“Let me help,” I said pleasantly. “You’ve got so much to do. I’ll go to the funeral home and bring them whatever clothing you pick out for Wayne.” I held my breath, hoping he’d take me up on the offer. The funeral home might hold some of those answers I sought. Wayne was presumed to have died from snakebite, but were there any other marks on his body, marks that got overlooked when the cause of death was so obvious? I doubted they’d let me see Wayne’s body, but perhaps I could talk to the undertaker, learn something that would shed light on why Wayne was found, in death, in a place that troubled him in life, a place he’d cautioned his friends about visiting.
“Would you really do that?” Archer asked. “That would save me so much time.” His face lit up, and I let out the breath I’d been holding.
“Of course,” I said. “I’d be happy to help out.”
“That’s fabulous. Tomorrow or Tuesday, either day is fine. I’ll get the address for you.”
He hummed his satisfaction, opening drawers and retrieving items he’d put away not ten minutes ago. He laid socks, shorts, bow tie, and handkerchief on the bed.
“You said Clarice wants a jazz funeral for Wayne,” I continued. “Is that where the musicians walk in front of the casket on the way to the cemetery?”
“That’s right,” he replied, hanging up a suit and shirt on the closet door, and kneeling down to pick out shoes. “They used to play sad songs on the way into the cemetery and happy songs on the way out,” he explained. “But these days, the bands play upbeat songs pretty much the whole time.”
“I thought those funerals were only for musicians.”
“They used to be, but then they extended the definition to anyone associated with music. Of course, Wayne qualifies.” He opened the top drawer of the bureau, and replaced the bowtie that had been on the bed, selecting another to go with the suit. “However,” he continued, “money can accomplish anything, so if you want a jazz funeral and have the dough, you can have it, even if the only thing you know about music is how to turn on the radio.”
We carefully packed Wayne’s “going-away outfit,” as Archer termed it, in a garment bag he’d found on a shelf in the closet. We tucked shorts, socks, and other accessories in the bag’s pockets. Archer wrote down instructions on where to find the funeral home, and checked his calendar for a good time for me to visit with Clarice. We parted, knowing we’d meet again at the funeral. I would have liked some time alone in the apartment to examine more of Wayne’s things, but obviously it wasn’t going to happen today. Although I was satisfied with the information I’d learned, there were still so many nagging questions. But as I carried Wayne’s suit down three flights of stairs, I was convinced I had at least one answer. My fastidious friend, Wayne Copely, had not died an accidental death.
Chapter Eleven
“Mayor Amadoui,” the reporter shouted, his voice heard above those of his colleagues, “is Copely’s death related to the investigation of Elijah Williams’s murder?”
The press conference was being carried live on a local news channel. I sat on the bed in my hotel room, focused on the TV screen. Philippe Beaudin stood behind and to one side of the mayor, who’d made an opening statement. Also in the camera’s view were New Orleans Police Superintendent Jimmy Johnson and another man I didn’t recognize.
“I believe Superintendent Johnson has the answer to that question,” Amadour said smoothly, stepping aside from the microphone to allow his police chief to address the press.
Deaf to the barrage of questions aimed at him, Johnson laid a sheaf of papers on the podium, put on a pair of half glasses, and gripped the edges of the wooden top as he read a prepared statement. “New Orleans resident Wayne Copely, fifty-one years of age, died Friday in St. Louis Cemetery Number One,” he said in a deep voice. “According to the medical examiner’s office, Mr. Copely’s death resulted from a rattlesnake bite. We regret Mr. Copely disregarded public warnings not to visit the area alone, and was on the grounds when the cemetery was officially closed.”
“Why did he go there?” a reporter shouted.
Johnson peered over the top of his glasses. “We’re not sure,” he said, his response setting off another volley of questions. He continued reading, speaking loudly to be heard over the press until the roar of voices settled down. “During the time he was in the cemetery, Mr. Copely was bitten and subsequently died from snakebite. Dr. Jacob Renshaw of the medical examiner’s office has prepared this chart.” A drawing of a hand, and lines representing the circulatory system, filled the screen. “The bite that Mr. Copely sustained was right here between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, piercing the main artery, and causing the venom to directly enter the bloodstream. Death would have occurred relatively quickly, giving him no time to seek help.”
Another spate of questions assaulted the superintendent.
“NOPD’s investigation found no connection between Wayne Copely and Elijah Williams, whose body was found in the same location in the cemetery last month. There is no record of the two men ever having met, nor is there any indication that they corresponded in any way. Our investigation into Mr. Williams’s death is ongoing.”
I pondered the superintendent’s confident statement. Had a police investigation actually been conducted? The police hadn’t taken very much time to probe Wayne’s death before concluding that it was an accident. The speed of their decision made me uneasy. It wasn’t as if they routinely acted so quickly. They’d been keeping the Elijah Williams case open for a month. Something about that murder flickered at the edge of my memory. I concentrated on the television again, to see if the press corps had the same misgivings.
“Superintendent?” several reporters called out at the same time. “What about the voodoo connection linking both deaths?” “What is the city doing about snakes in the cemetery?” “Where was the NOPD unit that’s supposed to be patrolling the cemetery?”
Johnson held up a hand to quiet them down. Ignoring the stream of questions, he continued his prepared remarks. “NOPD called in Mr. Robert Pinto to set traps in the cemetery. To date, six snakes have been caught, including ...” He picked up a piece of paper and squinted at it. “A Louisiana milksnake, a kingsnake, a black ratsnake, two eastern garter snakes, and a canebrake rattlesnake. Only the rattlesnake is poisonous, and we believe that to be the type of snake involved in Mr. Copely’s death.
“We’ve invited a herpetologist, Dr. Steven Caplan, a visiting professor at Tulane, to give you information about snakes. He is a worldwide authority on reptiles, and can answer all your questions.” Johnson’s exit was accompanied by more shouted questions, but he stepped quickly from the podium. A young man, with a shock of black hair, and wearing rimless eyeglasses and a photojournalist’s vest, took his place.
“Good afternoon,” he said, his amplified voice carrying above the grumbles of the reporters. “I’ve handed around a sheet which contains some information on species of snakes native to Louisiana. There’s also some brief biographical material on me. I’m Dr. Steven Caplan. I’d like to explain my findings and then answer any questions you may have.”
A close-up of Dr. Caplan’s face filled the screen as he described the myriad snakes resident in the city and its surroundings. “The reptile population has been particularly hard hit during the drought this spring,” he said. “The lack of rainfall, and thus less standing water, means that the snakes’ usual prey have curbed their reproduction. With fewer aquatic animals like toads and frogs that form the basis of their diets, many reptiles in the region tend to leave their accustomed habitat to search for food. In addition, recent construction in the Treme neighborhood has disturbed the habitat of some rodents. The combination of these two factors has caused an increase in the numbers of snakes in the cemetery, and around the city for that matter.”
There were a dozen questions simultaneously aimed at Caplan. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that?” he said.
A reporter in the back raised her voice. “What was the snake
that bit Copely?”
“We believe Mr. Copely was the victim of a canebrake rattlesnake bite.” He spelled the name of the snake for the reporters. “Canebrakes are especially dangerous because they don’t always rattle to let you know of their presence. It’s probable that Mr. Copely stepped near the snake, without even knowing it was there.”
“How big was the snake?”
“The one Mr. Pinto trapped was a six-footer; that’s not uncommon,” said Caplan. There was a nervous rumble of voices as the press corps pictured the killer snake. “Of course, I can’t say with certainty that that’s the snake that bit Mr. Copely.”
“How long could he have lived with a rattlesnake bite?”
“These snakes are particularly venomous,” he replied. “Dr. Renshaw estimated that because the venom went directly into Mr. Copely’s bloodstream, he probably was dead within minutes. However, in general, a man his height and weight, bitten on the hand, could have lived as long as three hours or more. You can see why getting a snakebite victim to the hospital is urgent.”
The reporters aimed another torrent of questions at him. Instead of replying, he flicked a switch at the podium and said, “I’d like you to take a look at these, because the common assumption—that to treat a snakebite you have to lance the wound and suck out the poison—is exactly the wrong thing to do.” Behind him, a list of first-aid measures were projected on a screen.
• Immediately call for help in getting victim to the hospital.
• Remove victim from vicinity of snake to prevent additional bites.
• Note appearance of snake to describe to medical personnel later.
• Have patient lie down and keep as calm as possible.
• Remove watches, rings, or any confining jewelry.
• Do NOT incise the wound and attempt to suck out venom.
• Do NOT use a tourniquet, ice, electric shock, or suction.
• Do NOT give the victim anything to eat or drink.
• Do NOT administer an antivenin unless advised to do so by a physician.
Several reporters called out questions, until Dr. Caplan called on one of them. “How often are people bitten by rattlesnakes?”
“Rattlesnakes are responsible for two-thirds of all reptile bites in the United States, and there were more than seven thousand such bites reported last year.”
“Were they all fatal?”
“Not at all,” Dr. Caplan responded. “You’re more likely to die from a dog bite or getting hit by lightning. Only six or seven people die from rattlesnake bites each year.”
“Sir, I’ve always heard you should use a tourniquet. Why do you recommend against it?”
“Stopping blood circulation above the wound simply increases the blood pressure to the limb with the venom, forcing the poison through the blood vessels and increasing the chances of losing that limb.”
Another reporter shouted from the back of the room, “Dr. Caplan, why nothing to drink or eat?”
“Eating and drinking increase the heart rate. The key is to keep the victim’s blood pressure and pulse as low as possible so as not to allow the venom to spread quickly. The last thing you want a snakebite victim to do is get up and start running.”
As the herpetologist answered questions, the camera pulled back, revealing the lone figure of Dr. Caplan at the podium. The mayor, his assistant, and the police superintendent were gone. The camera slowly panned around the room, across the rows of reporters, most of whom were furiously taking notes, and along the bank of cameras and technicians. Leaning negligently against one wall, watching the proceedings with a bored look, was the familiar face of Julian Broadbent.
I picked up the telephone and punched in the number for Doris’s room. There was no answer. Then I remembered that when Wayne had been apologizing for not including her in the dinner invitation at Clarice’s, she’d said she had previous plans for Sunday.
I pulled open the drawer of the nightstand looking for a New Orleans telephone directory, but found only my own book, the one I’d given Wayne. I had stored it in the drawer when I’d emptied my bag last night. Placing it on the nightstand, I went to the closet. Thankfully, a telephone book was on the shelf, but I was disappointed to find no Broadbents listed in New Orleans. Of course, he could make his home in one of the city’s suburbs, but Julian had struck me as a man who’d live in the center of activity. I dialed Information for New Orleans: “We’re sorry. The telephone number you requested is unpublished,” a recorded voice informed me. I hung up, returned the directory to the closet, and noticed that commercials had replaced the press conference on the television. I pushed a button on the remote and the TV screen went black.
Murder in a Minor Key. The lamp on the nightstand illuminated my latest work. I stared at the cover illustration, admiring the way the artist had taken a colorful picture of New Orleans and added drops of blood, as if the victim in my story had bled onto the photograph. I sighed and lifted the cover, intending to reread my inscription to Wayne. A piece of white paper clung to the title page for a second, and then drifted to the floor. I bent down and picked it up. I remembered putting it in the book. It was the blank top sheet I’d torn from the pad next to Wayne’s telephone. I held it up in front of the lampshade. Only a watermark shone through. But when I angled the paper under the light, I could make out slight indentations. I found a pencil, laid the paper down and lightly ran the side of the lead across its surface.
The letters emerged from the black, rising to the surface like a body from the depths of the sea. ELIJAH.
Drawing a card from my shoulder bag, I picked up the phone again and dialed.
“Charlie?”
“Jessica, how are you doing?”
“I’ve thought of something you can do for me, Charlie. Is it too late to add a short item to your newspaper column for tomorrow?”
Chapter Twelve
“I know it’s late, but by any chance, do you still have a copy of today’s Times-Picayune?”
I heard a clunk as the concierge put down the phone, and then the rustle of paper before he picked it up again.
“I have a slightly used one, Mrs. Fletcher. It’s the only newspaper I have, but you’re welcome to it. I hope you don’t mind that it’s already been read.”
“I don’t mind at all,” I said, relieved. “Would you please be so good as to have it delivered to my room.”
“With pleasure, ma’am. I’ll have a bellman bring it right over.”
I had remembered why the name “Elijah” stirred something in my mind during the press conference. At Friday’s Jazz Fest, the trumpet player, Blind Jack, had asked Wayne if he’d heard about Elijah, and Wayne had hushed him up. Of course, it was possible they weren’t talking about the man who was murdered. The name “Elijah” is not that unusual, and the police were convinced—so they said—that there was no connection between Wayne and Elijah Williams. But since the bodies of both men had occupied the same seat in death, I suspected that, with a little work, a connection could be found. I wanted to ask Blind Jack if he knew what it might be, and whether he knew whom Wayne was supposed to meet the night he died. The blind trumpet player had said he was playing in a club; its name should be listed somewhere in Sunday’s paper.
There was a sharp rap on my door, and I peered through the peephole. Surprised, I opened the door to find Philippe Beaudin holding my newspaper.
“You don’t look like a bellman to me,” I said with a smile.
“I intercepted him,” he said, returning my smile. “I hope that’s all right. I was coming to see you anyway.”
“You were?”
“Yes.” His face took on a serious expression. “I missed you at Mrs. Cruz’s house. You were there, and then you were gone.”
“I had another appointment,” I explained, “but I plan to visit her again tomorrow.”
“She’ll appreciate that. This is a rough time for her, and for you, too, I imagine. I’m sorry for the loss of your friend.”
; “It’s considerate of you to think of me, but you didn’t make a special trip over here just to express your condolences.”
“Not precisely.”
“Why did you wish to talk with me?”
“I have a message from the mayor, but I’d rather not discuss it here, standing in the hall.”
“We can go to the lobby if you like, but let me put that away first.” I held out my hands.
“I have a better idea,” he said, relinquishing the newspaper. “Can I buy you a drink in the lounge? I would offer you dinner but I have to meet Maurice in an hour.”
“That’s very nice of you,” I said, juggling sections of the paper that were about to fall out, “but I’m afraid I’ve got so much to do right now. Perhaps another time?” I was eager to read through the news to see what had been written about Wayne’s death. I also planned to look up where Blind Jack was playing. I wanted to speak with him and find out if he knew who Wayne had intended to meet Friday night, and if he’d been asked the same question by Detective Steppe.
“I won’t keep you long. Surely you’ve got time for one drink.”
“Can’t you just give me the message?”
“I see this looks like a bad time for you,” he said, a note of contrition in his voice. “I’m sorry for the interruption. Why don’t I come back tomorrow morning. We can have coffee together. Would that be more convenient?”
“Actually, tomorrow might be worse,” I said. If I went to see Blind Jack, it could end up being a late night. Jazz performers often didn’t go on till late, and if I had to wait for him to finish two sets, it could be 1 or 2 A.M. before I got to speak with him. It would be better to sit down with Beaudin now, and listen to what he wanted to tell me. And truth to say, I was curious to know why he’d come to my hotel. A message from the mayor could easily have been conveyed on the phone, or a note dropped off with the reception desk.
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