Coq au Vin by Charlotte Carter Page A

the old musician removed himself to a table and left us on our own.
    Andre’s beauty obligato for me on “Something to Live For” seemed to come out of nowhere. Gorgeous. I was inspired, and tried to return the favor for his solo work on “I Didn’t Know About You.” Someday you’ve got to hear that on the violin. We closed with “I Didn’t Know What Time It Was.”
    I guess we killed. Applause like thunder. The waiters began to anoint us with complimentary drinks.
    Andre and I recaptured our places at the bar and Morris Melon hurried over to clink his glass with mine. “You children are too beautiful to live,” he cried in delight. “I want you to promise you’ll come and play for us at least once a week.”
    Andre began to stutter.
    â€œI won’t take no for an answer,” Melon pressed. “We’ll feed you right, offer you our finest wines, and you can put your own tips bowl out on the piano.”
    Andre and I looked at each other and shrugged. We nodded okay at the old man.
    â€œBabies,” he said, grinning, “I couldn’t be happier.”
    If you don’t know what boulevard St. Germain looks like at four in the morning as you sit outdoors at the Deux Magots…I won’t spoil it for you by talking about it.
    We had received all those strokes from the fabulous Morris Melon; the street crowds had been supergenerous; we’d stopped at one of my old haunts, an all-night place, for a perfect little meal; I was actually living on rue Christine, my street of dreams; the low sky was showing Paris pink around the edges; and, not least, this beautiful man I was in love with, was in love with me, apparently to the point of stupidity.
    Again, heaven seemed almost within my grasp. But I couldn’t be happy. I couldn’t rest. We were no closer to finding Vivian. She was, if anything, slipping further away.
    â€œYou gotta do something for me tomorrow,” I said, turning to Andre.
    He polished off his almond croissant. “You mean today, don’t you, sweetheart?”
    â€œRight. Here’s the thing: Vivian knew this guy Rube Haskins.
    â€œCheck.”
    â€œOnly he had a different name.”
    â€œCheck.”
    â€œAnd he was murdered—maybe over a woman, maybe by a woman.”
    â€œCheck—Wait a minute. You don’t think your aunt was the woman—or the woman scorned?”
    â€œThe pig’s foot, so to speak. Of course I don’t know that she had anything to do with it. But at any rate, it had to be in the papers, right? There has to be some kind of investigation when anybody gets murdered. And Haskins was a public figure, even if he was a really minor celebrity—Mister Footnote. We have to find out if the police ever got the whole story. If they arrested anybody. Maybe somebody from his family came over here to claim the body. Maybe Vivian’s name turns up as just someone the cops contacted for information.”
    â€œMaybe,” he said. “So what is it you want me to do?”
    â€œThe murder happened, what, almost twenty-five years ago. I’m going to make a run to the library tomorrow, and make a phone call or two to some of the newspapers. I’ll comb through the back issues. Not Le Figaro , it’s too proper and conservative. But the tabloid types. That stuff’s got to be on microfiche now, just like in the States. I’ll try to find one of those books in English—you know, those music encyclopedias— Who’s Who in American Music , or something like that—and see if Haskins’s bio is there, and maybe his real name: Ezra Something, or Something Ezekiel—or whatever.
    â€œWhat I need you to do is try to find back issues of the most obscure kind of music magazines you can think of. Canvass all your street player buddies and ask them if they own such things, or where to start looking. Maybe one of those music journals did a