The Blue Rose

By j. r. Barnes

Wyatt Antone's life as a gig-to-gig jazz musician folds back upon itself when he meets a mysterious young woman we eventually come to know as 'Jazmine'. After a series of 'coincidental' encounters, Wyatt begins to suspect there is a cunning design behind the meetings. With the help of his jazz mate and would be lover, Elise Marchant, Wyatt attempts to unravel the puzzle of the woman's true identity and finds himself in the middle of a murder investigation as both amateur detective and suspect.

• Language: English
• Publisher: j. r. barnes
• Release date: Aug 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223127659

j. r. Barnes

j. r. Barnes is musician, songwriter, poet, audio engineer, retired university instructor, documentary film-maker and Peabody Award recipient. He is the author of two books of poetry: Imposters and Hibernation, and another novel: Sailing Home. He is currently working on a collection of essays, another book of poetry and a third novel, Shiloh and Me—A Musical Odyssey. Quoting Mister Barnes: “We are, each of us, a mystery, rummaging our way through life, searching for a variety of treasures. Writing, in my opinion, is an important part of that journey, a venture into that most magical of places, oneself. When the writing is going well I find I am not so much the writer as the first reader, and as a reader I would like to recommend this book to you—I rather enjoyed it.

Book preview

j. r. barnes

Chapter One

M iss Jane has been looking for you, Wyatt, Melissa carped out from the lawn of the Thornton Mansion. She only has one birthday a year. I would think you would dress appropriately and make an effort to be prompt.

Wyatt continued past Miss Jane’s middle-aged assistant as if she were invisible. As he approached the portico, the butler opened the front door for him, saying,

Did you bring your horn, Mr. Antone? Miss Jane was hoping you would play for her birthday.

No, I’m sorry... Wyatt said, hesitating long enough for the butler to fill in the gap.

Thomas, sir.

Yes, of course... Thomas. I’m sorry, Thomas, I forgot to bring my horn.

He walked through the grand foyer and into the parlor, weaving his way through the gathering. Amid the blend of well-groomed men clad in duplicate monochrome attire, and the full complement of well-coiffed and eloquently dressed, aromatic ladies, Wyatt could see Miss Jane’s silver hair catching the light from the chandelier. As he approached Miss Jane to say hello, he paused politely apart, eavesdropping on her conversation with two other guests.

...it takes years. Perhaps if you started on the day you were born, you might be able to call yourself a jazz musician by the age of thirty, spouted Arnold Wist, an elderly music critic for the Cincinnati Enquirer.

Elise Marchant, a recently turned thirty-year-old jazz pianist and vocalist, replied, There are many accomplished young players out there.

Technique-wise, perhaps, Arnold rebutted, but do they have anything to say?

As Ms. Jane took notice of Wyatt, she turned away from the conversation and extended both hands in Wyatt’s direction to greet him.

Speaking of young and accomplished jazz musicians, I am so pleased you could make it Wyatt, she said.

Forty-four is not that young, Miss Jane. Happy birthday, he said, accepting her hands into his.

I hardly remember my forties, my dear. You know Arnold and Elise, I’m sure, Miss Jane said by way of introduction.

Wyatt leaned in and kissed Elise on the cheek, then turned and shook hands with Arnold. How are you, Mister Wist?

I’m fine, young man. I enjoyed your version of September Song at Miss Jane’s nightclub, The Hideaway, a few weeks ago. I love your cornet playing, but rarely get a chance to hear you sing.

Some think I should stick to the cornet, right Elise?

I love the way you sing, Elise said. I wish you sang more often.

Listen to you, Wyatt said. There is your singer, Mister Wist, and a prime example of a young and accomplished jazz pianist.

Did you bring your horn, Wyatt? Miss Jane asked.

My apologies, Miss Jane, I did not.

Oh-h-h, Miss Jane sighed. Well, perhaps you and Elise could sing a duet a little later.

I would like that, Elise said, smiling at Wyatt.

We’ll see, Wyatt curved. And again, happy birthday, Miss Jane, he added, glancing a kiss off her cheek.

Having fulfilled his obligation to appear, Wyatt excused himself and zigzagged through the room, casually working his way toward a sliding glass door he knew to be the perfect exit. As he approached the Arcadia door, a young woman in a bright yellow dress positioned herself in front of it, blocking his escape.

Her name’s Jazmine, and she’s a fuckin’ mess, a total stranger offered.

‘Who asked you?’ Wyatt thought as he walked past whoever it was and continued toward the door.

The young woman looked at Wyatt again, and as he moved to step around her, she asked, You’re a musician, aren’t you?

Wyatt nodded and asked, Have you heard me play?

Her lips curled into a devilish smile. I can smell them, she served.

Well... nice chatting with you, Wyatt volleyed back, and moved once again to step around her.

She placed her hand on the sleeve of his jacket just firm enough to stop him. I'm a musician too, she quickly added, ...and a baseball player.

Wyatt looked down at her hand upon his sleeve.

You like baseball? she asked, as if leading him somewhere.

Not particularly, Wyatt answered.

I was raised by a baseball player who wanted a son, she said, placing her hands on her hips. As you can clearly see, I'm nobody’s son—but I am one hell-of-a baseball player. What about you? What were you raised to be?

Wyatt reluctantly played along, saying, Nothing in particular. My father and I weren't... and he paused mid-thought before continuing. Well... I take it you and your father were close.

Briefly, she threw back at him.

Somewhat confused, Wyatt asked, Did you and your father—

Have sex? she interjected.

What? Wyatt reacted, drawing back.

I’m pretty sure we did, she asserted.

Okay, look... I’m not sure your life is any of my business. So, again, if you'll excuse me.

I’ll be seeing you, she said, opening her eyes to him a little too wide.

Wyatt stepped around her and proceeded through the sliding door, chalking her up as a nut job.

Just the guy I was looking for, said Riley Walls, rolling a freshly lit Cohiba cigar around in his puckered chubby lips.

Wyatt wasn’t overly fond of Riley, but he found it difficult to be rude to him. Riley was a local bar owner and one of those, ‘I built this with my own two hands,’ kind of guys. The truth was, he never built anything in his life; he bought it with Daddy's money, and held himself aloft by bitching about all the lazy losers cluttering up his world.

How would you like to be in charge of hiring bands at my club? he asked Wyatt. The room would be yours to do with as you please. Maybe you could do an open mic night, you know, featuring new artists.

You mean provide you with free entertainment.

Nah, don’t be so cynical, Wyatt. How else are these young musicians supposed to get exposure? You’re doing them a favor and getting paid for your efforts. Whatta ya say?

That's not what I do, Wyatt replied.

Yes, but you know how to talk to musicians. You can tell the difference between a real band and a group of fuck-ups that got together and came up with a name.

Not really, Wyatt said, and leaning in, he added, I'll tell you the truth, Riley, I fucking hate music. I hate musicians, and I have a special disdain for club owners.

After a beat, Riley replied, Bullshit! Why don't you stop by the club tomorrow and have lunch... on me. We'll chat.

You’ll chat. I'll eat, Wyatt said, patting Riley on the side of his arm before walking away and sneaking off the mansion grounds.

THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, Wyatt stopped by Riley’s club, Uncle Fat’s. Uncle Fat’s was an 80-year-old gentlemen’s saloon that Riley was trying to turn into a nightclub. A long, hand-carved mahogany bar sat on the right as you entered, and behind it was a large mirror with hand-crafted mahogany pillars on either side. To the left of the thin aisle leading through the room were several booths that housed the lunch crowd. At the very rear of Uncle Fat’s, Riley had removed the booths to open up the space for a small stage, a dance floor, and about 10 four-top tables.

Riley was sitting at the far end of the empty bar conversing with a young woman wearing a long red peasant dress with a purple headscarf, long black evening gloves, and a pair of fuchsia ‘fuck me’ boots. It was Jazmine, the musician/baseball player.

A-a-a-y-y-y Wyatt, Riley called out. C'mon over here. Pull your ass up on a stool.

Wyatt’s pace slowed, but continued.

I want you to meet Melody, Riley said.

Melody? Wyatt said, somewhat confused. Yes, we’ve met... sort of...

Not properly, she said, holding out her gloved hand, limp palm down.

Am I to take it and bow, or should I kiss it? Wyatt asked in jest.

Both, she all but commanded.

Wyatt complied.

Melody is here lookin’ for a gig, Riley said, ...a jazz gig. I told her, this ain't a jazz club. Then he turned to Melody. Do you know why this ain't a jazz club, honey? Cause there ain't no money in jazz. We got two jazz clubs in the whole fucking town of Cincinnati, and if it weren’t for the charity of Miss Jane Thornton, they’d both be closed down. But I do need a good waitress.

Well... Melody said, preparing to leave, but as she started to get up Riley put his hand on her shoulder and gently pushed her back down.

Listen honey, he said, take Wyatt here. He plays jazz. When was the last time you played a gig, Wyatt?

I played a dinner set, Saturday.

A real gig, Riley repeated.

All gigs are real gigs, Wyatt said.

Riley turned to Melody, I got a guy comes in and does karaoke on Mondays and Tuesdays. He makes more money in those two days than Wyatt does all week. I'm offering both of you a job. Then he turned to Wyatt. So whatta ya think? You want to come work for me?

I only came in for the free lunch, Wyatt said.

"I don't work for anyone that calls me honey," Melody said, removing Riley’s hand from her shoulder as she got up to leave. On her way out, she stopped, wrote something on a napkin, and handed it to Wyatt. It said:

Jazz Bass/Baseball Catcher

912 Green Street

[phone]

Where's that lunch you promised me? Wyatt asked.

You’re not coming to work for me, are you? Riley asked.

Nope.

Ain't no free lunch, Riley said, and disappeared through the back of the bar and into the kitchen.

A flash of sunlight came streaming through the front door as Carry, a perennially young, thirty-something-year old waitress and a long-time come and go sleepover companion of Wyatt’s, came waltzing through looking a bit disheveled, even for Carry.

Is Riley taking care of you? she peeped in her sexy Memphis accent as she hurried past.

I don't think Riley is capable of taking care of anyone but himself, Wyatt joked.

Be nice, Carry said as she whisked away into the kitchen. She emerged a few moments later looking a little less frowzy.

You want a Bushmills? she asked, pouring Wyatt a Bushmills Irish Whiskey.

Nah, he said.

Who wanted the Bushmills? she called out to an empty bar. She slid the drink across the bar toward Wyatt and said, Here, I accidentally poured this for someone who didn’t want it. It's on the house.

Is this your good deed for the day? he asked, reaching for the glass.

She leaned across the bar and asked, as if in confidence, Do you know a guy named Whitt?

Wit? Wyatt asked.

Wh-h-hit, she said, blowing air into Wyatt’s face. I don't know his last name, but he knows you.

How does he know me?

He saw you play. He thinks you’re an asshole.

Wyatt took a slow breath. Why are you telling me this?

"Because I stood up for you. I told him, you’re not a total asshole."

This is what you call, standing up for someone?

I luv ya, Wyatt, but you can be an asshole. As a matter of fact—

Yeah, yeah, I get it, Wyatt said, motioning for her to lean in toward him. So, tell me, how did you meet this, Wh-h-hit guy? he asked, blowing a strand of her blonde hair straight up, and as it lilted back down, it came to rest across her face.

She left it lie. He's playing down at Donner's Cafe. You should hear this guy play. He’s got it goin’ on.

What does he play?

Keys. You should check him out.

Check out the guy who thinks I'm a total asshole?

Carry smiled, brushed the stray strand of hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear.

Sure, why not? Wyatt answered himself. Why don’t you go with me and introduce us? What time do you get off?

O-o-o, that would be delicious, wouldn't it? Carry said.

Wyatt gestured, 'so how ‘bout it?'

I'm off at eight, she said.

Chapter Two

Wyatt picked Carry up at eight o’clock and drove to Donner's Cafe, a small run-down basement bar just off the University of Cincinnati campus. The ceiling barely cleared seven feet and all the tables and chairs looked as if they came from Toys Are Us. The place was nearly full of preoccupied digital zombies sitting around staring into their Wi-Fi tablets and cell phones. Wyatt and Carry sat down at a squat little table right in front of the piano. He ordered a Bushmills; she ordered a Galliano—she liked to watch them pour it out of that long skinny bottle into the tiny little aperitif glass.

Wyatt’s friend, Mitch, a handsome six foot-nine, hot chocolate-brown jazz drummer from Detroit, came over to their table and stood towering over them.

Where have you been hiding? he asked Wyatt.

At home. Without a gig, why leave the crib? Wyatt said.

To get a gig, Mitch replied.

Wyatt laughed. You're never without one, he said.

That's 'cause I play drums. And I'll play with anyone. I ain't one of you particular motherfuckers.

Wyatt laughed and said, Because you're a whore.

An employed musician... and gentleman of the evening, Mitch said. How are you doin' Carry?

I'll be fine after you sit down. You’re straining my neck.

Mitch painstakingly positioned himself at the tiny table, his knees as high as his head.

Wyatt burst out laughing and said, You look hideous.

They should call this place, The Doll House, Mitch laughed.

Wyatt glanced over at the bar to get the attention of a server and noticed a woman dressed in pajamas sitting at the bar. It was Melody. She sat staring at Wyatt while some guy was obviously trying to pick her up.

I don't think he heard you, Carry said to Mitch.

So, have you heard this guy play? Mitch asked Wyatt, apparently for the second time.

Ummm...no, Wyatt said, glancing back over at Mitch. Have you?

Yeah. He's a player. He thinks you’re an asshole.

Wyatt motioned, ‘what the fuck?’, as Carry and Mitch began laughing.

You put him up to that, didn't you? he asked Carry, joining her in a smile.

Welcome to Donner's Café. I'm Whitt Fox. I'm going to start off with an original composition titled simply, Melody.

O-h-h-h... Wyatt moaned, leaning back in his chair.

What? asked Carry.

I hate this guy already.

Why? Mitch asked.

You see that girl over there, dressed in pajamas? Wyatt said, pointing toward the bar without looking.

No, Mitch said.

Wyatt turned to find Melody no longer there.

It doesn't matter, Wyatt sighed.

Are you listening to this guy? Carry asked. How can you not like this this guy's playing?

I didn't say that. I said I didn't like this guy.

Why? Just because he thinks you're an asshole? Carry said.

What does a girl in pajamas have to do with it? Mitch asked.

This is quite a mystery, Carry said, laughing.

Wyatt glanced back and forth between Carry and Mitch while nervously tapping the table with his index finger. If there is a mystery, it is this: Why does this Wh-h-hit guy, think I'm an asshole?

He saw you playing at Stella's On Vine. He said you went off on the drummer, Carry said.

Wyatt leaned in and said to Mitch, You should have heard this so-called drummer.

Who was he? Mitch asked.

Beats me. Some ghostly pale, skinny little frail guy with long stringy-ass hair. Said his name was... Stan Stanley.

That’s some handle, Mitch said.

"I know, right? So, it’s show time... he’s late coming on stage. When he finally comes out of the back room, he’s trailing this cloud of marijuana smoke behind him. I thought he was on fire. He sits down behind his drums and starts looking around as if he isn’t sure these are his drums. So, I ask him, 'Are you alright, man?' He meekly dribbles out, 'Someone has taken my sticks.' I say, ‘They're in your back pocket, dude.’ We started off with Perdido, and he counts it off like, 1...... 2...... 3...... so I stop him and say, ‘no, no, no... it’s like, 1.. 2.. 3.. 4’. He nods and counts it off again like this, 1......... 2......... 3......... even slower!"

Carry and Mitch started laughing out loud.

...and we end up playing the slowest version of the song in the history of jazz. His playing was so lame I could barely hear him. He was like... and Wyatt began gently tapping on the table with the tips of his fingers, comically imitating Stanley’s playing, tap....... tap....... tap....... tap.

Carry’s contagious laugh got Wyatt laughing.

I finally said to him... 'Dude, I can't hear the drums’. He says... ‘Yeah, I'm a pretty mellow player.’ I said... 'You're pretty fucking nonexistent.'

As their laughter began drawing attention from others, Whitt leaned over the piano, glared at Wyatt and said, If you folks want to talk, maybe you'd be more comfortable in the back of the room.

Sorry, man, Mitch said, and the three of them sat mute for the remainder of the set.

After finishing his first set, Whitt stopped by their table and said to Wyatt, You’re an asshole.

Turns out, that’s true, Wyatt replied.

The trio left Donner’s Café and went to a little dive down the street called The Galaxy. The Galaxy was known for its huge burritos and bragging rights as ‘The Best Breakfast In Town’, four years in a row, according to Cincinnati Magazine. Wyatt liked it because it had the best jukebox in the solar system. It served as a hangout for artists, writers and musicians on the fringe. Some of the regulars were delightfully talented folks with something to say; most were just crazy people expressing crazy thoughts to other crazy people.

One regular who teetered between artist and kook was a fellow everyone called Weird David. David was a thirty-three-year-old frail, scattered, and broken genius that, by the age of eighteen, had consumed so much LSD that life was now just one long psychedelic trip. He was nearly blind, and he goggled his mostly blurry world through half-inch thick glasses, magnifying his and giving his entire head the appearance of a psychopathic bug.

He possessed a nebulous talent for turning almost anything into a quasi-musical instrument upon which he would create a composition unique to the tonal qualities of that item. From his, Eight and a Half by Eleven Etude, where he plays a sheet of paper by varying the tension, speed and duration with which he crinkles, flicks and tears it; to his Streetlamp Nocturne, a twenty-minute piece he recorded while throwing rocks of assorted sizes at different parts of a streetlamp and then manipulating the sound in a multi-track mix with effects. David had also become quite a proficient performer on the common straw. He could bend, pinch, and shape the ‘instrument’ to emit a variety of raspy flute-like atonal sounds that only made music to his psychedelic ears. He preferred the tonal qualities of the paper straw to the plastic kind, but he told Wyatt that the paper variety is not only harder to come by these days, but it is also not well suited for longer compositions, because, as David expressed it, as musical instruments go, they have little staying power.

Wyatt spotted David sitting at a table covered with corncobs and individual baggies full of corn kernels. Across from him sat Melody, still in her pajamas.

As Wyatt approached the table, David said, much louder than necessary, Wyatt, I have something for you.

Wyatt nodded toward Melody.

She nodded back.

What’s with all the corncobs, David? Wyatt asked.

I haven’t decided. But you have to admit they have an interesting geometry, he said, holding a corncob up close to his thick glasses and adding, very skeletal.

Now that you mention it, Wyatt went along. But the corncobs aren’t for me... are they, David?

No, no... what would you do with corncobs?

Exactly, Wyatt answered.

David reached into his pocket and pulled out a small blue velvet box. He clicked it open to reveal a wooden mouthpiece for a trumpet. He gave it the twice-over before passing the box to Wyatt.

Where in the world did you get this? Wyatt asked.

I made it. Just for you. Do you like it?

It’s beautiful, Wyatt said.

It’s pecan.

Pecan?

Yes, pecan. Pecan is a particularly hard wood. I have lined the inside with a special lacquer so that your saliva doesn’t penetrate the wood and cause it to swell. Have you ever played through a wooden mouthpiece?

Can’t say that I have, no.

Let me know how you like it. Wyatt, I want you to meet my new friend, Isabella, he said, referring to Melody.

Oh, so it’s Isabella now, is it? Wyatt said with an amused smile.

Sometimes, she shot back.

Well Isabella, this is Mitch and... Wyatt looked around for Carry. What happened to Carry?

Mitch shrugged and said to Wyatt, The girl at the bar in pajamas? referring to Melody, aka Isabella.

Yeah, Wyatt said, and then turning to Isabella, Mitch is a musician. Or had you already sensed that?

Mitch reached out to shake hands with her.

She took his hand and studied it. You have exquisite hands... for a drummer, she said, smiling.

What makes you think I’m a drummer?

You move like a drummer, she said.

Mitch turned to Wyatt, with his mouth half agape...

Wyatt shook his head and said, Melo... I mean, Isabella, plays bass.

And baseball, she added.

Yeah, I don’t get that. Where do you play baseball? Wyatt asked.

It’s October, the season’s over, she explained. And then, lowering her voice as if to pull him near, she added, I’ll tell you all about it... someday. Still staring into Wyatt’s eyes, she asked, Are you playing with anyone now, Mitch?

Mitch, dividing his stare between Isabella and Wyatt, said, Yeah. I play with a house jazz band at The Piedmont Hotel through the week and with a Dixieland band at Pete’s in Newport on Sundays. I’m available for other gigs on the weekend. What about you?

She glanced at Mitch and said, I came to town a few weeks ago. I’m looking for a gig.

Where did you come from? Mitch asked.

Jersey.

Whereabouts in Jersey? Wyatt asked.

All over. You want to introduce me to your girlfriend? she asked Wyatt as Carry approached.

Carry, this is... well, I’m not really sure. I’ll let her tell you who she is, he said.

You can call me Bella, she said, checking Carry out.

Bella? Wyatt said, raising his eyebrows.

Hi, Carry said dismissively, and turning to Wyatt, asked, Why does she think you’re my boyfriend?

Ask her, Wyatt answered.

Would you like to sit down, Carry? Bella asked, scooting over and patting the spot next to her.

No, I’m good, Carry said. I’m hungry. Let’s get something to eat, Wyatt.

Wyatt turned to Mitch.

You two go ahead. I’m gonna hang here, he said, sitting down beside Bella.

Well, if you’ll excuse us. Thanks for the mouthpiece, David. I’ll let you know how it works out, Wyatt said, although David was too engrossed in his corncobs and baggies of kernels to respond.

Carry and Wyatt found a table and sat down.

I know her from somewhere, Carry said.

Chapter Three

The following morning , Carry shook Wyatt awake to tell him that his cell phone was ringing. It was Mitch.

You wanna do a gig with Elise Marchant and me?

When? Where? How much?

This Saturday, Miss Jane’s Hideaway, hundred bucks apiece.

Anyone on bass? Wyatt asked.

I was thinking of asking, Bella.

Have you heard her play?

No... have you?

No, Wyatt said.

My stuff is at The Piedmont. We could meet there this afternoon around two and see what happens.

Hmmm... Wyatt said, leaving a delay for emphasis before asking, "Are you sure about this?’’

Yeah, why not? Go ahead, give her a call?

Why should I call her? This is your idea.

I don’t have her number, Mitch said.

Oh, I see, Wyatt said with a smile that Mitch could hear through the phone. So you two didn’t... u-m-m-m... exchange information last night?

No. We didn’t exchange anything last night. When I asked her for her number, she said I could always reach her through you.

Wh-a-a-t?

That’s what she said. So, will you call her?

Wait a minute... Wyatt grabbed his pants from the floor and looked through the pockets until he found the napkin with her phone number and address. Yeah, I’ll call you back later, he said, hanging up. My phone is almost dead. Do you mind if I use your phone to make a call? he asked Carry.

To Bella... or whatever her real name is? Yeah, sure, she said begrudgingly, and she got out of bed to get the phone from her purse.

Wyatt watched Carry’s petite, naked body walk across the room. Some women are more attractive clothed than naked; Carry isn’t one of them. She drapes her shapely body in loose, call it baggy, drab clothing—bib overalls and T-shirts. When she wears a blouse, she always buttons it all the way to the top button. She likes dresses, but they are all country homespun type dresses. No plunging neckline,