Murder in a Minor Key (23 page)

“In other words, you’re a mutt,” Napoleon teased.

“I’m Creole,” she replied haughtily. “No one better in New Orleans. And you,” she said, pointing at her nephew, “you’re just a bad boy. Now you go and bother some other of these folks.” She pointed at the teenager. “This child wants to know her future.”

Napoleon doffed his top hat, swung his arm wide in an exaggerated bow to the fortune teller, and skated a short distance away. I was certain that the skit was one they’d enacted before, and she’d probably signaled him to interrupt when she’d tugged on one ear. Perhaps my questions were probing sore spots, or the public nature of our conference had made her edgy. Or I was taking up too much of her business time. She had yet to charge me for any of her services.

I checked my watch. It was time to pick up Wayne’s garment bag back in my room at the Royal. The hotel staff had been fawning over me for two days since the milk snake had made its appearance in my bed. The concierge nearly begged to do something for me, so I’d asked him to arrange for a cab at ten forty-five. My transportation would probably be waiting when I got back. The funeral home was in the Garden District; it shouldn’t take too long to get there.

Napoleon skated in front of me as I walked through Jackson Square. He turned around and threw three balls in the air, juggling as he glided backward.

“I hope you didn’t mind my interrupting your tarot reading with my aunt, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, looking at me while the balls went round in a circle in front of him.

I stopped walking. “Was this her signal?” I yanked on my ear.

Napoleon laughed. “You caught us.”

“I think we were finished anyway.”

“Is your future looking bright, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“That remains to be seen.”

He stopped juggling, his brows knit. “Auntie didn’t give you bad news, did she?”

“I don’t think so,” I said, walking toward the gate.

“She’s very good, you know. Lots of people go to her every week.”

“I really don’t believe in fortune-telling, Napoleon.”

“That’s okay. I like you anyway.”

I laughed. We reached the end of the Square together and crossed the street.

“By the way, Mrs. Fletcher, thank you for the book,” he said, juggling the balls again as he skated beside me. “I enjoyed it very much.”

“You’ve finished it already? You’re a fast reader.”

“I am when I like what I’m reading.”

“I’m delighted that you liked it.”

“There was a lot about music in it, but not a lot about New Orleans,” he said thoughtfully. “You missed some good places you could have written about.”

“I’m sure I did,” I said, “but a book can only cover so much.”

“You’re right, but I like to see my hometown in books. She looks different each time I read about her.” He stopped juggling and pocketed the balls. “No one knows this city better than me.” He knocked a thumb against his chest. “My Uncle Pascal had one of the buggies that takes the tourists around. When I was a kid, I used to go everywhere with him. He would let me drive the mule. Old Shakespeare, that was the mule’s name. He knew the city, too. He always knew when we got near the stable and he’d pull like crazy in that direction, even if it wasn’t the end of the day. Sometimes I’d have to get down and push against his side to get him to go the way my uncle wanted him to.”

“Does your uncle still have the buggy?”

“Oh, yes. But my cousin Beatrice drives it now. Would you like a ride?”

“I think I would sometime.”

While we’d been talking, an idea had occurred to me. I didn’t know the city very well, and I could use the services of someone who did. Wayne had been my escort, and I’d been happy to put myself in his hands as he led me from one place to another. But I no longer had his expertise to rely upon. Here was someone who could be an informal tour guide, someone who was familiar with New Orleans, and also had an entrée into the voodoo community. Beaudin had offered the mayor’s driver, who undoubtedly knew his way around the city, too. But I didn’t think accepting such a favor was appropriate, and the more I thought about it, the less I liked the idea of Maurice Amadour, or his aide, keeping track of my movements.

“Napoleon?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“How would you like to show me around the city?”

He looked down at his clothes. “Dressed like this?”

“You look fine to me,” I said. “I’ll pay you for your time.” I pulled a bill from my wallet and held it out to him.

He grinned at me. “My time is your time,” he said, removing his top hat and tucking the money into a slot inside. “Where would you like to go?”

“I have to get back to my hotel,” I said. “I’ll explain while we’re walking.”

“Or while I’m gliding and you’re walking,” he said, lifting up one skate.

We reached St. Louis Street and turned toward the Royal. I told Napoleon about my upcoming errand, and other places I planned to visit.

“Do you know anything about Little Red LeCoeur the trumpet player?” I asked.

“Everyone knows his name here. He was a famous son of New Orleans.”

“My friend died trying to find recordings Little Red may have made.”

“Was your friend the one in the news, the one found in the cemetery?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so,” he said solemnly.

“Do you know who Elijah Williams is?”

He was silent a moment. “I know the name,” he admitted.

“Do you know anyone in the city who could tell me about Elijah Williams?”

“Why would you ask
me
?
”

I pointed to his skates. “You get around,” I said playfully. “I think you probably know a lot of people.”

“Let me think about it,” he said. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

We reached the front of the hotel. A black limousine sat at the curb; its uniformed chauffeur leaned against the driver’s door. He straightened when he saw me, and tipped his cap.

“Uh-oh,” I said. “This is not going to be as easy as I thought.”

“What’s the matter?” Napoleon asked.

“Nothing yet,” I said. “Why don’t you wait here for me?”

The concierge came out from behind his desk when I entered the lobby and clapped his hands in satisfaction. “Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, “you wanted a cab, but I’ve got you something even better.”

“That limousine is not for me, is it?”

“Yes, it is. Mr. Boudin sent it over this morning, and said to tell you the driver is prepared to take you anywhere you want to go.”

The concierge was beaming at this fortunate turn of events, and I was sorry to disappoint him. “Please tell the driver I won’t be needing him today, but thank him for me. And I will be needing a cab.”

“Of course, Mrs. Fletcher.”

There was no limousine at the curb when I came outside again with Wayne’s garment bag slung over my arm. There was no taxi either. The concierge was all apologies.

“I called the company, Mrs. Fletcher, but there are so many tourists in town, he couldn’t tell me how long it would be.”

“That’s all right,” I said. “I’ll take public transportation.” I looked at Napoleon, who’d been sitting on the curb listening. “Do you know how to get here?” I asked him, handing him the paper on which Archer had written the address and phone number of the funeral home.

“Just give me a few minutes, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, suddenly loping off down the street.

Fifteen minutes later, an open carriage with white leather seats and white wooden wheels drew up in front of the hotel. A young woman in a swallowtail coat hopped off the driver’s seat, flipped down a set of steps, and held out her hand to me. “Hi, Mrs. Fletcher, I’m Beatrice. Napoleon sent me to pick you up.”

“Where did he go?” I asked as I took her hand and climbed into the carriage.

“We’ll get him in a minute. He went home to change.” She handed me a yellow parasol that had been lying on the seat. “If it gets too hot in the sun, you can use this.”

Beatrice scrambled back up to the driver’s seat, clicked her tongue at the brown-and-black mule, and we slowly moved out into the traffic. Three blocks away, Napoleon waved to us from a comer. He still wore his checkered trousers, but had exchanged his skates for black-and-white high-top sneakers. The green suspenders and hoop around his waist were gone, replaced by a wide leather belt pulled tight to hold up the pants. A baseball cap covered his brown ringlets, and he’d scrubbed off his makeup. He leaped up into the seat beside me without waiting for Beatrice to stop the carriage. “Once she’s got Keats moving, it’s better not to let him stop.”

“Keats?”

“All the mules in our family are named for poets. Shakespeare’s retired now, but Keats and Shelley are still working. Beatrice is training a young one; we’re going to name him Blake.”

Beatrice guided the carriage out of the French Quarter and into the bustling traffic of the Central Business District. As we drove at a leisurely pace toward the Garden District, our one-buggy parade drew little attention, although I thought we must have been quite a sight. Napoleon had opened the yellow parasol to shield me from the heat of the sun, and Beatrice had donned a top hat similar to the one Napoleon wore for his Jackson Square act. The mule clopped along the busy streets, unfazed by the larger and faster vehicles passing him, or by the occasional honking horns. We reached St. Charles Avenue and drove on a roadway parallel to the green-and-red streetcars, which ran on rails down the grassy “neutral ground,” what we’d call a median in Cabot Cove. Passing through the Lower Garden District, with its fast-food chains and rundown buildings, we crossed Jackson Avenue and entered a neighborhood of genteel houses with well-kept gardens. Some were lush, their tropical plants nearly obscuring the Italian Renaissance or Victorian Gothic buildings they surrounded; others were tailored with clipped, formal plantings in front of Greek Revival porticos.

The Montgomery Funeral Home was off St. Charles Avenue, a modest white wood clapboard house with black shutters and square columns, and little other embellishment, as if to reflect the seriousness of the business inside. I was relieved to see that the large blacktop parking lot on the side of the building was empty—no funeral service was in progress—except for a few black sedans and a glass-sided hearse parked in front of a large garage at the rear of the property.

I left Beatrice and Napoleon sitting in the carriage with Keats, who nibbled at a privet hedge that bordered the lot. I climbed the front steps, pushed a buzzer, and opened the unlocked door. The décor was suitably muted and dull. A plush brown carpet covered the vestibule floor, and stopped at the sills of the two rooms that flanked the entry, their varnished wooden doors thrown open. On the other side of the doorways, the carpet continued as a runner, leading down an aisle that separated two banks of pews in the left side room, and two sets of folding chairs in the room to my right. The windows in both rooms were concealed by dark-red velvet drapes with black trim. Ahead of me, a round mahogany table held an elaborate flower arrangement, the heavy scent of lilies overpowering whatever aroma more delicate flowers may have contributed to the stuffy air. I walked around the table, the floorboards creaking under the thick carpeting, and saw a door to an elevator. To its right was a stairwell leading to the lower level and a discreet sign that read OFFICE, with an arrow pointing down. I switched Wayne’s garment bag to my left arm, gripped the railing with my right hand, and descended the stairs, treading carefully so as not to catch the heels of my shoes on the carpet’s pile.

“May I help you?” a deep voice asked.

“Yes, I’m Jessica Fletcher. I called earlier and left a message.” I was talking to a middle-aged man at the base of the stairs, who held out a hand for me to grasp. He wore a charcoal-gray suit, crisp white shirt, and navy-and-green tie. At least he’s not wearing black, I thought.

“I got your message, Mrs. Fletcher. I’m Jordan Bunting, the manager. Let me take that from you, please.” He lifted the garment bag from my arm and led me to a small office almost entirely taken up with a massive desk. He held the back of one of a pair of chairs in front of the desk and I sat. “I’ll just hang this here for now,” he said, hooking the garment bag over the top of the door. “Would you like some tea? I’ve just made a fresh pot.”

“That would be lovely, thank you.”

While Bunting went to get our tea, I looked around. The perimeter of the room on my side of the desk was lined with narrow chairs, which I assumed were there to accommodate members of large families when funeral arrangements were being made. The opposite side of the desk was framed by low black filing cabinets, with one high-backed office chair for its owner. There were no pictures on the cream-colored walls, only a black-and-white license, or diploma, hanging above one of the files; the type was too small for me to see from where I sat.

Bunting returned with a small tray, which he rested on a comer of the desk while pulling a slide-out shelf into position. He set cups and saucers on the shelf and seated himself in the chair next to mine. “Tell me again why you’re here,” he said, pouring tea from a porcelain pot with an English ivy design and a leather handle.

“I’m delivering funeral clothes for Wayne Copely,” I said, “and I was hoping to speak with the undertaker who was on duty when his body came in.”

“This is a family-run business, Mrs. Fletcher. We only have a small staff. That person would be Earl Montgomery.”

“Is he here now?”

“Yes. We have a service this afternoon, and he’s preparing the body. Perhaps I can answer any questions you have.”

“Does that mean he won’t have time to see me?”

“I’m afraid not,” he said. “But I’m familiar with the Copely case. Did you want to review the arrangements Mr. Levinson made?”

“Oh, was Archer here already?”

“No. We’ve only spoken by phone. In fact, he left instructions for you to bring back Mr. Copely’s personal effects when you dropped off the clothes. I can get them for you now, if you like.”

“That’s fine,” I said. “I’d also like to take the things he wore the night he died.”

“Most families don’t want the old clothes back,” he said. “They may be damaged or stained. Are you sure you want them?”