Murder in a Minor Key

by Jessica Fletcher

  The mayor’s wife excused herself to speak with more new arrivals, and I waited as two women next to me surveyed the food on the table before spooning up portions of a rice and shrimp dish I planned to sample as well.

  “Do you think she’ll inherit?” the shorter of the two asked her companion in a low voice.

  “I think so. Who else is there? Not that twerp Archer.”

  “He was with Wayne a long time.”

  “Maybe. But Clarice is blood after all.”

  “True, but Archer’s been her walker for years. Wayne might’ve wanted to reward him.”

  “Walker,” I knew, was a term used in the South for men who escort older women to social occasions. Wayne’s assistant apparently assisted the family in many ways, though I wondered why Clarice would have needed a walker when her husband was alive.

  “She certainly can use the money,” the first woman commented. “Steve gambled away everything they had.”

  “I know. They never finished paying for this addition, and the rest of the house is falling down around her.”

  “I can’t figure out how she managed to get Alberta. She must have promised her a bundle.”

  “It was probably that lovely cottage in the garden, because she didn’t get a penny when he died. His life insurance had lapsed because he never paid the premiums. Besides, you know how persuasive Clarice can be.”

  “How do you know Clarice’s husband didn’t leave her any money?”

  The other woman tipped her head toward the center of the room, in the direction of Marguerite Amadour. “I heard he was into the mob for a small fortune.”

  “I hadn’t heard that.”

  The women carried their plates to chairs along the wall. I took some étouffée and a little bit of salad, and tried not to look too obvious as I trailed them around the table, taking a seat two chairs away and pretending to concentrate on my plate.

  “How much do you think she’ll get?”

  “Who knows? Wayne must’ve had insurance, and it’s double indemnity, isn’t it, when it’s an accidental death. She’ll get twice as much.”

  “Accidental? Do you really believe that? What was he doing in that cemetery?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Probably up to no good. Even so, he got bitten by a snake. It’s not like he had a heart attack.”

  There was silence as the women chewed their food in contemplation.

  “Eleanor Hawes had a snake in her laundry room last week,” said one. And they were off onto snakes and other vermin in unexpected locations, the topic of Wayne and Clarice exhausted for the time being. I mulled over their comments, and experienced a wave of sympathy for Clarice, who in addition to being bereaved was the subject of speculation regarding her finances. How humiliating.

  “Mrs. Fletcher, I believe you’ve met my husband.” While I’d been staring at my plate and eavesdropping, I hadn’t seen Mayor and Mrs. Amadour approach. I stood.

  “I’ll take that,” Marguerite said, whisking my plate from my hands and heading for the kitchen.

  “It’s a sad day in New Orleans, Mrs. Fletcher,” the mayor said, shaking his head. “Dreadful accident.”

  “Do you really believe Wayne’s death was an accident?” I asked. “I’m not convinced that it was.”

  The mayor took my elbow and ushered me toward the sliding glass doors. “Let’s not talk of this in here,” he said.

  We stepped outside into the hot air, and paused under a palm tree.

  “I know how upset you must be, Mrs. Fletcher. Wayne was a friend to us all.”

  “I certainly am upset, Mayor Amadour,” I said, feeling a different kind of heat rising in my blood. “I’m particularly upset that the police department made such a quick decision on the nature of Wayne’s death. I really can’t believe it.”

  “I don’t find it unbelievable, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, turning so his back was to the door and blocking my view. “The superintendent laid it all out for me this morning, and the coroner is convinced it was an accident. How else does one get bitten by a snake?”

  “I’m not saying it wasn’t an accident,” I argued. “I’m just questioning why the decision was made so fast. Wayne warned me only days ago never to go into the cemetery alone. Would he really have gone there himself, willingly? At least, it’s a question that should be pursued.”

  “Now, now, Mrs. Fletcher.” He took my hand between his and patted it. “I knew Wayne for many years, and he was a bit of an odd duck.”

  “I don’t think...” I started to say, but he wouldn’t let me speak.

  “He was an obsessive man, always going off half cocked on some project or other,” he said, squeezing my hand hard and catching my ring in the vise of his grip. “No telling what he would do if he took a mind to it. I believe if you think about that for a little while, you’ll come to the same conclusion.”

  I yanked my hand away, and suppressed the urge to rub my finger where the ring had made a dent in the skin. “I have been giving this a lot of thought,” I said. “I’m not in the habit of making snap decisions. I just wish the police had the same inclination.”

  “Watch our press conference this afternoon.”

  “I intend to,” I said.

  “Good,” he said, smiling. “You’ll learn something.” He guided me back into the house, adding in a low voice, “I hope you’ll resist sharing your opinion on Wayne’s death with Clarice. She’s suffered enough.”

  “I would never say anything to hurt her.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said. He walked to where Wayne’s sister stood and put his hand on her shoulder. Her arm came around his back, and she leaned into him.

  As I watched him, I reviewed in my mind the conversation we’d just had. Was he simply protecting a family friend? Or did he have another motive? I studied the group that had assembled to support Clarice Copely-Cruz in her grief. Apart from Clarice and Marguerite, the only other faces I recognized were those of the mayor and his aide, Philippe Beaudin. While Marguerite ferried soiled plates and glasses into the kitchen, and clean ones back to the table, the mayor continued hugging Clarice to his side and talking animatedly with other guests. Beaudin, on her other side, offered her a plate of food. It was good, I thought; they were distracting her. I remembered how grateful I’d been to my friends, who chattered about commonplace items and cleaned up after the visitors who’d paid condolence calls while I struggled not to focus on the hole in my life where Frank had been. There would be plenty of time to cry. There always was.

  I checked my watch. I wanted to be back at the hotel this afternoon to catch the mayor’s press conference on the news channel, but first there was a stop I wanted to make, and I knew I had to leave quickly, or miss it.

  The double doors into Wayne’s building were locked this time, and, at midafternoon, the sun blazed down. A fly had discovered me, and I swatted at it ineffectively as it dive-bombed my head. The street was deserted, and I held out little hope of catching some tenant on the way in or out. I briefly considered pushing the button for another apartment and hoping someone would buzz me in, but decided that if Archer was still in Wayne’s apartment, there would be little difference in his surprise at my appearing at this door, or the one upstairs. I pushed the button.

  “Who’s there?” a crackly voice came over the intercom.

  “It’s Jessica Fletcher. I’d like to come up.”

  The voice was replaced by a high-pitched hum, and I let myself into the building.

  Archer was waiting in the hall when I reached the top of the three flights, keeping the apartment door propped open with one foot.

  “No one told me you were coming, ” he said.

  “I know,” I replied, drawing a deep breath and hoping my heartbeat would slow after the climb. I was in pretty good shape, but most of my exercise was taken on level ground. “I knew you would be here,” I improvised, “and Clarice wanted me to consult you about the arrangements you’re making.” It wasn’t very far from the truth.
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br />   Archer grunted and held the door open wide.

  “We haven’t met,” I said. “I’m Jessica Fletcher.”

  “I know who you are,” he replied. “Archer Levinson, Wayne’s associate.” He held out his hand, and I shook it. Archer had a pleasant face with no outstanding feature. He was of medium height and had a medium build. I estimated his age to be early thirties. Even with his fashionable attire, and a haircut from the hands of a skilled stylist, he was a man who could be easily overlooked in a crowd.

  I noticed that the sun was streaming in through the French doors, but otherwise the apartment was unchanged since my last visit, its simple décor still a serene haven. I felt close to Wayne here, imagining him moving about this room and relaxing in his home.

  “Can I get you anything?” Archer asked. “Water? Wine?”

  “No, thank you,” I replied. “I’m fine.” I perched on the edge of the sofa.

  He walked to the bookcase, ran his fingers lightly across the top, and stared out the French doors. I saw his Adam’s apple bounce up and down as he swallowed, working to contain his emotions.

  “How long have you known Wayne?” I asked gently.

  “Sixteen years.” He turned around and sank down on one of the two straight-back chairs next to the round table.

  “You must have been quite young when you first met him.”

  “I was just a dumb teenager on the streets. My father had kicked me out when he found out I was gay. Wayne took me under his wing, taught me all there was to know about music, writing, how I should dress, behave. He was like a father to me, or older brother. He was all the family I have.” He was silent a moment. “And Clarice, of course,” he added as an afterthought.

  “I’m sorry. He was obviously very important to you, and I know you’ll miss him.”

  He slumped in the chair and stared down at his hands clasped between his knees.

  “What do you do for Wayne?” I asked, realizing I was still speaking in the present tense.

  “Whatever he wants,” he said, rising and pacing to the window. “I type his manuscripts, buy his clothes, order his tickets. Or I did anyway.” He circled the room, touching items, pausing to study the dishes on the shelf, the mirror over the false fireplace. He seemed restless, unable to hold still.

  “I came here to get clothes for his funeral, but I just can’t go into his room, you know?” He pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head from side to side.

  I nodded. “I’ll help if you want.”

  “No, I’ll do it. I just need a minute.”

  “Archer, I was here the other night with the police.”

  “You were? I didn’t know the police were here.” Agitated, his eyes examined the room, looking for something amiss. “How did they get in?”

  “They had keys,” I said. “I assume they took them from Wayne’s body.”

  “What were they looking for? They said his death was an accident.” He started to pace again.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I thought maybe you could tell me. They went through his bedroom.” I nodded in its direction.

  Archer immediately went there. I followed, more slowly, and stood in the doorway as he inspected the damage.

  “Oh my God, look what they did to his clothing,” he cried as he drew out the drawers on Wayne’s bureau. He crossed the room. “And his closet.” He moaned when he saw the mess, knelt down, and angrily began pairing shoes, stamping them down in a row. He picked up a shirt that had fallen off its hanger, and turned to me. “Wayne was always so careful about his clothes. Why did they do this to him?” He slammed the closet door.

  “I’m not sure it was the police who did this,” I said. “Police are usually very careful not to disturb a place, particularly if they think it might provide evidence.”

  “Then who?” Archer’s gaze fell on the bureau again, and the steam went out of him. “Do you mind if I clean it up? I know he’s not here to see it, but it would upset him to know someone had trashed his things.”

  “Go ahead,” I said. “But while you’re doing that, please think about what someone could have been looking for. What did Wayne have that someone might have wanted desperately?”

  He looked at me sharply. “What do you mean ‘desperately’? Do you think his death wasn’t an accident?”

  I was withholding judgment on the nature of Wayne’s death, but I didn’t want to tell that to Archer. “I mean desperately enough to search his apartment,” I said.

  The task of refolding all of Wayne’s clothing was comforting to Archer. His breathing slowed, and his movements became less jerky. After a while, he answered my question. “The only thing I can think of were his notes on Little Red’s cylinder recordings.”

  “Where would he keep things like that?” I asked. “There’s no desk in this apartment.”

  “He has an office at Clarice’s. That’s their home, you know, from when they were kids. It’s been in the family for over a hundred years.”

  “I hadn’t realized that,” I said. “I thought the house belonged to Clarice and her husband.”

  “No, Dr. Cruz never made enough to buy a house. Or never kept it long enough. I always thought that was why he married her, so he could have a place to live. The bastard.” He raised his eyes to the ceiling. “I know I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. Wayne was always telling me that.” He shook out a sweater vest and folded it on the bed, picked up another sweater, folded it, and stacked it on top of the first.

  “What kind of doctor was Dr. Cruz?”

  “Something to do with the heart,” he said, “but he wasn’t a surgeon. I know that. He couldn’t have kept his hands from shaking long enough to pick up a scalpel.”

  “Did his hands really shake?”

  “Oh yes,” he said derisively. “I was never sure what it was, alcohol, prescription drugs, illegal stuff. I think he tried them all. Whatever it was finally killed him a couple of months ago.” He looked up at me. “I assumed you knew. Wayne never told you?”

  “About that? No.” In fact, Wayne had never discussed any part of his private life with me until he’d mentioned the death threats. I’d never even heard Archer’s name before today, and only knew that Wayne’s sister was a widow, nothing more than that. But I wasn’t about to admit to Archer my limited knowledge. If he thought I was Wayne’s confidante, he’d be more forthcoming with information, which was already proving to be the case.

  “Did Wayne share with you what he’d found out about the cylinders?”

  “You know, that’s funny. Actually, he didn’t,” he said, continuing to fold the last pair of boxers and laying them lovingly in the drawer. He pushed it closed with his hip. “I know he was planning to use what he found out about Little Red in a book, but he never told me what the topic of the book was. I got the feeling it wasn’t only about jazz. He used to say he loved mysteries—that’s why he was so tickled to be friends with you—and that there was a mystery about the cylinders, whether they really existed, and if they did, where they were, and why they hadn’t been found before.”

  “Archer, would information on the cylinders have been enough to entice Wayne to go to the cemetery at night to meet someone?”

  “No way!”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I know him, that’s why,” he insisted. “Whenever people he knew came to town, he was always warning them not to go there unless they went with a tour group or other crowd. Not all the cemeteries, just the St. Louis ones.”

  “How do you think he got there?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe someone drugged him and left him there so that when he woke up he’d be scared. Only the snake found him first.”

  “Why would anyone want to do that?”

  “As a prank?” Archer raised his eyebrows. “New Orleans is full of pranksters.”

  “That would be a pretty mean thing to do.”

  “Wayne wasn’t the most popular guy in town. He had some enemies.”

  “Who
would they be?”

  “I’m not going to name any names, but Wayne had a sharp tongue in print. There were people who didn’t appreciate that.”

  “Archer, if you seriously think anyone left Wayne in the cemetery as a practical joke, you really should tell the police.”

  “I’m not saying that’s what happened. All I’m saying is it could have happened that way. I know one thing, Mrs. Fletcher. Wayne would never have gone into that cemetery under his own power. He must have been drugged, or murdered, or God knows what else.”

  “Murdered? Do you think that’s a possibility?”

  “Anything’s possible. Don’t you think?”

  “By the way, did you see Wayne the night he died?” I asked.

  “No, absolutely not. I thought you were with him most of the night. Why would you ask that?”

  “It’s not so surprising. You were close. You might have seen each other later that night.”

  “Well, we didn’t,” he said coolly. “We had totally different social lives.”

  “I see.” I wasn’t sure if I believed him. “Is the cemetery where Wayne was found the same one in which he’s going to be entombed?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “No, the family crypt is in Lafayette.” He pulled open the closet again, remembering the task he’d been assigned. As he sifted through suits looking for the right one, he muttered to himself, “I have to bring his things to the funeral home. Then Clarice wants Wayne to have a jazz funeral. That’s another trip. Do you know how long it takes to make those arrangements? When am I supposed to be able to do all this? There’s only so many hours in the day.”

  I listened as Archer griped about his duties, and wondered whether he was as attached to Wayne as he said he was. Where had he been when Wayne was dying in the cemetery? What did he know about the recordings Wayne had been seeking? What was his relationship to Clarice? How did they both know I’d been with Wayne the night he died? There were too many questions, and I recognized my compulsive need to find answers. If there’s a gene for inquisitiveness, I’ve got it. Seth always scolds me about my curiosity, warning me that it will get me into trouble. And I have to admit that it has at times, although fortunately I’ve always been able to get out of tight spots in which I’ve found myself. I’d been looking for an excuse to stop at the funeral home, and Archer was giving it to me.