Murder in a Minor Key

by Jessica Fletcher

  A door from the living room opened into another part of the apartment, and I could hear someone shuffling around in there, opening doors and drawers.

  “Where did Wayne die?” I asked Detective Steppe.

  “We found his body at the cemetery.”

  “The cemetery!”

  “Yeah, ironic, isn’t it?”

  “Which one?” I was almost afraid to ask.

  “St. Louis Cemetery Number One. He was sitting up against a tomb.”

  I shivered. “In the paper this morning,” I whispered to myself.

  “Yeah, tough to keep that stuff out of the paper.” Steppe combed his hair with thick fingers, which made the unruly thatch even more disheveled. “It’ll be all over the news tomorrow, now he’s been ID’d, and seeing who he is and all.”

  “Who identified him?”

  “His sister, I think.” He riffled through the pages of his book. “Yeah, Clarice Copely-Cruz. Know her?”

  “No. We were supposed to have dinner at her house tomorrow. Wayne wanted me to meet her.”

  “How well did you know him?”

  “Not very well,” I admitted. “We were just recent acquaintances, really.”

  “You’re not from here, so how did you meet him?”

  “I got his phone number last year from someone we both know. I was researching a book, and his name was suggested as a resource. He gave me an education in the music of New Orleans. When I knew I was going to be here for an authors’ panel, and in time for Jazz Fest, I called him.”

  “And?”

  “And he got Charlie Gable of the Times-Picayune to add him to the panel, and we took up where we’d left off in my musical studies.” I smiled at the memory of Wayne thrilled at having an acolyte to introduce to the joys of jazz. His enthusiasm had been contagious, and his knowledge of the history of this art form was encyclopedic.

  I shook my head to clear it. “What was the cause of death?” I asked.

  “Are you sure you want to discuss this?”

  “Detective, I make my living writing murder mysteries. I read case histories, interview coroners, pore over police photos. I think I have a pretty strong constitution by now.”

  “No doubt,” Steppe said, pushing his notebook back down in his jacket pocket. He hesitated a bit, considering what to tell me, then decided not to. “Well, we’re not really sure,” he said. I didn’t believe him. “We won’t know officially till the autopsy report comes in.”

  “But you have an idea, right?”

  “I might.” He fiddled with his pencil.

  “Why don’t you want to tell me?”

  Steppe’s eyebrows flew up. “You ask a lot of questions, don’t you?” He retrieved his pad. “Where did you say you were yesterday?”

  “I didn’t,” I replied stiffly. “You didn’t ask me. But I was at Jazz Fest most of the day with Wayne, and I can supply you with the names of our other companions. In the evening, Wayne and I went to a fais-do-do, and then he dropped me off at my hotel at about nine forty-five.”

  Steppe took some more notes, and I got up and paced the room, trying to get a glimpse of the layout of the rest of the apartment, and to see who was in the other room.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” I said.

  “Don’t really know,” he replied. “I’m not the medical examiner. Now tell me, Mrs. Fletcher, in your estimation can you think of why anyone would want Copely dead?”

  I whirled around. “He was murdered?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Your question implies it.”

  “You don’t see any crime scene tape here, do you?”

  “No, but you’re here, and your partner is, too.” I flung out my arm, indicating the other room.

  “Just covering all the possibilities till the medical report comes in. So, do you?”

  “Do I know why anyone would want to kill Wayne? No!”

  The face of Julian Broadbent materialized in my mind. I wondered again where he’d been today, and why he hadn’t left an explanation for Doris. Still, I was convinced Julian’s absence had nothing to do with Wayne. He wouldn’t have had any reason to hurt Wayne, even though he didn’t particularly like him. Julian was prickly, yes, and macho, and there was no love lost between the two men. But no, I wouldn’t bring up his name.

  “Do you know why Copely would have been in the cemetery at night?”

  “No, unless it had to do with his research.”

  “What research?”

  I gave Steppe a brief rundown of Wayne’s interest in the recordings of Little Red LeCoeur. “But he hasn’t found any so far,” I added, and then remembered sadly that “so far” was as far as Wayne would be able to go.

  “Who else knew about this research?”

  “Everyone, I guess.”

  “Who is everyone?”

  “He made a public announcement of his intent to find the recordings at the Book Club Breakfast on Thursday, and it was mentioned in the paper on Friday. And he told me that he’d placed an ad in a music magazine asking for information about the cylinders.”

  “What magazine?”

  “I believe the name is Wavelength.”

  “What would have happened if someone else found the recordings, not Copely?” Steppe asked. “Would he have been angry? Would he go so far as to fight for them?”

  “In my opinion, Wayne would have been delighted if anyone found them, so long as they were willing to let them be copied.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “The actual physical cylinders themselves were not really important, only what they contained. He desperately wanted this generation—and himself as well—to be able to hear the playing of a musical genius. He kept stressing how rare LeCoeur’s style was, a musical missing link between modem jazz and its beginnings.”

  “Hmmm. So he wouldn’t have gotten into a fight for them?”

  “Wayne wasn’t a very big man,” I said. Remembering his confrontation with Broadbent, I added, “I don’t think he frightened easily, but he was more accustomed to using his brain, his powers of verbal persuasion, than his fists.”

  “So he was smart?”

  “Oh, yes. Very smart.”

  “Mr. Copely was a native of this city, Mrs. Fletcher. Everyone in New Orleans knows not to go to those cemeteries alone. That wasn’t very smart.”

  “Maybe he wasn’t alone.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He was supposed to meet the trumpeter, Blind Jack, last night after Jack finished his last set. When Wayne left me, he was going to the club where Jack was playing. They’d planned to have a drink together to discuss Wayne’s latest lead on the recordings. You should ask him.”

  Steppe wrote down Blind Jack’s name. “Where was he playing? Do you remember?”

  I wracked my brain for the name of the club, but it escaped me. “I’m sorry I don’t, but I’m sure it would have been in yesterday’s paper.”

  “Never mind,” he said. “That’s easy to find out.”

  “I remember something else, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “At lunch on Thursday, Wayne mentioned something about death threats.”

  Steppe stared at me. “Death threats? You’re just now remembering that he mentioned death threats. I wouldn’t think that would be easy to forget.”

  “I didn’t forget,” I said, flaring at his tone. “And I don’t appreciate your sarcasm, Detective Steppe. I was not withholding information. I’ve only just learned of Wayne’s death, and didn’t consider till a moment ago that he might not have died of natural causes. You, of course, never said that directly. In fact, you seemed to deny it.”

  He held his palms up. “Sorry, Mrs. Fletcher. You’re right to be annoyed. It’s been a long day, and I get nasty when I’m tired.” He hung his head for a moment and then drew a deep breath. “Just tell me what Copely told you about the death threats. Try to give me every detail you can think of.”

  Mollified
, I relayed what Wayne had told me over lunch about the vicious letters and phone messages he’d received over the years, about how he thought his career as a critic left him open to the rantings of those who took issue with his columns, and about how the police had not been able to help him when he’d reported the first few incidents.

  “So he didn’t report the latest ones?” Steppe shook his head. There were lines of strain around his mouth.

  “Not this time, no,” I said, feeling guilty that I hadn’t pressured Wayne into calling the police again. “Did he die in the cemetery?” I asked abruptly.

  Steppe ignored my question, and asked one of his own. “What do you know about voodoo, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  I thought of tonight’s conversation with Charlie Gable. “Barely anything at all. Why?”

  “Copely was found sitting up against the tomb of Marie Laveau, the famous voodoo queen.” He paused, waiting for my reaction. “But you know that,” he added. “It was in the paper today.”

  “I read about it, of course, but I don’t know how it relates to Wayne.”

  “Think, Mrs. Fletcher,” he pressed. “You remembered about the death threats. Maybe something else will come to you.”

  I frowned at him. “He must have known something about voodoo,” I said, “but that would be true of anyone raised in New Orleans.”

  “Did he ever wear a gris-gris, Mrs. Fletcher? You know about them, don’t you, those pouches on a string meant to bring good luck or ward off evil?”

  “I never saw one on him. He did say he should buy one to help him find the recordings. I thought he was kidding. As far as I know, he wasn’t wearing one when he left me last night.”

  “Well, his corpse wore one. There’s more.” He was eyeing me closely now.

  “Yes?”

  “We don’t have the autopsy report, so this is just a guess on my part.”

  I said nothing.

  “His hand, Mrs. Fletcher. I saw two puncture marks on his hand. Wasn’t easy. His hand was all swollen.”

  “Does this have something to do with how he died?”

  “Possibly.” He was stalling.

  “What could have made those marks, Detective?”

  “There’s only one thing I can think of, Mrs. Fletcher.” He stared into my eyes. “I think your friend died from a snakebite.”

  Chapter Nine

  I was beginning to feel like Alice falling down the rabbit hole. Wayne was dead. Bitten by a snake? How? He’d been in a dangerous cemetery at night that he’d warned me against visiting during the day. Had he been meeting someone? Had he simply sat down to wait, and disturbed an unseen reptile he wasn’t expecting to be there?

  “Are there usually snakes in the cemetery?” I demanded of Steppe.

  “There are snakes all over Louisiana, so I guess there could be snakes in the cemetery.”

  “But has anyone else ever been bitten by a snake in the cemetery?”

  “Lady, I don’t have the slightest idea. I don’t know a lot of people who hang around the cemetery at night to start with, unless they’re involved with some bizarre voodoo ritual. ”

  “I don’t believe for a second that Wayne was involved with voodoo rituals,” I said indignantly.

  “Hey, you never know about some people. He led—what’s it called?—an ‘alternate lifestyle,’ and those people do strange things.”

  He was baiting me, but I wasn’t sure why. “Are you trying to be offensive?” I asked, watching him closely.

  He tried to hide a smirk, but the curl of his lip gave it away. “So tell me, Mrs. Fletcher, did Copely ever introduce you to any of his lovers?”

  “I don’t know that he had a lover. Are you implying that he had many?”

  “Hey, I didn’t know this guy. He could have one; he could have fifteen. You tell me.”

  “I’ve already told you that our friendship was of recent vintage. Although I’m—was—very fond of Wayne, I didn’t know him well.”

  “He never introduced you to any friends?”

  “The only friends of his I met were musicians at Jazz Fest.”

  “Their names?”

  I paced the room as I dictated to Steppe the names of the musicians I’d met at the press tent and elsewhere at the festival. I continued to leave out Julian Broadbent. I was sure Wayne wouldn’t have considered him a friend, but that was no excuse. I pondered my motives. I wanted to talk to Julian first, before I gave his name to the police. I needed to know his whereabouts today, to hear him explain why he was incommunicado after having made a date to meet with Doris.

  “Anyone else?”

  “No.”

  I found myself standing in front of Wayne’s efficiency kitchen. It was no more than a high counter with two stools. Across from the counter were two narrow cabinets, one with a sink and the other with a low refrigerator of the kind you find in college dormitory rooms. Open shelves on the wall above displayed beautiful porcelain plates and cups, and crystal glassware.

  “May I have a glass of water?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Go ahead.”

  Steppe was disappointed with me, I could see. I wasn’t able to give him any leads on Wayne’s murder—if it was a murder. I walked around the counter and pulled a cut-glass tumbler from the shelf. On a hunch, I opened the refrigerator. There were several bottles of water, as well as a half-consumed bottle of wine, an unopened bottle of champagne, a box of crackers, and a wedge of cheese. No wonder Wayne was so knowledgeable about his city’s restaurants. He obviously didn’t eat at home very often. There wasn’t even a toaster-oven or microwave in view, much less a full stove. I took a bottle from the refrigerator and filled my glass. Standing behind the counter sipping my water, I followed the detective with my eyes as he ambled along Wayne’s bookcase, scanning the titles and scrutinizing the few items displayed on top—a vase of lilies, a silver bowl, a small figurine. Steppe picked up the silver bowl, turned it over, squinted at the bottom, and put it back in place. He looked up to see me watching him.

  He turned toward the opening to the other room. “Teddy,” he yelled.

  A tall, young man with light-brown skin and freckles leaned into the room. “Yo! Chris,” he said.

  “Find anything?”

  “Nah. Nothing to speak of,” Teddy said, spying me and easing the rest of his lanky body through the doorway. He pushed a pen into his shirt pocket.

  Steppe pointed at me. “Teddy, this is Mrs. Fletcher, a friend of Copely’s. Mrs. Fletcher, my partner, P.O. Teddy Bailin.”

  “How do you do,” I said.

  The young policeman glanced toward Steppe, and a silent message passed between them. “Ma’am, sorry about your friend,” Bailin said to me. His eyes held mine for only a second, and then dropped to his shoes, which, I noticed, were more carefully tended than Steppe’s. In fact, the young officer’s entire appearance was well turned out, in distinct contrast to his older colleague.

  “Thank you.”

  “Teddy, why don’t you go wait in the car,” Steppe said. “We’re just about finished here anyway.”

  “Sure, Chris.” He nodded at me and strolled out of the apartment, his long limbs giving him an ungainly gait. Steppe watched the door till Bailin’s footfalls on the stairs were barely audible.

  I had to move quickly. I put down my glass. “Detective Steppe,” I said, drawing his attention back to me, “Wayne borrowed a book from me that I very much would like to have back. Mind if I see if it’s inside?”

  “Huh? Oh, yeah, go ahead.”

  I walked out of the living room slowly because I didn’t want him to see how eager I was to examine Wayne’s bedroom. The hallway angled to the left; a door to the bathroom on the right stood open. Wayne’s bedroom was ahead of me. I stood for a moment taking it in. A double bed with an ornate headboard was neatly made up, but there was an indent on the ocher coverlet, where someone had sat down on the edge. To one side of the bed was a low fruitwood nightstand, with a broad front, curved legs, and a half-open single drawe
r, revealing a jumble of blank pads, pens, tissue packets, and business cards strewn across a divided tray. On top of the nightstand was Wayne’s combination telephone-answering machine, next to which were a pad and pen, and my book. A marker stuck out beyond the pages, indicating Wayne had already started reading it. I grabbed the book, tore the top page off the pad, and put it inside the front cover. I checked the wastebasket on the other side of the cabinet, but it was empty.

  My eyes roamed the room. Wayne’s closet door stood open, and all the drawers on his antique bureau were ajar. I peeked in the top drawer to see a hodgepodge of shorts, socks, bow ties, and handkerchiefs. As quietly as I could, using the skirt of my dress to avoid leaving my fingerprints, I pushed in the top drawer, and slid the second drawer farther out to expose another untidy heap of clothing.

  I crossed to the open closet and peered inside. Half the closet contained Wayne’s hanging clothes, most of them still on the hangers, and several pairs of shoes that looked like they’d been tossed in. The other half was shelved and held an elaborate sound system, with multiple decks of recording and playing equipment. One shelf was lined with rows of cassette tapes arranged in alphabetical order. I glanced at my watch. I’d better get out of here, I thought, before the detective comes looking for me.

  Reentering the living room, I spied Steppe standing in the small kitchen, a dishtowel flung over his shoulder. He was placing my glass back on the shelf.

  “Detective?”

  “So you found it,” he said, eyeing the book I clutched to my chest.

  “Yes, thank you very much,” I said, unzipping my bag and depositing the book inside.

  “Good. We have to go.” He folded the towel and placed it back in the drawer from which he’d taken it.

  I smiled sweetly. “Would you mind terribly if I used the bathroom before we leave?”