The Witch Who Heard the Music (Pixie Point Bay Book 7): A Cozy Witch Mystery, стр. 9
When he noticed her at the door, he said, “I’m looking for that album of Woody Howard’s. I thought I’d play a little bit for you since we’re going to be hearing someone today who’s clearly influenced by the late great.” He flipped the vertical records back and forth. “But I don’t see it here.” He stood. “That’s a shame.”
Naturally he knew the collection better than her. “Well, maybe you can just describe it to me,” she suggested.
Mac rubbed his chin, still looking at the records. “It’s not that. It’s a shame if it’s missing because, not only is it one of the best examples of Delta Blues that was ever recorded, it’s a very collectible record. In fact, it’s pretty valuable.”
“Oh?” Maris said. It’d never occurred to her that any of Glenda’s old records would have more than sentimental value. “It’s probably just misplaced. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if the guests had noticed it when they’d been looking through the collection. There was even some discussion of the albums last night at the Wine Down.”
“Your guests?” Mac asked.
She nodded. “Two of the festival’s performers are staying here, along with a retired blues fan, and a reporter covering the event. We’ve also got a young family, but I don’t think they have an interest in the blues.” She looked thoughtfully at the records, then back at him. “I’m sure it’s just been misplaced,” she concluded. “I’ll make a search for it when I get back.”
“Right,” Mac said, glancing at his watch. “We should get a move on.”
As they went to the front door, Maris suddenly thought of the missing crystal ball, the jar of honey, and the credit card machine. She frowned and glanced back at the parlor.
Had one of Glenda’s albums now joined their ranks?
Mac must have seen her look. “I’m sure it’ll turn up. As you say, it’s probably just lost in the shuffle.” He opened the door for her.
For a moment she considered telling him about the other missing items, but quickly discarded the notion. She’d hardly had a chance to do any of her own snooping. At this point, discretion would likely be the better course.
“I’m sure you’re right,” she said, stepping through.
8
Though Maris didn’t know much about the history of blues music, she had the feeling of being transported in time. As she and Mac stood with hundreds of other people in front of the red gazebo, they listened to Bowdie and the band backing him play a soulful rendition of a song that Maris didn’t recognize. Even so, there was something irresistible about the slow beat and the repetition of the various lyrics. Bowdie’s mournful lead guitar wailed and lilted, as he seemed to channel the notes right from the air. Maris wondered if the sound wasn’t helped by the glass tube that he used. He wore it over one of his fingers, sliding it up and down the neck of the guitar, and using a pick with the other hand.
The crowd around them were all bobbing their heads or tapping their toes, eyes riveted on the guitar player. As Maris scanned around them, she saw Minako not too far away. Minako noticed her as well, gave her a little wave, and came over.
“Amazing,” the shorter Asian woman said into Maris’s ear. “Each year gets better than the last.”
“I wouldn’t know about previous years,” Maris said, leaning toward her, “but I’d have to agree that it’s pretty amazing.” She regarded the owner of the bookstore. “Are you a fan?”
Minako shook her head, smiling. “Not really.” She raised her phone for Maris to see. “But it’s a great photo op, and I’ve also done some videos.”
Maris recalled seeing the display of vintage photos from Pixie Point Bay’s past in one of her store’s front windows. Then she remembered Minako’s previous career.
“It must be an archivist’s dream,” Maris said.
Minako eagerly nodded. “Definitely. I’m already thinking of mounting a small exhibit at Inklings. Just the festival, over the years.”
“That sounds fabulous,” Maris said. “I’d love to see it, since I missed the rest.” No doubt there’d be pictures of Aunt Glenda. “Is Alfred minding the store?”
Minako and her husband owned Inklings New & Used Bookstore, one of the larger buildings on the plaza.
She nodded. “Getting ready for the performance there too.” She glanced at her phone. “In fact, I’d better go help him. I’ll see you later.”
“See you later,” Maris said.
As Bowdie finished, the crowd erupted in applause.
As he clapped, Mac grinned at her. “He’s really in fine form today.”
“He was wonderful,” she agreed.
“Harmonious concert rung in every part,” he said, “while simple melody pour'd moving on the heart.”
She grinned at him. “So Burns appreciated music?”
Mac nodded. “Oh yes. Many of Old Rabbie’s poems were made into songs. Or rather, he set his lyrics to the tunes of traditional music.”
“Really,” Maris said. “I had no idea he was a songwriter.”
“People are still singing some of them,” he said, and glanced at the stage. “Not unlike some of this blues music.”
“By the way,” she said, “what is that thing that Bowdie wears on his finger. It looks like the neck of a wine bottle.”
“It’s probably the neck of a wine bottle,” he said. When she raised her eyebrows, he added, “It’s called a slide. Some players like to have them custom made, but I’ve read that Bowdie likes to go old school.”
Without a preamble, the guitarist turned to the musicians behind him, seemed to count off, and they started. This tune was a good deal faster—and she immediately liked it better. As Mac kept time with a tap on his leg, Maris bobbed her head. The high energy of the song was infectious.
“Aurora thinks it’s too loud,” said the storekeeper into Maris’s ear.
Maris turned to find Aurora Puddlefoot, in her gypsy garb. The older woman wore her usual creative makeup—bright red lipstick and