Murder in a Minor Key

by Jessica Fletcher

  “There goes the diet,” Doris moaned. “I guess I’ll have to sacrifice myself.”

  “On you, it’ll look good,” said a voice behind us.

  I saw her stiffen. “Julian, we haven’t seen you for some time,” she said coolly, picking up a plate and turning back to the buffet.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was working and didn’t have time to call.” He grabbed a plate and followed her down the table, but she ignored him and concentrated on her choices. “You should understand,” he said. “You told me you were going to be busy, too.”

  “Trouble in paradise?” Charlie murmured to me.

  “Let them work it out,” I said. “Would you like to show me around?”

  “With pleasure.”

  As we crossed the flagstone paving, Charlie pointed out the doyennes of New Orleans society, and other influentials in the city. I saw Philippe Beaudin talking to a group of people. He was standing near a zydeco band that was setting up at the far end of the terrace, opposite the food. Charlie led me through open doors into the library where a group of men, including the mayor, were standing around the bar, puffing on cigars and drinking from silver mugs of mint julep. We walked down a black-and-white-tiled hallway to peek into the kitchen; the bustle of activity convinced us to get out of the way quickly. We ended up back outside in the garden, Marguerite Amadour’s showpiece, admiring the beds of colorful flowers and plantings she had lovingly cultivated.

  “You know, Jessica, the Amadours don’t come from society stock,” Charlie confided. “Maurice has had to fight for every success he’s achieved. But Marguerite’s talents in the garden, and elsewhere, helped introduce him to the right people politically and socially.”

  “She must be a great asset to him.”

  “She is, and I hope he appreciates her,” he said. “He’s been known to have a bit of a wandering eye.”

  The woman we were just discussing stood in a comer talking to guests whose backs were to me when we rejoined the party in the courtyard. She broke away when she saw me, excused herself to Charlie, and pulled me over to meet them.

  “Isn’t this wonderful?” she said. “Archer has brought Clarice. Come say hello.”

  Clarice gave me a wan smile when I greeted her. “Archer insisted,” she said.

  “It didn’t take a lot,” he said, his expression one of annoyance.

  “Wayne isn’t even buried yet,” she said, looking around at the festivities. “Maybe I should go.”

  “You stay right here,” Marguerite told her, hugging her shoulder. “You have to get back into circulation sometime, and these people are all your friends. Besides, look at the mountain of food I’ve got. I need you to eat your share.” She looked at me. “Have you sampled any of our goodies yet, Jessica?”

  “I will in a little while,” I replied.

  “Well, you are not so easily excused,” she said to Clarice, and drew her over to the buffet, leaving me standing with Archer.

  “Have you told her about the insurance yet?” I asked him.

  “No,” he said. “Let her wonder a little longer.”

  “Isn’t that cruel?”

  “I’ll tell her soon,” he said, backpedaling. “But not here. I’ll tell her tomorrow. It’ll take the edge off the funeral.”

  “I don’t think anything can do that,” I whispered to myself when he left to follow Clarice.

  The band started to play a Cajun favorite, and several couples began to dance. I remembered my lessons at the fais-do-do and Wayne’s enjoyment in teaching me. “Tonight,” I promised him silently, “there might be some justice for you. Tonight, I hope to expose your killer.”

  “Knew I’d find you here,” a male voice said from behind me.

  I turned to see Detective Steppe.

  “I thought you were in Baton Rouge till Friday,” I said.

  “Change in plans,” he said, his voice low to avoid being overheard. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

  I led him out into the garden and stopped under one of the banana trees. “What’s happened?” I asked.

  “Teddy called me at the conference. The tox report came back,” he said. “Along with the snake venom, the lab found a hefty dose of GHB in Copely’s veins.” He squinted at a piece of paper. “It stands for gamma hydroxy butyrate.”

  “That’s what’s called the date-rape drug, isn’t it?”

  “Right. About the only good thing is that Copely probably didn’t know what hit him.”

  “But it confirms that he was murdered, doesn’t it?”

  “You can sure make a good argument for it,” he said, “which I’ve done.”

  “How?”

  “Called the ME. He said he’ll talk to the superintendent about reopening the case.”

  “I’m relieved,” I said.

  “Now all we need is a perp,” Steppe said. “What’ve you got?”

  I gave him an outline of my visit to Bobby Pinto, Sarah Williams, and the cemetery. I had a theory and so did he. We discussed how to proceed.

  “I need to make a call,” he said. “Give me a minute.” He walked farther into the garden, dug his cell phone out of his pocket, and dialed. I watched him talk, but his words didn’t reach me.

  “There you are,” Marguerite Amadour called to me as she crossed the terrace. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Maurice wants to see all the authors in the library before he makes any announcements about the books.”

  Steppe walked back to my side and Marguerite smiled up at him. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “Let me introduce you,” I said quickly. I didn’t want him to reveal his identity yet. “This is Christopher Steppe. He’s a friend of mine. I hope you don’t mind that I asked him to join me.”

  “Not at all. You’re more than welcome. Please follow me.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Amadour,” Steppe said, slipping his cell phone back in his pocket and grinning at me.

  The mayor was holding forth with an unlit cigar in one hand and a mint julep in the other when Steppe and I entered the library and took empty chairs opposite a brown leather Chesterfield sofa. Clarice and Archer sat on either side of the sofa, Doris between them. Broadbent was perched on one of the barstools behind the mayor. Archer gave Steppe a quizzical look.

  “Got a lot of important people here tonight,” Amadour said, pacing in front of the bar. “Talk ’em up. Might be able to give your careers a boost.”

  Charlie Gable winked at me from across the room where he was leaning against a pool table.

  Philippe Beaudin poked his head in the door and looked around. “Okay, Maurice. You’ve got everybody?”

  “Yup. C’mon in here, Phil. Take a seat.”

  Beaudin did as he was instructed but looked as though he’d rather be out at the party. He checked his watch, and craned his neck to see through the doors to the terrace.

  “So, Mrs. Fletcher,” the mayor said, “I’ve talked to the others about their books already. I’m interested in yours. You’re a mystery writer, I know.”

  “That’s right.”

  “In fact, I’ve heard tell you’ve even solved some mysteries in real life. Pretty impressive. Got any mysteries you can solve here?”

  “As a matter of fact, Mr. Mayor, I believe I have.”

  The smile faded from the mayor’s face, and there was a stunned silence in the room.

  Recovering, the mayor broke it. “Well,” he boomed, “that’s great! Always after a little entertainment. Give us a sample of your talent then. We’d all be interested in seeing that, wouldn’t we, folks?”

  “Maurice, you’re embarrassing Mrs. Fletcher,” his wife said. “That’s no way to treat a guest.”

  “That’s all right, Mrs. Amadour,” I said, standing. “I’ll be happy to comply. I have a few questions I’d like to ask first.” I looked at her husband.

  “Shoot!” said the mayor. “I’ll tell you whatever I can.”

  I went to the bar. “I’ d like to know, Mr. Mayor, why you
directed the police department to stop investigating Wayne Copely’s death.”

  There was a soft gasp from Clarice. Amadour frowned, put his drink on the bar, and faced me. “I did no such thing,” he said. “The medical examiner told me it was an accident. It was his decision.” His patented smile returned as quickly as it had vanished a moment before.

  “But he was pressured to come to that conclusion,” I said, “and the word around the police department was that the order came from City Hall.”

  “Never happened,” he said. “I don’t throw my weight around like that.”

  “Is that true, Mr. Beaudin?” I asked, turning to him.

  “Maurice is right, Mrs. Fletcher. He’d never do that.”

  “But you might,” I said to him. “As the mayor’s righthand man, you could give an order that the police department would assume came from the mayor. Isn’t that right?”

  Beaudin shifted position. “Why would I do that?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know,” I said.

  “I thought you wanted to know if I did it.”

  “Phil, just tell her you didn’t do it,” Amadour said.

  “Well, actually, Maurice, I did.”

  Amadour was annoyed. “Whatever for?”

  “There’s a simple reason really, and it’s absolutely justified.”

  “Go on,” Amadour said.

  “Superintendent Johnson had issued those warnings to tourists not to open their hotel doors if they don’t know who’s knocking, to travel in pairs, et cetera,” Beaudin said. “He got a lot of press. It went all over the country.”

  “So?” Amadour interrupted.

  “So, the hotel operators and the merchants were livid. They’ve been screaming at me that they’re getting cancellations and losing business because we don’t know how to keep Johnson’s mouth shut.”

  “He’s doing a good job,” Amadour said. “I’m not about to muzzle him.”

  “Well, between his list of warnings, and the recent murder of that Williams guy in the cemetery, the Businessmen’s Association and the Chamber of Commerce were upset. If we had a second investigation, they might have thrown their support to your opponent. I couldn’t take the chance. Besides, Copely was bitten by a snake. What else could it have been but an accident?”

  Amadour fumed and looked at me. “I didn’t know anything about it.”

  Clarice cleared her throat. “Jessica,” she said, “do you think Wayne’s death was accidental?”

  “I know Wayne’s death was not accidental,” I said.

  Everyone started talking at once.

  “How can you say such an irresponsible thing?” Amadour demanded.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” Beaudin said, glaring at me.

  “I’d be interested in what Mrs. Fletcher knows,” Julian put in.

  “So would I,” said Archer.

  Clarice started to cry. “I knew it,” she said. “And they’ll think I did it.”

  “They probably will, Clarice,” I said, flashing a look at Steppe, who sat quietly, taking it all in.

  “Why?” Doris asked. “Why will people think Clarice killed her brother?”

  “Because his life was insured for a million dollars,” I said, “and Clarice is his beneficiary.”

  Archer glared at me. “I told you I would tell her.”

  “She already knew,” I said. “I just wanted to see how responsible you were.”

  “I told Wayne not to do it,” she said, sniffling. “I said I didn’t want the money if he had to die for me to have it. I told him it was no substitute for going to the police.”

  “Why would he want to go to the police?” Amadour asked.

  Clarice was weeping steadily. Doris got up to give Marguerite her seat, and the mayor’s wife put her arms around her friend. “I was praying his death was really an accident.” Clarice sobbed into her shoulder.

  “Why should Wayne have gone to the police?” the mayor asked again.

  “Because he was getting death threats,” Clarice wailed.

  Amadour looked at his aide. “Did you know this?”

  “How the hell would I know that?” asked Beaudin. “If I had any idea, I never would have stopped the investigation. You know that, Maurice.”

  “That better be true,” the mayor said.

  “Thanks a lot,” Beaudin said, affronted. “We’ve worked together long enough. Don’t you trust me? Of course I didn’t know about any death threats.”

  “But Archer knew, didn’t you, Archer?” I asked.

  Clarice stopped crying. “He did?” She looked at Archer. “Wayne said he didn’t tell you about them.”

  “Wayne didn’t pay any attention to them,” Archer said resentfully. “Why should I?”

  “Maybe you didn’t pay attention to them,” I said, “because it was you who made the recent series of calls.”

  “The hell I did.”

  “Would you like to listen to what’s on this?” I asked, holding up the cassette tape I’d brought with me. “I found this in Wayne’s apartment. It has a really nasty message on it, but the voice was peculiar, and I wondered about it. When I slowed down the tape on a different machine, I found out why.”

  Archer turned pale.

  “It was your voice,” I said, watching him closely. “You recorded that death threat, speeded up the tape, and played it into Wayne’s machine. Not very nice for someone who was supposed to be his friend.”

  He stammered. “He, he, he was growing away from me.”

  “You snake!” Clarice growled.

  “No, you don’t understand,” he said to her. I would never have hurt Wayne. I loved him. He was my life.”

  “Then why did you leave death threats on his answering machine?” I asked.

  “Because he was getting tired of me, pushing me out.”

  “He wanted you to grow up,” Clarice snapped.

  “I just wanted him to turn to me for help,” Archer said miserably. “All he had to do was ask. I would have made sure he never got another threat. That’s all he had to do.”

  “Phil, get one of the cops outside and have this guy arrested,” the mayor ordered.

  “I didn’t kill him. I swear I didn’t,” Archer said, tears flowing freely down his cheeks. “I made the calls, it’s true, but I would never hurt him.”

  “Go on, Phil.” Amadour waved his cigar at him. “Get the cop.”

  “Not just yet, Mr. Beaudin,” I said.

  “I think we’ve had enough of your parlor games, Mrs. Fletcher,” Beaudin replied.

  “Sit down, please,” I said, and he complied. I turned to Broadbent and spoke his name.

  Julian’s head snapped up. “What?”

  “Why did you go to see Bobby Pinto?”

  “What makes you think I did?” he asked.

  “I went to see him myself, thanks to Doris,” I said, “and showed him the picture of Wayne that had been in Monday’s paper. He said a man answering your description had shown him the same picture.”

  “So what?” Broadbent said, amused. “There are lots of guys answering my description. Look around.”

  “That’s true,” I acknowledged. “But you showed him the picture on Saturday. It wasn’t published in the paper till Monday. Only someone who had access to the newspaper’s photo morgue would have had a copy of that photograph.”

  Broadbent laughed. “Didn’t think of that, Mrs. Fletcher. You got me there.”

  “Was it you who met Wayne Thursday night?”

  “Yes,” Broadbent said. “I’d seen an ad about the cylinders, and had arranged through a friend to meet him. I didn’t think he knew it was me, but he did. I was going to give him a hard time. We weren’t the best of friends. But he talked me into helping him instead.”

  “And then?”

  “And then he was killed the next night. Frankly, I was worried I’d be considered a suspect.”

  “Is that why you’ve been out of touch?” I asked Broadbent.


  “That’s right.”

  “But his death was declared an accident.”

  “I didn’t believe it,” he said. “You aren’t the only one who thinks Copely was murdered, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  I tried to avoid looking at Steppe. No one had asked who he was, and I wasn’t ready to introduce him yet.

  “And what have you found out about Wayne’s death?” I asked Broadbent.

  “That a man answering my description bought a rattlesnake from Bobby Pinto,” he said.

  “Did you do that, Archer?”

  “No.” He shivered. “I wouldn’t go near those things.”

  “What about you, Mr. Beaudin?” I asked. “Did you buy the snake from Bobby Pinto?”

  “I never heard of him.”

  “How can you say you never heard of him?” I asked. “Didn’t you hire him to trap snakes in the cemetery following Wayne’s death?”

  “No,” he said. “The cops did that.”

  “But at your suggestion,” I said. “Isn’t that true?”

  “What are you getting at, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “You suggested that the police hire Bobby Pinto to catch the snakes, and he did catch them,” I said. “In fact, he caught the very snake he’d sold to you only a few days before.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Am I? We can ask Bobby Pinto if he knows you.”

  “I may have met the guy once. I forget.”

  “In fact, you met him last Thursday,” I said. “I saw you talking to him, right across the street from Antoine’s where Wayne and I had just had lunch.”

  Steppe rose from his seat and went to stand near the door, and Broadbent moved in front of the French doors, which led to the courtyard.

  Beaudin jumped up. “You’re being ridiculous,” he shouted. “Why would I want to kill Copely? He was an old friend.”