Murder in a Minor Key

by Jessica Fletcher

  I turned to the police page, which featured an interview with the city’s superintendent of police, Jimmy Johnson. A photo accompanied the article and depicted a handsome, African-American man, about fifty, wearing a dress uniform emblazoned with multiple medals on his left shoulder. He was shaking the hand of Mayor Maurice Amadour, and both men were smiling at the camera. The mayor was quoted as congratulating the police department for the continuing drop in the crime rate.

  Superintendent Johnson, the article related, had praised the hard work of NOPD’s Operations Bureau, in particular the District Investigative Unit assigned to street crime in the French Quarter, and had issued a list of security recommendations for tourists to ensure their well-being during their stay:

  Tourists are advised to travel in pairs; avoid walking alone at night in out-of-the-way parts of the city; keep hotel doors securely locked, and admit no one unfamiliar to the occupants.

  I scanned the police blotter along the side of the page. Superintendent Johnson’s advice came a day too late for a pair of elderly ladies visiting the city from Tallahassee, Florida. The police report noted that they were attacked when they opened the door to an armed robber, who knocked one down and hit the other on the side of her head when she refused to relinquish her handbag. The latter was in serious but stable condition at Tulane University Medical Center.

  Another report announced that teenage suspects had been taken into custody, accused of being behind a series of hit-and-run muggings of tourists in the French Quarter.

  Too, another statue was found missing from a family tomb in Lafayette Cemetery. In its place, the thief had left a lace cross and a purple candle, wrapped up in a green ribbon. Investigators were consulting voodoo specialists for an interpretation.

  Finally, there was a list of overnight arrests made for drunken and disorderly conduct.

  “That’s enough to spoil anyone’s appetite,” the waitress said, cocking her head toward my reading material. “They keep telling us that crime is down, but there’s plenty around to keep you quaking in your sandals.”

  She filled my cup halfway with coffee and then topped it with hot milk. Eyeing the extra place setting, she added, “Still waiting for someone?”

  “Yes. I’m sure he’ll be here shortly.”

  “May I join you?”

  I looked up to see Doris Bums. Her face was scrubbed clean of makeup, and a sprinkling of freckles decorated her nose. A large pair of sunglasses were perched on the top of her head, holding her straight hair away from her face. She wore a pink plaid sundress with narrow straps exposing her freckled shoulders, and she could have passed for sixteen years old, a tall sixteen, but sixteen nevertheless.

  “Please do. You look fresh and ready for a day in the sun. Are you going to Jazz Fest?”

  “I was hoping I could tag along with you and Wayne. I’ve never been there before.”

  “Of course. Wayne should be here any minute.”

  “Did I hear my name being bandied about?”

  “Good morning,” Doris and I said in unison.

  Wayne pulled out a chair, sank into it, and fanned his face with his straw hat. The waitress ambled off to get a third place setting.

  “No comments about the ‘late’ Wayne Copely? You ladies are too good to me. My apologies nevertheless. My sister called just as I was stepping out the door, and love that she is, she does go on and on. Jessica, she has invited you to Sunday dinner, a rare treat since Clarice’s cook is superb. She stole her away from one of the cousins in the Long family, and of course, they haven’t talked to her since. Clarice promised Alberta her own cottage at the back of the garden, which clinched it. That plus a kitchen that looks like the Starship Enterprise, all chrome and stainless steel and enormous burners on the gas stove. Cost my brother-in-law a fortune, may he rest in peace. All the chefs in town have been trying to pry Alberta’s recipe for étouffée out of her for years. But she holds tight to it like a waterlogged cat on a downstream log. I have to beg Clarice to let me come over when Alberta makes étouffée, so you must come. These invitations are like gold. And she knew you were in town because I’ve talked about you. She gets all excited when I mention going somewhere with a woman.”

  Wayne put his hand on Doris’s arm.

  “My dear, I’m so sorry to talk of an invitation that doesn’t include you. Isn’t that like me? So rude! But I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

  “Think nothing of it, please. As it happens, I already have plans for Sunday.”

  While Wayne had been recounting the call from his sister, the waitress had returned and set down napkins, utensils, and coffee cups, and handed menus to Doris and Wayne.

  “Are the beignets from Café du Monde?” Wayne asked.

  “Of course, sir.”

  Wayne closed his menu and tapped it on the top of Doris’s.

  “In that case, I recommend the continental breakfast. I hope you’re not one of those bacon-and-egg people. You must try the beignets. Jessica, you’ve already eaten? Yes?”

  Wayne didn’t wait for a reply. He addressed the waitress.

  “We’ll have two continental breakfasts with café au lait, and give us a lagniappe on the beignets, please. Jessica, you’ll have another, won’t you? Have you been down to Café du Monde yet?”

  He was in high spirits and there was no point in contradicting his orders. I sat back, amused, and let the Wayne Copely steamroller roll over Doris and me. Wayne was delighted that Doris wanted to accompany us to Jazz Fest. He chatted away about the musicians scheduled to play throughout the day, consumed three beignets, and sent the waitress off for more coffee. Finally, he patted his mouth with a napkin, erasing the last vestige of powdered sugar, and sat back, contentment on his face, and absently brushed the front of his shirt with the side of his hand.

  I decided not to spoil his good mood by relating yesterday’s disturbing conversation with Stanley in Jackson Square about Little Red LeCoeur. Bad news could wait, and maybe Stanley was wrong. I was still hopeful. Instead, I turned to Doris, who had been an attentive audience to Wayne’s monologue.

  “Doris, tell us what kind of response you received to your request to tape voodoo practitioners,” I said.

  “I met with three people yesterday, and I have a few appointments tomorrow. I haven’t been able to return two calls, but I’ll try again before we leave this morning.”

  “How did you happen to become interested in voodoo?” I asked.

  “I’d been teaching a course on the history of religion, and had to read up on voodoo because I knew so little about it. Voodoo is rich in folklore, but unlike most mainstream religions, it has no uniform infrastructure to maintain it. There’s no pope, no central governing body. Every temple does its own thing, so to speak. Yet it’s lasted for seven thousand years.”

  “I didn’t realize it was that old.”

  “Yes, very old,” she said. “It’s kind of like jazz in the way it developed. Jazz evolved from both the African musical culture brought to this country by slaves, and the European musical tradition, which was familiar to slave owners. New Orleans voodoo is also a mixture, in this case, a blend of at least three separate religious traditions—African from Dahomey, Catholic from the French and Spanish who settled in New Orleans, and Native American, too.”

  “You’ve given this talk before, I think,” Wayne said, smiling to soften his comment.

  Doris blushed. “I have indeed. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lecture you.”

  “Please don’t apologize,” I said. “I hadn’t heard it.”

  “I’ve been known to go on about a topic till eyes glaze over,” she said, chuckling.

  “You’re just passionate about your work and that’s an admirable trait,” I said. “Go on, Doris.”

  Doris cleared her throat. “There are two historical figures associated with the spread of voodoo and its influence in New Orleans in the Nineteenth Century. One was Dr. John, also sometimes called ‘the Drummer.’ The other was Marie Lave
au.”

  “Now there’s a name every New Orleanian is familiar with,” Wayne interjected.

  “I’m sure that’s true,” Doris continued. “Voodoo is matriarchal, and the powerful voodoo queens were always more important than the men, even witch doctors.”

  “Yes, but wasn’t Marie Laveau actually two women?” Wayne prodded.

  Doris smiled at him. “I’d love to have you in one of my classes. You’d certainly keep me on my toes. Yes, they were two women, mother and daughter, both with the same name. Marie, the mother, reigned over notorious ceremonies that took place in Congo Square and along Lake Pontchartrain, with frenzied dancing and boiling cauldrons of frogs and snakes and the like. That’s what became the Hollywood image of voodoo.”

  “Is voodoo still practiced that way?” I asked.

  “Actually, today believers say ‘verdoun’ rather than ‘voodoo’ to dissociate themselves from the sinister portrayals of voodoo involving casting evil spells, human sacrifice, and stabbing pins into voodoo dolls to harm your enemies.”

  “None of that takes place anymore?” I asked.

  “I think some of it probably does. Animal sacrifices, but certainly not human sacrifices. There are always fringe elements in religion. But for the most part, voodoo focuses on living in harmony and attaining spiritual balance by serving the loa, the spirits.”

  “Wayne, you mentioned the loa when you talked about Little Red,” I said.

  “Yes. They’re also called the ‘mysteries’ or the ‘invisibles.’ They’re kind of intermediaries between the human world and the creator.”

  “Like saints,” Doris added. “You can see the Catholic influence there.”

  “But Dr. John and Queen Marie Laveau are loa,” Wayne put in, “and they were not very saintly.”

  “That’s true,” replied Doris, “but they were powerful in their day, and are still considered powerful.”

  I turned to Wayne. “Are they the same loa that are supposed to have possessed Little Red and influenced his music?”

  “I don’t think so. There are many loa, and Little Red was probably identified with Ogoun. He’s associated with metals, so the trumpet fits in, and is also represented by the color red—blood and fire. Little Red’s playing was supposed to be very fiery and passionate. Of course, that’s an assumption we can’t prove until I find those recordings.”

  His eyes did a quick check of the other tables on the patio, before he leaned toward us and added in a soft, singsong voice, “And I think that’s coming closer.”

  “Your meeting last night?” I whispered, caught up in his need for secrecy.

  He sat back with an enigmatic smile, but said nothing.

  Was someone leading him on? I felt guilty for having held back the information I’d learned from Stanley. But I didn’t want to approach the subject in front of Doris. There would be time later when I could pass along Stanley’s comments to Wayne without an audience.

  Leaving Wayne with my morning newspaper, Doris and I returned to our respective rooms to make a few phone calls and ready ourselves for a day at the festival. I called Charlie Gable to confirm our upcoming dinner interview, and checked with the bookstore to verify that my books were in stock before we finalized plans for the book signing. At a quarter to eleven, new hat in hand, I met Wayne and Doris in the hotel lobby.

  Chapter Six

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many people in one place at one time,” I said.

  Wayne and Doris and I, along with thousands of like-minded people, were crossing the dirt track of the Fair Grounds Race Track to where a sea of tents, flags, and booths filled the huge grassy oval. Atop a giant scaffolding, a sponsor’s sign welcomed us to the New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival.

  “They do get quite a crowd,” Wayne remarked. “Over four hundred thousand last year, plus the four thousand or so putting on the show.”

  Wayne guided us to the first green-and-white-striped tent on our left, in which a gospel group was warming up. In the shade of the tent, he gave us a fatherly lecture. “You see all those flags?” He nodded toward the kaleidoscope of pennants, flags, and banners dotting the scene before us. Many were homemade with suspended ribbons, bows, and fringe fluttering as their bearers carried them aloft. “People use those to identify themselves, so their friends and family can find them in the crowd. If they didn’t do that, they might wander around here for days and never meet up.”

  “Isn’t that clever,” Doris said. “Look at that one.” Bobbing by us was a feather-bedecked pole with bouquets of ribbon arrayed across three crossbars. It was held high by a tall man who wore one of the ribbon bouquets on his head, and who walked backward, keeping an eye on his flock of teenaged followers.

  “We don’t have a flag,” Wayne reminded us. “And it’s easy to get separated in this crush. I’ll try to hold on to you, but let’s agree to meet in specific places at specific hours. That way if we lose sight of each other, we’ll know we’ve got a regular rendezvous point to reassemble.”

  Doris and I agreed that making appointments to meet at certain hours was prudent, and we all synchronized our watches as if we were on a military mission.

  “What do you suggest we see right now?” I asked, hanging on to my hat when a stiff breeze threatened to carry it away.

  “I need to check in at the press tent, but we can use this time just to look around and get our bearings. There’s music everywhere. We can just stop in to hear whatever appeals to us.” A family carrying folding chairs squeezed by, and Wayne took our arms. “There’s no way you can whip through this fair. Get used to strolling. That’s the only effective pace.”

  The air at the festival fairly hummed with the strains of gospel, zydeco, bebop, Cajun, Dixieland, and virtually every other musical variation of jazz and pop and country, the sounds drifting out of the tents and rising on the breeze in a delightful cacophony. A gust of wind blew up, flapping the colorful pennants strung from tent top to tent top, and wafting the smells of spicy cooking in our direction from the food stalls on the other side of the oval. The intermittent breeze was a blissful counter to the blazing sun.

  The press tent was abuzz with activity when Wayne flashed his pass and ushered us inside. Large oscillating fans on stands whined in each comer but had little effect on the stultifying air. I blotted my forehead with a handkerchief, and followed Wayne as he dipped into bins that had been set up along two sides. A flustered press aide was attempting to fill the bins as quickly as the press corps emptied them. Wayne studied their contents, retrieving press releases and biographical backgrounds on the acts scheduled for that day, flipped through samples of music magazines, and dropped them back in the bins.

  “How nice to see you again, ladies.”

  I looked up into the clear-blue eyes of Julian Broadbent.

  Wayne joined us, his hands full of papers.

  “Copely.” Broadbent nodded curtly.

  “Broadbent,” Wayne grunted in acknowledgment. He turned his back on the reporter. “Ladies, I’d like to introduce you to some of the musicians who are here.” He pushed us across the room toward a series of tables set up for press interviews. The musicians sat against the outside wall of the tent; across from each were two or three chairs, most of which were occupied. A pile of black-and-white glossies for autographing, and a set of black and blue pens, sat at each musician’s elbow.

  “Say hello to Oliver Jones,” he told me. Jones was a short, stocky black man with a sweet face and even sweeter smile.

  “Oliver is one of Canada’s many gifts to the jazz world, Jessica, Doris. He studied piano with Oscar Peterson’s sister, Daisy, in Montreal.”

  “I have one of your albums,” I said. “A friend, Peter Eder—he’s the conductor of our symphony orchestra back home—loves your music. So do I,” I added hastily. “You play so beautifully.”

  “Thank you. I hope you enjoy the concerts.”

  “I know I will,” I said.

  Doris and I were introduced to a
few more musicians—the vibest, Terry Gibbs; a bass player, Ray Brown; and a saxophonist, Bobby Watson.

  Julian Broadbent trailed our little party, eavesdropping as Wayne greeted colleagues, and nodding at the musicians as if Wayne were including him in the introductions. When we finally left the press tent, he touched Doris on the shoulder. “Mind if I walk around with you today?”

  “Sure. Why not?” she said, taking his arm.

  Agreeing to meet us at the gospel tent later on, Julian and Doris went off to explore on their own, while Wayne and I stopped to read the program and choose which performances to see. He craned his neck to make out something off to our right. “I hear one of the brass bands,” he said. “Let’s catch up with them.”

  We hustled to get a good look at the small band of performers. Clad in bright-blue suits, gold sashes, and white gloves, they were slowly snaking their way around the field, stopping every so often to allow their leader, who was carrying a matching blue umbrella, to execute a little two-step dance. When we reached them, the players—two trumpets, a trombone, a sousaphone, a tuba, and a drum—were in the middle of a Dixieland tune that had me tapping my toe with the beat and clapping along with the other listeners.

  “This is a typical New Orleans brass band,” Wayne told me as we applauded at the end of the piece. “They’re sponsored by clubs in the African-American community, and have a long history in New Orleans. Brass bands were hired for every social occasion—weddings, funerals, picnics—and it became a wonderful tradition.”

  The band’s next song was one I recognized, “When the Saints Go Marching In.” The leader pumped his umbrella above his head and the musicians headed off in another direction.

  “I have something I want to talk about,” I said to Wayne. “Has anyone come forward with information for you about the cylinders?”