Murder in a Minor Key (17 page)

“How long could he have lived with a rattlesnake bite?”

“These snakes are particularly venomous,” he replied. “Dr. Renshaw estimated that because the venom went directly into Mr. Copely’s bloodstream, he probably was dead within minutes. However, in general, a man his height and weight, bitten on the hand, could have lived as long as three hours or more. You can see why getting a snakebite victim to the hospital is urgent.”

The reporters aimed another torrent of questions at him. Instead of replying, he flicked a switch at the podium and said, “I’d like you to take a look at these, because the common assumption—that to treat a snakebite you have to lance the wound and suck out the poison—is exactly the wrong thing to do.” Behind him, a list of first-aid measures were projected on a screen.

•
Immediately call for help in getting victim to the hospital.

•
Remove victim from vicinity of snake to prevent additional bites.

•
Note appearance of snake to describe to medical personnel later.

•
Have patient lie down and keep as calm as possible.

•
Remove watches, rings, or any confining jewelry.

•
Do NOT incise the wound and attempt to suck out venom.

•
Do NOT use a tourniquet, ice, electric shock, or suction.

•
Do NOT give the victim anything to eat or drink.

•
Do NOT administer an antivenin unless advised to do so by a physician.

Several reporters called out questions, until Dr. Caplan called on one of them. “How often are people bitten by rattlesnakes?”

“Rattlesnakes are responsible for two-thirds of all reptile bites in the United States, and there were more than seven thousand such bites reported last year.”

“Were they all fatal?”

“Not at all,” Dr. Caplan responded. “You’re more likely to die from a dog bite or getting hit by lightning. Only six or seven people die from rattlesnake bites each year.”

“Sir, I’ve always heard you should use a tourniquet. Why do you recommend against it?”

“Stopping blood circulation above the wound simply increases the blood pressure to the limb with the venom, forcing the poison through the blood vessels and increasing the chances of losing that limb.”

Another reporter shouted from the back of the room, “Dr. Caplan, why nothing to drink or eat?”

“Eating and drinking increase the heart rate. The key is to keep the victim’s blood pressure and pulse as low as possible so as not to allow the venom to spread quickly. The last thing you want a snakebite victim to do is get up and start running.”

As the herpetologist answered questions, the camera pulled back, revealing the lone figure of Dr. Caplan at the podium. The mayor, his assistant, and the police superintendent were gone. The camera slowly panned around the room, across the rows of reporters, most of whom were furiously taking notes, and along the bank of cameras and technicians. Leaning negligently against one wall, watching the proceedings with a bored look, was the familiar face of Julian Broadbent.

I picked up the telephone and punched in the number for Doris’s room. There was no answer. Then I remembered that when Wayne had been apologizing for not including her in the dinner invitation at Clarice’s, she’d said she had previous plans for Sunday.

I pulled open the drawer of the nightstand looking for a New Orleans telephone directory, but found only my own book, the one I’d given Wayne. I had stored it in the drawer when I’d emptied my bag last night. Placing it on the nightstand, I went to the closet. Thankfully, a telephone book was on the shelf, but I was disappointed to find no Broadbents listed in New Orleans. Of course, he could make his home in one of the city’s suburbs, but Julian had struck me as a man who’d live in the center of activity. I dialed Information for New Orleans: “We’re sorry. The telephone number you requested is unpublished,” a recorded voice informed me. I hung up, returned the directory to the closet, and noticed that commercials had replaced the press conference on the television. I pushed a button on the remote and the TV screen went black.

Murder
in a Minor Key.
The lamp on the nightstand illuminated my latest work. I stared at the cover illustration, admiring the way the artist had taken a colorful picture of New Orleans and added drops of blood, as if the victim in my story had bled onto the photograph. I sighed and lifted the cover, intending to reread my inscription to Wayne. A piece of white paper clung to the title page for a second, and then drifted to the floor. I bent down and picked it up. I remembered putting it in the book. It was the blank top sheet I’d torn from the pad next to Wayne’s telephone. I held it up in front of the lampshade. Only a watermark shone through. But when I angled the paper under the light, I could make out slight indentations. I found a pencil, laid the paper down and lightly ran the side of the lead across its surface.

The letters emerged from the black, rising to the surface like a body from the depths of the sea. ELIJAH.

Drawing a card from my shoulder bag, I picked up the phone again and dialed.

“Charlie?”

“Jessica, how are you doing?”

“I’ve thought of something you
can
do for me, Charlie. Is it too late to add a short item to your newspaper column for tomorrow?”

Chapter Twelve

“I know it’s late, but by any chance, do you still have a copy of today’s
Times-Picayune
?
”

I heard a clunk as the concierge put down the phone, and then the rustle of paper before he picked it up again.

“I have a slightly used one, Mrs. Fletcher. It’s the only newspaper I have, but you’re welcome to it. I hope you don’t mind that it’s already been read.”

“I don’t mind at all,” I said, relieved. “Would you please be so good as to have it delivered to my room.”

“With pleasure, ma’am. I’ll have a bellman bring it right over.”

I had remembered why the name “Elijah” stirred something in my mind during the press conference. At Friday’s Jazz Fest, the trumpet player, Blind Jack, had asked Wayne if he’d heard about Elijah, and Wayne had hushed him up. Of course, it was possible they weren’t talking about the man who was murdered. The name “Elijah” is not that unusual, and the police were convinced—so they said—that there was no connection between Wayne and Elijah Williams. But since the bodies of both men had occupied the same seat in death, I suspected that, with a little work, a connection could be found. I wanted to ask Blind Jack if he knew what it might be, and whether he knew whom Wayne was supposed to meet the night he died. The blind trumpet player had said he was playing in a club; its name should be listed somewhere in Sunday’s paper.

There was a sharp rap on my door, and I peered through the peephole. Surprised, I opened the door to find Philippe Beaudin holding my newspaper.

“You don’t look like a bellman to me,” I said with a smile.

“I intercepted him,” he said, returning my smile. “I hope that’s all right. I was coming to see you anyway.”

“You were?”

“Yes.” His face took on a serious expression. “I missed you at Mrs. Cruz’s house. You were there, and then you were gone.”

“I had another appointment,” I explained, “but I plan to visit her again tomorrow.”

“She’ll appreciate that. This is a rough time for her, and for you, too, I imagine. I’m sorry for the loss of your friend.”

“It’s considerate of you to think of me, but you didn’t make a special trip over here just to express your condolences.”

“Not precisely.”

“Why did you wish to talk with me?”

“I have a message from the mayor, but I’d rather not discuss it here, standing in the hall.”

“We can go to the lobby if you like, but let me put that away first.” I held out my hands.

“I have a better idea,” he said, relinquishing the newspaper. “Can I buy you a drink in the lounge? I would offer you dinner but I have to meet Maurice in an hour.”

“That’s very nice of you,” I said, juggling sections of the paper that were about to fall out, “but I’m afraid I’ve got so much to do right now. Perhaps another time?” I was eager to read through the news to see what had been written about Wayne’s death. I also planned to look up where Blind Jack was playing. I wanted to speak with him and find out if he knew who Wayne had intended to meet Friday night, and if he’d been asked the same question by Detective Steppe.

“I won’t keep you long. Surely you’ve got time for one drink.”

“Can’t you just give me the message?”

“I see this looks like a bad time for you,” he said, a note of contrition in his voice. “I’m sorry for the interruption. Why don’t I come back tomorrow morning. We can have coffee together. Would that be more convenient?”

“Actually, tomorrow might be worse,” I said. If I went to see Blind Jack, it could end up being a late night. Jazz performers often didn’t go on till late, and if I had to wait for him to finish two sets, it could be 1 or 2 A.M. before I got to speak with him. It would be better to sit down with Beaudin now, and listen to what he wanted to tell me. And truth to say, I was curious to know why he’d come to my hotel. A message from the mayor could easily have been conveyed on the phone, or a note dropped off with the reception desk.

“Well, I suppose I can manage one drink,” I said. “Can you give me five minutes? You go ahead. I’ll meet you there.”

“Thank you. I promise it’ll be a quick one.” He checked his watch, gave me a sharp nod, and disappeared down the hall.

I closed the door and put the newspaper on the dresser. I freshened up, and pulled a light cardigan sweater from a drawer; the hotel’s air conditioning was sometimes too cool for comfort. I glanced around the room, pocketed my key, switched off the overhead light, and went to meet the mayor’s aide.

Beaudin had taken a table in the corner. The room was dark, small halogen lights illuminating only the center of each table, on which sat a bowl of salted nuts and a small plastic stand advertising the specialty drinks of the evening. Beaudin was already nursing a glass filled to the brim with ice cubes and a golden-brown liquor. He stood when I approached.

“Thank you for joining me.” His smile was warm.

“Thank you for inviting me.” We sat down, and I pulled the cardigan around my shoulders. The air was frigid.

“Are you too cold? I can ask them to turn up the temperature.”

“There’s no need,” I said. “That’s why I brought the sweater. I’m sure as the room fills with people, it will warm up.” I picked up the plastic stand. The featured drink was the Hurricane, a New Orleans favorite, a concoction of rum and passion fruit and lime juice, too strong for my empty stomach. I ordered a glass of seltzer with lime.

Now that he had my attention, Beaudin seemed in no hurry to explain his presence. He asked about my book. “How’s
Murder in a Minor Key
doing?”

“As far as I can tell, it’s doing very well,” I said. “This is the last stop on my promotion tour, and the books have been selling out wherever I’ve gone. I’ll find out more when I get home and speak with my publisher.”

“It takes place here, doesn’t it? Sorry, but I haven’t read it—yet.”

“Yes. I used jazz as the theme. Wayne was a great help to me.”

“New Orleans has a great literary heritage, you know. It’s been the setting for a lot of famous stories, and many writers have worked here. Anne Rice, of course. She’s our most famous citizen right now. But also William Faulkner, Jack Kerouac, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Truman Capote, Tennessee Williams. And going back some, Mark Twain and O. Henry. I’m sure I’m leaving out some well-known names.”

“The city has a unique atmosphere,” I said. “That’s always appealing to writers. I know it was to me.”

“We try to take advantage of that. We host a writers’ conference every September, and a literary festival in March. Perhaps you’ll come back for one of them.”

“Perhaps.”

Beaudin continued his mostly one-sided conversation. He was comfortable talking, an articulate, ambitious young man. I’d seen people like him before, making their careers by advancing the fortunes of those who possessed more charisma. Riding their coattails, it used to be called. But today, political promotion was a specialty all by itself. And Beaudin looked tailor-made for the part. I gauged him to be in his forties. He was handsome, intelligent, able to take the measure of a crowd and advise his boss what themes to espouse at what time. I wondered what had drawn him to such a self-effacing career. Was it the competition that stirred his blood? Or was I being too cynical? He was now telling me all about New Orleans, about how it was a mecca for artists of every kind, not just musicians and writers, but also actors, painters, sculptors, and dancers. He seemed to be evading the one topic that sat between us like a hulking, uninvited guest.

“... If you’re in New Orleans another week, I’d be delighted to take you there,” he said, referring to a performance by the Southern Repertory Theatre that had enthralled the critics. “It’s playing not too far from here. The theater is in Canal Place, a shopping complex that’s too elegant to call it a mall. If you haven’t been there yet, you should go. It puts other malls to shame. There’s so much to see in the city. I’d be happy to make other recommendations.”

“I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be in town,” I said. “I’ll probably return home after Wayne’s funeral.” If he wasn’t going to raise the subject of Wayne’s death, I would.

“Of course. I didn’t mean to be insensitive. When will the funeral be?” he asked. “Have you heard?”

“I don’t think it’s been decided yet,” I replied. “I understand Clarice wants Wayne to have a jazz funeral, and apparently that takes some time to arrange.”