Murder in a Minor Key Read Online Free PDF Page A

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