Murder in a Minor Key

by Jessica Fletcher

  “C’mon, Jessica, don’t be offended,” he coaxed. “Copely and I go back a long ways. We’re old friends. And he’s a New Orleans boy. We’re very free-and-easy down here, not so rigid in our schedules as our Northern neighbors.”

  “That’s not my impression of Wayne,” I responded. “I haven’t known him as long as you have, of course, but in my experience, he’s always been very responsible, and he’s passionate about jazz, so I doubt he’d willingly miss a day at Jazz Fest.”

  “How do you know he wasn’t there?” Gable was more consoling now. “You said yourself you were late getting to the press tent. He could’ve reckoned he just wore you out yesterday, and you couldn’t reach him to cancel. So when you didn’t show, he decided to go on without you.”

  “He could have,” I agreed, “but he wasn’t at the Oliver Jones concert, and I know he’s a big fan.”

  “Jones plays again later this week. Copely may have gone to one of the other concerts, thinking he could catch Oliver another time.”

  “Yes, that’s possible.”

  “Anyway, it’s tough to find anyone in that crowd,” he said, spearing a bit of shrimp remoulade on his fork. “You’ll both laugh about this tomorrow.”

  “You’re probably right,” I said, forcing myself to relax. I spooned up a taste of oyster stew. “This can take your mind off anything,” I said, savoring the creamy flavor.

  “Isn’t it wonderful? One of my favorites, too.”

  Though, every table was occupied, the atmosphere in the restaurant encouraged relaxation. The décor was decidedly old New Orleans with mosaic tile floors, crystal chandeliers, potted palms, lead-glass windows, and ceiling fans lazily circling high above our heads. And the food was of the delicious, stick-to-your-ribs variety. When we’d sat down, Gable had asked permission to record our conversation—“Saves me trying to write and eat at the same time”—and I’d given it. He’d placed a small tape recorder on the table, reset the counter to zero, and made a note on a small lined pad at his right hand.

  “Whenever you make a particularly bon, bon mot,” he explained, “I jot down the topic we’re discussing and the number on the tape counter, so I can find where your quote is later.”

  “And then you don’t have to listen to our entire conversation all over again?”

  “That’s it. Although sometimes I get hungry all over again,” he joked, “reliving the meal.”

  Gable’s interview was wide ranging. Once we’d put aside the topic of Wayne Copely, we chatted during appetizers about the success of his Book Club Breakfasts. Over en-trees, we moved on to changes in the publishing industry, particularly the impact of the Internet on bookselling, discussing the many websites authors now use to promote their works.

  “Anne Rice has a good one. Have you see it?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes. I visited her site before my first trip to New Orleans.”

  “So, is there a jessicafletcher.com in the works?”

  “Not yet.” I hesitated, refolding my napkin in my lap. “A section of my publisher’s site is devoted to my books,” I continued. “That’s sufficient for now.”

  “Are you a fan of cyberspace?” he asked. “Many writers are,”

  “I’m happy to use the Internet for research, especially when the weather is bad and it’s difficult to get to the library,” I replied. “And I have to admit I’ve fallen in love with e-mail. It’s a wonderful way to stay in touch with far-away family and friends, and I use it for business correspondence as well.”

  “I hear a ‘but’ in there, Jessica,” Gable said, raising his eyebrows and making a note on his pad.

  I sighed. “But I also find the Internet can steal my time. It’s too easy to get lost in front of the computer. Before you know it, hours go by and you’re not getting anything done. So I use the Internet sparingly, and mostly when I’m working and need information I can’t find anywhere else. It is a great springboard for research.”

  The waiter cleared our places, and I glanced at my watch, wondering if Wayne had gotten my message and left one for me at my hotel.

  “Don’t be in a hurry,” Gable chided. “They have wonderful desserts here. Besides, I have a few more questions.”

  He ordered a crème brûlée, and at his suggestion, I opted for the bread pudding.

  “I enjoyed Murder in a Minor Key, as I have all your books,” he started, “but I was surprised you didn’t use any voodoo material in it. It would seem a natural for a New Orleans setting.”

  “This particular story didn’t lend itself to voodoo,” I explained. “Sometimes a book takes you where it wants to go, and you just have to follow it along.”

  “How can that be?”

  “It’s a strange phenomenon.” I paused, trying to find the right words. Gable was writing on his notepad. “Lots of writers create outlines for their books; some are more detailed than others. I use an outline, too, but often I’ll finish a chapter and reread the section of my outline I was supposed to be covering, and find that I’ve gone off in a different direction.”

  “What do you do then?”

  “If I like the new direction, I’ll follow it and rearrange the plot,” I said. “Sometimes, though, much as I may like what I’ve written, I’ll have to rewrite the scene and wrestle the story back into its planned structure.”

  “It’s kind of like a fight with your subconscious.”

  “That’s a good analogy.”

  “So the last book took you in a different direction?”

  “Away from the voodoo, yes.” I thought about Ileana Montalvo, and the juju in my bag, and about Little Red and his voodoo beliefs. “For some reason, on this visit, I seem to be more aware of voodoo than I was the last time I was here, and even though I’m not currently working on a new book, I’m thinking of doing some research anyway.”

  “Well, if I can help in any way, let me know.”

  I was torn. I wanted to get to a phone and call Wayne. He was on my mind all the time now. But I also wanted to use this opportunity to question Gable about voodoo. As both a native New Orleanian and a journalist, he would have a lot to offer, not only in factual information but perhaps in interpreting situations—like the juju in my bag, or the deaths in the cemetery. I couldn’t shake that image of a seated corpse leaning against a tomb.

  “You can, actually,” I said, moving my spoon around the bread pudding. It was superb, but my appetite had flown. “Tell me about Marie Laveau, and the tomb where she’s buried.”

  “Ah, the infamous voodoo queen.” He smiled. “You should visit her tomb before you leave. It’s one of our more colorful sites, in a city full of colorful sites.”

  “I plan to get there soon.”

  “Make sure you go with a tour group,” he cautioned. “It’s not in the safest part of town.”

  “So I understand.”

  “You want to know about the mother, of course. Her daughter had the same name and was a queen, too.”

  “Yes, I think it’s the mother I want to know about.”

  “She was a tall woman of mixed race, supposedly the daughter of a white planter and mulatto mother, although some say she had Indian blood as well. She married a man named Paris, from Santo Domingo, but he disappeared soon after, and no one knows what happened to him.”

  “Did she practice voodoo on him?”

  “Hard to say. She considered herself a devout Catholic. His disappearance and her involvement in voodoo may not have been connected. Anyway, she became a hairdresser, and was very popular with white aristocratic ladies who told her all their secrets, which, I’m sure, she put to good use. Later, she lived with a man called Glapion—and by the way, that’s the name on her tomb.”

  “Glapion?”

  “Right. She had more than a dozen kids with him. They lived over on St. Ann Street, here in the Quarter, but the house is long gone now.”

  “What made her so powerful?”

  “It must have been the influence she held over people,” he replied. “S
upposedly, she had the police and city officials in her pocket, and she managed to eliminate all her rivals, using spells and deadly gris-gris.”

  “Remarkable.”

  “Well, that’s what people believed anyway. Who knows what’s true?”

  “And her tomb?”

  “Lots of voodoo practitioners—and the tour industry for sure—say both she and her daughter are entombed in the Glapion crypt in St. Louis Number One. Other cemeteries lay claim to the daughter.”

  “What do you think?”

  “What do I think? I think if both Maries are in the same tomb, that’s a lethal concentration of voodoo spirits in one place.”

  “Lethal?”

  “Just a turn of phrase,” he said, lifting the check the waiter had left on the table. “The tomb is definitely a voodoo shrine, a place of magic, maybe black magic. You should see some of the fetishes people leave there.”

  I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the air conditioning.

  “Would you please excuse me a moment?” I pulled the napkin from my lap, gathered my bag, and stood.

  “Certainly. Anything wrong?” he asked, rising from his seat.

  “No, no. I’ll be right back.” I swiftly made my way out of the dining room to find a public telephone. I emptied my wallet of coins, and dialed my hotel. No messages. I searched my bag for my notebook, feeling increasingly nervous. Gripping the receiver between my shoulder and my chin, I held the notebook open with one hand, and with the other, dropped more coins into the phone. I punched in Wayne’s number and held my breath.

  “Hello?”

  “Oh, Wayne, I’m so relieved. I’ve been trying to get you all day.”

  There was silence on the phone.

  “Wayne?”

  “He’s not here,” said a man’s voice that didn’t sound like Wayne at all.

  “Where is he?”

  “You’ll have to call back later,” he said, and hung up.

  Furious at his rudeness, I contemplated calling again, but changed my mind and returned to the table.

  “Charlie, this has been a wonderful dinner, and I really appreciate all your attention, but I must run.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “A strange man just hung up on me at Wayne’s apartment. I’m going over there to find out what’s wrong.”

  The waiter handed Gable his credit card and the bill on a tray. Gable signed his name and stood. “Would you like me to go with you?” he asked, pocketing his fountain pen.

  “Thank you,” I said quickly, “but that’s not really necessary. But you can help me get a cab if you would. Are you ready to leave now?”

  We stood on the sidewalk outside the restaurant and my stomach clenched. The street was full of cars, but they weren’t moving.

  “Saturday night traffic,” Gable grumbled. “Where does he live?”

  I gave him Wayne’s address.

  “It’s less than ten blocks,” he said, looking down the street. “You can walk it if you want, and probably make better time than waiting for a ride in this mess.” He waved his hand at the gridlocked cars. “Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you?”

  I nodded. “Which way do I go?”

  He pointed. “Down to Bourbon Street. That’s the next comer. And turn left.” I thanked him, and rushed away.

  Bourbon Street may have been the most direct route to Wayne’s, but it certainly wasn’t the easiest. I walked as quickly as I could, but the throngs of people spilling out of buildings onto the street kept my progress slow. There were bars and nightclubs lining the street, as close to each other as the beads on a necklace. The piano music emanating from one club melded with horns from another, merged with the banjo and guitar from a third, and all were punctuated by the horns of cars and taxis trying to negotiate the intersections. Barkers urged pedestrians to sample the entertainment inside the clubs, which in addition to the jazz, rock, blues, honky-tonk, and country, included topless, karaoke, and even can-can shows. From the open doors, the smell of alcohol was pervasive, mixed with the spices and smoke of restaurant kitchens. I dodged a group of young people, singing, clapping, and drinking from plastic cups, and skirted two children tap dancing on a piece of hard, thick plastic. They were no older than ten, and danced to music played on a boombox, the volume competing with the shouts of revelers and the cacophony of sounds from the nearby nightspots. Above me, the balconies were jammed with more people, their voices and laughter adding to the din.

  I had worn a silk dress and pumps to dinner, never anticipating a long walk, and was aware of being observed by some of the street’s more disreputable denizens. Determined not to look like an easy mark, I adopted what I’d learned in other cities, and walked purposefully, my expression staunch and fearless. I fished in my bag for my key ring. Not a very effective weapon, I thought, but at least it gave me something to hold on to. I closed my fist around the ring with the keys poking up between my fingers like the spokes of a wheel, and held my bag close to my side.

  Finally, the crowds began to thin, and as I turned down Wayne’s street, the noise of Bourbon Street faded behind me. It became eerily quiet. I increased my pace, the only sounds the click of my heels on the stone paving, and the skitter of plastic cups rolling in the gutter.

  I checked my address book for the number of Wayne’s apartment house. An old brown Ford was angled into the curb under a NO PARKING sign in front of the building. A streetlight illuminated the soft pink façade. Iron lacework outlined the balconies that ran the length of each floor; on them was a profusion of green plants and a series of tables and chairs, demarcating the individual apartments.

  Surprisingly, the double doors leading inside were open. I checked the directory for the number of Wayne’s apartment, climbed the stairs to the third floor, and pulled on a brass knocker in the shape of an alligator. The door swung open and a man in a brown suit frowned at me.

  “Who’re you?” he asked gruffly.

  “Perhaps I have the wrong apartment,” I said, taken aback. “I’m looking for Wayne Copely.”

  “What’s he to you?”

  “I’m a friend, and I haven’t heard from him. I was concerned. Are you an acquaintance of his?”

  I knew the answer before he gave it, and felt my stomach drop. Men like him have a certain look. It’s in the eyes, a world-weariness, a cool appraisal, an unbending attitude worn like a carapace on their backs meant to protect them from the brutalities of life.

  “I’m a cop.”

  “What’s happened to Wayne?”

  “He’s dead.”

  Chapter Eight

  “You look a little pale. Come in and sit down.”

  Numbly, I entered Wayne’s apartment and slumped down on his green damask sofa. The officer remained standing on the other side of the glass-topped, painted wooden box that served as a coffee table. He tugged at his belt, trying to draw the waistline of his trousers over a protuberant stomach.

  “Did you call earlier?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Was that you who answered?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I heard your voice and I just knew.” I sat up, trying to regain some semblance of control.

  “Knew what?”

  “That something had happened to Wayne.”

  “How did you know?”

  His question was like a slap, startling me back to conscious thought. I straightened my shoulders, alert.

  “I didn’t know,” I said briskly, “but I had an uncomfortable feeling all day, and when I heard your voice, it intensified.”

  “Is that why you came here?”

  “Yes. And then when I saw you, I really knew.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s obvious,” I said impatiently, “that if the police are here and Wayne’s not, then something is drastically wrong.”

  “You knew I was a cop?”

  “Yes.

  “I’m not in uniform.”

  “You look like a policeman.”


  “I do?”

  I nodded.

  “And just how is it I look like a cop?” he asked irritably.

  I took a deep breath, but before I could tell him that there was something in his eyes and his body language, he interrupted me.

  “Forget I asked that,” he said. “I don’t think I want to know.” He raised his eyebrows. “Do you always get these ‘feelings’ about things?” There was a tinge of sarcasm in his voice.

  I ignored it. “Not that I’m aware of.”

  He was a heavyset man in his forties, with bushy eyebrows and tousled brown hair. His suit was wrinkled and his brown shoes looked like they hadn’t been polished in a long time. I studied him as he debated what to do with me. Finally he asked, “When did you last see Copely?”

  “Friday. Yesterday. When did he die?”

  “Sometime last night.”

  I looked up. “I was with him last night, till just before ten.”

  He grunted but said nothing.

  “How did it happen? He seemed perfectly healthy.”

  “I’ll ask the questions.”

  “Go ahead,” I said wearily.

  He must have taken pity on me, because his tone changed. “Why don’t we start over? I’m detective Chris Steppe, NOPD.” He flipped open a leather wallet revealing his badge. Pocketing the wallet, he pulled out a pencil and a small black binder with lined paper, and looked down at me. “And you would be?”

  “Jessica Fletcher.”

  “Why do I know that name?”

  I explained to him why he might know who I was.

  “A mystery writer, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  “A famous person.” He smiled, wet his pencil point on his tongue, and wrote in his book.

  While Detective Steppe scratched away at his notes, I looked around the room. Wayne’s living quarters were spare but with an innate elegance that was difficult to define. It might have been the warmth of the wooden floor, a broad-planked relic from an earlier era, the scars on which only enhanced its appeal. Or it might have been the diaphanous curtains that billowed over the open French doors, which looked out on the black night beyond the balcony. The furnishings were simple: the sofa, coffee table, a small Oriental rug in front of what I was sure was a decorative fireplace, a line of low bookcases on one wall, and a delicate round table of highly polished dark wood with two matching chairs. An efficiency kitchen occupied one comer. No bric-a-brac, no clutter. There was a calmness to the apartment that I could sense, despite my agitation, a calmness that must have been restful for a high-strung personality like Wayne’s.