Murder in a Minor Key (24 page)

“If his clothes are in bad shape, I can look at them here,” I said, “and decide what I should bring home.”

“It’s most irregular,” he muttered to himself. “Let me check to see what we’ve done with them.” He reached up to unhook Wayne’s garment bag from the door. “I’ll just take this with me.”

He left the office, and I got up and leaned out the door to see him turn left at the end of the corridor. He returned two minutes later carrying a plastic bag, and wearing a mournful expression. “I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Fletcher, but Mr. Copely’s clothing has already been disposed of.”

“Oh, dear,” I said.

“We do have his shoes, however, but I haven’t had time to clean them up for you,” he said, indicating the plastic bag. “If you’d like to wait, I can do that now.”

“No, no, please don’t trouble yourself,” I said. “The way they are is fine. I’m so pleased you have them.” I took the bag from him.

“If there isn’t anything else, Mrs, Fletcher, I’m afraid I’m needed upstairs.”

“Thank you so much, Mr. Bunting,” I said, picking up my teacup. “It was so kind of you to see me.”

“May I escort you out?”

“Oh, I haven’t finished my tea. You don’t mind, do you, if I linger here a moment longer? It’s so peaceful in this room.”

Bunting cleared his throat. “No, of course not. You take your time, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ll be back in a little while.”

“Thank you.”

When I heard the creaking as he crossed the floor upstairs, I picked up the bag with Wayne’s shoes and went down the hall in the direction Bunting had come from before. I turned left at the end of the corridor into a short hallway with two sets of double doors. I turned the knob on the first set of doors, pulled, and found myself looking out on an outdoor loading bay. An empty hearse was backed up to the platform. I closed that door as quietly as I could and went to the second set of doors. These were also unlocked, and when I opened them and slipped into the room, I knew I’d found the right place. Several coffins were stacked to my right, and four of what I assumed were refrigerated drawers were on my left. A hook on the wall held Wayne’s garment bag. Straight ahead, a tiny man in black pants and a white business shirt, covered by a butcher’s apron, was standing on a step stool, leaning over an open coffin on a draped stand and applying makeup to a corpse.

“That you again, Bunting?” he asked, not looking up from his work.

“Actually, no, Mr. Montgomery,” I said. “I’m Jessica Fletcher. I left a message for you earlier today. Perhaps you remember?”

“Didn’t Bunting take care of you?” he asked, still concentrating on his task.

“He did,” I said, nodding, although he couldn’t see me. “He was very efficient and kind. I just had some questions only you can answer.”

“Pretty bold of you coming in here.”

“Yes. I’m sorry for that.”

“Well, I don’t mind, if you don’t. Take a seat. Gotta keep working. I have a deadline to meet.”

“I understand about deadlines,” I said, pulling a rolling stool away from the wall and perching on it.

“It’s about Copely, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Mr. Bunting was good enough to give me Mr. Copely’s shoes.”

“Usually, we burn the shoes along with the other clothes,” he said, opening a box of face powder. “But these were so unusual, I kept ‘em around. Planned to donate them to the thrift shop once I cleaned ’em up.”

“Perhaps Wayne’s sister will want to do that, too.”

“Hmm.”

“I wanted to ask you about Wayne’s body, Mr. Montgomery. I know he was bitten by a snake, but did you notice any other marks or abrasions?”

“You mean, did anyone hit him on the head, or something?”

“Yes, that’s what I mean.”

“No. You’d know right away with that shaved head.”

“I imagine you would.”

“He was a mess though.”

“Why?”

“You ever seen a bad snakebite?”

“I’ve never seen
any
snakebite.”

“You can probably figure out where the fang marks are if you look real close, but as the venom spreads, it causes the whole limb to swell. The blood under the skin starts to boil up into these big black blisters that run down the arm. They put so much pressure on the skin, they burst, spraying blood everywhere. That’s why the clothes were ruined. Too bloody to clean. Looks to me like he must’ve died pretty fast.”

“I hope so,” I said, sickened at the thought of Wayne suffering.

“Want to see his body?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“His face looks okay,” he said, picking up a comb. “Should be able to have an open coffin.”

Holding the bag with Wayne’s shoes, I thanked Mr. Montgomery and left, never having seen his face, nor he mine. Napoleon and Beatrice were very quiet when I climbed into the carriage and fell back against the white leather seat. I placed the bag on my lap and held it tightly as we lurched into the street and headed back to the French Quarter.

Chapter Seventeen

Napoleon and Beatrice dropped me off in front of Wayne’s building with promises to collect me at my hotel the next morning. I turned the key in the lock of the third-floor apartment and walked in. The French doors had been secured; with no window open, the place was humid and stuffy. I dropped the bag containing Wayne’s shoes on the sofa and opened the doors wide, letting a breeze into the room. The spicy scent of cooking came with it, but the freshness of the draft washed away the leaden air of death, lightening my mood.

I sat on the sofa, pulled out Wayne’s black-and-white spectator shoes, and set them on top of the bag on the coffee table. Someone at the funeral home had stuffed them with newspaper to retain their shape. I inspected the heels and was surprised to see very few scuff marks. I had suspected that Wayne had been killed elsewhere and later placed at the crypt in the cemetery. But if his body had been moved, his shoes probably would bear the evidence. Wayne was no lightweight. Unless someone was able to pick him up without dragging his feet on the ground—an unconvincing scenario—there would have been heavy scuffing of the heels or other parts of the shoes as the body was pulled into position. It was likely that he died where he was found.

I noticed that one shoe was heavier than the other, and pulled out the newspaper to see why. Wedged into the toe was a plastic bag containing Wayne’s wallet, and a few other items that must have been in his pockets the night he was found. I remembered Bunting telling me that Archer had requested I bring back Wayne’s personal effects. I’d been so intent on getting his shoes, I’d forgotten to ask Bunting where he’d put them.

I emptied the bag onto the table. There was the infamous gris-gris on a leather thong, forty-seven cents in change, a chronographic watch, a yellow matchbook from a place called The Blazer Pub, a folded white handkerchief, and the wallet. His keys were missing, I realized. Steppe must still have them. Inside the leather billfold, I found eighty dollars and three credit cards, which ruled out robbery as a motive for the killing. Wayne also had a press pass, a telephone card, several business cards, and an old photograph showing him with Philippe Beaudin, standing on a dock, each holding up a fish. Folded in among the bills was a piece of paper, obviously torn from a calendar. At the top of page, the word “Friday” appeared with the first three letters of April; the rest of the date was torn away. Scribbled sideways across the page, not indicating any specific time, was BROADBENT.

Could Wayne have been meeting Julian Broadbent the night he died? Julian had been conspicuous by his absence the next day at Jazz Fest. He’s an investigative reporter. Might he have found the cylinder recordings of Little Red LeCoeur? Did he inadvertently send Wayne to meet his killer? Or was he a witness to Wayne’s death? A participant? Questions simmered in my mind, and I had no answers.

Sighing, I returned the note to the wallet and dropped it back in the plastic bag along with the watch, handkerchief, gris-gris, and coins. I opened the yellow matchbook, noting the address of the pub, and threw it in with the cache of Wayne’s things. I stuffed the bag back in one shoe, and stood up. Where was the box Clarice wanted?

In what passed for a kitchen, I checked the few cabinets against the wall, as well as the shelves above them, and the ones under the freestanding bar. I scanned the bookcases in the living room, walked to the bedroom and looked there, gave the bathroom and hall closet a good search, but found nothing that resembled a hand-painted Chinese box. Perplexed, I went back into the living room, sat on the sofa, and let my eyes wander the room. I picked up Wayne’s shoes and the bag on which they sat, took the whole package to the little bar that served the kitchen, and left it on the counter for Archer. When I turned to find the phone, my gaze fell on the coffee table I’d just been using. It was nothing more than a glass top sitting on a large red-and-gold painted box, much bigger than I’d anticipated. The Chinese box!

Laughing at how I could miss something in plain sight, I pulled off the glass top and balanced it against the sofa. I picked up the box. It was made of very light wood. I looked for a drawer, but even though the box had gold rings affixed to it in several places, when I pulled on them, nothing happened. I shook the box and heard something shuffling around inside. Wayne, you devil, I thought. You’ve left me another puzzle to solve. A wave of bittersweet memories swamped me: Wayne trotting me all over New Orleans, chatting about jazz and filling my brain with more facts than I could ever possibly remember; leading me through his favorite restaurants, introducing me to waiters and maitre d’s, and watching gleefully as I swooned over his favorite dishes; and talking late into the night about writing, our very different lives, and how nice it was to have become friends. I was sad to lose him, but grateful to have known him.

Gritting my teeth, I attacked the box, looking for clues to reveal its secret. I pressed the comers, tapped along the top, bottom, and sides, twisted the rings, pushed them, pulled them one at a time in varying order, then finally, when I twisted one ring and pulled on another, I heard a click and a narrow drawer popped open. Once the first drawer was found, the others quickly yielded to my persistence, and I sat back to examine their contents.

In the smallest drawer was a mini-tape cassette of the kind used in dictating equipment or, perhaps, his answering machine. In the two larger drawers were numerous sheets covered in Wayne’s neat handwriting. I read a few paragraphs. These were manuscript pages for Wayne’s book on Little Red LeCoeur. A third drawer contained Wayne’s notes to himself, ideas for chapters, quotes from authorities, and other scraps of information. I gathered up all the papers and the tape, and shoved them in my shoulderbag. I’d return the papers to Clarice after I’d had a chance to review them to see if they held any clues to what I now considered Wayne’s murder.

I pushed the drawers on the box closed, restoring it to its original shape, and took the tape I’d found in the first drawer into Wayne’s bedroom. The telephone next to his bed had a built-in answering machine. I flipped open the lid, removed the tape that was there, replaced it with the one I’d just found, and pressed PLAY.

“You have two messages,” an automated voice droned. The first was from his editor’s secretary, asking Wayne to resend an article that had gotten lost in the office shuffle. The second message was not so benign. A whiny, high-pitched voice that raised goosebumps on my arms complained, “You never learn, do you, Copely? I’ve warned you before. I know where you are, where you go. You can’t escape me now. I’ve been sharpening my blade for you. Do you remember what I plan to do with it?” I shivered as the speaker—I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman—recited a terrible litany of the acts of torture he or she planned. I pressed REWIND, intending to listen again, when I heard the front door open. Quickly, I pulled out the tape and reinserted the original one.

“What are you doing?”

“Hello, Archer,” I said calmly, slipping the tape into my pocket as I turned to face him. “I came in to check if there were any messages on Wayne’s machine. I didn’t know you’d be coming by.”

“And are there any?”

“I don’t see any flashing light. Would you like to check for yourself?”

“No.” He had a briefcase under one arm, and a harried look to his face. I followed him into the living room, where he paused next to the round table. “What’s that?” he said, pointing to the box I’d left on the sofa.

“Clarice asked me to pick it up for her. She said it belonged to their father.”

Archer laid his briefcase on the round table, went to the sofa, picked up the box and gave it a good shake. “She can have it,” he said, handing it back to me. “It’s worthless.”

“It made a nice coffee table,” I said. “What should we do with the glass top?”

Archer shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll figure something out.” His face was impassive, and his manner cool. He wasn’t in a mood to be social. He sat at the table, drew several manila folders from his case, and began sorting papers.

“Mr. Bunting at Montgomery’s said you’d made the funeral arrangements,” I said. “When will it be?”

“Thursday at ten in the Cathedral. I had to wait till the brass band that I wanted was available.” He looked up. “You brought in Wayne’s clothes?”

“I delivered them this morning.”

“Did they give you my message?”

“As a matter of fact, they did. Wayne’s wallet and other items are on the bar over there along with his shoes.”

“You carried back his shoes?” He jumped up, went to the bar, and dumped the items from the plastic bag on the counter to pick through them.

“Yes. They were all they had. They’d already disposed of his other clothing.”

Archer turned around. “I didn’t mean for you to fetch his clothes, just his wallet and watch, and these things. I should have been specific.”

I thought to myself, I’m glad you weren’t or I wouldn’t have been able to lay to rest one concern I had about whether the body had been moved.

“I’m sorry you had to cart these back,” he said, picking up the shoes and crossing the room. “I’ll only have to get rid of them again.”