Read Online Murder in a Minor Key by Jessica Fletcher - Free Book Online

early, taken my exercise in a brisk walk that followed a recommended circuit provided by the hotel, and now, showered and dressed for the day, was reading the morning newspaper. Since Wayne was notorious for being late, I’d gone ahead and ordered the hotel’s continental breakfast, which included fresh orange juice, New Orleans’s famous chicory coffee, and two beignets—puffy, square, doughnutlike pastries wearing a heavy coating of powdered sugar, a good portion of which had threatened to settle on the napkin on my lap. I’d struggled not to make too much of a mess; the delicate flavor was worth the effort. “I don’t know a soul who can eat those neatly,” the waitress, a blonde with a big bosom, had said when she’d set the plate in front of me. “Even a knife and fork are no help.”
    It was another sunny day, only slightly less hot than the one before, with the promise of temperatures approaching ninety, and still no rain in sight. The Times-Picayune reported that the drought was causing local farmers concern, particularly so early in the season when water was essential to establishing new crops.
    I turned to the police page, which featured an interview with the city’s superintendent of police, Jimmy Johnson. A photo accompanied the article and depicted a handsome, African-American man, about fifty, wearing a dress uniform emblazoned with multiple medals on his left shoulder. He was shaking the hand of Mayor Maurice Amadour, and both men were smiling at the camera. The mayor was quoted as congratulating the police department for the continuing drop in the crime rate.
    Superintendent Johnson, the article related, had praised the hard work of NOPD’s Operations Bureau, in particular the District Investigative Unit assigned to street crime in the French Quarter, and had issued a list of security recommendations for tourists to ensure their well-being during their stay:
 
Tourists are advised to travel in pairs; avoid walking alone at night in out-of-the-way parts of the city; keep hotel doors securely locked, and admit no one unfamiliar to the occupants.
     
     
    I scanned the police blotter along the side of the page. Superintendent Johnson’s advice came a day too late for a pair of elderly ladies visiting the city from Tallahassee, Florida. The police report noted that they were attacked when they opened the door to an armed robber, who knocked one down and hit the other on the side of her head when she refused to relinquish her handbag. The latter was in serious but stable condition at Tulane University Medical Center.
    Another report announced that teenage suspects had been taken into custody, accused of being behind a series of hit-and-run muggings of tourists in the French Quarter.
    Too, another statue was found missing from a family tomb in Lafayette Cemetery. In its place, the thief had left a lace cross and a purple candle, wrapped up in a green ribbon. Investigators were consulting voodoo specialists for an interpretation.
    Finally, there was a list of overnight arrests made for drunken and disorderly conduct.
    “That’s enough to spoil anyone’s appetite,” the waitress said, cocking her head toward my reading material. “They keep telling us that crime is down, but there’s plenty around to keep you quaking in your sandals.”
    She filled my cup halfway with coffee and then topped it with hot milk. Eyeing the extra place setting, she added, “Still waiting for someone?”
    “Yes. I’m sure he’ll be here shortly.”
    “May I join you?”
    I looked up to see Doris Bums. Her face was scrubbed clean of makeup, and a sprinkling of freckles decorated her nose. A large pair of sunglasses were perched on the top of her head, holding her straight hair away from her face. She wore a pink plaid sundress with narrow straps exposing her freckled shoulders, and she could have passed for sixteen years old, a tall sixteen, but sixteen nevertheless.
    “Please do. You look fresh and ready for a day