Murder in a Minor Key

by Jessica Fletcher

  “You hadn’t talked in years, but you made up recently. Isn’t that right? You wanted to get closer to Wayne to find out what he might learn about the cylinders.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The cylinder recordings of Little Red LeCoeur,” I said. “You knew who had them. You wanted Wayne to help you find him.”

  “He told me that finding the cylinders would make Wayne rich and famous,” Archer put in, “and I convinced Wayne to search for them.”

  The room was silent. All eyes were on Beaudin.

  “What’s the big deal if I told Archer about the cylinders?” Beaudin asked.

  “The big deal is that the man who had the cylinders was Elijah Williams,” I said. “You used Wayne’s interest in the cylinders to track Elijah down. Wayne took out ads, and so did you. And then you used Wayne’s name to lure Williams to the cemetery, where you killed him.”

  “That’s crazy. I never even met Williams.”

  “You’re lying, Mr. Beaudin,” I said. “You knew him well. You fished together for years. In fact, you used to recommend him as a fishing guide to all your influential friends—until, of course, he became a danger to you.”

  “What do you mean?” Beaudin was sweating.

  “He was the man who saw you kill Virgil Franklin,” I said. I turned to Mayor Amadour. “You remember that name, don’t you, Mr. Mayor, the man who was leading you in the polls in your first try for office?”

  “Virgil died in a fishing accident, Mrs. Fletcher,” the mayor said, tapping his fingers nervously on the bar.

  “It was no accident,” I said. “Elijah Williams saw the man who killed Franklin. And he,” I said, pointing to Beaudin, “saw Williams, too. You’d been chasing your fishing buddy for fifteen years, hadn’t you, Mr. Beaudin? And you finally caught up with him last month. And then you killed Wayne because you were afraid he knew the truth. You slipped a note in his pocket at Jazz Fest. I saw you do it. Was that when you told Wayne to meet you at The Blazer Pub?”

  “You can’t prove anything,” Beaudin said, his voice rising. “You haven’t got any proof.”

  “I disagree,” I said calmly. “Bobby Pinto will identify you as the man who bought the canebrake rattlesnake from him. The bartender at The Blazer will identify you as the man who was with Wayne an hour before he died.”

  Steppe spoke up from the door. “The police are at your apartment right now, Mr. Beaudin, looking for the drug you used at the pub to make Copley light in the head.”

  “Who the hell is he?” Beaudin demanded.

  “Detective Christopher Steppe, NOPD.” He held up his badge for everyone to see.

  Beaudin sank back into his chair.

  “Wayne got so dizzy from that drug, he asked for your help,” I said. “You helped him—right into the cemetery—and gave him the box with the snake. You told him it was the wax cylinder recordings of Little Red LeCoeur, the ones he’d been passionately searching for. When he reached into the box, the snake bit him, and ten minutes later he was dead. You looped a gris-gris around his neck and propped him up at Marie Laveau’s tomb so that the police would look to the voodoo community first if they suspected murder. And then luck smiled on you. A local snake expert announced that the drought was causing reptiles to move into the city in search of food and water. You must have been very pleased with that.”

  “This is all speculation,” Beaudin snarled.

  “I’m curious about one thing,” I said. “Did you arrange to have a snake put in my hotel room?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, “and you’d better have more than you’ve shown, if you think you can pin anything on me.”’

  “You want more proof, Mr. Beaudin? What do you think of this?” I unzipped my bag and pulled out the top of the Pinto Snake Transportation System, holding it by its edge with a handkerchief. “Your fingerprints are on this, Mr. Beaudin. It’s part of the box you used to carry the snake. And I also have a copy of the note you sent Elijah, pretending to be Wayne, and arranging for him to meet you at the cemetery. His wife, Sarah Williams, gave it to me. I’m sure a handwriting analysis will prove it was written by you.”

  Beaudin looked around frantically. “She’s making it all up. Maurice, you don’t believe her, do you?”

  “I always worried about the timeliness of Virgil’s death,” Amadour said, shaking his head. “Didn’t you have any confidence in me, Phil? We could have won. It just would have taken a little longer.”

  “A little longer?” Beaudin spat, eyes flaming. “More like never. You never would have made it without me. You were a loser. I made you into a winner.”

  “You bastard!” Archer launched himself at Beaudin, but Broadbent grabbed him and pulled him away.

  Steppe pulled out his handcuffs. I think it’s time you came with me, Mr. Beaudin.”

  Archer collapsed, sobbing hysterically. “Wayne, oh Wayne,” he cried. Clarice bent down and put her arms around him.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Blind Jack stood at the pulpit and concluded his eulogy for Wayne. “He was a cat who loved music, and shared his love with the world,” he said. His voice was low and gravelly, as if the years had exposed it to the elements and it had become rusty. “My man Wayne was straight-up smart. He understood that not everyone can be a player, but everyone can be a lover of jazz. He helped them learn, taught them how to listen to the soul of a musician singin’ through his instrument. Or her instrument—be lots of female players, too, these days. In jazz, we talk about a band that swings. It’s the highest praise you can give. Means we’re all tuned in to each other’s vibes; we hear that soul singin’ and we add our own voice. Together we make a sound that takes us to a higher plane, lifts the spirit, fills the heart—both ours and whoever listens and understands. Wayne, he listened and understood. In his own way, he could really swing.”

  Archer walked to a small table that had been placed in front of the chancel rail, and adjusted the microphone so its head was in the center of the funnel-shaped horn of the cylinder player. He fitted the wax cylinder onto the phonograph and turned the crank. Everyone in the cathedral leaned forward tensely. There was a slight crackling sound, and then a voice announced, “This is Mr. Alphonse LeCoeur playing ‘Amazing Grace.”’ The strains of the traditional hymn filled the cathedral with a surprisingly clear sound. The cylinder had survived. There was a collective sigh. This was the music Wayne had sought, the music he had died for, trying to bring to a new generation. And here at last it was—but never to be heard by him.

  Little Red played the hymn through once, slowly, and then took the familiar notes and began improvising on them, increasing the tempo and adding frills and embellishments, offering a whole new interpretation of the beloved piece, exciting, uplifting, and modern, a musical precursor of all that was to come in the future, just as Wayne had suspected it would be.

  On the steps of the cathedral, I smiled at Detective Steppe, who stood next to me. “The music was wonderful,” I said. “Wayne would have been so pleased to know he contributed to the first public playing of Little Red’s recordings.”

  “Maybe,” he said, “but they’ve got bad mojo.” He shook his head. “How did you figure out that it was Beaudin who used the cylinders to lure Williams and Copely to their deaths?”

  “I was pretty sure he was the one,” I replied, “but I became convinced when he kept lying about whom he knew.”

  “Okay, you saw him with Pinto, but how did you know he knew Williams?”

  “Beaudin was an avid fisherman, born and raised in the swamps. Elijah Williams was a popular guide in the same place. Sarah Williams had photographs of the people Elijah had taken fishing. One of them was of Wayne and Beaudin, the same photo I’d found in Wayne’s wallet.”

  “Did Copely know it was Williams who had the cylinders?”

  “It’s possible. Wayne was always a jazz aficionado, and the three of them could have talked about music while they fished together. When
he started looking for the cylinders, he might have known who had them, but not where to reach him.”

  “Probably not,” Steppe said. “After all, Williams had been missing for fifteen years.”

  “True,” I said, “and I think Wayne might have suspected why. What he didn’t know was that Sarah Williams had given the cylinders to Blind Jack after Elijah’s death.”

  “So that’s why Blind Jack took off after Copely was killed.”

  “He told me this morning that he had been planning to tell Wayne that he was Elijah’s cousin, and that he had the cylinders.”

  “But then he heard about Copely and figured the killer would find out he had the recordings, and come after him. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “I remember you telling me Copely was supposed to meet Blind Jack the night he was killed.”

  “Yes, but he never showed up,” I said. “Beaudin got to him first. And you know what happened after that.”

  “Who gets the cylinders now?”

  “I imagine they’ll be sold to a recording company that’s able to record them digitally and market the results.”

  “There should be some money in that.”

  “I hope so,” I said, “The only heirs of Little Red are Blind Jack and Elijah Williams’s widow, Sarah. I hope there’ll be enough to let her move out of the swamp and back into society.”

  “Speaking of Sarah Williams,” Steppe said, “you didn’t tell me yesterday that you have a copy of the note Beaudin sent Elijah.”

  “That’s because I don’t,” I replied. “I was bluffing. Before I left, I asked her if there was a note, and she said Elijah took it with him. I figured Beaudin would certainly have searched the body, found it and destroyed it. But it wasn’t too much of a stretch to think Elijah might have copied the note and left it with his wife.”

  “Kind of like an insurance policy to help find the guy, if anything happened to Elijah.”

  “Exactly.”

  He thought for a minute. “Not that it makes a difference, but I don’t know if we’ll be able to lift Beaudin’s prints from the Pinto box,” he said.

  “I wasn’t sure you could either,” I said, “but he was so cool, I wanted to rattle him and see what he’d do.”

  “Very clever,” he said. “Our guys found the GHB in his house, like we thought. And actually, we don’t really need the prints, now that he’s confessed. It’s nice to have three murders solved all at the same time.”

  “Three? Oh, you mean Virgil Franklin’s,” I said. “Yes, his was the one that started it all, wasn’t it?”

  “Once Beaudin killed him, he had to ensure that crime never came to light,” Steppe said. “Killing Elijah, even fifteen years later, got rid of the witness, but then he had to keep going, in case Williams had talked. Beaudin was the one who searched the apartment, looking for any notes that might implicate him.”

  “He tried to control everything and everyone,” I added. “He wanted me to use the mayor’s car and driver so he could keep track of where I went. I even thought he put a snake in my room to try to scare me, but apparently that was really a result of the drought.”

  “The voodoo community is relieved,” he said. “They’re talking again. It seems there were a lot of people who worried about Beaudin. They knew he was dangerous, even if they weren’t sure why.”

  “Fifteen years is a long time to keep a secret,” I said. “If Elijah told even one person, the word would have gotten out. That kind of story would spread quickly, and make people fearful of the kind of retribution a man in his position could carry out. I think Elijah’s widow knew it, too, but was too scared to say Beaudin’s name.”

  “Amadour’s really rattled,” Steppe said. “In his story in today’s paper, Broadbent says the mayor is considering not running for reelection.”

  “He may change his mind when he’s had some time to think about it,” I said.

  While we’d been talking, Wayne’s coffin had been loaded into the glass-sided hearse drawn by two white horses, and the mourners had gathered behind it. Leading the hearse in a slow procession was the brass band Archer had hired, with Blind Jack in front, his manager holding his elbow to guide him. Blind Jack lifted his trumpet, and the first clear notes of “Amazing Grace” filled the warm morning air. He played it slowly and reverently, the classical way the hymn is heard at a funeral service. The band, the hearse, and the mourners started the short walk to Lafayette Cemetery, where the Copely family crypt was located.

  Spectators lined the street to watch the funeral procession, a spectacle unique to New Orleans. Some people saluted the hearse with their beer cans. Others joined the convoy, stepping along with the music as the band segued into “A Closer Walk with Thee,” giving the hymn a faster tempo than is usually heard. Clarice and Archer walked behind the hearse, holding on to each other, their differences forgotten in their mutual grief. The mayor and his wife accompanied them. Steppe and I were farther back in the crowd along with Napoleon and Beatrice, who were enjoying participating in the pageantry. Doris and Julian were behind us.

  “This is pretty different from what you have at home, isn’t it, Mrs. Fletcher?” Napoleon asked.

  “We have nothing like it,” I agreed.

  “A jazz funeral is really a celebration,” he said. “We celebrate what a good life he had.”

  “He did have a good life,” I said.

  “We celebrate the better place he’s going to,” Beatrice added.

  At Lafayette Cemetery, the door to the family crypt was open and Wayne Copely’s coffin was lovingly deposited inside, his friends and relatives looking on. A short prayer was said. As the service ended, the band struck up “Oh, Didn’t He Ramble,” the long-established tune that accompanies mourners leaving the cemetery. The lively music pulled people along, observers now joining the parade, dancing in the street behind the band, and the family. When the song ended, Blind Jack lifted his trumpet to begin a new song. The sun glinted off the polished brass of his horn as he played the opening notes. They hung, shimmering in the air, and everyone stopped to listen intently. Jack paused and started playing again. It was “Amazing Grace,” but this time, the hymn was an echo of Little Red’s interpretation. This time, it was cheerful, full of fire and promise, a paean to life and the joy that is music.

  Here’s a preview of the Provence—To Die For available now.

  He was dead. There was no doubt. His body was slumped against the arched door in the wall to the right, the papers he’d been consulting earlier scattered about him on the floor. A red stain above his heart was spreading down the front of his white shirt. His eyes were open, the vivid blue fading, and his mouth gaped, forming an “o,” the expression of surprise that must have greeted his murderer. Apart from the papers on the floor there was no sign of a struggle. No over turned chair. No defense wounds on his hands. No clothing askew.

  I knelt down and placed two fingers on his neck where a pulse should have been, and felt only cool skin.

  The dead man was Emil Bertrand, renowned chef and owner of the restaurant L’Homme Qui Court, which had achieved a coveted one-star rating from the famed Michelin guide. He’d been the guest instructor this morning at the cooking class offered by the Hotel Melissande. I’d been one of his students.

  It was my first trip to Provence, the region of southern France known for its quaint villages, summer festivals, fields of purple lavender, wild thyme, wonderful wine, and a fungus prized by chefs the world ’round—the black truffle.

  I was coming off a particularly hectic summer in which friends, some invited and some not, had decided Cabot Cove was a great place to visit in July and August. I didn’t know where September and October had gone. I only knew that various projects, some work-related and some community based, seemed to vacuum up all the hours in the days, until I began to feel I would never have time to sit down.

  But that was all behind me now. Ahead were two months in the French countryside, in a borrowed house, with lots of time
for reading and relaxing and learning the secrets of cooking in the Provençal style. At least, that had been my plan.

  A slight breeze ruffled the papers on the floor a I stood. The door in the archway on the opposite wall was partly open. A sliver of light could be seen along the jamb, and the undulating sound of the Klaxon horns of emergency vehicles leaked into the room. Reluctant to leave my fingerprints, I pulled a handkerchief form my bag and used it to draw open the heavy wooden door. It led to a small paved area outside. I scanned the ground for evidence, something the killer might have dropped if he or she had departed this way. A short flight of stairs connected to the street level. I climbed it and found myself halfway up a steep hill. The street was deserted. I couldn’t see over the top of the hill; not even a car crossed the intersection at its base. If someone had escaped through this door, they were gone now. Then something sparkled up at me from the curb. I leaned over and picked it up. It was an earring, which I put in my pocket. The sirens were deafening now. I retraced my steps and, using the handkerchief again, drew the door almost closed behind me. After the bright glare of daylight, my eyes had difficulty adjusting to the gloom, but I knew one thing. I was no longer alone.

  “Bonjour Madame,” said a voice filled with irony. “May I ask what you are doing here?”

  “Oh, my,” I said. “You certainly gave me a start.”

  “I could say the same of you,” he said in near perfect English.

  The speaker was a debonair man in a gray suit. A black trench coat was slung over one arm. His auburn hair was streaked with gray and he wore it slicked back from his forehead, which emphasized the high-bridged prominent nose and the piercing look in his hard brown eyes. A colleague in a tweed jacket was leaning over Bertrand, his fingers probing the same area of the chefs neck where mine had been earlier.

  I put out my hand. “I’m Jessica Fletcher,” I said. “I was one of Chef Bertrand’s students this morning.”