Murder in a Minor Key

by Jessica Fletcher

  “No, of course not. I’ll wait in the hall.”

  I locked the bathroom door behind me, and turned on the sink faucet to mask any sounds I might make. The room was tiny; a claw-foot tub took up most of the space. I opened the door of the old-fashioned medicine cabinet and perused the items. Wayne had grouped all his shaving materials on the end of one shelf, and his toothbrush, toothpaste, and floss on the other. Apart from a large selection of colognes, there was nothing but mundane boxes and bottles one would expect to find. A narrow linen closet on the opposite wall was crammed in next to the tub. The door squeaked when I opened it, and I froze, hoping Steppe couldn’t hear it. The closet contained only the usual items. I flushed the toilet, closed the closet door, washed my hands, dried them on a linen towel, and turned off the water.

  Detective Steppe was standing in the hallway outside the apartment, bouncing a set of keys in his hand. “C‘mon, c’mon. It’s late.”

  “Yes, thank you for your patience.”

  Steppe locked the door, and we clattered down the stairwell to the ground floor.

  “Do you need a ride to your hotel?” he asked.

  “That would be very kind,” I said gratefully, suddenly aware that my feet, unaccustomed to long walks in heels, were aching, and that a pervasive sorrow was consuming me. I climbed into the back seat of the brown Ford—brown seemed to be Steppe’s color—and told Teddy where I was staying.

  “How long are you going to be in town, Mrs. Fletcher?” Steppe asked.

  “I’m not sure now,” I answered honestly. “At least until after Wayne’s funeral, I expect.”

  “We may have to interview you again,” he said. Teddy glanced at him with a strange expression, but Steppe was looking back over his shoulder at me. “I’ll need your address and home phone number.”

  “Certainly,” I said. “If you give me your book, I’ll write it in for you.”

  Steppe opened his wallet instead and took out two business cards. “Here,” he said, passing them to me. “Keep one in case you think of something helpful, and put your vitals on the back of the other.”

  I did as he asked and returned one card to him, just as Teddy pulled up in front of the Royal.

  The bright glare of the hotel lobby was painful coming from the dim lighting of both Wayne’s apartment and the unmarked police car. I stopped at the front desk for my key.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Fletcher,” the night clerk said. He studied my face. “Are you feeling all right?” he asked, sliding my room key over the marble counter.

  “Just a bit of a headache,” I said. “I’ll be fine after a good night’s sleep.”

  But sleep was not on my agenda that night. Visions of Wayne kept me awake. I saw him giddily dragging me from one musical experience to another. I relived our conversation in the restaurant when he told me about his death threats.

  Images of people I’d met in New Orleans clouded my brain—Julian Broadbent, Doris Bums, Charlie Gable, Simon West, Mayor Amadour, Philippe Beaudin, Napoleon DuBois, Detective Steppe, and Police Officer Bailin. And Wayne’s sister, Clarice. We hadn’t met yet, but now I’d be paying her a condolence call on Sunday, instead of a social visit.

  Why did Wayne go to that cemetery? What happened there? Was he the victim of some voodoo curse? Was he getting too close to the cylinders for someone’s comfort?

  And the police. There was something strange there, something bothering me that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. In Wayne’s apartment. Why would Steppe, obviously unconcerned about his appearance and who wore sloppy clothes and scuffed shoes—and who allowed Wayne’s drawers and closet to be ransacked—why was he so careful to wash my glass and put it back on the shelf?

  Chapter Ten

  “Jessica, what in the deuce is going on down there?”

  “Seth?” I groped for the clock on the bedside table. It was eight-thirty. How did it get to be so late? I couldn’t recall the last time I’d slept past seven. Then I remembered what had kept me awake most of the night. Groggy, I sat up, swung my legs over the side of the bed, and tried to concentrate on my friend’s voice.

  “Got the Bangor Times this morning. There’s a small story on the national page about a body being found in the cemetery. Turns out to be that critic friend you went to visit. That right?” He sounded agitated.

  “Yes, Seth, that’s right.” I sighed.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, the sympathy in his voice comforting. Seth can be overbearing at times when he worries about me, but I’ve always appreciated his concern.

  “I’ve been better,” I said.

  “So, why don’t you catch the next plane, and come home where you have your friends around you.”

  “That’s very tempting,” I said, rubbing my eyes.

  “Lorna’s still got one of those kittens left over. Cute little thing, orange and black and white. Would be perfect for you. Dr. Jenny took one. Nice gal, that Dr. Jenny. Mara’s grand-kids gave her that name. Now all the little ones are calling her Dr. Jenny.”

  He prattled away, giving me all the Cabot Cove gossip from Mara’s luncheonette. I smiled fondly as I listened to his stories. I knew they were meant to entice me to come home.

  “And Mort,” he said, finishing up, “has got Mrs. Treyz on a campaign to raise money for his new patrol car. She’s already got the Ladies Auxiliary to promise the proceeds from the fashion show and bake sale, and got Dave Ranieri down at Charles Department Store to donate a toaster oven for the raffle. She even put one of those collection cans on the counter in Doug’s office, and everyone who comes to see him for a toothache has to plunk in some coins before they can leave.”

  I laughed softly. “She’ll do it, if anyone can,” I said.

  “Ayuh. So when’re you coming home?”

  “I can’t leave just yet, Seth. For one thing, I’d like to be here for Wayne’s funeral.”

  “Of course. I suppose you would.”

  We talked for another ten minutes, and when I finally put down the receiver, I was feeling better. The news from home was good to hear, a sign that in Cabot Cove, for the moment at least, all was orderly and peaceful, the myriad details of small-town daily life the main concern of residents far from the turmoil and anxiety of the big city. I ordered coffee and a slice of melon from Room Service, and switched on the radio as I prepared to start my day. Detective Steppe had been right. Wayne’s death was all over the news.

  “... and the city’s medical examiner has ruled that Copely’s death was an accident, although it’s still unclear why he was in the cemetery the night he died. According to the mayor’s office, the recent drought has reduced food supplies for reptiles, causing them to expand their habitats. WWL News spoke with the mayor’s spokesman, Philippe Beaudin, and he had this to say about recent reports of snake sightings in the city...”

  The jingling of the telephone interrupted the report. I turned down the radio and picked up the phone.

  “Yes?”

  “Jessica, oh my word. I’m so sorry. I just heard about Wayne on the radio.”

  I recognized Charlie Gable’s voice, higher pitched than it normally was, reflecting his agitation.

  “You were right last night,” he said. “Something was wrong. Are you okay?”

  “Yes, Charlie. I’m all right.”

  “Were you there when they found his body?”

  “No, of course not. Don’t you remember? I told you about the strange voice on the phone at Wayne’s apartment.”

  “Yes, I remember now. That’s what sent you running out of the restaurant.”

  “I went to his apartment. The man I spoke to was a police officer. He told me about Wayne.”

  “You poor thing, learning about it that way. Bitten by a snake. I can’t even begin to imagine such a thing.”

  “Nor can I.”

  “Why was he in that cemetery? Do you think it had anything to do with the Little Red recordings?” He started to ask another question but I interrupted him.

 
; “Charlie?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m just listening to the report myself,” I said. “Can I call you later?”

  “Yes, of course, but it’s not necessary.” His voice was calmer. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. You’ll let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.”

  “Thanks so much for thinking of me. I’ll give you a call soon.” I hung up and turned up the radio, hoping to catch the end of the report.

  “... accidental death from snakebite. Police Superintendent Johnson and Mayor Amadour have scheduled a press conference for later this afternoon. But you don’t have to wait that long to find out where y’at in the Big Easy. Coming up in five minutes, New Orleans Live. Here’s your chance to tell us your drought stories. The phones are open now...”

  I fiddled with the dial until I found some soothing music. Accidental death from snakebite. I shivered, and forced away an image of Wayne dying alone and in pain in a desolate cemetery. I’d missed a part of the report. Had there been any mention of the gris-gris, or of the fact that another body had been found in the same position less than a month ago? How could they call this an accident? All my experience argued that it couldn’t be a coincidence, two bodies found at the same tomb. Not only that, but the tomb was considered the resting place of one, possibly two voodoo queens, what Charlie had said might be a “lethal concentration of voodoo spirits.” There had to be a connection. But what was it? Perhaps something would come out at the press conference. I hoped it would be televised. I was interested to see if the reporters would pick up on what was not being said. Surely, the police had an explanation for why, of two deaths in the same spot, one was being labeled a murder, and the other an accident.

  The home of Clarice Copely-Cruz was uptown, in the Garden District, a fashionable neighborhood of elegant homes and lavish gardens. A taxi had dropped me in front of a narrow, three-story white Georgian Colonial Revival house that was set back from the street. Four enormous columns rose from the porch, past a second-floor balcony to support the eaves over the third floor, where peeling paint revealed that the color of the house had once been saffron. A wrought-iron picket fence ran along the front of the property and ended on either side with a hedge of privet that bordered the lot. The rusted gate squealed when I pushed it open. I walked down a graveled path to the front steps. This was to have been a pleasant Sunday dinner with Wayne and his sister. Now I would meet her under the worst of circumstances.

  An elegantly dressed woman in her sixties answered my knock.

  “I’m Jessica Fletcher. I’m here to see Mrs. Cruz.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Fletcher, please come in,” the woman said. “I know she wants to meet you.” She held out her hand. “I’m Marguerite Amadour, a friend of Clarice’s.”

  “How do you do,” I said. “The mayor’s wife. I’ve met your husband.”

  “Yes, he mentioned he’d met you.” Mrs. Amadour was small and delicate, the opposite of her bearlike husband. Her blond hair was pulled back into a chignon at the base of her neck. She wore a white crepe blouse with a frilly front under a navy knit jacket with matching skirt. “We’re expecting you at the big party next week,” she continued with a wan smile. “I was hoping to persuade Clarice to come, too. She’s been so housebound since Steve died. But now, I don’t suppose she will.” Her words trailed off as she led me through the vestibule, past dark front rooms, down a narrow hall to the side of a flight of stairs, to a large open sitting room in back. The modern décor was a surprise after seeing the classical dimensions of the outside of the house. Light flooded in from skylights in a cathedral ceiling. Sliding glass panels led to the garden in back. To the right, a marble tabletop, laden with cakes and casseroles, sat on iron legs. High-backed chairs had been pulled away and lined up along the wall. To the left, a pair of Barcelona chairs faced a white leather sofa. Large tropical plants reached up toward the light, giving the spacious room the appearance of a conservatory.

  Sitting on the sofa between two women who held her hands was a short, stout woman with red eyes. She sent a questioning glance to Marguerite Amadour.

  “Clarice, this is Jessica Fletcher,” Mrs. Amadour said softly. One of the women rose to give me her seat.

  “Yes, yes,” Clarice said, her eyes filling up. “Wayne’s friend. Please, Mrs. Fletcher...” She motioned to the empty spot beside her. The other woman patted Clarice’s shoulder, murmured in her ear, and gave her seat to the mayor’s wife.

  “Mrs. Cruz, I’m so sorry...” I began as I sat down.

  “It’s Clarice,” she said, her voice quavery. She put her hand on my arm. “And you must let me call you Jessica. I feel like I know you already. Wayne was so excited about your coming to New Orleans again.”

  “Your brother was a wonderful teacher, so generous with his time and knowledge,” I said. “We were on our way to becoming good friends, I know.”

  “Oh yes, I think so, too.” There was a trace of a smile on her thin lips. “He loved to share his passion for music.” Her eyes filled again. “But then, I think that’s what may have killed him.”

  “What was?”

  “His love of music. That’s what killed him. Those stupid recordings. If only...” She dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief, and crushed it in her hand. Marguerite Amadour placed a packet of tissues on her lap.

  Clarice gazed at them sadly. “My hankie isn’t up to the job today, is it?” she whispered, pulling out a few tissues as tears slid down her face. “My mother always insisted that a lady must carry a hankie.” Marguerite put her arm around Clarice’s shoulder, and drew her against her side. “It’s okay, sweetheart, ladies use tissues, too.”

  “First Steve, and now Wayne,” she moaned.

  “Perhaps I should come back another time,” I said, conscious of Clarice’s need to express her grief without an audience. Her misery brought back a bitter reminder of when I’d lost my husband, Frank, so many years ago, yet the pain, although duller now, was still present. I understood the hollow feeling, the chasm that could never be filled, only the edges of it softened.

  She turned back to me. “Please stay,” she said, gulping down a sob. “I need to talk about Wayne, and you were with him last, I understand.”

  I took a deep breath and nodded. “He took me dancing.”

  She gave me a watery smile. “Oh, wasn’t that like him. Where did you go?”

  I sketched a verbal picture for her of the fais-do-do Wayne had taken me to, exaggerating a bit as I described his skills in teaching me the steps, but accurately noting his delight in having me join in the festivities, and his enthusiasm for the dance.

  “He was always a good dancer,” she said, eyes downcast, remembering. “Even when we were children. He would learn the latest dances, and teach the rest of us.” She seemed calmer now, her thoughts turned inward to the happy times in their childhood. I hesitated to intrude on her reverie.

  Glancing around the room, I noticed there were others evidently wishing to express their sympathies, but who’d held back, waiting for a signal to approach. Marguerite had noticed them as well. “Clarice, dear,” she said, “Allen and Patricia want to say hello.”

  I caught Marguerite’s eyes. “I’ll come back another time when there aren’t so many people,” I said.

  Clarice looked up abruptly, and took note of the rapidly filling room. It seemed to steel her, to remind her of her duties as a hostess. “Marguerite, do I look terrible?” She ran her hands over her hair, tucking stray strands behind her ears, then straightened her shoulders and her skirt. The three of us rose. She took my hand. “Please come back, Jessica,” she implored. “Tomorrow, come tomorrow. I have something of Wayne’s for you, just a little memento. I promise I won’t be so weepy.”

  “Why don’t I call you later and see if there’s a convenient time. Will that be good?”

  “Archer takes care of all my appointments,” she said. “He’s Wayne’s assistant.” She looked around the room. “Is he here?”


  “He was a moment ago, but you sent him to Wayne’s apartment to pick out funeral clothes,” Marguerite reminded her, “and to the mortuary to make arrangements.”

  “That’s right.” Clarice squeezed my hand. She seemed to gather her restraint around her like a mantle. Her eyes, dry now, met mine. “Talk to Archer; he’ll have the schedule,” she urged. “And you must go to Marguerite and Maurice’s party on Wednesday. Don’t let this stop you. Wayne would have wanted you to go. He loved parties.”

  “Clarice, you don’t have to think about that right now,” the mayor’s wife said softly.

  “Marguerite, she must see your beautiful garden. It’s one of the secret splendors of New Orleans.”

  “Thank you, dear. I do love my garden,” Marguerite said, “although it’s difficult to keep at it, especially when some people have no respect for others’ hard work.”

  “Did your neighbor’s dog get loose again?” Clarice asked.

  “No. This time some teenagers trampled my prized coleus. It must have happened when we were out the other night. I found beer bottles on the ground. What a mess they made. It’ll take me some time to clean it up.”

  “I’m sure it will be even more beautiful than before,” Clarice said. She turned to me. “Before you go, you must have some dinner. Alberta has been cooking all morning. She’s a famous cook, and she’ll be upset if you don’t stay and eat. Marguerite, please tell Jessica what the dishes are.” She ushered us toward the table, and then turned, in full control, to greet a group of people awaiting her attention.

  “She’ll be fine now,” Marguerite told me as she led me around the table. She handed me a plate, indicated various dishes, and insisted I try Alberta’s étouffée, if nothing else. I hadn’t planned on eating, but realized that I was actually quite hungry, the melon slice the only food I’d had, and that was hours ago.