Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Teaser chapter
A Sad Day in New Orleans
“Dreadful accident,” the mayor said, shaking his head.
“Do you really believe Wayne’s death was an accident?” I asked. “I’m not convinced that it was.”
The mayor took my elbow and ushered me toward the sliding glass doors. “Let’s not talk of this here,” he said.
We stepped outside into the hot air and paused under a palm tree.
“I know how upset you must be, Mrs. Fletcher. Wayne was a friend to us all.”
“I certainly am upset, Mayor Amadour,” I said, feeling a different kind of heat rising in my blood. “I’m particularly upset that the police department made such a quick decision on the nature of Wayne’s death. I really can’t believe it.”
“Now, now, Mrs. Fletcher.” He took my hand between his and patted it. “I knew Wayne for many years, and he was a bit of an odd duck.”
“I don’t think—” I started to say, but he wouldn’t let me speak.
“He was an obsessive man,” he said, squeezing my hand hard, and catching my ring in the vise of his grip. “No telling what he would do if he took a mind to it. I believe if you think about that for a little while, you’ll come to the same conclusion.”
I yanked my hand away, and suppressed the urge to rub my finger where the ring had made a dent in the skin.
Other books in the Murder, She Wrote Series
Manhattans & Murder
Rum & Razors
Brandy & Bullets
Martinis & Mayhem
A Deadly Judgment
A Palette for Murder
The Highland Fling Murders
Murder on the QE2
Murder in Moscow
A Little Yuletide Murder
Murder at Powderhorn Ranch
Knock ’Em Dead
Gin & Daggers
Trick or Treachery
Blood on the Vine
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For Renée
Chapter One
“Hand me the bait pail, Mrs. F. I think they nibbled off my worm again.”
I put down the national section of the Bangor Times and passed a tin bucket of night crawlers to Cabot Cove’s sheriff, Mort Metzger.
It was Sunday afternoon, and we were sitting on the end of the Town Dock dangling our fishing lines in the harbor, but not getting much interest on the part of the marine population. A recent bout of rainstorms had left every garden in Cabot Cove soggy, and Mort’s wife Maureen had complained that the worms were taking over her flower beds. Mort’s answer had been to dig up a load of the wriggly, grayish-pink creatures and invite me to fish with him while we brainstormed about who we could get to help finance the purchase of a new patrol car for the village police force.
“The Ladies Auxiliary likes to have a pet project for their Spring Fling,” I suggested.
“Now, Mrs. F.,” Mort said, hesitating as he baited his hook and dropped it in the water, “I don’t want to turn politically incorrect on you, and I appreciate all the ladies have done for the village. But buying a police cruiser with the proceeds from a fashion show somehow just doesn’t seem right.”
“I’m disappointed in you, Mort. The whole object is to raise the money. As long as the gathering of those funds is legal and proper, whether they come from a fashion show or a pancake breakfast is not all that important.”
Mort’s pained expression said he wanted to disagree, but thought better of it. He picked up the newspaper I’d abandoned, and idly turned the pages.
“Have you talked to the Men’s Club or the Lions or the Rotary?” I asked.
“They’ve already budgeted their funds for the year. Ralph Mackin needs a new roof on the old courthouse, and he got to the Rotary first. And the high school Key Club is committed to their baby car seat program for the hospital. I can’t think of anyone else, can you?”
“Then it’s got to be the Ladies Auxiliary, Mort. And I think we’d better approach them pretty soon, before they commit all their money, too. It’s either that or wait till next year.”
“We can’t. The state’s matching funds program is only for this year. If we miss that, we’ll never be able to replace that old heap we’ve got.”
“Is it in that bad s
hape?”
“It’s pretty beat up. One of the deputies had to go to Tommy Brinkley’s home to give him a speeding ticket because the patrol car couldn’t keep up. And Tommy’s old clunker is no sports car; it’s a 1987 station wagon.”
“I’ll talk to Tina Treyz on Monday,” I said. “She’s a terrific fundraiser, and she’s on the organizing committee for the ladies’ luncheon.”
“Well, she’s a driver, all right,” Mort said, warming to the idea. “If anyone can get us to the goal, she’s it.”
We sat quietly for a while, Mort bouncing his line and reading the paper.
I breathed in the fresh, spring air. The sky was full of mares’ tails, the high cirrus clouds a sure sign of impending rain, but it was perfect Maine April weather, crisp and bright, occasionally warm enough in the sun to take off your sweater, and chilly enough at night to keep two blankets on the end of the bed.
“Say, aren’t you going down to New Orleans next week?” he asked.
“Yes. Why?”
“Take a look here. Got a strange murder there, it says.”
I leaned over Mort’s shoulder and read along with him.
AP—New Orleans police are investigating the possible connection between voodoo practices and an apparent murder that took place yesterday in the Crescent City, as the Louisiana metropolis is also known. The body of Elijah Williams was found sitting up against the tomb of nineteenth-century voodoo queen Marie Laveau in the city’s oldest graveyard, St. Louis Cemetery Number One. Police said the victim appeared to have been strangled, but declined to elaborate further. An autopsy is pending.
Laveau’s tomb is a popular attraction in this Mississippi River city, where swamp conditions forced citizens to “bury” their dead in above-ground vaults for over two centuries. The cemeteries, known as Cities of the Dead, are regular stops on sightseeing tours, but the two St. Louis cemeteries are located in what are now considered dangerous neighborhoods, and visitors are warned not to wander from the safety of their tour groups.
Mayor Maurice Amadour reassured the public there was no cause to be alarmed, and announced that a special security detail would be assigned to the cemetery for the next month. However, merchants in the French Quarter complained that the mayor’s office was not doing enough to safeguard the tourism industry.
Police said Williams, whose age was not known, was at one time a guide in the bayous. He disappeared fifteen years ago on a fishing trip during which a prominent politician died. The politician’s badly mauled body had been recovered from the alligator-infested waters. An NOPD spokesman said Williams had been presumed dead as well, and the discovery of his body on Saturday was a surprise. An investigation is under way to uncover Williams’s whereabouts for the last decade and a half, the spokesman said, and the NOPD was calling on local residents to come forward with any information pertinent to the case.
“Hmmm, interesting story.”
“Now, Mrs. F., you be careful down there. I hear that New Orleans is a dangerous city.”
“You have to take the same precautions you would in any large city, Mort, and I always do. I had no problems when I was there last year, and I’m looking forward to seeing all the things I missed on the first visit. And yes, I’ll be careful.”
He harrumphed.
A slight tug on my line returned my attention to fishing.
“I think I may have caught something,” I said gleefully.
Mort eyed the slight curve at the top of my pole.
“More likely you’ve hooked a weed,” he said. “Whatever it is isn’t giving you much of a fight.”
I quickly reeled in the slack in my line and pulled back on the rod. When the end of the fishing line cleared the water, hanging from the hook was a tiny fish, no more than five inches long.
“Got a dab there. Definitely not a keeper,” Mort said, deftly netting my catch.
Apologizing to the little flounder, I gently extracted the hook from its mouth and leaned over the edge of the dock to release it back into the water. The fish hesitated a moment and then flapped away, back down to the bottom of the bay. I wondered if the experience would change the life of that little fish. Would it shun temptation from now on? Would it approach an easy meal with suspicion? Or would it forget to be cautious, only to be caught another day?
Chapter Two
A young man with a scruffy beard tugged on the neckline of his T-shirt, rose from the audience, and leaned into the microphone. “You’re an investigative reporter, Mr. Broadbent, but I hear you moonlight as a sax player on the weekends.”
“You’d make a good investigative reporter yourself,” Broadbent replied. “You’ve discovered my passion. I’m a closet saxophonist.”
“Are you any good?” the young man asked.
A ripple of uncomfortable laughter ran through the audience, but Julian Broadbent grinned at the young man, who held a notebook and pencil.
“Well, I’m better than Bill Clinton, but not as good as Branford Marsalis.”
This time the laughter was louder, and the audience burst into applause.
Julian Broadbent was a handsome man with blond hair and light-blue eyes, who knew how to use his Southern charm. It was part of what made him such a successful investigative reporter. That charm, coupled with tenacity and writing skill, had helped him write a popular book on a recently retired Louisiana senator, whose departure from Washington just barely preceded the publication of Broadbent’s exposé of him.
“He can sweet-talk the politicians right out of their trees,” our host and moderator Charlie Gable had said in his introduction of Broadbent, “or right out of their Senate seats in this case.”
Broadbent was one of four authors with new books out. I was among them. We’d spent this Thursday morning discussing writing in general, and our latest works in particular, as guests of Gable and the New Orleans Times-Picayune.
“Seriously, folks, you’ll have to be the judge.” Broadbent bobbed his head toward the dapper man to his left, and his Louisiana accent deepened. “My colleague on the panel, heah, once tole me ‘Keep yo’ day job.’ But my mama was a stubborn Cajun, and I guess I inherited that trait. I’m still practicin’. So y’all come on uptown to Tipitina’s next Tuesday and see if I’ve improved since my review.”
As the audience laughed and clapped again, Wayne Copely, the man to Broadbent’s left and to my right, covered his mouth with his fist and leaned in my direction. “Stubbornness never was a substitute for talent,” he muttered.
I smothered a smile. Wayne, another author on the panel, was a music critic with a nationally syndicated column, and a friend of recent acquaintance. He’d been particularly helpful to me during the writing of my latest mystery, Murder in a Minor Key, which I’d set in New Orleans. At the recommendation of a mutual friend, I’d gone to Wayne for information on the city’s love affair with jazz.
“You cannot write about New Orleans if you don’t know about her musical roots,” he had told me solemnly. “I will guide you.”
Keeping his promise, he had given me a quick education in the range of local musical offerings, while squiring me from one jazz venue to another. We went to concert halls, sophisticated clubs, rollicking bars, down-and-dirty dives, and it seemed to me, nearly every impromptu street performance. When we parted more than a year ago, Wayne had urged me to come back for the Jazz and Heritage Festival that takes place in New Orleans each spring, although it was hard to believe that there could be even more to hear in a city already overflowing with music.
Fate had been kind and my publisher even kinder. Now that Murder in a Minor Key was climbing the best-seller list, I was back in “The Big Easy” for the last days of a successful, if whirlwind, promotional tour, just in time for the festival. This morning’s panel of authors, which also included a historian, Doris Burns, along with Wayne, Julian Broadbent, and me, was one of a regular series, hosted monthly by Charlie Gable, book editor of Lagniappe, the weekend entertainment section of the Times-Picayune, the ci
ty’s only daily newspaper. Charlie had always been complimentary in his reviews of my work, and when he’d invited me to participate in one of his Book Club Breakfasts, I’d been flattered to accept. My publisher had arranged several interviews to coincide with my visit to New Orleans, and I was looking forward to revisiting a city that had so intrigued me before.
Turning in my direction, the bearded young man asked, “Mrs. Fletcher, are you a secret musician, too?”
“I took music lessons as a child,” I answered. “Perhaps many of you did, too.”
I looked around the audience; heads were nodding.
“My mother used to say, there must be a special place in heaven for music teachers; they have such an abundance of patience,” I said with a chuckle. “I sometimes suspected mine wore earplugs. I grew up to love all kinds of music, but I’m afraid my best musical skills are as a listener.”
“Miz Fletcher, why did you choose New Orleans for your latest mystery?”
The speaker was an elderly lady in a bright, multicolored dress with a floral pattern. She held a large straw hat, an even larger straw handbag, and a red umbrella hung from her arm.
“Many writers find inspiration in particular locations, most often those that are initially unfamiliar,” I responded. “If I’m walking in a crowded city, or on a desolate stretch of road, all of a sudden I’ll find myself composing plots, and characters who seem to fit the scene. Perhaps there’s something odd in the sight of a particular building, or a strange smell assails me, or the eerie sound of the wind makes me shiver. All my senses are sharpened when I encounter someplace new. Those experiences end up on the page.”
“We got lots of eerie things in New Orleans,” the woman said.
“Probably more here than other big cities do,” I agreed. “New Orleans has many qualities to stimulate the imagination. It’s friendly, dangerous, exotic, accessible, foreign, and thoroughly American. You have a wonderful mix of cultures, religions, and philosophies. You have appreciation for the past, and exuberance for the present. Your food is spicy, and so is the air, perfumed with the mingled aromas of the cooking, the rich vegetation, the swamps, and the Mississippi River. Your weather is, by turns, sultry and refreshing. And everywhere you go, and in everything you do, music accompanies you. The whole city is a mystery, and I love to unravel mysteries.”
Murder in a Minor Key Page 1
