Murder in a Minor Key (4 page)

“Cabot Cove, Maine.”

“Another cool state! Whatcha doin’ here?”

“Well, actually,” I said, laughing, “right now I’m just trying to navigate through the crowd to St. Louis Street to get back to my hotel. I have an appointment and I don’t want to be late.”

“Is that all? I can help you there.”

He glided back to where he’d left his hat and scooped it up, picking out the change and bills and stuffing them into his pocket.
“Laissez les bons temps rouler!
Let the good times roll,” he proclaimed. “I’ll be back in a little while. Y’all hang around, now, heah?”

The open circle the spectators had left for him quickly filled as the throng moved on to other entertainment. The clown skated back to me. “Ready to go?” he asked.

“Oh, you don’t have to bother,” I said, not expecting the special attention.

“No bother at all to help a famous visitor,” he replied. “You’ll never make it without me. See all those people? They’re like a wave on the ocean. If you don’t go with the flow, you’ll get washed out to sea. It takes special skills to get through.”

I looked around and had to agree. “Okay, how do we do this?” I asked.

“Single file is best. Grab on to the top of my trousers in the back, but don’t pull too hard or we’ll both be very embarrassed.”

The clown’s black-and-white checkered trousers were attached to a hoop around his waist, and held up by a pair of green suspenders. I grabbed the hoop with one hand and held tight to my shoulder bag with the other.

The clown pushed his way through the multitude, pulling me along behind. His height, extended by the roller skates, allowed him to peer over the tops of the heads in front of him and select a pathway. His loud voice also ensured cooperation.

“Step aside, folks. Coming through. Excuse us. Make way.”

The sight of an almost seven-foot-tall clown in checkered trousers, dragging a woman in his wake, must have been enough to startle the dawdlers and the curious, who stepped aside to let us pass.

We escaped Jackson Square, dodged the milling tourists on Chartres Street and soon reached the comer of St. Louis Street. My colorful escort doffed his hat and dipped into a low bow in front of me. The little skull on a chain dropped from his collar and swung out in front of him.

“Napoleon DuBois at your service, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“How did you know... ?”

“Your picture was in the book section of the paper this morning. And it’s on the back of a book I just bought.”

“Well, Napoleon, that was timely service you provided, and I’m very grateful,” I said, unzipping my bag. I pulled out my wallet. “Something for your assistance? You must lose a lot of doves.”

“No,” he said with a smile. “Goes right home, will be there when I get there.”

His eyes flew up to the sky and he clasped his top hat and orange wig to his chest in a saintly gesture. “What I’m really praying for, though, is one of your books signed to me.”

“I’d be delighted to give it to you,” I said. “I have a few copies back at my hotel. I’ll put one aside for you.”

I gave him some money, thanked him again, and promised to leave an autographed copy of my new book with the concierge desk. He could pick it up when it was convenient. We shook hands and he skated back in the direction from which we’d come.

Smiling, I glanced at my watch and continued on to my hotel. New Orleans was such a colorful city, full of interesting people, fascinating places to see, and surprises, like a gallant street entertainer who’d rescued me from being late. I’d have a good story to share with Wayne over lunch.

Chapter Three

“You must have the Oysters Rockefeller, definitely the oysters. You do like oysters?”

“I’m from Maine. I love all seafood.”

“Well, this is where the dish was invented years and years ago. And it was named after Rockefeller because the taste is so rich. It would probably be called Oysters Trump if it were invented today.”

“Then let’s start with that. What else do you recommend?”

“I think the
pompano en papillote.
The fish is topped with shrimp and crab and then cooked in parchment. You’ll love it.”

I smiled at Wayne. He was in his element here. He’d been greeting other diners, and waving at the restaurant staff ever since we’d entered Antoine’s.

“We’ll have an order of the soufléed potatoes to share,” Wayne told the tuxedoed waiter who stood at his elbow, a white cloth draped over his left arm.

“Certainly, Mr. Copely.”

“How’s the family?”

“Very well, sir. Thank you for asking.”

“Did you like that CD I left for you?”

I tuned out Wayne’s conversation with the waiter and released a sigh I hadn’t even realized I was holding. I was happy to be sitting down and in air-conditioned comfort.

We’d walked to Antoine’s from my hotel, but even though the distance was short, it was uncomfortably hot. New Orleans was experiencing a heat wave with temperatures close to one hundred, high humidity, and no relieving rain in sight. I noticed that many of the women on the street wore large hats, or carried umbrellas or parasols to shield themselves from the sun’s fiery rays. While I had brought lightweight clothes in anticipation of warm weather, the only hat I’d packed was a baseball cap I occasionally wore when jogging, not appropriate headgear for going to lunch at an elegant restaurant. Thank goodness for the lovely iron-work
galleries
on the upper floors of buildings in the French Quarter. They’d provided a shaded walk almost the entire route to the restaurant.

Antoine’s, one of the city’s venerable establishments, dating to 1840 when it opened in a different building, was now situated in what had been a private home that had been built in 1868. Wayne had led me past the front room with its Austrian shades, down corridors and up and down flights of stairs, and through a maze of rooms with glittering chandeliers, polished dark woods, and antique furnishings. As we went, he kept up a running commentary on the city’s oldest and most famous restaurant. By the time we finally sat down in the Rex Room, where colorful Mardi Gras costumes were displayed in glass cases, I had worked up a good appetite, and was ready to sample the signature dishes for which Antoine’s was noted.

The waiter went to place our order, and I unfolded a white linen napkin across my lap.

“ What are you having, Wayne?”

“The chicken
bonne femme.
They make it very well here. And I took the liberty of ordering a baked Alaska for us for dessert. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

“Well, Jessica,” he said, rubbing his hands together, “that was a productive morning, wasn’t it?”

“I think it went well.”

“Yes, except for that little contretemps with Broadbent.”

“Why do you dislike him so?” I asked.

“I don’t care about him one way or the other, but I think he’s hardly the objective investigative journalist he presents himself to be.”

“What makes you say that?”

“He’s an old buddy of Beaudin’s, probably been on and off the political payroll for years.”

“On and off?”

“Politicians in New Orleans are always changing bedfellows. No one can agree with anyone else for very long. They’re known for switching sides, opinions, friends. In fact, it’s a miracle to me that Phil Beaudin has been Maurice’s assistant as long as he has.”

“And you think he and Broadbent ...” I hesitated.

Wayne snorted. “Julian’s stories always manage to give the administration a boost. Look what he did to Senator Lunsford just when Maurice was thinking about moving up. You know, Jessica, even though our mayor is an old family friend, I have no illusions about honest politics in New Orleans.”

“Do you think he’s corrupt?”

“Let’s just say he’s part of a longtime, honored tradition of not letting the law get in the way of good policy. Plus, he’s been very lucky.” He pulled a piece off the roll on his plate, and buttered it. “So, what else would you like to discuss?”

“Oh, come on now, Wayne,” I said. “You can’t just drop a bomb like that and/retreat. How has the mayor been lucky?”

Wayne chewed thoughtfully. “He’s been reelected on his own merits for years,” he said after a moment, “but he never would have made it into office in the first place if his opponent, Virgil Franklin, hadn’t had such a timely death.”

“And you think Franklin’s death was suspicious?”

“I couldn’t say for sure. But Virgil was way ahead in the polls.”

“How did he die?”

“He fell out of his pirogue in the swamp, and supposedly drowned in three feet of water. ’Course by the time the alligators and vultures got through with him, there was really no way to tell how he died.”

“How awful!”

“Yes, but it was just what Maurice needed. The other party couldn’t come up with another strong candidate, and he’s been voted into office in every election since.”

“You don’t think Broadbent had anything to do with Franklin’s death.”

“Who’s to say? But what reporter worth his salt sits in the pocket of a politician?”

“Can you be sure his book on Senator Lunsford was written deliberately to help Amadour?”

“No, of course not. But it’s just like New Orleans politics to have something happen so conveniently. I guess I just don’t believe in coincidence.”

The waiter interrupted our conversation by setting down our Oysters Rockefeller, six plump specimens set in a pan of rock salt.

Wayne closed his eyes, leaned over the dish, and took a deep breath, inhaling the tempting aroma of oysters, greens, and anise.

“I’m in heaven,” he cooed. “Let’s eat, and then I’ll tell you all about Jazz Fest.”

“You just want to change the subject,” I chided.

“You’re right.” He winked at me. “But you can bring it up again another time.”

The food was delicious, and Wayne was a wonderful host, entertaining me with stories of his exploits on the road promoting his new book. I reciprocated, regaling him with the tale of my earlier trip through Jackson Square as the caboose of a top-hatted clown.

“I’m looking forward to taking you to Jazz Fest tomorrow,” Wayne said as the waiter cleared our plates. “I’m tied up this evening, but after that I’ve cleared my calendar, and except for time spent following up any new leads on Little Red LeCoeur’s recordings, I’ll be at your disposal.”

“I hope I won’t be taking you away from important business.”

“Not at all. Attending Jazz Fest comes under my job description. I checked my answering machine a little while ago. Apart from the usual death threats, I have no other pressing appointments.”

“Death threats! What do you mean, death threats?”

“It’s a critics’ affliction, my dear. Goes with the territory, I’m afraid. Nasty letters, phone calls. They come from all over the country, probably the world. I got my first a dozen years ago when I gave a local band a poor review, and their national tour was canceled. I don’t think it was my review. They were dreadful players, decidedly second-rate. They had no sense of tempo, much less musicality. However, they and their friends took offense at my appraisal, and for about a month I was plagued by a series of vicious calls, impugning my manhood, of course—but I’m used to that—and detailing the unpleasant way they were going to take revenge. It’s one of the reasons I bought an answering machine, to put a little technological space between my detractors and myself.”

“Someone threatening you with death is more than a detractor, Wayne. I hope you’ve told the police.”

“I did the first few times, but the investigations never turned up anything. In those days, you had to keep the caller on the line to do a trace, and I wasn’t willing to listen to that filth for more time than it took to replace the receiver. After the third or fourth instance, I became inured. Now, I simply toss the letters, erase the messages, and go about my business. As you can see, I’m perfectly hale and hardy, perky even.”

He tucked his chin down and batted his eyelashes at me. I couldn’t help but smile.

“You can make jokes, Wayne, but it’s really not a laughing matter. Most of the time, the kinds of people who make threats like that get satisfaction just thinking they’re scaring you. But you can’t count on that. You could be in real danger. Why don’t you ask the phone company for Caller ID, so you can see the number of the person making the call and report them?”

“I’m not sure I want to know who they are. They might be my friends.” He grinned, and added, “Tell you what. If they get me, I’ll leave you my antique Chinese box. You’ll love it, all kinds of drawers and hidden compartments.”

“Wayne, don’t kid about that.”

“Don’t worry about me, Jessica. I’m fine, and I’ve learned to ignore these messages with typical New Orleans aplomb. You know, it’s ingrained in our personalities from childhood not to take life too seriously.
Laissez les
bons
temps rouler,
and all that. We live for the day, the hour, the minute even. It’s part of our charm.”

Although Wayne was flippant about the threats made against his life, I could sense tension beneath his show of bravado. “I’ve been on the receiving end of death threats, too,” I admitted. “I know what you’re going through, and it’s not a comfortable feeling.”

“You have?” He was obviously astonished. Frowning, he sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. “You never told me,” he accused.

“There’s still a lot we don’t know about each other,” I answered. “It’s not something I enjoy discussing any more than you do, but it’s important to take action.”

“Tell me what happened.”

I took a deep breath, struggling to find simple words to describe what had been such a disturbing experience. “It was an obsessed reader,” I said at last. “He sent me threatening notes at every stop on my book tour, said he was watching me and would know when his time had come.”

“Did you hire a bodyguard?”

“I came close once, but changed my mind at the last minute. I didn’t want to give the perpetrator such power over my life.” As I talked to Wayne, I could feel the fear and the anger that had filled me during those days flowing back. I hurried to conclude the story.