Murder, She Wrote: Murder in a Minor Key

Murder, She Wrote

Jessica Fletcher - Author

Donald Bain - Author

Paperback: Mass Market | $6.99 | add to cart | view cart
ISBN 9780451204349 | 272 pages | 01 Oct 2001 | Signet | 4.33 x 6.77in | 18 - AND UP
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A Funeral in New Orleans Jessica Fletcher has a writer’s conference in New Orleans and can’t resist staying an extra week for the annual Jazz Festival. In her short time there, she gets a chance to sample everything the city has to offer— its delectable food, its wonderful music and, of course, its unique brand of murder and corruption…

Arts critic Wayne Copely is desperately searching for the fabled recordings of New Orleans jazz legend Little Red LeCoeur. But when he hears that his old friend Jessica Fletcher is in town, he’s more than happy to take a break from work and give her an insider’s view of the festival. Unfortunately, her jazz lesson and his search are tragically cut short when he turns up dead next to the grave of an old voodoo queen. And when the cops pass off the bizarre event as a mere ‘accidental death’, it’s up to Jessica to get to the bottom of it...

“It’s a sad day in New Orleans…”

The mayor said, shaking his head. “Dreadful accident.”

“Do you really believe Wayne’s death was an accident?” I asked. “I’m not convinced that it was.”

The mayor took my elbow and ushered me toward the sliding glass doors. “Let’s not talk of this here,” he said.

We stepped outside into the hot air, and paused under a palm tree.

“I know how upset you must be, Mrs. Fletcher. Wayne was a friend to us all.”

“I certainly am upset, Mayor Amadour,” I said, feeling a different kind of heat rising in my blood. “I’m particularly upset that the police department made such a quick decision on the nature of Wayne’s death. I really can’t believe it.”

“Now, now, Mrs. Fletcher.” He took my hand between his and patted it. “I knew Wayne for many years, and he was a bit of an odd duck.”

“I don’t think…” I started to say, but he wouldn’t let me speak.

“He was an obsessive man,” he said, squeezing my hand hard, and catching my ring in the vise of his grip, “no telling what he would do if he took a mind to it. I believe if you think about that for a little while, you’ll come to the same conclusion.”

I yanked my hand away, and suppressed the urge to rub my finger where the ring had made a dent in the skin…

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