Murder in a Minor Key

by Jessica Fletcher

  The quartet was playing, but people around me weren’t reacting, except to raise their voices over the music. At the table next to mine, a businessman in his fifties, his tie askew, was clinking glasses with a young woman in a tight tank top. I doubted she was his daughter. From the empty glasses on their table, I assumed they had been at the club for some time. “Excuse me,” I said, tapping the man’s shoulder.

  “Hello!” he boomed, reaching out to put an arm around my shoulder. “Would you like to join us?” His nubile companion didn’t appear too pleased at his offer.

  “Oh, no thank you,” I said, shifting my chair just far enough away to put me out of reach. I held up the announcement for the Blind Jack Quartet, and cocked my head toward the performers, “I came to see Blind Jack, but that young trumpet player isn’t Blind Jack.”

  “He isn’t?” Had I realized how inebriated the man was, I would have buttonholed someone else.

  “No, he’s not. Did they make an announcement earlier? Have I missed him?”

  “Heck, I don’t know.” He turned back to his table mate. “Vera, did you hear anything?”

  The young woman leaned over the table toward me, displaying a clear view of her well-developed cleavage. “Yeah. Don’t you remember, Elliott? They said he was sick or something. This guy is, like, the next generation, they said.”

  “Who said?” I asked.

  “That guy over there.” She pointed to two men standing under an EXIT sign. “The one in the striped shirt. I think he’s the manager.”

  “Thank you,” I said, standing and pulling my bag over my shoulder.

  “Hey, honey, aren’t you going to stay?” Elliott swayed in his seat, tipping in my direction.

  “I’ll come back later,” I said, swerving to avoid his grasp. I circled the table and edged around several others, apologizing as I forced people to pull their chairs in to let me pass. The manager had turned down a short hall and was holding a door open to an office to let the second man enter.

  I hurried after them, knocked on the door, and opened it without waiting for an invitation.

  The manager looked up in surprise, and both men rose from their seats. “This is a private office, ma’am. Is there something I can help you with?”

  “Yes, I’m Jessica Fletcher,” I said, crossing the room and extending my hand. “My apologies for barging in, Mr... ?”

  He shook my hand. “I’m Harvey Willauer, the manager, and this is—”

  “Detective Christopher Steppe,” I filled in for him.

  Steppe held out his hand. “Nice to see you again, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Oh, you two know each other,” Willauer said.

  “Yes, we’ve met,” I said.

  Willauer waited for an explanation, his gaze switching back and forth between us as though watching a tennis game.

  I turned to the manager. “Actually, I came to see you, Mr. Willauer,” I said. “To ask why Blind Jack isn’t playing tonight. I hope nothing has happened to him.”

  “You two are on the same wavelength,” Willauer said, pointing to a pink-and-green sofa. “Go ahead, sit down.”

  Steppe sank down on the sofa, and I took a wooden chair catty-corner to it.

  “Jack phoned me a couple of hours ago and said he couldn’t make the gig. I was pissed, of course. Oh, sorry, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “Anyway, he came up with some lame excuse, something about personal problems. He said somebody was after him.”

  “Oh?”

  “So he said he was sending in this hotshot player with his regular guys. It was two hours before the show. What was I to do? I gotta have a show. I’ve got paying customers. But I’ll never offer him another gig. Unreliable, that’s what he is. And the kid. He’s not too bad, but he doesn’t have a name. This crowd only wants to listen to a name like Blind Jack. I always fill up with him. This kid doesn’t have a following.” He wound down like a spring that had slowly uncurled. “That’s all I know.”

  “Do you have a phone number for Blind Jack?” I asked. “Sure, it’s in my Rolodex here,” he said, tipping his chair back to pull it off his desk.

  A waitress opened the door and leaned into the room. “Willy, we got a drunk at table fifteen yelling for the manager. Cotter’s already there, but we need you, too.”

  Steppe and I both stood.

  “On my way.” Willauer twisted a card out of his file. “Just leave it on my desk,” he said, handing it to me as he left the room and slammed the door behind him.

  I withdrew my appointment book and groped around the bottom of my bag for a pen.

  “Here,” Steppe said, holding out his pencil.

  I took it and jotted down the number Willauer had for Blind Jack.

  “What are you doing here?” Steppe asked.

  “Probably the same thing you are.”

  “I’m the cop,” he said. “You’re not. Leave the investigations to the police.”

  “The police aren’t investigating Wayne’s death,” I said. “I am.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You weren’t even supposed to be in his apartment,” I charged.

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because I checked with your lieutenant. He said the medical examiner ruled the death an accident on Saturday morning. You were in Wayne’s apartment Saturday night. The case was already considered closed by then.”

  “You called the station?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You shouldn’t have done that, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Why?”

  He slumped on the couch, and shook his head. “Because you put me in a lousy position, that’s why.”

  “How? I merely called the lieutenant and asked if Wayne’s death had ever been considered a homicide. He assured me it had not, that it was a clear case of accidental death by snakebite. Although Wayne was in a dangerous area, his death was just a ‘confluence of unfortunate circumstances,’ I believe was the phrase he read to me from the report, ‘a tragic result of his being in the wrong place at the wrong time, the drought a major factor in the presence of snakes in the city.”’

  Steppe took a deep breath and let it out.

  “So now that I know you weren’t in Wayne’s apartment on official business, I want to know why you were there.”

  He stood up and paced. “I didn’t buy it,” he said. “Neither did Teddy.”

  “Buy what?”

  “That accidental death garbage.”

  I felt a surge of pleasure. I wasn’t alone in questioning how Wayne died. “Why not?” I asked.

  “It’s just too convenient.”

  “What is?”

  “The drought.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there were too many odd elements along with it.”

  “Give me an example.”

  “Where his body was found,” he said. “It’s not like he took a walk in the country and stepped on a snake.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Marie Laveau’s tomb is a spot with a lot of meaning in this city.”

  “And?”

  “The gris-gris was another. The few people I talked to never saw Copely wearing a gris-gris. Why would he be wearing one for the first time on the night he died?”

  “The gris-gris was never mentioned in the news.”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t put it in the report we gave to the press.”

  “Anything else bother you?”

  “Yeah, the snakebite itself.”

  “You don’t think he died of snakebite?”

  “Oh, he died of a snakebite, all right. I’m just not so sure it was an accident.”

  “Why not?”

  “They use snakes in voodoo. Taken together, the whole thing looked like a setup, like a giant arrow pointing to his death as part of some voodoo ritual.”

  “And it wasn’t?”

  “That’s what I want to know,” he said.

  “So the M
E said it was an accident, but you decided to follow up anyway?”

  “After we got off duty, we thought we’d take a look around Copely’s apartment to see what we could find.”

  “And you found me.”

  “Yeah. Teddy was reassigned yesterday to another partner, and I’ve been put on desk duty till they have another guy to pair me with. Somebody got upset with our questions Saturday morning. If they found out we’d continued the investigation against orders, we’d really be wading in quick-sand.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Did you find anything in the apartment?”

  “Nothing to take home to Mama, but we knew someone else had been there before us.”

  “I thought so, too. Police don’t usually make such a mess of drawers and closets.”

  “Thanks,” he said, smiling at me for the first time. “You know, Copely could’ve been a slob.”

  “Wayne was meticulous about his appearance, and the rest of his apartment was immaculate. It made no sense that he would be sloppy in just one area. Everywhere else was perfectly neat.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Is that why you washed and dried my glass, and put it back on the shelf?”

  He laughed. “You’ve got a good eye.”

  “I’ll tell you one thing, Detective,” I said, sitting down in the seat he’d recently occupied, “if it was a ritual, Wayne was a victim, not a willing participant.”

  “ A human sacrifice?” He grimaced at the thought.

  I grimaced, too. “Whoever killed Wayne—and I don’t believe his death was an accident—wanted you to think he’d been participating in a voodoo ceremony. What we have to find out is: Was it really a voodoo ritual, or simply set up to look like one?”

  “Do you think this ties in with Williams’s death?”

  “I think whoever killed Wayne wanted to link his death to the earlier murder; otherwise, why leave the body in the same place?”

  “And they wanted to tie Copely to voodoo.”

  “Maybe that’s what the killer expected,” I said. “Voodoo is so much a part of New Orleans life, it was easy to say Wayne had dabbled in it.”

  “But any good investigator will discover that’s a lie,” he said.

  “Perhaps,” I said, “but not if the investigation is closed down.”

  He nodded somberly. “When Teddy and I raised the question in our report the morning after the body was discovered, we were told in no uncertain terms to drop it. Case closed. We couldn’t even talk to the medical examiner. He was off the case, too.”

  “So when you told me the medical examiner hadn’t made a determination about Wayne’s death, that wasn’t true.”

  “Well, the determination had been made, but whether the ME was pushed to make it, or just took the path of least resistance because he’s overloaded with work, I don’t know. It seems to me he would wait to get the toxicology reports back.”

  “Were they sent out?”

  “I’m sure they were.”

  “Let’s assume he was pressured to come up with the accidental conclusion,” I said. “What I can’t figure out is why the police department would want to cover up Wayne’s murder.”

  Steppe snorted. “There could be lots of reasons.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like a major blunder, for one thing. Ever since Williams’s body was found in the cemetery, there’s been a police patrol that’s supposed to be on duty in the area. They weren’t in the vicinity the night Copely was supposedly wandering around St. Louis Number One.”

  “Where were they?”

  “You tell me. Some false alarm, I heard.”

  “So you think there would be a lot fewer questions about where the officers on that patrol were if the death on their watch was ruled an accident.”

  “Not only that, if you’ve got snakes in the cemetery—and apparently we do—it’s easy for the city to be a hero, calling in exterminators to safeguard the citizenry. The cops don’t look bad, either. But if it’s another murder, this time of a prominent citizen—when the administration is bragging about how we’ve reduced the crime rate so much, and the mayor is up for reelection—the city would bite down on the department like an alligator on a duck.”

  I winced at his image, but the analysis made sense to me.

  “Why aren’t they pushing for you to solve Williams’s murder? Is it because he wasn’t a prominent citizen?”

  “You mean is this a bias on the part of the department? No. Doesn’t work that way. But I’ll tell you, it’s a funny thing,” he said, combing his fingers through his hair. “The scuttlebutt is that the voodoo community, which ordinarily would be screaming at us to find the murderer, is shut up tighter than a clam. Our guys are out there, but no one’s talking. I’d like to know why.”

  “There’s another thing I’d like to know,” I mused.

  “What’s that?”

  “I keep wondering if Wayne actually died in the cemetery, or if his body was moved to Marie Laveau’s tomb.”

  “It’s a little late to find that out,” he said.

  “If we had his clothes, we might be able to find some evidence.”

  “They probably went with the body to the funeral home.”

  “Then they might still be there.”

  “I don’t know, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Copely, he wasn’t a pretty sight. There was a lot of blood. Snake venom creates lots of blood. Funeral homes usually burn bloodied clothing, like from road accidents. The families don’t want it back.”

  “The funeral hasn’t taken place yet,” I said. “There’s a chance they may still have his clothes.”

  “Do you know which mortuary firm his sister is using?”

  “I have it at my hotel. I wrote it down.”

  “All right, let’s assume we’re right, that Copely wasn’t accidentally bitten,” he said. “Tell me why you think someone might’ve wanted Copely dead.”

  “I’m convinced it has to do with the cylinders.”

  “You think someone didn’t want him to find them, and killed him when he got too close?”

  “Yes.”

  “But why is it so important to keep them from being found? It doesn’t make sense. If they’re worth a lot of money, wouldn’t it be smarter to bring them out?”

  “If I knew why someone is going to such trouble to conceal them, I’d be a lot closer to finding the murderer.”

  “That item in Gable’s column this morning announcing that you’ve taken up the search for the cylinders in Copely’s memory. Did you arrange for that?”

  “I thought it might be a way to shake up whoever killed Wayne.”

  “Very clever,” he said sarcastically. “Did you also consider that it could make you a potential victim?”

  “I think the killer is probably not anxious to make any more news.”

  “Maybe, but I wouldn’t count on that. You’ll need my help.”

  “I’ll be happy to have it, Detective Steppe.”

  He sighed. “So now I have my new partner. Unofficially, of course.”

  “Yes, unofficially, of course.”

  “All right, where do we start?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Jackson Square was quiet early Tuesday morning, but there were signs it wouldn’t remain that way. Folding tables, yet to be set up, leaned against the iron fence surrounding the park, and cardboard cartons were piled here and there, some in the process of being unpacked by their owners. A sidewalk artist was on her knees, drawing a scene on the pavement in colored chalk. Behind her, a stack of pictures teetered on a folding chair. Across from the entrance to the park, an elderly woman leaned over a small table covered with a black cloth, and peeled cards off a deck, laying them carefully in a pattern. The chair opposite hers was empty for the moment.

  I’d walked over from the hotel, killing a little time till the funeral home opened. I’d called earlier to make an appointment. An answering machine had informed me that business hour
s started at eleven, unless a funeral was scheduled that day. A number in case of emergency had been given. I left a message saying that I’d be there shortly after they opened, and requested fifteen minutes of the undertaker’s time.

  I adjusted my hat against the sun’s rays, and wandered to where the old woman was studying her cards. She wore a red-and-maroon tie-dyed dress and a white turban. Something in her manner was familiar. She held the unexposed cards in her left hand, and slid the top card off with her right, making a wide circle with the card before she lay it face-side-up in front of her. She glanced up from her task, and her eyes lit with recognition. She left the deck of cards on the table and approached me. It was Ileana Montalvo, the voodoo priestess I’d met at Jazz Fest.

  “You still have my juju?” she asked.

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” I said, patting my bag, and realizing for the first time that I’d been carrying the little package with me everywhere.

  “Good.” She took my hand in hers. The fingers that pressed mine were calloused and dry. She looked at me for what seemed like a long time. “Sometin’ has happened,” she said. “I see it in your eyes.”

  “That’s true,” I said. “A friend of mine died.”

  “I’m sorry for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Was it a natural death?”

  “I’m not sure,” I admitted, for some reason not surprised at the question. “He died of snakebite.”

  She closed her eyes and concentrated on some inner vision. “Danger has not yet passed,” she said, squeezing my fingers tightly. “You are wise, but you are also impulsive. Be careful.”

  Her accurate portrayal of my personality made me uneasy. “Wise” might be flattering, but “impulsive” was a crime I’d been accused of before. I preferred to think I took advantage of opportunity. Meeting the voodoo priestess again was an accident of fate, but it was also an opportunity knocking at my door, and I wasn’t about to let it slip by. I was still weighing the idea of Wayne’s death as part of a voodoo ritual. The location of his body at Marie Laveau’s tomb, the gris-gris the police had found on him—someone wanted that connection made. I was sure Ileana Montalvo had heard about Wayne, maybe even knew more than I did about how he’d died. Even if she’d never been exposed to the deluge of newspaper articles or television or radio reports on where the body was found, she would have heard about it on the street; news of that kind would have swept through the voodoo community like a swift-flowing current.