Murder in a Minor Key (16 page)

The task of refolding all of Wayne’s clothing was comforting to Archer. His breathing slowed, and his movements became less jerky. After a while, he answered my question. “The only thing I can think of were his notes on Little Red’s cylinder recordings.”

“Where would he keep things like that?” I asked. “There’s no desk in this apartment.”

“He has an office at Clarice’s. That’s their home, you know, from when they were kids. It’s been in the family for over a hundred years.”

“I hadn’t realized that,” I said. “I thought the house belonged to Clarice and her husband.”

“No, Dr. Cruz never made enough to buy a house. Or never kept it long enough. I always thought that was why he married her, so he could have a place to live. The bastard.” He raised his eyes to the ceiling. “I know I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. Wayne was always telling me that.” He shook out a sweater vest and folded it on the bed, picked up another sweater, folded it, and stacked it on top of the first.

“What kind of doctor was Dr. Cruz?”

“Something to do with the heart,” he said, “but he wasn’t a surgeon. I know that. He couldn’t have kept his hands from shaking long enough to pick up a scalpel.”

“Did his hands really shake?”

“Oh yes,” he said derisively. “I was never sure what it was, alcohol, prescription drugs, illegal stuff. I think he tried them all. Whatever it was finally killed him a couple of months ago.” He looked up at me. “I assumed you knew. Wayne never told you?”

“About that? No.” In fact, Wayne had never discussed any part of his private life with me until he’d mentioned the death threats. I’d never even heard Archer’s name before today, and only knew that Wayne’s sister was a widow, nothing more than that. But I wasn’t about to admit to Archer my limited knowledge. If he thought I was Wayne’s confidante, he’d be more forthcoming with information, which was already proving to be the case.

“Did Wayne share with you what he’d found out about the cylinders?”

“You know, that’s funny. Actually, he didn’t,” he said, continuing to fold the last pair of boxers and laying them lovingly in the drawer. He pushed it closed with his hip. “I know he was planning to use what he found out about Little Red in a book, but he never told me what the topic of the book was. I got the feeling it wasn’t only about jazz. He used to say he loved mysteries—that’s why he was so tickled to be friends with you—and that there was a mystery about the cylinders, whether they really existed, and if they did, where they were, and why they hadn’t been found before.”

“Archer, would information on the cylinders have been enough to entice Wayne to go to the cemetery at night to meet someone?”

“No way!”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I know him, that’s why,” he insisted. “Whenever people he knew came to town, he was always warning them not to go there unless they went with a tour group or other crowd. Not all the cemeteries, just the St. Louis ones.”

“How do you think he got there?”

“I don’t know. Maybe someone drugged him and left him there so that when he woke up he’d be scared. Only the snake found him first.”

“Why would anyone want to do that?”

“As a prank?” Archer raised his eyebrows. “New Orleans is full of pranksters.”

“That would be a pretty mean thing to do.”

“Wayne wasn’t the most popular guy in town. He had some enemies.”

“Who would they be?”

“I’m not going to name any names, but Wayne had a sharp tongue in print. There were people who didn’t appreciate that.”

“Archer, if you seriously think anyone left Wayne in the cemetery as a practical joke, you really should tell the police.”

“I’m not saying that’s what happened. All I’m saying is it could have happened that way. I know one thing, Mrs. Fletcher. Wayne would never have gone into that cemetery under his own power. He must have been drugged, or murdered, or God knows what else.”

“Murdered? Do you think that’s a possibility?”

“Anything’s possible. Don’t you think?”

“By the way, did you see Wayne the night he died?” I asked.

“No, absolutely not. I thought you were with him most of the night. Why would you ask that?”

“It’s not so surprising. You were close. You might have seen each other later that night.”

“Well, we didn’t,” he said coolly. “We had totally different social lives.”

“I see.” I wasn’t sure if I believed him. “Is the cemetery where Wayne was found the same one in which he’s going to be entombed?” I asked, changing the subject.

“No, the family crypt is in Lafayette.” He pulled open the closet again, remembering the task he’d been assigned. As he sifted through suits looking for the right one, he muttered to himself, “I have to bring his things to the funeral home. Then Clarice wants Wayne to have a jazz funeral. That’s another trip. Do you know how long it takes to make those arrangements? When am I supposed to be able to do all this? There’s only so many hours in the day.”

I listened as Archer griped about his duties, and wondered whether he was as attached to Wayne as he said he was. Where had he been when Wayne was dying in the cemetery? What did he know about the recordings Wayne had been seeking? What was his relationship to Clarice? How did they both know I’d been with Wayne the night he died? There were too many questions, and I recognized my compulsive need to find answers. If there’s a gene for inquisitiveness, I’ve got it. Seth always scolds me about my curiosity, warning me that it will get me into trouble. And I have to admit that it has at times, although fortunately I’ve always been able to get out of tight spots in which I’ve found myself. I’d been looking for an excuse to stop at the funeral home, and Archer was giving it to me.

“Let me help,” I said pleasantly. “You’ve got so much to do. I’ll go to the funeral home and bring them whatever clothing you pick out for Wayne.” I held my breath, hoping he’d take me up on the offer. The funeral home might hold some of those answers I sought. Wayne was presumed to have died from snakebite, but were there any other marks on his body, marks that got overlooked when the cause of death was so obvious? I doubted they’d let me see Wayne’s body, but perhaps I could talk to the undertaker, learn something that would shed light on why Wayne was found, in death, in a place that troubled him in life, a place he’d cautioned his friends about visiting.

“Would you really do that?” Archer asked. “That would save me so much time.” His face lit up, and I let out the breath I’d been holding.

“Of course,” I said. “I’d be happy to help out.”

“That’s fabulous. Tomorrow or Tuesday, either day is fine. I’ll get the address for you.”

He hummed his satisfaction, opening drawers and retrieving items he’d put away not ten minutes ago. He laid socks, shorts, bow tie, and handkerchief on the bed.

“You said Clarice wants a jazz funeral for Wayne,” I continued. “Is that where the musicians walk in front of the casket on the way to the cemetery?”

“That’s right,” he replied, hanging up a suit and shirt on the closet door, and kneeling down to pick out shoes. “They used to play sad songs on the way into the cemetery and happy songs on the way out,” he explained. “But these days, the bands play upbeat songs pretty much the whole time.”

“I thought those funerals were only for musicians.”

“They used to be, but then they extended the definition to anyone associated with music. Of course, Wayne qualifies.” He opened the top drawer of the bureau, and replaced the bowtie that had been on the bed, selecting another to go with the suit. “However,” he continued, “money can accomplish anything, so if you want a jazz funeral and have the dough, you can have it, even if the only thing you know about music is how to turn on the radio.”

We carefully packed Wayne’s “going-away outfit,” as Archer termed it, in a garment bag he’d found on a shelf in the closet. We tucked shorts, socks, and other accessories in the bag’s pockets. Archer wrote down instructions on where to find the funeral home, and checked his calendar for a good time for me to visit with Clarice. We parted, knowing we’d meet again at the funeral. I would have liked some time alone in the apartment to examine more of Wayne’s things, but obviously it wasn’t going to happen today. Although I was satisfied with the information I’d learned, there were still so many nagging questions. But as I carried Wayne’s suit down three flights of stairs, I was convinced I had at least one answer. My fastidious friend, Wayne Copely, had not died an accidental death.

Chapter Eleven

“Mayor Amadoui,” the reporter shouted, his voice heard above those of his colleagues, “is Copely’s death related to the investigation of Elijah Williams’s murder?”

The press conference was being carried live on a local news channel. I sat on the bed in my hotel room, focused on the TV screen. Philippe Beaudin stood behind and to one side of the mayor, who’d made an opening statement. Also in the camera’s view were New Orleans Police Superintendent Jimmy Johnson and another man I didn’t recognize.

“I believe Superintendent Johnson has the answer to that question,” Amadour said smoothly, stepping aside from the microphone to allow his police chief to address the press.

Deaf to the barrage of questions aimed at him, Johnson laid a sheaf of papers on the podium, put on a pair of half glasses, and gripped the edges of the wooden top as he read a prepared statement. “New Orleans resident Wayne Copely, fifty-one years of age, died Friday in St. Louis Cemetery Number One,” he said in a deep voice. “According to the medical examiner’s office, Mr. Copely’s death resulted from a rattlesnake bite. We regret Mr. Copely disregarded public warnings not to visit the area alone, and was on the grounds when the cemetery was officially closed.”

“Why did he go there?” a reporter shouted.

Johnson peered over the top of his glasses. “We’re not sure,” he said, his response setting off another volley of questions. He continued reading, speaking loudly to be heard over the press until the roar of voices settled down. “During the time he was in the cemetery, Mr. Copely was bitten and subsequently died from snakebite. Dr. Jacob Renshaw of the medical examiner’s office has prepared this chart.” A drawing of a hand, and lines representing the circulatory system, filled the screen. “The bite that Mr. Copely sustained was right here between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, piercing the main artery, and causing the venom to directly enter the bloodstream. Death would have occurred relatively quickly, giving him no time to seek help.”

Another spate of questions assaulted the superintendent.

“NOPD’s investigation found no connection between Wayne Copely and Elijah Williams, whose body was found in the same location in the cemetery last month. There is no record of the two men ever having met, nor is there any indication that they corresponded in any way. Our investigation into Mr. Williams’s death is ongoing.”

I pondered the superintendent’s confident statement. Had a police investigation actually been conducted? The police hadn’t taken very much time to probe Wayne’s death before concluding that it was an accident. The speed of their decision made me uneasy. It wasn’t as if they routinely acted so quickly. They’d been keeping the Elijah Williams case open for a month. Something about that murder flickered at the edge of my memory. I concentrated on the television again, to see if the press corps had the same misgivings.

“Superintendent?” several reporters called out at the same time. “What about the voodoo connection linking both deaths?” “What is the city doing about snakes in the cemetery?” “Where was the NOPD unit that’s supposed to be patrolling the cemetery?”

Johnson held up a hand to quiet them down. Ignoring the stream of questions, he continued his prepared remarks. “NOPD called in Mr. Robert Pinto to set traps in the cemetery. To date, six snakes have been caught, including ...” He picked up a piece of paper and squinted at it. “A Louisiana milksnake, a kingsnake, a black ratsnake, two eastern garter snakes, and a canebrake rattlesnake. Only the rattlesnake is poisonous, and we believe that to be the type of snake involved in Mr. Copely’s death.

“We’ve invited a herpetologist, Dr. Steven Caplan, a visiting professor at Tulane, to give you information about snakes. He is a worldwide authority on reptiles, and can answer all your questions.” Johnson’s exit was accompanied by more shouted questions, but he stepped quickly from the podium. A young man, with a shock of black hair, and wearing rimless eyeglasses and a photojournalist’s vest, took his place.

“Good afternoon,” he said, his amplified voice carrying above the grumbles of the reporters. “I’ve handed around a sheet which contains some information on species of snakes native to Louisiana. There’s also some brief biographical material on me. I’m Dr. Steven Caplan. I’d like to explain my findings and then answer any questions you may have.”

A close-up of Dr. Caplan’s face filled the screen as he described the myriad snakes resident in the city and its surroundings. “The reptile population has been particularly hard hit during the drought this spring,” he said. “The lack of rainfall, and thus less standing water, means that the snakes’ usual prey have curbed their reproduction. With fewer aquatic animals like toads and frogs that form the basis of their diets, many reptiles in the region tend to leave their accustomed habitat to search for food. In addition, recent construction in the Treme neighborhood has disturbed the habitat of some rodents. The combination of these two factors has caused an increase in the numbers of snakes in the cemetery, and around the city for that matter.”

There were a dozen questions simultaneously aimed at Caplan. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that?” he said.

A reporter in the back raised her voice. “What was the snake that bit Copely?”

“We believe Mr. Copely was the victim of a canebrake rattlesnake bite.” He spelled the name of the snake for the reporters. “Canebrakes are especially dangerous because they don’t always rattle to let you know of their presence. It’s probable that Mr. Copely stepped near the snake, without even knowing it was there.”

“How big was the snake?”

“The one Mr. Pinto trapped was a six-footer; that’s not uncommon,” said Caplan. There was a nervous rumble of voices as the press corps pictured the killer snake. “Of course, I can’t say with certainty that that’s the snake that bit Mr. Copely.”