Murder in a Minor Key Read Online Free PDF

a piece off the roll on his plate, and buttered it. “So, what else would you like to discuss?”
    “Oh, come on now, Wayne,” I said. “You can’t just drop a bomb like that and/retreat. How has the mayor been lucky?”
    Wayne chewed thoughtfully. “He’s been reelected on his own merits for years,” he said after a moment, “but he never would have made it into office in the first place if his opponent, Virgil Franklin, hadn’t had such a timely death.”
    “And you think Franklin’s death was suspicious?”
    “I couldn’t say for sure. But Virgil was way ahead in the polls.”
    “How did he die?”
    “He fell out of his pirogue in the swamp, and supposedly drowned in three feet of water. ’Course by the time the alligators and vultures got through with him, there was really no way to tell how he died.”
    “How awful!”
    “Yes, but it was just what Maurice needed. The other party couldn’t come up with another strong candidate, and he’s been voted into office in every election since.”
    “You don’t think Broadbent had anything to do with Franklin’s death.”
    “Who’s to say? But what reporter worth his salt sits in the pocket of a politician?”
    “Can you be sure his book on Senator Lunsford was written deliberately to help Amadour?”
    “No, of course not. But it’s just like New Orleans politics to have something happen so conveniently. I guess I just don’t believe in coincidence.”
    The waiter interrupted our conversation by setting down our Oysters Rockefeller, six plump specimens set in a pan of rock salt.
    Wayne closed his eyes, leaned over the dish, and took a deep breath, inhaling the tempting aroma of oysters, greens, and anise.
    “I’m in heaven,” he cooed. “Let’s eat, and then I’ll tell you all about Jazz Fest.”
    “You just want to change the subject,” I chided.
    “You’re right.” He winked at me. “But you can bring it up again another time.”
    The food was delicious, and Wayne was a wonderful host, entertaining me with stories of his exploits on the road promoting his new book. I reciprocated, regaling him with the tale of my earlier trip through Jackson Square as the caboose of a top-hatted clown.
    “I’m looking forward to taking you to Jazz Fest tomorrow,” Wayne said as the waiter cleared our plates. “I’m tied up this evening, but after that I’ve cleared my calendar, and except for time spent following up any new leads on Little Red LeCoeur’s recordings, I’ll be at your disposal.”
    “I hope I won’t be taking you away from important business.”
    “Not at all. Attending Jazz Fest comes under my job description. I checked my answering machine a little while ago. Apart from the usual death threats, I have no other pressing appointments.”
    “Death threats! What do you mean, death threats?”
    “It’s a critics’ affliction, my dear. Goes with the territory, I’m afraid. Nasty letters, phone calls. They come from all over the country, probably the world. I got my first a dozen years ago when I gave a local band a poor review, and their national tour was canceled. I don’t think it was my review. They were dreadful players, decidedly second-rate. They had no sense of tempo, much less musicality. However, they and their friends took offense at my appraisal, and for about a month I was plagued by a series of vicious calls, impugning my manhood, of course—but I’m used to that—and detailing the unpleasant way they were going to take revenge. It’s one of the reasons I bought an answering machine, to put a little technological space between my detractors and myself.”
    “Someone threatening you with death is more than a detractor, Wayne. I hope you’ve told the police.”
    “I did the first few times, but the investigations never turned up anything. In those days, you had to keep the caller on the line to do a trace, and I wasn’t willing to listen to that filth for more time than it took to replace the receiver. After