Read Murder in a Minor Key Online
Authors: Jessica Fletcher
Murder in a Minor Key
Table of Contents
A Sad Day in New Orleans
“Dreadful accident,” the mayor said, shaking his head.
“Do you really believe Wayne’s death was an accident?” I asked. “I’m not convinced that it was.”
The mayor took my elbow and ushered me toward the sliding glass doors. “Let’s not talk of this here,” he said.
We stepped outside into the hot air and paused under a palm tree.
“I know how upset you must be, Mrs. Fletcher. Wayne was a friend to us all.”
“I certainly am upset, Mayor Amadour,” I said, feeling a different kind of heat rising in my blood. “I’m particularly upset that the police department made such a quick decision on the nature of Wayne’s death. I really can’t believe it.”
“Now, now, Mrs. Fletcher.” He took my hand between his and patted it. “I knew Wayne for many years, and he was a bit of an odd duck.”
“I don’t think—” I started to say, but he wouldn’t let me speak.
“He was an obsessive man,” he said, squeezing my hand hard, and catching my ring in the vise of his grip. “No telling what he would do if he took a mind to it. I believe if you think about that for a little while, you’ll come to the same conclusion.”
I yanked my hand away, and suppressed the urge to rub my finger where the ring had made a dent in the skin.
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A Deadly Judgment
A Palette for Murder
The Highland Fling Murders
Murder on the QE2
Murder in Moscow
A Little Yuletide Murder
Murder at Powderhorn Ranch
Knock ’Em Dead
Gin & Daggers
Trick or Treachery
Blood on the Vine
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First Printing, October 2001
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Murder, She Wrote
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eISBN : 978-1-440-67357-3
For Renée
Chapter One
“Hand me the bait pail, Mrs. F. I think they nibbled off my worm again.”
I put down the national section of the
Bangor Times
and passed a tin bucket of night crawlers to Cabot Cove’s sheriff, Mort Metzger.
It was Sunday afternoon, and we were sitting on the end of the Town Dock dangling our fishing lines in the harbor, but not getting much interest on the part of the marine population. A recent bout of rainstorms had left every garden in Cabot Cove soggy, and Mort’s wife Maureen had complained that the worms were taking over her flower beds. Mort’s answer had been to dig up a load of the wriggly, grayish-pink creatures and invite me to fish with him while we brainstormed about who we could get to help finance the purchase of a new patrol car for the village police force.
“The Ladies Auxiliary likes to have a pet project for their Spring Fling,” I suggested.
“Now, Mrs. F.,” Mort said, hesitating as he baited his hook and dropped it in the water, “I don’t want to turn politically incorrect on you, and I appreciate all the ladies have done for the village. But buying a police cruiser with the proceeds from a fashion show somehow just doesn’t seem right.”
“I’m disappointed in you, Mort. The whole object is to raise the money. As long as the gathering of those funds is legal and proper, whether they come from a fashion show or a pancake breakfast is not all that important.”
Mort’s pained expression said he wanted to disagree, but thought better of it. He picked up the newspaper I’d abandoned, and idly turned the pages.
“Have you talked to the Men’s Club or the Lions or the Rotary?” I asked.
“They’ve already budgeted their funds for the year. Ralph Mackin needs a new roof on the old courthouse, and he got to the Rotary first. And the high school Key Club is committed to their baby car seat program for the hospital. I can’t think of anyone else, can you?”
“Then it’s got to be the Ladies Auxiliary, Mort. And I think we’d better approach them pretty soon, before they commit all their money, too. It’s either that or wait till next year.”
“We can’t. The state’s matching funds program is only for this year. If we miss that, we’ll never be able to replace that old heap we’ve got.”
“Is it in that bad shape?”
“It’s pretty beat up. One of the deputies had to go to Tommy Brinkley’s home to give him a speeding ticket because the patrol car couldn’t keep up. And Tommy’s old clunker is no sports car; it’s a 1987 station wagon.”
“I’ll talk to Tina Treyz on Monday,” I said. “She’s a terrific fundraiser, and she’s on the organizing committee for the ladies’ luncheon.”
“Well, she’s a driver, all right,” Mort said, warming to the idea. “If anyone can get us to the goal, she’s it.”
We sat quietly for a while, Mort bouncing his line and reading the paper.
I breathed in the fresh, spring air. The sky was full of mares’ tails, the high cirrus clouds a sure sign of impending rain, but it was perfect Maine April weather, crisp and bright, occasionally warm enough in the sun to take off your sweater, and chilly enough at night to keep two blankets on the end of the bed.
“Say, aren’t you going down to New Orleans next week?” he asked.
“Yes. Why?”
“Take a look here. Got a strange murder there, it says.”
I leaned over Mort’s shoulder and read along with him.
AP—New Orleans police are investigating the possible connection between voodoo practices and an apparent murder that took place yesterday in the Crescent City, as the Louisiana metropolis is also known. The body of Elijah Williams was found sitting up against the tomb of nineteenth-century voodoo queen Marie Laveau in the city’s oldest graveyard, St. Louis Cemetery Number One. Police said the victim appeared to have been strangled, but declined to elaborate further. An autopsy is pending.