Murder in a Minor Key (22 page)

“I thought so, too. Police don’t usually make such a mess of drawers and closets.”

“Thanks,” he said, smiling at me for the first time. “You know, Copely could’ve been a slob.”

“Wayne was meticulous about his appearance, and the rest of his apartment was immaculate. It made no sense that he would be sloppy in just one area. Everywhere else was perfectly neat.”

“That’s true.”

“Is that why you washed and dried my glass, and put it back on the shelf?”

He laughed. “You’ve got a good eye.”

“I’ll tell you one thing, Detective,” I said, sitting down in the seat he’d recently occupied, “if it was a ritual, Wayne was a victim, not a willing participant.”

“ A human sacrifice?” He grimaced at the thought.

I grimaced, too. “Whoever killed Wayne—and I don’t believe his death was an accident—wanted you to think he’d been participating in a voodoo ceremony. What we have to find out is: Was it really a voodoo ritual, or simply set up to look like one?”

“Do you think this ties in with Williams’s death?”

“I think whoever killed Wayne wanted to link his death to the earlier murder; otherwise, why leave the body in the same place?”

“And they wanted to tie Copely to voodoo.”

“Maybe that’s what the killer expected,” I said. “Voodoo is so much a part of New Orleans life, it was easy to say Wayne had dabbled in it.”

“But any good investigator will discover that’s a lie,” he said.

“Perhaps,” I said, “but not if the investigation is closed down.”

He nodded somberly. “When Teddy and I raised the question in our report the morning after the body was discovered, we were told in no uncertain terms to drop it. Case closed. We couldn’t even talk to the medical examiner. He was off the case, too.”

“So when you told me the medical examiner hadn’t made a determination about Wayne’s death, that wasn’t true.”

“Well, the determination had been made, but whether the ME was pushed to make it, or just took the path of least resistance because he’s overloaded with work, I don’t know. It seems to me he would wait to get the toxicology reports back.”

“Were they sent out?”

“I’m sure they were.”

“Let’s assume he was pressured to come up with the accidental conclusion,” I said. “What I can’t figure out is why the police department would want to cover up Wayne’s murder.”

Steppe snorted. “There could be lots of reasons.”

“Like what?”

“Like a major blunder, for one thing. Ever since Williams’s body was found in the cemetery, there’s been a police patrol that’s supposed to be on duty in the area. They weren’t in the vicinity the night Copely was supposedly wandering around St. Louis Number One.”

“Where were they?”

“You tell me. Some false alarm, I heard.”

“So you think there would be a lot fewer questions about where the officers on that patrol were if the death on their watch was ruled an accident.”

“Not only that, if you’ve got snakes in the cemetery—and apparently we do—it’s easy for the city to be a hero, calling in exterminators to safeguard the citizenry. The cops don’t look bad, either. But if it’s another murder, this time of a prominent citizen—when the administration is bragging about how we’ve reduced the crime rate so much, and the mayor is up for reelection—the city would bite down on the department like an alligator on a duck.”

I winced at his image, but the analysis made sense to me.

“Why aren’t they pushing for you to solve Williams’s murder? Is it because he
wasn’t
a prominent citizen?”

“You mean is this a bias on the part of the department? No. Doesn’t work that way. But I’ll tell you, it’s a funny thing,” he said, combing his fingers through his hair. “The scuttlebutt is that the voodoo community, which ordinarily would be screaming at us to find the murderer, is shut up tighter than a clam. Our guys are out there, but no one’s talking. I’d like to know why.”

“There’s another thing I’d like to know,” I mused.

“What’s that?”

“I keep wondering if Wayne actually died in the cemetery, or if his body was moved to Marie Laveau’s tomb.”

“It’s a little late to find that out,” he said.

“If we had his clothes, we might be able to find some evidence.”

“They probably went with the body to the funeral home.”

“Then they might still be there.”

“I don’t know, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Copely, he wasn’t a pretty sight. There was a lot of blood. Snake venom creates lots of blood. Funeral homes usually burn bloodied clothing, like from road accidents. The families don’t want it back.”

“The funeral hasn’t taken place yet,” I said. “There’s a chance they may still have his clothes.”

“Do you know which mortuary firm his sister is using?”

“I have it at my hotel. I wrote it down.”

“All right, let’s assume we’re right, that Copely wasn’t accidentally bitten,” he said. “Tell me why you think someone might’ve wanted Copely dead.”

“I’m convinced it has to do with the cylinders.”

“You think someone didn’t want him to find them, and killed him when he got too close?”

“Yes.”

“But why is it so important to keep them from being found? It doesn’t make sense. If they’re worth a lot of money, wouldn’t it be smarter to bring them out?”

“If I knew why someone is going to such trouble to conceal them, I’d be a lot closer to finding the murderer.”

“That item in Gable’s column this morning announcing that you’ve taken up the search for the cylinders in Copely’s memory. Did you arrange for that?”

“I thought it might be a way to shake up whoever killed Wayne.”

“Very clever,” he said sarcastically. “Did you also consider that it could make you a potential victim?”

“I think the killer is probably not anxious to make any more news.”

“Maybe, but I wouldn’t count on that. You’ll need my help.”

“I’ll be happy to have it, Detective Steppe.”

He sighed. “So now I have my new partner. Unofficially, of course.”

“Yes, unofficially, of course.”

“All right, where do we start?”

Chapter Sixteen

Jackson Square was quiet early Tuesday morning, but there were signs it wouldn’t remain that way. Folding tables, yet to be set up, leaned against the iron fence surrounding the park, and cardboard cartons were piled here and there, some in the process of being unpacked by their owners. A sidewalk artist was on her knees, drawing a scene on the pavement in colored chalk. Behind her, a stack of pictures teetered on a folding chair. Across from the entrance to the park, an elderly woman leaned over a small table covered with a black cloth, and peeled cards off a deck, laying them carefully in a pattern. The chair opposite hers was empty for the moment.

I’d walked over from the hotel, killing a little time till the funeral home opened. I’d called earlier to make an appointment. An answering machine had informed me that business hours started at eleven, unless a funeral was scheduled that day. A number in case of emergency had been given. I left a message saying that I’d be there shortly after they opened, and requested fifteen minutes of the undertaker’s time.

I adjusted my hat against the sun’s rays, and wandered to where the old woman was studying her cards. She wore a red-and-maroon tie-dyed dress and a white turban. Something in her manner was familiar. She held the unexposed cards in her left hand, and slid the top card off with her right, making a wide circle with the card before she lay it face-side-up in front of her. She glanced up from her task, and her eyes lit with recognition. She left the deck of cards on the table and approached me. It was Ileana Montalvo, the voodoo priestess I’d met at Jazz Fest.

“You still have my juju?” she asked.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” I said, patting my bag, and realizing for the first time that I’d been carrying the little package with me everywhere.

“Good.” She took my hand in hers. The fingers that pressed mine were calloused and dry. She looked at me for what seemed like a long time. “Sometin’ has happened,” she said. “I see it in your eyes.”

“That’s true,” I said. “A friend of mine died.”

“I’m sorry for you.”

“Thank you.”

“Was it a natural death?”

“I’m not sure,” I admitted, for some reason not surprised at the question. “He died of snakebite.”

She closed her eyes and concentrated on some inner vision. “Danger has not yet passed,” she said, squeezing my fingers tightly. “You are wise, but you are also impulsive. Be careful.”

Her accurate portrayal of my personality made me uneasy. “Wise” might be flattering, but “impulsive” was a crime I’d been accused of before. I preferred to think I took advantage of opportunity. Meeting the voodoo priestess again was an accident of fate, but it was also an opportunity knocking at my door, and I wasn’t about to let it slip by. I was still weighing the idea of Wayne’s death as part of a voodoo ritual. The location of his body at Marie Laveau’s tomb, the gris-gris the police had found on him—someone wanted that connection made. I was sure Ileana Montalvo had heard about Wayne, maybe even knew more than I did about how he’d died. Even if she’d never been exposed to the deluge of newspaper articles or television or radio reports on where the body was found, she would have heard about it on the street; news of that kind would have swept through the voodoo community like a swift-flowing current.

“Would you mind I asked you some questions?”

“About?”

“About your beliefs,” I said. “I’m trying to understand the significance snakes have in voodoo.”

She released my hands, and turned back to her table. “The snake is a powerful life force,” she said.

“In the practice of voodoo, you mean?” I asked, following her.

“Yes. Serpents have much magic.” She sat down again and started gathering up her cards.

I took the other chair. “What kind of magic do they have?”

“They be old spirits, goin’ back all the way to the birth of verdoun.” She paused. “The first man and first woman, they were blind till the serpent gave them sight.”

“Like Adam and Eve and the serpent in the Garden of Eden?” I asked.

“Just so.”

“Is that why they’re magic?”

She fanned the cards in front of me and indicated I should make a choice. I pulled one from the deck. She studied it and lay it on the table. I recognized the colorful illustration as a tarot card.

“We honor the snake. They intercede for us with the Supreme Being,” she said, fanning the cards in front of me again. I drew a second card and then, at her signal, a third. She placed them next to the first.

She tapped her finger on a card. “This one’s not good,” she said. “The Devil.”

I stared down at the three cards I’d picked from her deck. The card she was touching showed a grimacing fiend, its horns pointing toward its winged back. “What does it mean?”

“The Devil is bad. His is a world of darkness.” She glanced up at me for a moment. “He also stand for the ties that keep you there, in the dark. Someone may be concealing the truth from you.”

“What about this one?” I asked, pointing to a picture of a narrow building with an explosion erupting from its top; yellow flames rained down on two figures that were falling to the ground.

She frowned. “The Tower. It signifies trouble, sometin’ very wrong. It will come quickly. You need to be prepared.”

“Oh!” I shifted in my seat, suddenly uncomfortable. “And that one?” I asked, nodding toward the third card.

“The Two of Wands,” she said.

I thought I saw a brief smile cross her lips.

She picked up the picture of a man, dressed in medieval costume, standing between two leafless trees. “You will face great difficulty, maybe even danger, but you possess the power to prevail. The Two of Wands shows your strength.” She sat back with a sigh.

“Thank you,” I said. “I think.”

She pulled the three cards toward her and placed them at the bottom of the deck.

“We were talking about snakes,” I reminded her.

“You want to know about the Sacred Snake?” She seemed more relaxed, as if her reading of my future removed a burden from her shoulders.

“Yes, that’s what I was asking about before.”

“The snake be the symbol of our faith, Damballah, the Great Serpent, and Aida-Wedo, the Rainbow Serpent. She is his consort.”

“And are living snakes used in your ceremonies to represent them?”

“Yes, but they are special snakes. They swallow. They do not bite.”

“Do you mean snakes that bite aren’t part of voodoo ceremonies?”

“The Sacred Snake takes its prey whole, stretching its body to swallow it all.” She flung her arm out to demonstrate. “To be voodoo, you must stretch your soul, to learn, to take it all in.” My eyes followed the arc of her limb, and I realized that while we’d been talking, people had poured into the square, and some of them were now encircling her table, inching closer to hear our conversation.

I lowered my voice. “Yes, but poisonous snakes, snakes that bite,” I said. “Are they not part of voodoo?”

She shrugged, sat back in her seat, and pulled at an earlobe. “There are always those who follow another path.”

A boisterous voice broke into our exchange. “Auntie, I see you’re entertaining a celebrity.”

I looked up into the laughing face of Napoleon DuBois.

He threw three balls into the air over our heads and began juggling. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you want to know what lies in store for you, here is the woman to see.” He bowed to the priestess, and caught the balls behind his back, eliciting a laugh from three teenaged girls at the edge of the pack. He dropped the balls into his big pockets and came around the back of my chair. “Who’ll be next to delve into the mysteries of the Tarot deck?” He grabbed my hand and pulled me from the seat with a flourish. A giggling teenager immediately took my place, her two friends squealing at her daring. “This is Ileana Montalvo,” he told the teen in ringing tones, “a priestess, a voodoo priestess.” He made his voice wobble on the “voodoo,” extending the syllables into a long, eerie sound.

The priestess took up her role in the drama. In a strong voice I hadn’t heard before, she exclaimed, “My ancestors drew pictures of the coming days. I am their descendant. The blood of three continents runs in my veins.” She pounded her chest with her fist. “I am African, Caribbean, French, and Spanish. I have Choctaw in me, too.”