What Happened on Beale Street Read online

  “Oh, yes. I remember you, Miss Price. How ya doing with that rabbit trail I sent you on?” Henry released a good-natured chuckle.

  “Very well, I think, but I need to ask a question. Do you think the Mr. and Mrs. Blake Koehler who won the jewels in 1956 were the Koehlers who owned a bunch of furniture stores?”

  “One and the same, missy. That’s him, for sure. He sold them stores to a big corporation out of Atlanta sometime in the eighties. I bet they offered him a pretty penny, if you know what I mean. Mr. Koehler wanted to retire and take it easy. They didn’t have no children to carry on the business, nary a one. I used to joke with the mister that they could have one of mine. Just say the word and I’d pack their bags.” He laughed with gusto.

  Nicki smiled to herself. She wondered what the distinguished Robert Prescott would think of his grandfather offering one of his brood to a white couple in the suburbs, even in jest. “He didn’t accept your offer?”

  “Nope. Said right about the time his missus got attached to the youngin’, we would miss him and ask for him back.”

  “Sounds about right. Did you ever hear anything about the Koehlers after that?”

  “That’s all I know, but you keep me posted, okay? Folks have come to make sure my heart’s ticking. Can’t they see me still breathing?” Henry huffed into the phone.

  “I’ll come visit you again real soon. I have a picture for you too.”

  “Sounds real nice. Good luck, Miss Price.”

  The phone line went dead, but Nicki had a lead. Selling a chain of stores to a major corporation would have made headlines in the business pages. Rich people had a more difficult time remaining anonymous than poor people. Within the hour she’d located the name, address, and phone number of the legal firm that had handled the transfer on behalf of Mr. Blake Koehler. At least the phone number of a firm in business thirty years ago. But according to the string of names recited by the receptionist, a descendent was still working at the law firm today.

  “Good morning. It’s of upmost urgency that I speak with Mr. Bennett. This is Miss Nicolette Price of New Orleans calling.” Nicki duplicated the hoity-toity accent of her future mother-in-law, Mrs. Clotilde Galen of the Garden District.

  The young woman was flummoxed. The Galen name meant nothing in Memphis, yet she was reluctant to dismiss someone with the authority implied in Nicki’s delivery. Practicing in front of a mirror while applying makeup worked!

  “I’m sorry, Miss Price, but Mr. Bennett is with a client. Is there another partner in the firm who can help you?”

  “No, thank you. Please give him my name and number, along with my request for expediency in this matter.”

  “Of course. I’ll give your message to him as soon as I can. May I tell him what this is regarding, ma’am?”

  Nicki sighed. “No. I can’t discuss it. I’m afraid it’s of a… sensitive nature.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll have him contact you as soon as he’s free.”

  Nicki felt guilty about her subterfuge, yet she knew her drama wouldn’t hurt anyone and might just make an elderly man happy.

  Plopping down on the thick, plush carpet of her suite, Nicki launched into exercises aimed to mitigate her love of chocolate and raspberry cheesecake. But before she finished the dreaded sit-ups, Mr. Bennett returned her call.

  “Miss Price, Nicholas Bennett. What can I help you with?” His accent was smooth as a pond in winter, her Mamaw’s pet expression.

  “Thank you for responding so promptly, Mr. Bennett.” Nicki said, using Clotilde’s accent. “I represent an elderly gentleman who is desperate to reconnect with old friends before he passes. I’m afraid he’s lost touch with these people and has something… valuable to share with them before it’s too late.”

  “I don’t know how I can help, Miss Price. Perhaps a PI firm can track down these friends… ”

  “Yes, of course, and I already have a very good PI. But I noticed the name Horace Bennett appears on a real estate transfer executed by your office. We are attempting to track down the heirs of Blake and Bunny Koehler.” Nicki allowed her voice to trail off. Mrs. Galen once told her only a silly person or one with something to hide prattled on endlessly.

  The pause proved effective. “Horace Bennett was my grandfather. He practiced law here until his death.”

  “Oh, dear me. Do forgive my insensitivity, and please accept my sympathy for your loss. I shouldn’t take up another minute of your time.”

  “Thank you, ma’am, but Grandfather passed on quite a while ago. Let me check our system for information on the Koehlers that I can share with you.”

  Nicki was placed on hold. A few minutes later, Mr. Bennett returned to report that after Mrs. Bunny Koehler passed, his firm had handled probate of her estate. But Mr. Blake Koehler was living at Sunnybrook Care Center in Millington. No further details could be conveyed due to privacy laws.

  Nicki thanked the lawyer profusely and was soon inside her Lincoln, heading north into the Tennessee countryside. A living participant of the Carlton scavenger hunts. Henry Prescott would be pleased. She was pleased. She felt like a real live PI for a change, an experience that had eluded her since arriving in Memphis.

  Unfortunately, Mr. Blake Koehler wouldn’t be the key to unlock her puzzle. He was indeed alive but well into his nineties and residing in the Alzheimer’s wing of Sunnybrook. Nicki felt profound sorrow for a man she’d never met before. What a cruel twist of fate to live not knowing who you were and what was important to you. She hoped Mr. Koehler had had a personal relationship with God, who never forgot His children.

  At the nurse’s station of the Alzheimer’s wing, Nicki encountered a second obstacle. Her name wasn’t on the list of approved visitors. No one had ever seen her before, and employees were reluctant to expose impaired residents to strangers. Unlike her inflated charade on the phone, Nicki opted for the complete truth with the nurse on duty.

  “I’m a friend of Henry Prescott, a retired bellman of the Carlton Hotel. Henry is trying to connect with old friends. Blake Koehler and his late wife, Bunny, were two of those friends from the 1950s. May I please speak with Mr. Koehler? I promise not to upset him in any way.”

  “You are aware of Mr. Koehler’s impairment?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I have two photos I’m hoping may trigger fond memories for him.”

  Nancy Lansky, RN, according to her name tag, frowned at the pile of papers spread across her desk. Nicki fully expected to be sent on her way. “I couldn’t allow an unsupervised visit, but it’s almost my break. I could sit and eat lunch with Mr. Koehler. That should give you half an hour.”

  “That’ll be more than enough.” Nicki resisted the impulse to hug the woman.

  When they entered his tidy room, Mr. Koehler was sitting in a wheelchair and staring out of the window. He turned and smiled, and Nicki’s heart filled with sadness for the second time.

  “How are you feeling today, Blake?” asked Mrs. Lansky.

  “How do you do, Mr. Koehler?” Nicki said simultaneously. “Mr. Henry Prescott sends his regards from the Carlton Hotel.”

  The elderly man peered from one to the other with little interest. Undaunted, Nicki pulled the framed photo from her tote bag. “Do you remember Henry? That’s him right there.” Nicki tapped the middle smiling face. “And that’s Mr. and Mrs. Smithfield, and those are the Whitleys. Everyone says hello to you.”

  Blake looked at the photo without one iota of recognition.

  “I told you not to get your hopes up,” murmured Mrs. Lansky. She perched on a chair and unwrapped her sandwich.

  “How about this picture, sir?” Nicki produced one of three copies made from the newspaper clipping. “That’s you and your lovely wife, Bunny.”

  The gentleman held up the picture and traced her outline with one finger. A grin bloomed on his craggy face.

  Nicki hadn’t indicated which woman was Bunny. “He recognized his wife,” she whispered to the nurse.

  “That’s wonderful. I
hope you’ll let him keep that picture. Although he has a bunch of old photos, including plenty of Mrs. Koehler.” The nurse walked to the closet and pulled a box from the shelf. “Blake, why don’t you show Miss Price your mementoes?”

  For the remainder of the nurse’s lunch break, Nicki took item after item from the crate—furniture store flyers, golden anniversary invitations, and pictures of people no one in the room recognized. Nicki tried her best to illicit responses without success. Blake merely watched as she drew out the next treasure, a silly poem about coins in a fountain and Dorothy McGuire.

  When Mrs. Lansky finished her bag of chips and apple, she began to shift restlessly. Nicki was about to repack his keepsakes in the box when her fingers landed on a black-and-white of two couples in formal attire. Her breath caught in her throat, and her heart beat faster.

  “That’s you, Mr. Koehler. You and Bunny.” She handed him the snapshot, eliciting a faint smile. “Who are these people, sir?” Nicki pointed to the other couple. “Please look again, because it’s very important.” She switched on the light over his shoulder.

  “I’m afraid you’re wasting your time. It’s been sixty years, for goodness’ sake.” Mrs. Lansky gently pulled the photo from his fingers and turned it over. “There’s your answer. Horace and Betsy Bennett, 1957.”

  Nicki carefully repacked his box, hugged Blake goodbye, and thanked the helpful caregiver profusely. So much for her own extraordinary PI skills. Nevertheless, she had her answer. Horace Bennett wasn’t just the Koehlers’s attorney. He and his wife were their friends too. Although from the picture she couldn’t tell what their prize had been, she still had another piece of the puzzle.

  SEVENTEEN

  Nate finished two cans of Coke in the hotel lobby before his partner strolled in whistling a tune.

  “Where have you been?” he demanded.

  Nicki stopped dead in her tracks. “At a care center in Millington. If you would have answered your phone last night or this morning, you would have known that. What’s up?”

  “What were you doing there?” Nate tossed his soda can into a nearby recycle bin.

  “Tracking down a participant in the Carlton scavenger hunts. Wait until you hear—”

  Nate held up both hands. “Save your wild-goose chase story until later. I want you to call Isabelle to see if she’ll go to a blues club tonight.”

  “Go out? She just buried her brother, Nate. Besides, I thought you saw her this morning for the restraining order. At least Izzy takes my phone calls. Why didn’t you ask her then?” Nicki walked around him toward the elevator and pressed the button.

  “I don’t want it to sound like a date. This is related to Danny’s case.”

  Nicki cocked her head to the side. “Sounds like a date to me, cousin. What’s going on?”

  “I want it to look like a date so we can blend in better on Beale Street. I think Danny’s murder has more to do with his music than his work with recovering addicts. If you can manage to stay up past ten, I want you to come too.”

  “You’re lifting my house arrest?”

  “You’re hardly in solitary confinement if you spent the morning gallivanting to Millington.”

  Nicki let the doors open and close without stepping in. “If being on a date is your idea of clever camouflage, why would you want me as a third wheel?”

  Nate clenched his back teeth. “To take the pressure off. Isabelle makes me nervous.”

  “Oh, you still don’t like her.” Nicki pushed the button again.

  “No,” he said, deciding to go out on a limb. “I do like her. A lot. That’s the problem.”

  Nicki’s eyes almost bugged from her head. “You’re kidding me! You, Nate Price, smitten by the Ice Queen? Isn’t that what you used to call her?”

  “Taking the pressure off does not include trotting out ancient history. Forget I asked. I’ll go alone.” This time when the elevators doors opened he stomped inside.

  Nicki followed at his heels. “Relax, Romeo. I was joking. I’ll call Izzy and insist she come with us. What time should I be ready and where should I sit? In the backseat or between you two up front like a chaperone?”

  “I don’t want Isabelle to think this is a date. Tell her we’ll pick her up at eight. Please, Nicki. I need your best behavior tonight.”

  “Hmm. I’ll try not to remember the times you chased me with snakes, or put bugs in my sleeping bag, or stranded me in a gator habitat.” When they reached their floor, Nicki skipped down the hall.

  Nate was left with several hours to figure out how to pump distrustful musicians for information, and how to impress a woman he couldn’t stop thinking about.

  When the cousins arrived at her condo, Isabelle made the decision about seating arrangements for them. When Nicki jumped out to greet her, Isabelle hopped into the backseat without much consideration. She was far more concerned about clubbing on a weeknight.

  “Why did you pick a Tuesday to meet some of Danny’s fellow musicians?” she asked, leaning over the front seat. “Wouldn’t the weekend be better?”

  “Yeah, that was my thought too at first, but then I realized Tuesday and Wednesday are when many stand-ins take the stage if a regular needs a night off. Sunday and Monday most clubs are dark. Thursday through Saturday the clubs are filled to capacity, so regulars wouldn’t dare not show up. Plus, some small clubs have an open mic tonight. New musicians can show off their talent in case established bands are looking to replace someone. This actually should be our best shot at finding those who may have known your brother.”

  “I’m impressed, Nate,” said Nicki. “You were busy while I was in Millington.”

  “Sounds good, as long as we’re not out too late,” said Isabelle. “I have a long day tomorrow.”

  “Music starts early on Tuesday, and I brought you this if you need it.” He handed her a bottle of energy drink.

  “Thanks. I’ll save it for the office tomorrow.” Isabelle settled back on the seat. “Tell me what you’re hoping to find out.”

  “Because I’m not convinced Tito is our man, I want to know how Danny got along with the other musicians. If he had any enemies on Beale Street.”

  Isabelle sighed. “I doubt it. Everyone who met Danny liked him. It was that way his whole life. He had the magnetic personality in our family.”

  Nicki pivoted on the seat. “Your personality is just fine, Izzy. Not everyone can be as outgoing as Danny.”

  “I agree,” said Nate, glad Nicki was there to voice his thoughts. He hated to hear Isabelle criticize herself, yet anything he said would sound like transparent flattery. “Besides, tonight we’re simply three friends out to relax and listen to good music. I found out that Blues Nation is playing at Jimmy’s Downunder. Two guitars plus a bass player, drums, keyboard, and a saxophone. Danny played the sax, right? Maybe members of the band knew him.”

  Nate glanced at Isabelle in the rearview mirror. She looked on the verge of tears. Bringing her along so soon after the funeral had been a mistake. But there was little he could do now but scan the radio stations for distraction until they got to Beale Street.

  Jimmy’s Downunder turned out to be a dark, cavernous club with a jukebox so loud that conversation, witty or otherwise, was virtually impossible. Nate wouldn’t have to worry about putting his foot in his mouth. Because they arrived earlier than the average club-goer, twenty bucks secured a table in front of the stage.

  “Out with two lovely ladies tonight,” purred the hostess. “Aren’t you the lucky one?” She winked at Nate before tottering away on ridiculously high heels.

  “That I am.” Nate pulled out Isabelle’s chair and then reached for Nicki’s. But she was already snapping photos of musicians as they tuned their instruments. “Exercise a little subtlety, if you don’t mind,” he cautioned.

  “Why? I’m just an enamored fan of the blues.”

  “Not everyone likes their picture taken,” Nate hissed in her ear. Sure enough, a wiry, dreadlocked guitarist was trying to st
are holes through his cousin.

  Nicki put away her phone and ordered an assortment of appetizers, two Cokes, and one Budweiser from the waitress. “I know you don’t drink, but I ordered you a beer. You know, as part of our cover,” she whispered in her cousin’s ear. “It can just sit there.”

  On second thought, why hadn’t I just brought Isabelle and left Nicki back at the hotel?

  But by the time they ate their overpriced tourist food, concerns about proper club etiquette were forgotten. The Blues Nation warmed up with a few instrumental versions of popular tunes and then launched into music that took Nate’s breath away. Driving beats that reverberated in his chest, perfect pitch harmonies, guitar chords that would make the masters weep, and sorrowful lyrics that had given the genre its name. The guitar player with laser vision turned out to be the lead singer. His R&B style reminded Nate of a rawer, earthier Al Green or Barry White, but with none of the romance. The range of his vocals kept the three of them mesmerized for an hour, all thoughts of food, beverages, or their purpose forgotten.

  When the band took a much-deserved break, Nate walked up to the tip jar and threw in a hundred-dollar bill—currency he kept tucked in his wallet for a special occasion. The singer’s voice, along with guitar work that rivaled the late Stevie Ray Vaughn and sax playing that brought to mind E Street Band’s big man, warranted no less.

  Nate’s largesse didn’t go unnoticed. The guitar player’s eyes rounded when he spotted the hundred atop the ones and fives. He mopped his forehead, took a swig of water, and sauntered toward their table as though he had all the time in the world. “Either you’ve had too much to drink, or you really liked our first set. Considering you’ve barely touched your beer, I’d say it was the latter.” The man looked long and hard at each of them in succession, his gaze lingering longest on Nate. “Unless you folks have another reason for being here.”

  Nate shrugged. “I haven’t heard live music in a long time. I forgot how much I liked it. And that was better than any I can remember.”