Murder in a Minor Key

by Jessica Fletcher

  “These kinds of doors are fairly easy to open,” she said mildly.

  Mr. Frey became visibly upset at that suggestion. “Officer, the Royal has the best-quality locks on its doors.”

  Macdonald ignored him. “But there’s no sign of a break-in,” she said, talking to me.

  “You checked?” I asked.

  “Yes, ma’am. Nothing is broken. There are a few scratches around the lock, but that’s not unusual. Are you missing anything?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “When you came in, did you notice anything different? Did it look like anyone had gone through your things?”

  “No. The housekeeper had turned down the bed. Everything else seemed to be as I’d left it—with the exception of the doors.”

  Macdonald shrugged. “Locking doors is easy to forget.”

  “I realize that,” I said, “but I make sure it’s locked every night, and I don’t believe I opened it in the morning before I left, or in the afternoon when I returned.”

  “But are you a hundred percent sure?” The walkie-talkie on her belt crackled to life, and a deep voice filled the room: “We have a possible B-and-E on Iberville.” Macdonald shoved her clipboard in front of me and thrust a pen in my hand. “Mrs. Fletcher, would you please sign the report now? I’m sorry to rush you, but I have to go.”

  I scribbled my name. Macdonald handed me a copy of the report and was gone. One by one, the others excused themselves, and after assuring them I was fine, and no, I didn’t want a cup of tea or a glass of brandy, I closed the door and fastened the chain.

  The room wore signs of this latest visitation, the furniture slightly askew where Mr. Gonzales and Mr. Frey had moved it out from the wall to check for more snakes. The armchair and ottoman had been shoved to one side, and the drapes in front of the French doors were drawn back to allow for an examination of the locks.

  I walked across the room and unlocked the doors. The night air was cool and moist. I stepped out onto the stone walkway. The moon was half hidden by clouds, and the light from my room provided poor illumination for seeing much of anything other than shadows. To my left was a large bush. I couldn’t tell if any of its branches had been bent or broken. I’ll check again in the morning, I promised myself. I drew a deep breath and listened to the night, half expecting to detect a slithery noise to indicate the presence of other reptiles. The sighing wind rustled the branches of the bush, and muffled music could be heard in the distance, but no other sound reached me.

  I returned to the room, locked the doors, and drew the drapes. I pulled the chair and ottoman into place and circled the bed, smoothing the dust ruffle down where it had been pulled up to accommodate the search for snakes. Satisfied that my quarters were once again as they should be, I got back in bed and turned off the light, my pulse quiet but my mind still racing.

  I’ve lived in or near small towns my entire life, and been exposed to wild creatures before, although there aren’t any venomous snakes in Maine. I remember Seth telling me once that Maine was one of only three states without them, the others being Hawaii and Alaska. I know we’ve got little garden snakes, of course, but I can’t recall ever actually seeing one. Moose, well that’s another story. They wander in from the woods every now and then. Wildlife is a part of country living. I didn’t expect it to be part of urban living, too. In all my travels to cities around the world, I’d never met up with a snake.

  Yet, here I was in a major American city, where a friend had been killed by a snake, and I’d awakened to find one in bed with me. Coincidence? I was hard pressed to think so. I wondered if my midnight guest was in any way related to my earlier visitor. Why had it been so important for Philippe Beaudin to invite me for a drink? Had he been trying to lure me away from my room, so someone else could jimmy open the doors and leave me a reminder of Wayne’s death? Still, if this was a warning, what did it mean? Was someone trying to scare me away, send me running home? There had been no note, no message on my phone, nothing to indicate this snake was associated with the other. The mayor had been the only one to whom I’d voiced my doubts about the circumstances of Wayne’s death. And I hadn’t even begun to ask about the cylinders Wayne had been seeking. But I decided it was time to get started, time to see who’d get upset if I poked a stick into a few snake holes.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “I’m sorry about your friend.” The waitress’s eyes were full of sympathy.

  “Thank you,” I said. “How did you know?” I folded the Times-Picayune I’d been reading and set it on the breakfast table.

  “Recognized his picture in the paper,” she said, filling my coffee cup and sliding a plate of beignets in front of me.

  “I didn’t order these,” I said, looking up.

  “I know,” she said. “They’re my treat. He was so darling, making such a fuss about them the other day. I figured he would have wanted you to have them, kind of in remembrance.” Suddenly embarrassed by her own presumption, she added, “I’ll be right back with milk for your coffee,” and hurried away before I could say more.

  I was having a late breakfast. Following the events of the previous evening, I’d tried to sleep, but it was not to be. After making a knot of the bedcovers, I’d turned on the light and retrieved the story given to me by David Stewart, the student who’d attended Charlie’s Book Club Breakfast. I’d intended it to be airplane reading on the trip home, but I needed some distraction, and didn’t want to disturb my neighbors with the sound of television. David’s story was clever, about a ventriloquist whose skill at disguising his voice ensnares his victim, but whose conceit about his unique talent causes his downfall. His writing showed a lot of promise, I was pleased to see, simply needing a better ear for dialogue, which I was sure he’d develop as he continued to write.

  By 3 A.M., my eyelids were drooping, and I turned off the light again. Doris woke me at seven. She’d learned of Wayne’s death last night when she returned to the hotel after a day of taping, and wanted desperately to talk. Between Wayne, and my incident with the snake, we’d stayed on the phone for a long time. I’d tried to get back to sleep after hanging up, but other calls interrupted my rest, and at ten, I’d finally given up and gotten up.

  Strangely, I wasn’t tired. I now had a purpose, to find out what really happened to my friend and musical mentor. Whom was he meeting the night he died? Had he been bitten during some ceremony? Had he even been in the cemetery, or had someone brought him there after he died? Who’d been leaving him death threats? Did they have to do with Little Red? Questions crowded my mind. There was so much to find out, and to do. I reached into my bag for my appointment book. Today’s book signing was at noon. Doris would be there as well because her signing was scheduled right before mine. Maybe I could talk her into waiting till my session was over so we could have a late lunch. I had a few questions for her, too.

  The waitress returned with a pitcher of steamed milk. “I read about you in Charlie Gable’s column this morning,” she said, pouring the milk into my coffee. “That’s so sweet, what you’re doing, continuing the search for the recordings in your friend’s memory.”

  “I hope I’m successful.”

  “If they’re around, you’ll find them.”

  “How can you tell that?”

  “You look like a determined lady, and a hard worker.”

  I smiled. “I am that, but hard work and determination don’t always yield success.”

  “Then you’ll have to have a bit of luck, too,” she said, placing a tiny orange pouch next to my cup. “A friend of mine has a shop not too far from here. She makes good-luck charms. This one has been very lucky for me. I want you to have it.”

  “Do you really believe in good-luck charms?” I asked.

  “I believe in having all things working for you,” she said. “It can’t hurt, right?”

  “I suppose so,” I replied, picking up the miniature orange bundle. It made a slight crackling sound.

  “What’s in it?
”

  “Oh, just some special herbs and roots, like Johnny the Conqueror—that’s a powerful one—and probably a few drops of jojoba oil.”

  “I thought these things were mostly souvenirs for the tourists.”

  “They are, but that doesn’t mean they don’t work. You don’t have to believe in magic to have it work for you.”

  “There must be lots of people in New Orleans who feel the same way you do,” I said. “There are quite a few shops like your friend’s.”

  Three men at a table across the courtyard were trying to get her attention, and I pointed them out to her. She waved to them, and continued talking to me. “It’s probably the voodoo influence. People in New Orleans believe in magic,” she said. “We don’t always call it that, but we use it all the time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, take St. Joseph, for instance. If you want to sell your house, you bury St. Joseph upside down in the garden.”

  “You do?”

  “Everybody does. And it works. Your house gets sold.”

  I laughed. “Wouldn’t it get sold anyway?”

  “Maybe,” she smiled. “But I wouldn’t take a chance by not following tradition.” She gave me a friendly squeeze on the shoulder. “You may not need my charm, but keep it anyway. It’ll help you find what you’re looking for, I know.”

  I hoped she was right. But what exactly was I looking for?

  Contemplating the circumstances of Wayne’s death, and what I considered the police department’s precipitous action in reaching a conclusion in one day, I returned to my room. Detective Steppe had given me his card. I called the number, and asked to speak to him.

  “Steppe’s not in the station this morning,” the desk sergeant informed me. “You wanna talk to anyone else?”

  “Do you know where or when I might be able to reach him?”

  “Sorry, I don’t keep track of his schedule. Try calling back tomorrow.”

  I could hear telephones ringing in the background. “Who else would know about a case he’s working on?” I asked.

  “Lieutenant Wisenberg’s his supervisor. I’ll put you through.” He sounded eager to get rid of me.

  The lieutenant was polite but unhelpful. “Dr. Renshaw’s the ME, Mrs. Fletcher. He’s the one made the determination. It says right here, ‘Cause of death: snakebite; Manner of death: accidental.’ ”

  “Lieutenant, I understand that was the medical examiner’s finding,” I said. “What I don’t understand is why the ruling was made so quickly.”

  “He must have been certain that’s the way it happened.”

  “Don’t you think there should have been a more thorough investigation?”

  “Doesn’t matter what I think, ma’am.” He was losing patience with me. “The ME says it’s an accident, it’s an accident. I’m not a doctor. I don’t challenge the ME.”

  “What could Wayne Copely have been doing at Marie Laveau’s tomb? Don’t you want to find out?”

  “Mrs. Fletcher, I know he was a friend of yours, and you don’t like to think of him there, but that crypt is a very popular place. People visit it at all hours of the night and day, whether the cemetery’s officially open or not.”

  “Wayne wouldn’t have,” I insisted.

  “Be that as it may, he was there, he got bitten, and he died.”

  “Did you ever suspect his death was a homicide?”

  He sighed. “No, ma’am.”

  I pressed him again. “So you never assigned any officers to interview his friends or check his apartment,” I asked.

  “No, ma’am, we knew right away it wasn’t necessary,” he said.

  “When did the medical examiner make his ruling?” I asked.

  “Saturday.”

  “When on Saturday?”

  “Sometime in the morning, the word came down—accidental death—case closed. Here, I’ll give you the wording.” He read Dr. Renshaw’s official conclusion to me.

  “Can I speak with Dr. Renshaw?”

  “I’ll give you his number, but I don’t guarantee he’ll talk to you.”

  The lieutenant put me on hold and after a long wait, came back on the line and gave me the ME’s number.

  The doctor wasn’t in, or he wasn’t picking up the phone. I left a long message on his voice mail and requested a return call.

  A loud knock on my door made me jump. Mindful of security, I looked through the peephole before opening the door. An elderly bellman held out two baskets, one filled with fruit and the other with flowers. “This is from the management,” he said with a grin.

  “Why are they sending me gifts?”

  He shrugged. “There’s a card, but it’s probably to make up for your snake experience.”

  “Oh, so you know about that?” I took the baskets and put them on the dresser.

  “Whole hotel’s been talking about it this morning.”

  “And what are they saying?”

  “That you left your courtyard door open and a snake came to visit.”

  “Well, it was not quite that way,” I said, fumbling in my bag for a tip. There was no point in arguing with him about my supposed carelessness. I thanked him, closed the door, and quickly crossed the room. The French doors were locked. I opened them and stepped outside. The late-morning sun bounced off the gray stone. The heat made the air shimmer. I shielded my eyes as I examined the paved walkway leading to the doors from the courtyard. I peered at the earth beneath the large bush, and inspected its branches for signs of someone having brushed past, possibly breaking a twig or leaving a thread, but the closely trimmed plant revealed no such clues. Finally, I knelt down to look more carefully at the doorknob and lock. Only minor scratches marred their surfaces. If someone had been here, he or she had left no evidence to prove it.

  “Please write ‘To Gertrude and Harold, Happy Fortieth Anniversary.”’ The dapper gentlemen held out my book, his thumb holding it open to the title page.

  “I’ll be happy to,” I said, smiling up at him. “Are you Harold?”

  “Yes,” he said. “This is for my wife. She’s a big fan of yours. And I am, too.”

  “That’s very nice of you to say so,” I said, changing pens to one with a full barrel of ink. “Are you going anywhere special for your anniversary?”

  “We thought we might take one of the evening cruises on a steamboat. Get in a little gambling,” he replied as the bookstore manager took his money and handed him change.

  I passed him his purchase. “Congratulations to you both. I hope you enjoy your evening, and the book.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Fletcher.” He moved off, and a young woman took his place.

  Nancy Ortiz, the manager, pushed another book in front of me along with a slip of paper on which she’d written the names for the next dedication. After forty-five minutes of signing books, I could finally see the end of the line of people holding copies of Murder in a Minor Key, as well as other books of mine. My hand was tired and my stomach was grumbling, hopefully not loud enough for Nancy or anyone else to hear.

  “This one’s for Doris,” a familiar voice said, placing my book on the table. Doris Bums winked at me.

  “Doris!” I chided. “I would have given you a copy. You didn’t have to buy it.”

  “Oh, no,” she said. “All authors should insist their friends buy their books. If I gave books to all my friends, my sales figures would be cut in half.”

  I laughed. “How would you like me to sign this?”

  “Just sign J. B. Fletcher. That way I can read it first before I give it to my sister.”

  I eyed the line. “Shouldn’t be too much longer,” I said.

  “Great,” she said. “Let’s grab a bite. I’ve been hanging around the cookbook section and I’m famished.”

  “There’s an excellent sandwich shop right across the street,” Nancy suggested. “Terrific muffulettas.”

  “Perfect,” said Doris. “Look for me in the travel aisle when you’re done.”
/>   A half hour later, having sold out the store’s complement of Murder in a Minor Key, I sat down with Doris to two cups of tea and a huge muffuletta shared between us.

  “Did your signing go well?” I asked.

  “Very well. They ran out of my books, although the store hadn’t ordered nearly as many of mine as they did yours. History can’t compete with fiction by a famous author.”

  “History is popular these days, too,” I said. “And an author’s name builds. You’ll see. Your next book will be even bigger.”

  “Speaking of the next one, I taped a real weirdo yesterday. He could be a chapter by himself.”

  “Who was that?”

  “Now that I’ve said that, I’m not sure you’ll want to hear about him,” she said. She tried to take a dainty bite of the huge sandwich, gave up, and picked up her knife and fork.

  “Why wouldn’t I want to hear about him?”

  “He’s a snake broker,” she said reluctantly. “Given how Wayne died, and your experience in bed, it just occurred to me you might not want to talk about snakes.”

  “On the contrary,” I said. “I was hoping to pump you for information about how snakes are used in voodoo rituals.”

  “Do you think that’s what happened?” she asked. “That he was participating in some ceremony?”

  “I can’t be certain,” I replied, “but I’m uncomfortable with the idea of an ‘accidental death,’ especially in a cemetery he was cautious about.”

  “This guy I taped is the one who set the traps in the cemetery and captured the snake that might have killed Wayne. His name’s Bobby Pinto; he’s got hair down to here.” She indicated the middle of her back. “And he’s covered in tattoos. He was on one of the television stations yesterday. The crew had just left when I arrived, and he was bragging about being on TV.”

  “I didn’t see the news,” I said. “What exactly does a snake broker do?”

  “He raises snakes, catches snakes, sells them, milks them for venom, and sells that. I guess he’s a kind of exterminator, too. He’ll get rid of them for you if they get in your house, but I don’t think he kills them.”