by Laura Childs
“Anything besides Medusa Manor?” asked Ava.
Sidney thought for a minute. “Certainly this was Melody’s pet project. I mean, she was the one who found this property and went through the whole bidding process with the city to obtain it. Then she drew up a very credible business plan and convinced Olivia Wainwright to become her silent partner.”
“I’m looking for something that might have been a bit more unusual,” said Carmela.
Sidney gazed at Carmela for a long moment. “Well . . . I suppose there were a few things. Melody did have a slightly dark side.”
“After prowling through Medusa Manor, we’re beginning to understand that,” said Ava.
“I don’t mean that in a bad way,” said Sidney, a hint of indignation creeping into his voice. “Melody was just extremely . . . what would you call it? . . . knowledgeable about the supernatural. She was a tremendous resource in helping me put together my ghost walks. Selecting routes and points of interest, helping me script my narration. Melody was especially good with the cemetery crawls. She was very much into New Orleans hauntings and history and had amassed tons of research.”
“Melody did this for you gratis?” asked Carmela. It sounded like a lot of work to her.
Sidney St. Cyr bristled slightly. “Melody’s research dovetailed with what I do and with a lot of her other interests.”
“Like what?” asked Ava.
Sidney thought for a moment. “She was a member of the Hellfire League and the Restless Spirit Society.”
“Ha ha,” said Ava, taking a step back. “You’re trying to scare us. Nice try.”
“I’ve heard about the Hellfire League,” said Carmela. It was a private club that was more society than spooky. “But the Restless Spirit Society? That’s a new one.”
“Probably because they’re a relatively new group,” said St. Cyr.
“Restless spirits,” said Carmela, wrestling with the notion.
Sidney gave a shrug. “The group’s really a bunch of ghost hunters and paranormal freaks with a few quasi researchers thrown in for good measure.”
“And they do . . . what?” asked Ava.
“Investigate supernatural phenomena,” said Sidney.
“New Orleans has been experiencing a lot of supernatural phenomena lately?” Carmela asked in a clearly skeptical tone.
“Well . . . actually, yes,” said Sidney. “You undoubtedly know the same stories I do. About the ghosts, vampires, and even saints that are supposedly prowling our city.”
“Okay,” said Carmela. “I suppose so.” He had her there.
“Actually,” said Sidney, “the Restless Spirit guys are a fairly cool crew that gets together to creepy-crawl old buildings, looking for signs of haunting or supernatural phenomena. They take readings using infrared cameras and magnetometers. That sort of thing.”
“You’re telling me they crawl through old, deserted buildings?” asked Ava. “With spiders and rats and stuff.” She touched her fingertips to her hair, as though she could feel crawly things bothering her.
St. Cyr nodded. “Sometimes. RSS, Restless Spirit Society, is basically urban explorers with a paranormal bent. They’ve explored several old factories and abandoned buildings. And Melody once told me they went through an old mortuary and a salt cave. She was really into that stuff.”
Ava shook her head. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No,” said Sidney. “I’m absolutely serious.”
As they were driving home, Ava asked, “Do you trust Sidney St. Cyr?”
“Not sure,” Carmela replied. “I don’t know him well enough to make any sort of pronouncement.”
“What did you think about this Restless Spirit Society?”
Pausing at a stop sign, Carmela stared up at spidery branches etched against the silvered, almost-full moon. “I think they sound very strange.”
“You think we should check ’em out?” asked Ava.
Carmela thought about Medusa Manor, the Hellfire League, and the Restless Spirit Society. Three keen interests of Melody’s. Almost a . . . what? A triple witching?
“What do you think?” pressed Ava.
“I think . . . yes,” said Carmela.
Back in the French Quarter, Carmela dropped Ava off outside the front door of Juju Voodoo, then circled around the block, bumped down a cobblestone alley, and pulled her car into one of the long, low garages that backed up against her apartment building.
Hurrying across the dark courtyard to her apartment, Carmela was thinking how nice it would be to ease into her cozy bed and curl up with a good book—until she saw her door standing ajar. Two inches ajar, to be exact.
She paused beneath the canopy of the spreading live oak tree, listening to the patter of the fountain. This was bad, she decided. This was very bad. Had someone broken into her apartment? And if so, where exactly were the dogs? Her so-called guard dogs?
Lifting her chin and squaring her shoulders, Carmela went to the door and called out in her gruffest voice, “Is someone in there?” Then, as if they’d really answer her, she called, “Boo? Poobah? You guys okay?”
Easing the door open with her toe, moving with extreme stealth, Carmela tiptoed in.
“I was wondering when you’d show up,” said a man’s voice.
“What!” exclaimed Carmela.
There was a long, low chuckle, and then a light snapped on. Edgar Babcock was stretched out in her leather easy chair with Boo and Poobah curled up next to him.
“What do you think you’re doing!” exclaimed Carmela.
“Waiting for you,” replied Babcock.
“Excuse me,” said Carmela, “but I’m talking to Boo and Poobah.” She planted her hands on her hips and stared directly at her two dogs. “You guys are supposed to be on red alert. On guard duty. Not asleep at your post. Ten demerits for each of you!”
Boo raised her head daintily and gave a delicate snort. Poobah kept his head between his outstretched paws and rolled his eyes nervously.
“A likely story,” sniffed Carmela. She turned her attention back to Babcock. “And how exactly did you get in here?”
Babcock favored her with a lazy grin, then an affable shrug. “Picked your lock.”
“What!” she cried. What was it with locks tonight? “You didn’t really.”
He cocked his head and reached out an arm to grab her, but Carmela danced away from his fingertips. “Sure I did,” he told her. “It’s a piece of crap. You oughta invest in a Schlage or a Medeco. Something substantial that the creeps in this city can’t pop like a grape. Something that will protect you, keep you safe.”
“I thought that’s what you were here for.”
Babcock stretched farther and grabbed her hand, then finally pulled her down next to him. “Mmm,” he said. “That’s how you think of me? As your own personal Rottweiler?”
Carmela finally broke down and gave him a teasing smile. “It’s one of the things.”
Kisses were in order then. Long, slow kisses that went beyond mere greetings.
“Where were you?” Babcock asked, when they finally pulled apart. He sounded more than a little breathless.
Carmela gave him what she hoped was a totally innocent smile. “Out with Ava.”
“Out can be a pretty big area,” Babcock said in an agreeable tone. “Out could be shopping on Magazine Street or having gumbo over at Mumbo Gumbo and flirting with that oily-looking owner who’s always asking you for a date. Or out could be sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
“You’re wrong on all counts,” Carmela told him. “We just popped over to Medusa Manor.”
Babcock reacted as if an electric wire had been run up his leg. “What?” he cried, then leaned forward in his chair. “Are you crazy! After what just happened, why in heaven’s name would you venture back there?”
“Olivia Wainwright asked us to continue with the decorating.”
“And you said yes,” said Babcock, incredulous.
Carmela gave him
a look of pure innocence. “Well . . . yes.”
“Bad idea,” snapped Babcock. “Wait a minute, did you cross the police line? I’m pretty sure our crime-scene tape was still strung up.”
“Oh, that,” said Carmela, feeling a twinge of guilt. “I think it all blew down.”
“Yeah, right,” said Babcock, gripping her hand tightly. “I have to say, it’s particularly disheartening when the public, you in particular, has little or no regard for police authority.”
“Sorry,” said Carmela, with faux contriteness.
“And I really hate the idea of you going back to that place.”
After their terrifying little lockdown experience tonight, Carmela might have agreed that Medusa Manor wasn’t exactly a user-friendly place, but she wasn’t about to give Babcock the satisfaction. And she sure as heck wasn’t going to tell him about how she’d shimmied through a hearse to escape!
“Ava and I are pretty pumped up that we’re going to continue working on the place,” Carmela told him.
“Who hired you to do this?” Babcock asked.
“Olivia Wainwright, the silent partner.” She stared at him, thinking. “But you already know about Olivia, right? You must have talked to her.”
“You might say that,” he said, rubbing his hand up her arm.
“Olivia’s not a suspect or anything like that, is she?” asked Carmela. “She’s on the up-and-up?”
“I’m really not at liberty to say.” He cocked his head and gave Carmela a half smile. “You don’t by any chance have something to eat around here, do you?”
“Since you already invaded my home, I assume you checked the refrigerator.”
“Guilty as charged,” said Babcock, “but I didn’t see much.”
Carmela sighed. “What are you in the mood for?”
“I don’t know. I missed dinner, so anything is good. Even a doughnut if you’ve got it.”
“A cop who likes doughnuts,” said Carmela. “How original.”
“Or, rather, a beignet,” said Babcock, referring to the tasty deep-fried pastries served at Café du Monde in the French Market. “Far better than any garden-variety cake doughnut.”
Carmela walked over to her refrigerator and peered inside. “How about some monkey bread?” she asked him.
“What?” he called out.
Carmela grabbed two cans of refrigerated biscuits, a stick of butter, a bag of pecans, and a jar of maple syrup. “It’s this quick-bread thing I sometimes make. Not from scratch, but still good.”
“Honey,” he said, “if you make it I know it’s gonna be wonderful.”
Thirty minutes later Babcock was singing the praises of Carmela’s monkey bread. “This is so good,” he told her. “And you seriously made this from refrigerated biscuits?”
Carmela nodded.
“Tastes like it’s from scratch.”
“That’s the general idea,” she told him. “Want another piece?”
He nodded.
Carmela cut him another hunk of monkey bread, slathered it with butter, and put it on his plate.
“Thanks.”
“Got a question,” she said.
Chewing contentedly, Babcock smiled at her. “Shoot.”
“About the fire up in the tower room . . .”
“Wasn’t really a fire,” said Babcock.
“But the walls looked all charred.”
Babcock nodded, still chewing. “Best-guess scenario we have right now is an incendiary device.”
“Explain please,” said Carmela.
He tore off a bite of monkey bread and swirled it in the butter that had slid onto the plate. “Bomb, grenade, that type of thing.”
“So it suggests someone with military training?” Offhand, Carmela couldn’t think of anyone with that type of background.
“Or just access to that kind of stuff,” said Babcock. “These days, you can buy that shit everywhere. Get it on the Internet or from crazies who sell it out of the backs of their trucks or set up gun garage sales at public storage lockers.”
“Gun garage sales?” said Carmela. It was interesting what you learned hanging around with a cop.
When Babcock finally claimed to be stuffed, Carmela cleaned up, slid the dirty dishes into the dishwasher, and wandered back to the leather chair, where Babcock was leafing through one of her fashion magazines.
“Ladies really like this stuff, huh?” he asked.
She nodded and sat down beside him. He dropped the magazine. She snuggled in next to him and he tipped his head down and kissed her on the eyebrow.
“Tickles,” she told him.
“I saw a packet from a lawyer sitting over there,” he told her. “Everything okay?”
She nodded. “Just settlement papers.”
“The ex files,” said Babcock.
“Hah,” said Carmela. “Good one.”
Finally they started to kiss and neck a little more seriously. Which, of course, meant a move into the bedroom and lighting the candles in the silver candelabra that Carmela had pinched from Shamus’s house.
Boo and Poobah, respecting Carmela and Babcock’s privacy, remained in the living room.
As they were drifting off to sleep, Carmela finally asked the question she’d been dying to ask all night. “Any suspects?”
“Mmm,” said Babcock, rolling over onto his side and snuggling in contentedly. “One or two.”
Carmela’s ears perked up, but she let a couple of beats go by. Then she asked, “Who?”
When nothing was forthcoming from the other side of the bed, she asked “Who?” once again. But for all the good it did her, she may as well have been a barred owl, hunkered in a tree, solitary in the night, listening hard for the scuffle of unsuspecting mice.
Chapter 10
GARTH Mayfeldt came sailing into Memory Mine just as Gabby was turning on lights and Carmela was trying to coax their ailing coffee maker into spitting out a few turgid cups of chicory coffee.
“Now I’m a suspect!” were the first words out of Garth’s mouth.
“What?” said Gabby, whirling about, looking suddenly stricken. “Are you serious?”
Doggone, thought Carmela. Why hadn’t Babcock shared this with her last night when he was sharing her bed? She let that notion rumble through her brain for a few seconds. Probably, she decided, because if he’d told her that he was looking hard at Garth, he wouldn’t have gotten an ounce of shut-eye. Or any monkey bread, either.
Gabby led Garth to the back table, then sat down beside him in a commiserating gesture. She was a frequent customer at Fire and Ice and pretty much thought the world of Garth. Especially since he’d helped persuade her husband to buy a glamour-girl three-carat marquise-cut diamond ring for her last anniversary.
After their coffee maker finally oozed forth a single cup, Carmela carried a red ceramic mug to the table and slid it toward Garth. “Okay,” she said. “What’s up? Why have the police suddenly turned their beady little eyes on you?”
Garth took a quick sip of coffee and shook his head angrily. Color flared in his cheeks and his sparse hair stuck up slightly, as though even his scalp were outraged. “A couple of things,” he told them. “One, because Melody and I had taken out fairly substantial insurance policies on each other.”
“A lot of couples do that,” said Gabby. She turned wide, questioning eyes on Carmela. “Don’t they?”
Garth cleared his throat nervously. “Yes, they do. But I can see where it might appear suspicious.”
Carmela took a deep breath. “What else?” she asked Garth.
Garth pursed his lips and assumed an unhappy face. “That story Kimber Breeze did last night on funeral jewelry made me look like some kind of death cult creep. Nasty calls started pouring in and, this morning, when I arrived at Fire and Ice, two detectives were waiting for me.” He sighed. “They asked lots more questions. Nothing new about that, except for the fact that their attitude has suddenly gone from deep concern to all-out interrogation.”
“Any other reason you think you’ve been added to the suspect list?” asked Carmela.
Garth rubbed his hands across his face and gave them a baleful look. “Probably because they don’t seem to have anyone else!”
“That’s absolutely unfair!” declared Gabby.
“Shameful,” sniffed Garth.
Carmela thought for a few moments. “You were alone at Fire and Ice on Monday evening.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes,” said Garth. “So, of course, in the minds of the police the timing works perfectly.”
“Timing?” said Gabby.
Carmela filled in the blanks. “The police think Garth might have had adequate time to drive to Medusa Manor, kill Melody, then run back to the shop.”
“But he wouldn’t do that!” exclaimed Gabby. She was gung-ho for Garth’s innocence. So was Carmela. Sort of.
The three of them sat staring at each other for a minute, and then Garth swallowed hard a couple of times. “Listen,” he said, gazing directly at Carmela. “I understand you’re kind of an amateur investigator.”
Carmela raised her eyebrows.
Garth continued. “In fact, I hear you’re remarkably adept at solving mysteries.”
“Who told you that?” asked Carmela.
Garth gave a tentative smile. “Jekyl Hardy.”
“Aiii,” said Carmela. Jekyl Hardy was a dear friend who spent one crazed month each year designing and building spectacular Mardi Gras floats. The other eleven months he focused on art consulting and antiques appraisals.
Buoyed by Jekyl’s words regarding Carmela, Gabby added, “Carmela’s not just good at solving mysteries, she’s almost a pro.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” protested Carmela.
“No,” said Gabby, “you have a very good head for tracking down clues and figuring stuff out. Remember when Shamus’s Uncle Henry was murdered? When Shamus was kidnapped? You were the one with the smarts to follow the trail.”
“Carmela,” said Garth. He swallowed, grimaced, then stared at her plaintively. “Would you help?”
Would she help? There it was. Carmela supposed she’d been on a collision course with this request ever since she’d witnessed poor Melody tumbling from that tower window. However, if the police were now looking hard at Garth, should she be doing the same? Was he . . . could he be . . . a suspect? A killer?
