Murder in a Minor Key

by Jessica Fletcher

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because there’s a pen with hundreds of them on his property,” Doris said, eyes wide at the memory.

  “Must be an interesting place.”

  “If you can stomach it, it’s worth a visit.” She shivered.

  “Does he sell snakes for voodoo ceremonies?” I asked.

  “Yes. And he supplies snakes to the pet shops that sell them for voodoo ceremonies.”

  “What kinds of snakes are they?”

  “Constrictors, mainly. They grow to around twelve or thirteen feet, but they’re not venomous.”

  “Is that why they use them, because they don’t have venom?”

  “Probably. Once they’re fed, he says, they’re fairly docile. They only eat a couple of mice or rats once a week.” She looked down at her sandwich. “Not exactly dinner table conversation.”

  “I don’t mind,” I said. “Are those the only snakes they use?”

  She shook her head. “No. Those are the ceremonial ones that represent the spirits, but they could use almost any kind of snake for sacrifices.”

  “So animal sacrifices are still part of voodoo?”

  “In some forms, yes, and rarely seen by the public. Pinto says the animal rights people are always trying to stop them. They visit his place almost every month, he said, demanding to see his customer list and checking on how he cares for his snakes. He said he doesn’t show them the list and doesn’t tell them about the sacrifices. He must be staying within the law because no one’s closed him down yet. Of course, I doubt the authorities would want to take his place over. Then they’d have to deal with all those snakes.”

  “I think I’d like to talk with him.”

  “I’ll give you his number. I have it back at the hotel.”

  “Why are snakes so important in the voodoo religion?” I asked. “Did you talk to him about that?”

  “Not really,” she said. “But remember, voodoo originally comes from West Africa, where there are a lot of snakes, so it’s not surprising they’ve been incorporated into the religion that started there. Why did you want to know? Was Wayne into voodoo? He didn’t seem the type.”

  “I doubt it very much,” I said, “but where his body was found is strange. If I went on the basis of my limited experience as his friend alone, I would have said no, he absolutely wasn’t practicing voodoo. But we didn’t know each other long enough, or well enough, for me to be so definite.”

  “His sister would know, wouldn’t she?”

  “I assume so. I’m going to stop in on her this afternoon. I’ll ask.”

  Clarice greeted me at the door of her home in the Garden District. Lines bracketed her mouth and divided her brow, but she was dry-eyed and neatly coifed. A trace of red marked her lips. Despite the heat, she wore a gray knit suit and a black blouse.

  “I’m so glad you could come back today,” she said, ushering me indoors. “I wasn’t fit company yesterday.”

  “No one expected you to be a hostess then, or now,” I said. “I hope you don’t feel you have to entertain me.”

  “I’m not ready to entertain anyone,” she said, leading me into a dim front room and turning on a table lamp with a fringed shade, “but I did want a chance to talk with you. Yesterday wasn’t the time. Please sit down.”

  I sat on the off-white slip-covered sofa, and immediately regretted it. The cushion on the sofa was so old and soft, I was afraid if I leaned back, I’d never be able to get up again without help. I pushed myself forward and perched on the edge, where I could maintain my balance.

  The room was slightly musty, as if it hadn’t been used for some time. The walls were a faded blue. I noticed several lighter rectangles where pictures had been removed. The oriental carpet was ancient and threadbare along the edges. An ebony grand piano sat in one comer, its closed lid covered by a paisley cloth which was, in turn, covered with framed photographs, most of them black-and-white, and obviously taken years ago. Opposite the piano was a hand-painted wooden cabinet. Arrayed on its top was what appeared to me to be a small altar. Candles of different heights and colors flickered and dripped their wax on the bare wood. Rosary beads hung from a standing metal cross. Various bottles surrounded the cross, feathers poking up from one. In a bowl, three small plastic skulls lay nestled together.

  “Alberta will bring us some tea in a moment,” Clarice said, settling in a lyre-back chair to the side of a walnut table with cabriole legs. She clutched a lace handkerchief in one hand, her white knuckles betraying her tense mood. “Wayne’s death has been such a shock,” she said.

  “It must have been,” I agreed.

  “I never expected it. And so soon after my husband. I feel as if I’ve been deserted.” She attempted a smile, and swallowed hard.

  “You seem to have many friends who are eager to support you.”

  “Yes, well, they all flock around in the beginning.” She sniffed. “They did when Steve died, too. But after a while having a widowed friend gets boring, especially if she doesn’t recover as quickly as they’d like. They stopped inviting me, and eventually stopped calling altogether.”

  I breathed a small sigh, grateful my friends had not been so shallow when I’d become a widow.

  Her eyes caught the figure of the cook standing in the doorway holding a tray, and she straightened in her seat. “Right over here, Alberta,” she said, resting her fingertips on the walnut table.

  Alberta was a large woman, well over my height, with steel-gray hair tightly pinned back. She wore a freshly pressed apron over her housedress, and would have looked like a stereotypical servant except for her footwear—brand new, bright-blue-and-orange running shoes with thick white soles and laces up to the ankles. The sight was so incongruous, I had to work not to stare at her feet.

  She slid the tea tray on the table next to Clarice and left the room, returning almost immediately with a small bench, no more than a foot high, which she positioned in front of me. Clarice poured the tea and gave the cup to Alberta, who placed it on the bench along with a plate of cookies, a sugar bowl, and a pitcher of cream.

  “Do you take lemon?”

  “No, thank you. This is fine,” I replied.

  Alberta left the room as silently as she’d come. The whole scene was perfectly choreographed, as if they’d performed this dance many times.

  We sipped our tea companionably. “Would you mind if I asked you a personal question?” I said.

  “I don’t know,” she said, smiling. “Why don’t you try and I’ll see.”

  “I noticed the altar you have in the comer. Was Wayne a religious person?”

  “Not at all. He went to church as a child. My mother insisted. But as soon as he was able, he slept late on Sundays, and only attended services when he was forced to escort me.”

  “Did he share your interest in voodoo?”

  “You’re thinking about my skulls over there.” She chuckled, and it was good to see her relax for a moment. “Those are more of a decorating fillip, a little gesture to intrigue my friends, if that’s possible. Stay around New Orleans for any length of time and you’ll find the whole population is caught up in the exotic nature of our city. We have all kinds of traditions that probably stem from voodoo and we don’t even know it. I have no special interest in voodoo, and neither did Wayne. He doesn’t have an altar at his place, does he?”

  “I didn’t see one,” I said before realizing that she didn’t know the only times I’d been at his apartment were after he died. But she took no note of my comment, assuming, I suppose, that I’d been an invited guest at my friend’s home.

  “Speaking of Wayne’s apartment,” Clarice said, putting down her cup, “I wonder if I could ask a favor of you.”

  “Certainly, if I’m able.”

  “I’d never ask if I didn’t feel as if we’ve known each other for a long time. Wayne was so fond of you.”

  “I was fond of him as well,” I said. “What would you like me to do?”

  “There�
��s a box in Wayne’s apartment. I want you to pick it up for me. I just can’t bring myself to go there yet. You know how it is? So many memories.”

  “Oh, of course,” I said. “I understand. Where did he keep the box?”

  “It’s an antique, hand-painted, from China. Have you seen it?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “I think I remember him mentioning it. Does it have all kinds of drawers and compartments?”

  “Yes, that’s the one.” Clarice sat up straighter. “Ordinarily, I’d ask Archer, but I’ve put so many burdens on him recently.”

  “I don’t mind at all.”

  She patted her pockets. “I’ll have to get you the key. Wait here, will you?” She murmured to herself, “There’s also his candlesticks, and the crystal clock.” She halted at the door and turned around. “Do you have a car?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “I’ll get someone else to pick up the other things,” she said impatiently, and disappeared. She returned momentarily, handed me the keys to Wayne’s building and apartment, and sat down again. “I’m so grateful to you. That box belonged to our father, and has great sentimental meaning for me.”

  “Naturally.”

  “I’m just so afraid when word gets out that his apartment is empty, someone will break in and steal things. Thieves read the obituaries these days. Did you know that?”

  “I wasn’t aware that was a problem in New Orleans,” I said.

  “It’s a problem everywhere, my dear.”

  “I’ll make certain to get the box and safeguard it for you.”

  Clarice sighed, and leaned back in her chair. “Tell me how he was when you saw him,” she said, picking up her tea again. “We’d planned Sunday dinner for yesterday, but I hadn’t seen him all week.”

  “He was very excited about Jazz Fest,” I said. We sat together like old friends as I diverted her with stories of the musicians who were Wayne’s friends, of the concerts we attended, of his pleasure in educating my palate at New Orleans’s famous restaurants, and of his obvious fondness for her.

  She responded with memories of his youth, his passion for music, and his frustration that he had no talent to play an instrument, or so he thought. “You can see how we use the piano,” she said, looking at the rows of photographs. “My mother insisted upon lessons, but neither of us was any good, although Wayne was better than I was.” She talked of how Wayne had turned that frustration into an obsession to know everything about jazz, and how he’d kept notes on every recording and musician he listened to until he finally found a way to use his expertise, writing about his first and only love.

  “He kept all his work here, you know. He said there wasn’t enough room in his apartment to sing a song. Would you like to see his office?” she asked, rising with difficulty. “I need to move around a little.”

  “Yes. I’d like to see it very much,” I said, grateful to get off the sofa.

  I followed her up a narrow staircase to the second floor, and then up another flight to a small room under the eaves overlooking the front balcony. Bookcases lined one side of the room; the center one was filled with narrow books with black bindings. File cabinets took up the other wall. A small desk and chair stood in front of the windows.

  “Wayne was much more disciplined than I,” she said. “He always did what he said he would do.” She walked to the center of the room and paused. “Of course, after Steve died, Wayne said he’d always take care of me.” Her voice was quavery. “And now he’s not here to support me at all, is he?” She turned to me, her eyes vulnerable.

  “No, he’s not. But perhaps he provided some insurance to help you financially.” I was uncomfortable with the turn the conversation had taken. Clarice was in the throes of grief, her moods erratic. I’d been through the experience. You never knew what would set you off. One minute you were laughing, and the next dissolving in tears.

  “I don’t know,” she whispered. “Archer was here this morning and went through all of Wayne’s drawers. He took away piles of papers. He wouldn’t tell me what they were, only that Wayne would want him to handle such things.”

  “Did Wayne leave a will, or other instructions in the event that he died?” I asked.

  “He never told me.”

  “You’re entitled to ask what’s in those papers Archer took,” I told her gently. “This is your house. You shouldn’t let him take over, unless you want him to.”

  “You’re right,” she said, clearing her throat. “Archer’s always tried to boss me around, even when Steve was alive.” She started to pace. “He thinks all Wayne’s things are his. But they’re not. They’re really mine, aren’t they? He doesn’ t know that Wayne was getting ready to let him go.”

  “Are you sure about that?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes,” she nearly crowed. “Wayne was annoyed with Archer’s arrogance, always telling him what to do. He’d had it up to here.” She swiped her hand under her chin. “He was going to tell him to find another job.”

  “Did Archer know this?”

  “I doubt it. Wayne told me he was waiting for the right time.”

  “That would have been difficult for you, too—wouldn’t it?—if Wayne had let Archer go. Archer’s been very helpful to you.”

  “Oh, no, I’ve got Alberta now. She helps me when I need her.”

  Archer would be very disappointed, I thought, to find out all his years of service to Clarice were valued so little. He’d obviously been high-handed this morning taking away the papers, but perhaps he wanted to spare Clarice more pain. Or if he’d sensed a change in his position in the family, he might have been afraid she’d keep information from him. Alberta had been hired as a cook. Would she have been willing to step in as social secretary and save Clarice the burden of having to make funeral arrangements?

  “Let me show you Wayne’s pride and joy,” Clarice said brightly. She walked to a row of painted bookcases and withdrew a notebook with a black-and-white marbled cover, the kind I remembered using in school. “Look at this,” she said. “There must be hundreds of these.”

  The notebook was written in a youthful hand. It contained a description of a concert the young Wayne had attended, who the musicians were, what instruments and songs they played, and his impressions of the quality of the performance. “Even then he was a critic,” I said, smiling as I read a few lines.

  “Yes. He always kept such good records.”

  I jumped at the opening. “Do you know where his notes are for the book he was planning on Little Red LeCoeur?”

  “Archer asked me the same question this morning,” she said, and sighed. “I don’t know. They’re probably in his apartment somewhere. He was very secretive about whatever he was working on until it was published. Then he transcribed his notes into another of these books and added it to the collection here.”

  “Didn’t he work on a computer?”

  “Only when his publisher insisted. I think there’s a laptop in his apartment.”

  I didn’t remember seeing one there, but I couldn’t be sure. I wondered if Archer had carted off Wayne’s papers, hoping to find his notes on Little Red among them. Was he planning to finish Wayne’s work for him? Or would he want to take the credit for himself?

  “Mrs. Cruz, are you up there?” Alberta’s voice floated up the stairs from the floor below.

  “Just let me see what she wants,” Clarice said, walking to the door.

  “Do you mind if I look around?” I called after her.

  “Help yourself,” her voice came back from the stairwell.

  I walked to the bookcase that held Wayne’s notebooks and pulled out the last one on the bottom shelf. It was dated in April, and was only half full. I flipped through the pages, hoping Wayne’s propensity to keep good notes extended beyond music to other areas of his life. But if I was disappointed not to find anything personal, I was amazed at what he’d collected. There were reviews of new compact disks, features on established artists, and an analysis of why succes
sful jazz prodigies drew the harshest criticism from his colleagues. On page after page, in Wayne’s careful script, was a collection of impressions of jazz. They ought to be in a library, I thought.

  I heard Clarice’s footsteps on the stairs, and I pushed the notebook back into place. Maybe when the pain of Wayne’s death was not so sharp, she could be persuaded to part with these books. What a wonderful memorial to Wayne it would be if his cherished notebooks were made available to other lovers of music, in a public library or at a university.

  “More people have arrived,” she told me. “Would you like to join us in the parlor?”

  “No, thank you,” I said. “I really must go.”

  “You’ve been very kind to spend so much time with me.” She fluttered her hands in front of her face as if something annoyed her. “I can’t believe I forgot to thank you. Archer told me you volunteered to bring Wayne’s clothes to the funeral home.”

  “I have the bag with his clothes at my hotel,” I said. “I’m going to drop them off tomorrow morning.”

  “How could I be so forgetful? You must think I’m a terrible ingrate.”

  “What I think,” I said, walking with her to the stairs, “is that you have a lot to think about at the moment. I was pleased there was a way I could help.”

  She turned to me. “You know, Jessica, I think we could be friends.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The late set at the Café Brasilia had already started when I slipped into a chair near the back of the room. In the front, a young man in his twenties, wearing sunglasses and a Jazz Fest T-shirt under a black jacket, was playing trumpet, accompanied by three much older musicians on piano, bass, and drums. The placard on my table announced the performance of the Blind Jack Quartet, but the featured player was not the man whose concert I had attended at the festival.

  I attempted to hail a passing waitress.

  “Be right back,” she called out, lifting her tray high above the heads of incoming patrons as she angled her way toward the bar. She disappeared into the crowd, and I waited impatiently for her to resurface.