It’s not often I get to meet a famous author, and one whose interests parallel mine. I promise to tell you anything you want to know about wax cylinders if you’ll let me quiz you about mysteries.”
“That sounds like a fair exchange.”
“And then, if you’re hungry and can still stand my company, we can walk down to Brennan’s.”
He went to close the store, and I sat down, enjoying the warm evening now that the sun no longer beat down on my head. The sound of a saxophone being played somewhere on the street drifted into my consciousness and I sighed at the mournful tone.
West returned a few minutes later with two glasses, a pitcher of iced tea, and a plate of cookies on a small tray table. He dropped into his chair. “Let me ask you a couple of questions, and then it’ll be your turn.”
“All right,” I said, balancing my hat against a flowerpot. “Go ahead.”
We chatted for a half hour about writing and the publishing business. His questions were not very different from the ones I regularly encounter on my book tours: Where do I get my inspiration? How much do I write each day? How do I promote my books? What kind of research do I do?
I told him that a location like New Orleans can provide a lot of inspiration. That when I’m working on a book, I start early, write every day, and try to finish ten pages before lunch. That the next morning, I edit my pages from the day before, and that helps me start the new ones. That the publisher is responsible for promotion, but that I help out by going on book tours and talking with readers and booksellers.
“As to research,” I said finally, hoping he’d take the cue, “I enjoy learning new things. And one of the ways I do that is by talking to experts like you.”
“Ah,” he replied sheepishly, realizing I was waiting for the opportunity to ask him some questions. “You’ve been very patient.” He refilled my glass. “So, wax cylinders,” he said. “What would you like to know?”
“When were they made? What did they look like? What are they worth? I just want some general information.”
You know that Thomas Edison invented the phonograph in the eighteen seventies?”
“Yes.”
“His earliest recordings were made on tinfoil wrapped around a little drum, but I’ve never seen those, if any of them survive. The foil was very fragile and ripped easily.”
“So they started making wax recordings.”
“That’s right. I believe they became the standard some time in the late eighteen eighties. They were about four inches in length and two inches in diameter, and the earliest ones were brown. Black cylinders came in around nineteen-oh-two.”
“Would Little Red LeCoeur have recorded on brown or black cylinders?”
“I’m not sure really.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “If he recorded on brown, however, the cylinder probably wouldn’t have any identification marks on it. The older ones didn’t.”
“How would you
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