“Well, I suppose I can manage one drink,” I said. “Can you give me five minutes? You go ahead. I’ll meet you there.”
“Thank you. I promise it’ll be a quick one.” He checked his watch, gave me a sharp nod, and disappeared down the hall.
I closed the door and put the newspaper on the dresser. I freshened up, and pulled a light cardigan sweater from a drawer; the hotel’s air conditioning was sometimes too cool for comfort. I glanced around the room, pocketed my key, switched off the overhead light, and went to meet the mayor’s aide.
Beaudin had taken a table in the corner. The room was dark, small halogen lights illuminating only the center of each table, on which sat a bowl of salted nuts and a small plastic stand advertising the specialty drinks of the evening. Beaudin was already nursing a glass filled to the brim with ice cubes and a golden-brown liquor. He stood when I approached.
“Thank you for joining me.” His smile was warm.
“Thank you for inviting me.” We sat down, and I pulled the cardigan around my shoulders. The air was frigid.
“Are you too cold? I can ask them to turn up the temperature.”
“There’s no need,” I said. “That’s why I brought the sweater. I’m sure as the room fills with people, it will warm up.” I picked up the plastic stand. The featured drink was the Hurricane, a New Orleans favorite, a concoction of rum and passion fruit and lime juice, too strong for my empty stomach. I ordered a glass of seltzer with lime.
Now that he had my attention, Beaudin seemed in no hurry to explain his presence. He asked about my book. “How’s Murder in a Minor Key doing?”
“As far as I can tell, it’s doing very well,” I said. “This is the last stop on my promotion tour, and the books have been selling out wherever I’ve gone. I’ll find out more when I get home and speak with my publisher.”
“It takes place here, doesn’t it? Sorry, but I haven’t read it—yet.”
“Yes. I used jazz as the theme. Wayne was a great help to me.”
“New Orleans has a great literary heritage, you know. It’s been the setting for a lot of famous stories, and many writers have worked here. Anne Rice, of course. She’s our most famous citizen right now. But also William Faulkner, Jack Kerouac, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Truman Capote, Tennessee Williams. And going back some, Mark Twain and O. Henry. I’m sure I’m leaving out some well-known names.”
“The city has a unique atmosphere,” I said. “That’s always appealing to writers. I know it was to me.”
“We try to take advantage of that. We host a writers’ conference every September, and a literary festival in March. Perhaps you’ll come back for one of them.”
“Perhaps.”
Beaudin continued his mostly one-sided conversation. He was comfortable talking, an articulate, ambitious young man. I’d seen people like him before, making their careers by advancing the fortunes of those who possessed more charisma. Riding their coattails, it used to be called. But today, political promotion was a specialty all by itself. And Beaudin looked tailor-made for the part. I gauged him to be in his forties. He was handsome, intelligent, able to take the measure of a crowd and advise his boss what themes to espouse at what time. I wondered what had drawn him to such a self-effacing career. Was it the competition that stirred his blood? Or was I being too cynical? He was now telling me all about New Orleans, about how it was a mecca for artists of every kind, not just musicians and writers, but also actors, painters, sculptors, and dancers. He seemed to be evading the one topic that sat between us like a hulking, uninvited guest.
“... If you’re in New Orleans another week, I’d be delighted to take you there,” he said, referring to a performance by the Southern Repertory Theatre that had enthralled the critics. “It’s playing not too far from here. The theater is in Canal Place, a shopping complex that’s too elegant to call it a mall. If you haven’t been there yet, you should go. It puts other malls to shame. There’s so much to see in the city. I’d be happy to make other recommendations.”
“I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be in town,” I said. “I’ll probably return home after Wayne’s funeral.” If he wasn’t going to raise the subject of Wayne’s death, I would.
“Of course. I didn’t mean to be insensitive. When will the funeral be?” he asked. “Have you heard?”
“I don’t think it’s been decided yet,” I replied. “I understand Clarice wants Wayne to have a jazz funeral, and apparently that takes some time to arrange.”
“If they have a specific brass band in mind, it might have to be worked around their schedule,” he said. “I’m sure Archer is on top of that. I assume you’ve met him.”
“Yes, I have.”
“I didn’t see him at Mrs. Cruz’s house today. Was he there?”
“I believe so. At one time, anyway.”
“Have you met other friends of Wayne’s?”
I had the feeling I was being delicately grilled. “Only the musicians in the press tent at Jazz Fest,” I replied, pausing for a beat. “And Julian Broadbent.”
“Julian. Of course,” he said. “He was at the festival with you.” He stared down at his half-full glass and used his fingertips to twirl it in slow circles. “I hadn’t realized he and Wayne were friends.” His eyes met mine. “I seem to recall they were at each other’s throats the other day at Gable’s book program. You were there.”
“Artistic temperaments, that’s all,” I said. “It was forgotten pretty quickly.” I was pressing to see if he would buy the idea of Wayne and Julian being friends. He seemed uncomfortable with the notion, but why? I watched a muscle pulsate on the side of his jaw, and wondered when he would get to the purpose of his coming to see me. I took a sip of my drink.
“The mayor is concerned about you,” he said finally.
“Why?”
“Well ...” He hesitated, weighing how to put his words politically. “With Wayne gone, you have no one to escort you. The mayor wants to be sure you’re comfortable—and safe.”
“Is he offering you up for the job of my escort?” I asked, amused. “Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”
“No, of course not.” He gave me a boyish look—he must be very popular with the ladies, I thought—and cocked his head. “Maurice merely wants to offer you the use of one of his cars and a driver to take you wherever you want to go. He feels it’s the least he can do.”
“What a thoughtful gesture,” I said. “But there’s no need. I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself. I’ve been doing it for years.”
“Maurice is a Southern gentleman of the old school,” he said. “He feels it’s his duty to make sure that ladies are taken care of.”
“I did get that impression when I saw him today. He was very protective of Mrs. Cruz.”
“He may act a bit old-fashioned,” he said, “but he’s got a good heart.”
“Gentlemanly behavior never goes out of style,” I said, wondering how to turn down this generous offer without offending Beaudin—or the mayor.
“He’s definitely a gentleman, Mrs. Fletcher. He’ll be so pleased you’ve agreed. I’ve arranged for the car to be outside the hotel whenever you need it.” He looked at his watch. “In fact, it should be there as we speak.”
“But I don’t need it. Really, I appreciate this offer, but it’s totally unnecessary.”
“There are so many tourists in the city right now. He doesn’t want you to have to worry about transportation around town.”
“That hasn’t been a problem at all,” I replied. “I’m able to walk most places I want to get to, and I can just ask the hotel to call for a taxi for anywhere out of my range.”
Beaudin suppressed a laugh. “If they’ve come when you wanted them, you’ve been lucky so far,” he said, his voice full of mirth. “The Big Easy didn’t get its name for nothing. We like to take life as it comes. Slowly. Taxi drivers down here are very laid back. I don’t think any of them even wears a watch. This city is never in a hurry. It can
drive Northerners crazy when they visit. You must be a patient lady if you haven’t noticed.”
“I guess I have been lucky, and I would say I’m fairly patient,” I said. “Please thank Mayor Amadour, but ...”
He chuckled. “You would be helping me, too, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re a well-known author. The mayor wants me to make sure you see the best of the city, since you’ve had such an unfortunate experience so far.”
“Unfortunate? Yes, that’s certainly true.”
“You see?” He sighed. “This is purely good public relations, putting our best foot forward for a celebrity. You’ve probably had drivers in many cities you’ve visited.”
“I have, indeed, but they were never supplied by City Hall. My publisher usually provides them.”
“New Orleans has a reputation for generosity and hospitality, and we need to keep that up.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a card. “This has the number of the driver’s cell phone. Just call him whenever you need to go anywhere, and he’ll be at your door in minutes.” He handed me the card and smiled broadly when I tucked it in a pocket.
I’d decided it wasn’t worth continuing to argue with a man who’d made up his mind. I simply wouldn’t call for the car, and that would be that.
Beaudin paid for our drinks, apologized for keeping me from dinner, and left with effusive compliments on how honored New Orleans was to have me as a visitor, and how he hoped I enjoyed my remaining time in the city.
Puzzled as to why the mayor, or at least his assistant, was so keen on ferrying me around, I made my way back to my room, past a housekeeping cart, and down the long corridor. I slid the key in the lock, and pushed open the door. A brisk breeze snatched at my hair and slammed the door behind me, jarring me out of my reverie. My bed had been turned down, a piece of chocolate left on the pillow, and the spread neatly folded on a rack. I saw with consternation that the French doors had been left open, and the warm humid air was heating up the room. That’s careless, I thought, pulling the doors shut and locking them. Though the doors faced an interior courtyard, I was conscious of security, and kept them locked even when I was in the room. I looked around and saw that nothing was amiss. I went to the nightstand and opened the cover of my book. The note from Wayne’s pad was where I’d left it. The newspaper was as I’d placed it on the dresser. My drawers were closed. I opened one. My clothes were still as I’d put them away, all neatly folded.
I’ll have a private word about the doors with the housekeeper in the morning, I thought, picking up the Times-Picayune and settling in the armchair. I slipped on my glasses, kicked off my shoes, put my feet up on the ottoman, and sifted through the sections of the paper till I found the one I wanted. I dropped the rest of the paper on the floor next to my chair and opened the special report on Jazz Fest. It was filled with colorful photos from the first two days—there was one of Oliver Jones—and on pages four and five, a calendar of events for both the coming week and following weekend. I scanned the columns looking for Blind Jack’s name and found it under Monday at Café Brasilia. I checked Sunday’s listings, too, but he was not scheduled to play. I was grateful. I’d not slept well last night, and the prospect of going out to a nightclub was not attractive. I would have a pleasant, easy room-service dinner, and get to bed early.
A slight rustling sound seized my attention, and caused my heart to skip a beat. I looked over the arm of the chair and saw that one section of the newspaper had slid off the others in the pile. I laughed in relief, chiding myself for being so skittish. Finding the open doors must have jump-started my imagination. I padded over to the telephone and ordered a Caesar salad with blackened chicken, and a cup of herb tea. Covering a yawn, I sank back in the chair and read through the rest of the paper.
Wayne’s demise was a page-one story. The reporter noted the mystery surrounding his presence at Marie Laveau’s tomb, the rarity of death by snakebite, and the concern of city fathers that the continuing drought would draw more reptilian intruders into the urban environment. There was no mention of the gris-gris, and only a passing reference to Elijah Williams and his unsolved murder. The superintendent of police was quoted as saying the medical examiner had ruled the death an accident, and the mayor decried the “tragedy of losing such a star in the cultural firmament” of the city. Next to the article was a long obituary on Wayne, citing his family’s deep roots in New Orleans, and his illustrious career as a critic and authority on jazz and its origin as New Orleans’s unique musical art form.
Twenty minutes later, my dinner was wheeled in on a linen-covered table, and set in front of a straight chair. I signed for the meal, locked the door after the waiter, gathered the sections of the newspaper and replaced them on the dresser, turned on the television set, and sat down to eat. I’d had enough of the news, so I flipped around the channels till I found an old movie, Gaslight with Ingrid Bergman, Charles Boyer, and Joseph Cotten. I’d seen the suspenseful drama before, but it was still entertaining to watch Boyer as the villainous husband trying to convince his innocent young wife that she was a victim of insanity. Despite the gripping story, I found myself struggling to stay awake until a soft noise in the comer of the room intruded on my consciousness. I picked up the remote, turned off the television, and sat rigidly, my ears straining to hear it again. Nothing.
This is ridiculous, I thought, and pushed the table away. I tiptoed to the comer and peered around the back of the armchair. Nothing there. I picked up my shoes and put them on. With my knee, I nudged the ottoman; it rolled toward the wall, leaving faint tracks on the carpet. I pulled aside the curtains on the French doors. It was dark out now, but the lamp in my room cast a pale light on the empty stones outside. I drew the curtains again, and studied the armchair. It had a skirt. I wasn’t happy with the idea of kneeling down and lifting it up, and perhaps coming face to face with a mouse—although, truth to tell, over the years, I’d had my share of little visitors move in at home in Cabot Cove when the weather got cold. Come to think of it, maybe Seth’s offer of a kitten wasn’t such a bad idea.
Irritated, but resigned to the possibility of a mouse, I wheeled my dinner table into the hall, and positioned it next to my door. The hallway was deserted now. I carefully locked the door, and rechecked the French doors. My earlier weariness had flown. I was determined to get it back and get a good night’s sleep. I knew if I didn’t, I would be exhausted tomorrow. I got ready for bed, but left my shoes on. I brushed my hair and my teeth, washed my hands and face, slathered a bit of cream on my skin, kicked off my shoes, and climbed into bed. Sleep came quickly.
Sometime later—I didn’t know how long it had been since I’d turned out the light—I found myself wide awake and wondering why. My eyes barely open, I took inventory of what might have awakened me. The room was dark. Only a faint light from the other side of the courtyard cast a weak glow against the curtains. All was quiet, the thunder of my own heart audible only to me. I took a shallow breath, unwilling to move the air with my respiration. There was another presence here. I could sense it. The blood hummed in my veins. The skin on my arms, neck, and scalp tightened. I felt a stirring of the bedcovers near my feet. I sat up swiftly and fumbled for the switch on the lamp. The bright light had me blinking, but I wasn’t the only one. Curled up at the bottom of my bed, its head rearing back, tongue flicking in and out, was a red-and-black snake.
Chapter Thirteen
“It’s only a little milk snake, Mrs. Fletcher.”
The hotel’s night-duty engineer was holding a burlap bag that contained my earlier bed partner. “They’re pretty common, and totally harmless, although I’m sure it gave you quite a start.”
“You’re a master of understatement, Mr. Gonzales.”
“It was probably just looking for some food or water. We got a drought on now. Lots of these little guys out of their usual habitat.” He bounced the bag up and down a few times.
“So I’ve heard.”
“You can kind of feel sorry for them.” He looked sideways at me.
“Perhaps another time,” I replied.
“Well, we got it now.” He grinned. “You’re safe.”
A small crowd had assembled in my room: Mr. Gonzales; Duncan Frey, the hotel’s overnight manager; Police Officer Monica Macdonald; and Mrs. Penta, head of housekeeping.
“I apologize on behalf of the hotel, Mrs. Fletcher,” Mr. Frey said, gripping his hands together. “We’ll have an exterminator out here tomorrow to go over the courtyard. But you can rest easy now. There’s nothing else in here, I promise you. Al and I looked everywhere, under the bed, behind the dresser, under the chair, in the closet. We checked all the possible hiding places. I even looked in the toilet tank.”
“That’s right,” echoed Gonzales as he wound a cord around the top of the burlap bag. “Room’s absolutely clean.”
“Thank you, gentlemen,” I said. “I appreciate your thoroughness.”
Mrs. Penta cleared her throat. “Mrs. Fletcher, I want to assure you that I will talk with Maria tomorrow, but I don’t believe it was the housekeeper who left your doors open.” She handed me a sheet of paper. On it was a long, numbered checklist. My room number was at the top, and tick marks had been made next to each of the numbered lines, including the one that said, “Doors and windows closed and locked?” “You may question her yourself if that would make you more comfortable.”
“That won’t be necessary, Mrs. Penta,” I said, handing her back the paper. “I know the door was closed when I left the room this evening.”
“Yes, but was it locked?” asked Officer Macdonald. “If you forgot to lock it, the wind could have blown it open, or someone could have opened it from the courtyard.”
“Our doors require a key to open them from the outside,” the night manager inserted, as Officer Macdonald lifted her clipboard to make a note.
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