Murder in a Minor Key (12 page)

I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the air conditioning.

“Would you please excuse me a moment?” I pulled the napkin from my lap, gathered my bag, and stood.

“Certainly. Anything wrong?” he asked, rising from his seat.

“No, no. I’ll be right back.” I swiftly made my way out of the dining room to find a public telephone. I emptied my wallet of coins, and dialed my hotel. No messages. I searched my bag for my notebook, feeling increasingly nervous. Gripping the receiver between my shoulder and my chin, I held the notebook open with one hand, and with the other, dropped more coins into the phone. I punched in Wayne’s number and held my breath.

“Hello?”

“Oh, Wayne, I’m so relieved. I’ve been trying to get you all day.”

There was silence on the phone.

“Wayne
^?
”

“He’s not here,” said a man’s voice that didn’t sound like Wayne at all.

“Where is he?”

“You’ll have to call back later,” he said, and hung up.

Furious at his rudeness, I contemplated calling again, but changed my mind and returned to the table.

“Charlie, this has been a wonderful dinner, and I really appreciate all your attention, but I must run.”

“What’s the matter?”

“A strange man just hung up on me at Wayne’s apartment. I’m going over there to find out what’s wrong.”

The waiter handed Gable his credit card and the bill on a tray. Gable signed his name and stood. “Would you like me to go with you?” he asked, pocketing his fountain pen.

“Thank you,” I said quickly, “but that’s not really necessary. But you can help me get a cab if you would. Are you ready to leave now?”

We stood on the sidewalk outside the restaurant and my stomach clenched. The street was full of cars, but they weren’t moving.

“Saturday night traffic,” Gable grumbled. “Where does he live?”

I gave him Wayne’s address.

“It’s less than ten blocks,” he said, looking down the street. “You can walk it if you want, and probably make better time than waiting for a ride in this mess.” He waved his hand at the gridlocked cars. “Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you?”

I nodded. “Which way do I go?”

He pointed. “Down to Bourbon Street. That’s the next comer. And turn left.” I thanked him, and rushed away.

Bourbon Street may have been the most direct route to Wayne’s, but it certainly wasn’t the easiest. I walked as quickly as I could, but the throngs of people spilling out of buildings onto the street kept my progress slow. There were bars and nightclubs lining the street, as close to each other as the beads on a necklace. The piano music emanating from one club melded with horns from another, merged with the banjo and guitar from a third, and all were punctuated by the horns of cars and taxis trying to negotiate the intersections. Barkers urged pedestrians to sample the entertainment inside the clubs, which in addition to the jazz, rock, blues, honky-tonk, and country, included topless, karaoke, and even can-can shows. From the open doors, the smell of alcohol was pervasive, mixed with the spices and smoke of restaurant kitchens. I dodged a group of young people, singing, clapping, and drinking from plastic cups, and skirted two children tap dancing on a piece of hard, thick plastic. They were no older than ten, and danced to music played on a boombox, the volume competing with the shouts of revelers and the cacophony of sounds from the nearby nightspots. Above me, the balconies were jammed with more people, their voices and laughter adding to the din.

I had worn a silk dress and pumps to dinner, never anticipating a long walk, and was aware of being observed by some of the street’s more disreputable denizens. Determined not to look like an easy mark, I adopted what I’d learned in other cities, and walked purposefully, my expression staunch and fearless. I fished in my bag for my key ring. Not a very effective weapon, I thought, but at least it gave me something to hold on to. I closed my fist around the ring with the keys poking up between my fingers like the spokes of a wheel, and held my bag close to my side.

Finally, the crowds began to thin, and as I turned down Wayne’s street, the noise of Bourbon Street faded behind me. It became eerily quiet. I increased my pace, the only sounds the click of my heels on the stone paving, and the skitter of plastic cups rolling in the gutter.

I checked my address book for the number of Wayne’s apartment house. An old brown Ford was angled into the curb under a NO PARKING sign in front of the building. A streetlight illuminated the soft pink façade. Iron lacework outlined the balconies that ran the length of each floor; on them was a profusion of green plants and a series of tables and chairs, demarcating the individual apartments.

Surprisingly, the double doors leading inside were open. I checked the directory for the number of Wayne’s apartment, climbed the stairs to the third floor, and pulled on a brass knocker in the shape of an alligator. The door swung open and a man in a brown suit frowned at me.

“Who’re you?” he asked gruffly.

“Perhaps I have the wrong apartment,” I said, taken aback. “I’m looking for Wayne Copely.”

“What’s he to you?”

“I’m a friend, and I haven’t heard from him. I was concerned. Are you an acquaintance of his?”

I knew the answer before he gave it, and felt my stomach drop. Men like him have a certain look. It’s in the eyes, a world-weariness, a cool appraisal, an unbending attitude worn like a carapace on their backs meant to protect them from the brutalities of life.

“I’m a cop.”

“What’s happened to Wayne?”

“He’s dead.”

Chapter Eight

“You look a little pale. Come in and sit down.”

Numbly, I entered Wayne’s apartment and slumped down on his green damask sofa. The officer remained standing on the other side of the glass-topped, painted wooden box that served as a coffee table. He tugged at his belt, trying to draw the waistline of his trousers over a protuberant stomach.

“Did you call earlier?”

“Yes,” I said. “Was that you who answered?”

“Yeah.”

“I heard your voice and I just knew.” I sat up, trying to regain some semblance of control.

“Knew what?”

“That something had happened to Wayne.”

“How did you know?”

His question was like a slap, startling me back to conscious thought. I straightened my shoulders, alert.

“I didn’t
know,”
I said briskly, “but I had an uncomfortable feeling all day, and when I heard your voice, it intensified.”

“Is that why you came here?”

“Yes. And then when I saw you, I really knew.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s obvious,” I said impatiently, “that if the police are here and Wayne’s not, then something is drastically wrong.”

“You knew I was a cop?”

“Yes.

“I’m not in uniform.”

“You look like a policeman.”

“I do?”

I nodded.

“And just how is it I look like a cop?” he asked irritably.

I took a deep breath, but before I could tell him that there was something in his eyes and his body language, he interrupted me.

“Forget I asked that,” he said. “I don’t think I want to know.” He raised his eyebrows. “Do you always get these ‘feelings’ about things?” There was a tinge of sarcasm in his voice.

I ignored it. “Not that I’m aware of.”

He was a heavyset man in his forties, with bushy eyebrows and tousled brown hair. His suit was wrinkled and his brown shoes looked like they hadn’t been polished in a long time. I studied him as he debated what to do with me. Finally he asked, “When did you last see Copely?”

“Friday. Yesterday. When did he die?”

“Sometime last night.”

I looked up. “I was with him last night, till just before ten.”

He grunted but said nothing.

“How did it happen? He seemed perfectly healthy.”

“I’ll ask the questions.”

“Go ahead,” I said wearily.

He must have taken pity on me, because his tone changed. “Why don’t we start over? I’m detective Chris Steppe, NOPD.” He flipped open a leather wallet revealing his badge. Pocketing the wallet, he pulled out a pencil and a small black binder with lined paper, and looked down at me. “And you would be?”

“Jessica Fletcher.”

“Why do I know that name?”

I explained to him why he might know who I was.

“A mystery writer, huh?”

“Yes.”

“A famous person.” He smiled, wet his pencil point on his tongue, and wrote in his book.

While Detective Steppe scratched away at his notes, I looked around the room. Wayne’s living quarters were spare but with an innate elegance that was difficult to define. It might have been the warmth of the wooden floor, a broad-planked relic from an earlier era, the scars on which only enhanced its appeal. Or it might have been the diaphanous curtains that billowed over the open French doors, which looked out on the black night beyond the balcony. The furnishings were simple: the sofa, coffee table, a small Oriental rug in front of what I was sure was a decorative fireplace, a line of low bookcases on one wall, and a delicate round table of highly polished dark wood with two matching chairs. An efficiency kitchen occupied one comer. No bric-a-brac, no clutter. There was a calmness to the apartment that I could sense, despite my agitation, a calmness that must have been restful for a high-strung personality like Wayne’s.

A door from the living room opened into another part of the apartment, and I could hear someone shuffling around in there, opening doors and drawers.

“Where did Wayne die?” I asked Detective Steppe.

“We found his body at the cemetery.”

“The cemetery!”

“Yeah, ironic, isn’t it?”

“Which one?” I was almost afraid to ask.

“St. Louis Cemetery Number One. He was sitting up against a tomb.”

I shivered. “In the paper this morning,” I whispered to myself.

“Yeah, tough to keep that stuff out of the paper.” Steppe combed his hair with thick fingers, which made the unruly thatch even more disheveled. “It’ll be all over the news tomorrow, now he’s been ID’d, and seeing who he is and all.”

“Who identified him?”

“His sister, I think.” He riffled through the pages of his book. “Yeah, Clarice Copely-Cruz. Know her?”

“No. We were supposed to have dinner at her house tomorrow. Wayne wanted me to meet her.”

“How well did you know him?”

“Not very well,” I admitted. “We were just recent acquaintances, really.”

“You’re not from here, so how did you meet him?”

“I got his phone number last year from someone we both know. I was researching a book, and his name was suggested as a resource. He gave me an education in the music of New Orleans. When I knew I was going to be here for an authors’ panel, and in time for Jazz Fest, I called him.”

“And?”

“And he got Charlie Gable of the
Times-Picayune
to add him to the panel, and we took up where we’d left off in my musical studies.” I smiled at the memory of Wayne thrilled at having an acolyte to introduce to the joys of jazz. His enthusiasm had been contagious, and his knowledge of the history of this art form was encyclopedic.

I shook my head to clear it. “What was the cause of death?” I asked.

“Are you sure you want to discuss this?”

“Detective, I make my living writing murder mysteries. I read case histories, interview coroners, pore over police photos. I think I have a pretty strong constitution by now.”

“No doubt,” Steppe said, pushing his notebook back down in his jacket pocket. He hesitated a bit, considering what to tell me, then decided not to. “Well, we’re not really sure,” he said. I didn’t believe him. “We won’t know officially till the autopsy report comes in.”

“But you have an idea, right?”

“I might.” He fiddled with his pencil.

“Why don’t you want to tell me?”

Steppe’s eyebrows flew up. “You ask a lot of questions, don’t you?” He retrieved his pad. “Where did you say you were yesterday?”

“I didn’t,” I replied stiffly. “You didn’t ask me. But I was at Jazz Fest most of the day with Wayne, and I can supply you with the names of our other companions. In the evening, Wayne and I went to a fais-do-do, and then he dropped me off at my hotel at about nine forty-five.”

Steppe took some more notes, and I got up and paced the room, trying to get a glimpse of the layout of the rest of the apartment, and to see who was in the other room.

“You didn’t answer my question,” I said.

“Don’t really know,” he replied. “I’m not the medical examiner. Now tell me, Mrs. Fletcher, in your estimation can you think of why anyone would want Copely dead?”

I whirled around. “He was murdered?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Your question implies it.”

“You don’t see any crime scene tape here, do you?”

“No, but you’re here, and your partner is, too.” I flung out my arm, indicating the other room.

“Just covering all the possibilities till the medical report comes in. So, do you?”

“Do I know why anyone would want to kill Wayne? No!”

The face of Julian Broadbent materialized in my mind. I wondered again where he’d been today, and why he hadn’t left an explanation for Doris. Still, I was convinced Julian’s absence had nothing to do with Wayne. He wouldn’t have had any reason to hurt Wayne, even though he didn’t particularly like him. Julian was prickly, yes, and macho, and there was no love lost between the two men. But no, I wouldn’t bring up his name.

“Do you know why Copely would have been in the cemetery at night?”

“No, unless it had to do with his research.”

“What research?”

I gave Steppe a brief rundown of Wayne’s interest in the recordings of Little Red LeCoeur. “But he hasn’t found any so far,” I added, and then remembered sadly that “so far” was as far as Wayne would be able to go.

“Who else knew about this research?”

“Everyone, I guess.”

“Who is everyone?”

“He made a public announcement of his intent to find the recordings at the Book Club Breakfast on Thursday, and it was mentioned in the paper on Friday. And he told me that he’d placed an ad in a music magazine asking for information about the cylinders.”