Murder in a Minor Key

by Jessica Fletcher

He stood next to me, but his eyes kept straying to Doris and Julian Broadbent.

  “You’ve been working very hard today, Mr. Beaudin,” I said. “We seem to be seeing you everywhere we go.”

  “The mayor has a lot of responsibilities in a big event like this,” he said, still distracted.

  A sheen of perspiration coated his handsome face. He carried his suit jacket over his arm, and had loosened his tie so it hung askew. His collar was unbuttoned and I noticed a thin black leather cord around his neck; my gaze followed the dark line, visible through his white cotton shirt, down his chest to a slight bulge. I looked up, embarrassed to find he’d been watching me.

  “You won’t ask, but yes, it’s a gris-gris.”

  He reached inside the open neck of his shirt, tugged on the cord, pulled out a small leather pouch, and let it dangle in front of his shirt. It didn’t look like the tourist version of a gris-gris Doris was wearing so openly. This one had signs of wear, the leather dark where it had touched and absorbed the oils of his skin.

  “Do you practice voodoo, Mr. Beaudin?”

  He seemed surprised at my question. “I’m a Cajun boy, Mrs. Fletcher, born and bred in the swamps,” he said. “My ancestors were kicked out of Nova Scotia for being Catholic. So we hold pretty tight to our religion.”

  “But you wear a gris-gris.”

  “We have a wide and varied constituency here in New Orleans.” He let his head sweep the room indicating the multicultural audience that was milling about the tent. “Sometimes the way to signify solidarity is through nonverbal communication.”

  “For your voodoo constituents?”

  He laughed. “People who actually practice voodoo as a religion are, at most, ten to fifteen percent of the population,” he said. “Half the city wears one of these, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “They do?”

  “Sure. It’s part of New Orleans life.”

  “Then this is part tradition, part political strategy?” I posed, indicating the gris-gris.

  “Everything is part of our political strategy, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said affably. “I’m trying to get Maurice to wear one of these, too.” He lifted the pouch and dropped it back inside his shirt. “We can use all the help we can get.”

  “I thought the mayor was far ahead in the polls.”

  “Polls can never be relied on.” He buttoned his collar and straightened his tie, pulling the knot snug against his neck.

  “Does he have a strong opponent?”

  “So far, he has the field pretty much to himself. Just a couple of weak wannabes.”

  “For the mayoral field, or the senatorial field?” I asked, adding, “Senator Lunsford’s seat is open.”

  He laughed. “You’re spending too much time with Broadbent,” he said. “Please excuse me. I’ve got to round up the mayor for another couple of stops, before he and Mrs. Amadour go to dinner. Have a good evening, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ll look forward to seeing you at the mayor’s party next week.”

  He turned away, bumping into Wayne, who was coming to collect me.

  “Sorry, man,” Beaudin said, dusting off Wayne’s jacket as if he’d knocked him down. His hand grazed the top of one of Wayne’s pockets. Beaudin loped away, choosing to slide down a row of empty chairs to avoid the crowds in the aisles, and reached the far side where the mayor was entertaining a party of ladies in flowered hats, whose laughter could be heard across the tent.

  “Did he just drop something in your pocket?” I asked.

  Wayne looked startled. He slid his hands in and out of his pockets. “Nope,” he said, but I wasn’t certain I believed him.

  He consulted his schedule. “There’s plenty of music to come tonight, but I don’t see anything here I’m especially keen on,” he said.

  “Where are Julian and Doris?” I wondered aloud, straining to pick them out of the throng leaving the tent.

  “Broadbent met up with some of his macho buddies and they took off,” he said, sounding disdainful. “They said to tell you ‘good night.”’

  “Why don’t we leave now, too?” I coaxed. “I’m going to need some rest if we’re to do this again tomorrow.”

  “Rest? I was planning on taking you chank-a-chanking at a fais-do-do.”

  “That sounds sinister. What are we doing?”

  “We’re going dancing, Jessica.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Happened again. Did you see it?” The blond waitress held a coffeepot in one hand and a pitcher of hot milk in the other.

  “Did I see what?” Seated in the hotel courtyard for breakfast, I put down the newspaper and picked up my spoon as she poured my café au lait.

  “The police report. They found another body in the cemetery .”

  “Isn’t that where bodies are supposed to be?” I asked, mock seriously.

  “You may think so,” she said, “but they’re usually entombed, not sitting up out in the open where other bodies can trip over them.”

  “Is that what happened?” I asked, more soberly.

  “Page three. Read it for yourself,” she said tartly, and sauntered off to the next table.

  I opened the newspaper again, and turned to page three.

  NOPD reported finding the body of a white male last night in St. Louis Cemetery Number One. The body was discovered propped up against the tomb of Marie Laveau by teenagers, who alerted police. The man’s identity is being withheld pending notification of his family. Police declined to speculate on the cause of death, but homicide detectives were observed at the scene. An autopsy is scheduled.

  Police Superintendent Jimmy Johnson would not comment on rumors that a voodoo symbol was found with the body, and said that it was too early to conclude that this death was related to that of murder victim Elijah Williams, a former voodoo priest whose body was found in the same position at Marie Laveau’s tomb several weeks ago.

  “We’re not even sure we have a murder yet,” Johnson said. “We could have a prankster who read about Williams and decided to set a body in the same spot.”

  The superintendent disclosed that he is in “constant communication” with the mayor’s office, and said the investigation into Williams’s murder was proceeding on schedule. He reminded citizens to call the hotline if they have any information to provide detectives.

  Overall, crime in New Orleans has been on the wane for several years. However, recent incidents in the French Quarter and other parts of the city have alarmed residents and business people alike. Superintendent Johnson noted that, thanks to COMSTAT, the city’s crime management program, New Orleans led the nation with the greatest drop in violent crime over three years, particularly in Districts 1 and 8. Violent crimes include murder, rape, robbery, and assault. Nevertheless, he said, he’s ordered the NOPD to beef up patrols in vulnerable neighborhoods.

  I put that portion of the newspaper aside and picked up Lagniappe, the weekend entertainment section, and started to read a review of Blind Jack’s concert at Jazz Fest. But my mind kept leaping back to the cemetery and the murder of Elijah Williams, and now this second victim who was found in the same place. The location of the two bodies at the same spot in the cemetery was certainly unusual and unsettling. Wayne had told me the cemeteries were dangerous, and to stay away from them unless I went with a tour group. How sad, I thought, that what should be a place for peace and comfort for both the departed and their families had become instead menacing and violent.

  “Would you like beignets again this morning?” The waitress was back, pad and pen in hand.

  “Maybe tomorrow,” I said, picking up the menu I hadn’t looked at. “I think I’d like to have something light. I don’t know how you New Orleanians can eat such rich food every day.”

  “We like to keep our nice plump figures,” she quipped, patting one hip. “I can get you a fresh fruit platter. How about that?”

  “Perfect.”

  “It’s so light, I guarantee you’ll be hungry in an hour,” she said, walking away, a smirk on her round face.
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br />   I reached down and rubbed the top of my instep. Wayne had taken me to a fais-do-do last night, a Cajun dance, and in his efforts to teach me the steps—and my initial awkwardness in learning them—he had tromped on my feet several times with his patent leather spectator shoes. Despite my purple bruise, I’d had a marvelous time. By nine-thirty, however, I was bleary-eyed and insisted on going back to the hotel. Wayne had begged off breakfast this morning—he’d been planning to be out late with Blind Jack following up a lead on Little Red’s recordings—but we intended to catch up at Jazz Fest. I was to look for him at the press tent at two. My schedule was filling up. I had a dinner interview with Charlie Gable. Lunch with Wayne’s sister tomorrow. And I mustn’t forget my book signing—when was that?

  Doris Bums entered the courtyard, her eyes skimming over the tables till she found mine. I beckoned her to join me. She pulled out a chair and sank into it. The circles under her eyes suggested that she, like Wayne, had had a late night.

  “What a party city,” she said, holding her head very still. “I think I’m hung over.”

  “Are you up to going to Jazz Fest again?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, mouthing a grateful thank-you to the waitress, who was pouring her coffee. “Julian insisted I meet him there; otherwise I might have slept in.” She sipped her coffee slowly, eyes closed, humming her satisfaction.

  I told her of my plans to meet Wayne later in the day.

  “I’ll call Julian and tell him to meet me there at the same time. We can go together. Between us, we should be able to find the press tent.”

  “I hope you have a good sense of direction,” I said, unzipping my shoulder bag, pulling out a pen and placing it on the table.

  “Post cards?”

  “No. I always carry a little book for making notes and keeping track of appointments,” I said, feeling around in the depths of my bag. “I was just trying to remember when I’m scheduled for the book signing.”

  “Mine’s on Monday,” she said.

  The notebook eluded my grasp, but my hand encountered an unfamiliar texture. I drew out the juju that the voodoo priestess had pressed upon me. For a moment, I wasn’t sure what to do with it.

  “I hope you’re not worried about that,” Doris said.

  “I’d forgotten I have it, actually,” I said, putting down my bag and examining the packet. It was lumpy under the green felt.

  “Do you suppose it’s bad luck to open it and see what’s inside?” she asked, leaning over to get a better look.

  “The priestess didn’t say, so I don’t know.”

  “Aren’t you curious?” she asked.

  “I suppose I am.” I knew Doris was.

  “If it were mine, I’d unwrap it just to see what it is, and then wrap it up again.”

  I handed her the packet. “Would you like to do the honors?”

  “Oh no, it’s yours.”

  “I don’t mind if you open it.”

  “Okay” She scooted her chair closer to mine, spread her napkin on the table, and placed the little parcel on it. Carefully, she untied the raffia, lay the strands on the table, and unfolded the felt. Whatever was inside was rolled up in a piece of off-white linen. Doris unrolled the cloth, and a black object tumbled out into her hand, along with some powdered material.

  “What is it?” She turned in her seat and blew the powder off her palm onto the ground.

  I picked up the object to examine it more closely. “It looks like a little alligator head.”

  “Ugh,” Doris said, making a face and dusting the powder, and the idea, off her hands.

  “I’ve got one of those hanging up at home,” the waitress remarked as she placed my fruit platter in front of me.

  “What’s yours for?” I inquired.

  “Gator heads guard against evil,” she said, sliding a knife and fork next to the plate. “Most people here have one over the door. I’m hoping mine will keep my ex-husband away.”

  “Is it working?”

  “I haven’t seen him in three months, so I guess it is.”

  “Jessica, let me wrap that up again so you can have your breakfast,” Doris said. She took the alligator head and began twining it back in its linen swathing.

  “I’d like to wash my hands first.”

  “Here you go,” said the waitress, dropping a half dozen packets of wipes next to my cup. “I keep them so folks can clean off the powdered sugar from the beignets.”

  “Ooh, I’d like one of those, please,” Doris said. “The beignet, I mean.” She helped herself to a wipe, too. She retied the raffia around the felt, and my juju, a little bulkier than before, was back in its original form.

  I returned the juju to my bag and retrieved the notebook I’d been looking for in the first place. I checked the date of my book signing—it was Monday.

  A few hours later, Doris and I joined the throng at Jazz Fest. It was Saturday, and it seemed that all the people in New Orleans and its surrounding suburbs, off from work for the weekend, were trying to cram themselves into the racetrack for the festival. We had the advantage of having been there the day before, but even though we were reasonably familiar with the layout, we arrived late at the press tent.

  The entrance was flanked by two security guards. “We’re supposed to meet some people inside,” Doris said to the taller of the two, who might have been a wrestler before taking up security work. His short-sleeved shirt revealed enormous biceps, the sight of which probably prevented many from challenging his authority.

  “Your names?” he asked.

  He checked his list, moving his index finger slowly down the page. “Well, they didn’t leave your names on the list,” he growled.

  “Does that mean we can’t go in?” Doris asked.

  “That’s right, ma’am. No one gets in without a badge, or their name on my list.”

  “Is it possible for one of you to check around inside?” I appealed. “Our friends may be worried about us.”

  “Sorry, but we can’t leave our post.”

  It was another hot day, and I was pleased that I’d purchased my broad-brimmed hat. Doris, who was hatless, fanned herself with a printed program. She was becoming increasingly, and overtly, agitated.

  “I guess we’ll have to wait till they realize we’re not there and come looking for us,” I offered.

  She scowled at the guard, whose face remained impassive, and started pacing in front of the tent. As I attempted to look past the guards into the tent, Oliver Jones, the pianist we’d met the day before, came out.

  “Hello there,” he said with a wide smile. “You look lost.”

  We explained the dilemma, and he agreed to look for Wayne and tell him we were there. We thanked him, and he disappeared inside. A long, hot ten minutes passed before he reemerged, accompanied by a press aide.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to help you,” he apologized, “but maybe Miss Heaney can.” He handed me an envelope. “Those are some passes for VIP seating at my concert, just in case you don’t find Wayne,” he said, and excused himself.

  “Hi, I’m Ryan Heaney,” the pretty young woman said, “assistant to the director of press relations. How can I help you?”

  She led us past the guards and into the crowded tent where she helped us look for Wayne and Julian. Neither was there.

  “Did you speak with Julian this morning?” I asked Doris.

  “No, but I got his answering machine and told him where we’d be.”

  “We have a notices board where reporters leave notes for each other. Let’s check that,” Miss Heaney suggested. But there were no slips addressed to either Doris or me among the many messages posted.

  Baffled as to where they might be, we asked Miss Heaney if we could post our own note for Wayne and Julian. She supplied the paper and pushpins and left us.

  “Okay, so where do we tell them to meet us, assuming they ever get this message?” Doris asked. She was flushed from the heat, and fast losing patience.

  “Since Oliv
er Jones was kind enough to give us VIP seating for his concert,” I said, “that sounds like a good place to connect. If they don’t turn up there, we’ll just have to keep going on our own.”

  “That’s fine with me,” she replied, scribbling the note and jamming it up on the board. “Now, can we get out of this hot tent? I’m dying in here.”

  Outside was not much better. It still hadn’t rained, and the breeze stirred up dust from the oval racetrack. We wandered around the edges of the fair for a while, listening to some of the lesser-known musicians, before we used our passes to find seats in the shaded VIP section at the main stage.

  Oliver Jones’s concert was the highlight of Jazz Fest for me. His rollicking piano style was the perfect blend of all the music I’d enjoyed. It was mostly jazz, but with ingredients of classical, gospel, Latin, Caribbean, even country. It was complex yet accessible, spirited and moving, and made me forget the absence of our escorts. But when the concert was over, and the ovation had faded away, I was left with the nagging feeling that something was not right. It was not in Wayne’s nature to be cavalier about appointments.

  Doris and I left the festival after the concert and returned to our hotel, she to do her interview with Ileana Montalvo, and I to my room hoping for voice mail from Wayne. There was none. Dismayed and worried, I showered, dressed, and prepared for my dinner interview with Charlie Gable. Before leaving the room, I called Wayne’s apartment and spoke into his machine, explaining where I was going and that I’d try to reach him later.

  “Oh, Copely’s a bit of a flake,” was Gable’s assessment over cocktails at Arnaud’s, a traditional Creole restaurant he’d chosen for our interview. “Look at that crusade he’s on to find LeCoeur recordings.” He took a sip of his drink and looked over the rim of his glass. “You know he’s gay, don’t you? It’s probably something simple, like a fight with his boyfriend.”

  “I don’t think Wayne’s sexual orientation has anything to do with keeping appointments,” I replied stiffly.