Tragic Magic

by Laura Childs

  “Let’s get it done,” said Shamus, slumping in his chair. “Let’s get it over.”

  Glory’s face turned a darker shade of red, and she twitched her nose. “That house has been in our family for decades. This arrangement simply isn’t acceptable!” She pulled a plain white hanky from her sturdy black bag and sneezed into it. “The house should never have entered into this negotiation!” She sneezed again, then looked accusingly at Carmela with red-rimmed eyes. “See what you’ve done! You dragged those hideous beasts into my conference room just to trigger my allergies!” She turned to confront attorney Mortimer. “It’s a ploy!” she cried, sneezing again and causing him to duck.

  “Could we please move this along?” asked Shawna Hardwick.

  Shamus popped up from his chair and grabbed Glory’s arm. “Let me walk you to your office. You can sit down, relax, get some fresh air.”

  Glory dabbed at her nose while allowing herself to be half-dragged, half-carried from the conference room. A couple minutes later, Shamus came back, red-faced and sweating bullets.

  “Now can we proceed?” asked Hardwick.

  “Wait,” said Shamus, holding up a hand. “We haven’t discussed custody of the dogs.”

  “What!” exclaimed Carmela and the two attorneys in unison.

  “I’m their daddy,” said Shamus. “I need to have at least partial custody.”

  “You get no custody of Boo,” said Carmela. “She was my dog before we got married.”

  “What about Poobah?” Shamus whined. “I love Poobah.”

  At hearing his name, Poobah lifted his head and gave an eager doggy grin. His torn ear flopped and a string of drool dropped slowly to the carpet.

  Mortimer regarded the dog. “You’re sure you want custody?” he asked Shamus.

  “Poobah was a stray that you found and I took in,” Carmela told Shamus. “So the way I see it, we probably have . . . uh . . . joint custody.”

  That prompted a whispered conference between Shamus and his lawyer. And some exuberant yips and tail wagging on the part of Boo and Poobah.

  Mortimer listened, nodded, made a few jottings, then gazed at Carmela over horn-rimmed spectacles. “Saturday walks and once-every-other-week sleepovers?” he droned, as though it were the most reasonable request in the world. “The dates to be mutually agreed upon by the two parties.”

  Carmela nodded. It sounded fair to her.

  “Looks like we have a deal,” said Shawna Hardwick.

  While the documents were being retyped, Shamus bored them all with chatter about his photographs that were on display at the Click! Gallery tonight. “Plus, I don’t know how many of you know this,” said Shamus, “but tomorrow’s Glory’s birthday, so we’re going to celebrate by having a cake at the gallery.” He smiled at Carmela. “You should drop by for cake and ice cream.”

  Carmela shrugged. “Yeah. Right.” Like she cared.

  “And the Pluvius krewe is going to roll a float tonight,” Shamus added. “In honor of Galleries and Gourmets, we got it all gussied up with a Chinese art theme.”

  “Terrific,” said Carmela, with even less enthusiasm.

  Ten minutes later, a secretary who’d been shanghaied to work this Saturday morning came running back with the revised documents.

  Carmela signed first, then Shamus.

  When it was all over, Shamus smiled gamely and tried to give Carmela a kiss. But at the last minute, she did her little trick and turned her head so his lips just grazed her ear.

  “I’m glad we got this wrapped up,” Shamus told her, his brown eyes slightly misty.

  “No shit,” replied Carmela.

  Carmela dropped off the dogs at her apartment, kissed their respective furry noses, then headed to Memory Mine. Not surprisingly, the French Quarter was jammed with people and work crews jostling to set up for Galleries and Gourmets. Which meant Carmela had to forcibly push her way through the crowds.

  The food booths were the big hot thing, of course. Come five o’clock tonight there would be booths selling boiled crawfish, jambalaya, stuffed mirliton, po’boys, hush puppies, homemade pralines, kettle corn, turtle soup, muffuletta sandwiches, frozen daiquiris, and Dixie Beer.

  But as Carmela made her way down Royal Street, she saw that many of the antique shops were also busily setting up. Dulcimer’s Antiques already had two large library tables angled in front of their shop, and Devon Dowling, the owner, was slowly arranging some of his smaller tabletop items: candelabras, colored glass, antique pitchers, a few small paintings, some leather-bound books, and what looked to be a Tiffany lamp. Mimi, his chubby little pug, stood under the table, watching the proceedings. When Mimi saw Carmela, she gave a desultory tail wag.

  “Mimi looks nervous,” said Carmela, coming up behind him, noticing that his pigtail hung halfway down his back.

  Dowling whirled around, looked uncertain for a moment, then crinkled his eyes when he recognized Carmela. “Mimi’s a little hothouse flower just like me,” Dowling said airily. “Prefers to stay inside.”

  “So you’re not looking forward to tonight’s festivities?”

  Dowling wrinkled his nose. “Oh, I suppose it’s all well and good,” he told her in a slightly petulant tone. “I don’t anticipate selling any more pieces than I normally would. And I’m certainly not convinced that displaying antiques like you would baskets and pinch pots at an art fair is the smartest strategy in the world.”

  “If it’s any consolation,” said Carmela, “you’ve got a great-looking display.” She turned her attention to his table, which really did hold a number of tasty treasures. “I can’t imagine people won’t stop and take notice.”

  “But will they buy?” asked Dowling. “Or are they just coming down here for the food and music?” He reached down, scooped up Mimi, and snuggled her in his arms. She grinned happily and stared at Carmela with shiny, dark eyes.

  “Have to wait and see,” said Carmela. She reached out and touched the rosebud lid of a pink-and-cream-colored teapot. “Is this from Meissen, by any chance?” she asked.

  Dowling suddenly looked a lot less bored. “As a matter of fact, it is. Are you in the market for a collectible teapot?”

  “What’s it like out there?” asked Gabby. She was standing in the front of the shop, sorting through various packets of brads, buttons, and beads. “It’s been quiet in here, but I see hordes of people streaming by.”

  Carmela smiled as she dusted her hands together. “Getting very crowded. There’s a ton of people, and excitement seems to be building.”

  “Now tell me the real news,” said Gabby. “How did your meeting go? Did you settle? Did you finally close the deal?”

  Carmela’s grin stretched across her face. “I’m a free woman,” she told Gabby. She was just getting used to that notion and it thrilled her. Free at last; no more Shamus sticking his big, fat, meddling nose in her business. The only contact she’d have with him was arranging doggy sleepovers. And he’d probably tire of that soon enough.

  Gabby peered inquisitively at Carmela. “You’re a free woman who now owns a great big Garden District home?”

  Carmela bobbed her head. “Even though Glory put up a last-ditch effort to squash it, the house is mine. Although, truth be told, I’m not sure how long I’m going to keep it.”

  “What!” exclaimed Gabby. “After all you went through? That house is yours. It’s the spoils of war.”

  “That house is also humongous,” said Carmela. “The smart thing would be to sell it. Buy a smaller property and invest the rest of the money.”

  “That’s the kind of thing that financial lady on CNN would tell you to do,” said Gabby. “You know the one I mean, Suze Orman.”

  Carmela nodded. She was a big proponent of carefully calculated plans. Well, most of the time she was.

  Gabby came around the counter and gave Carmela a hug. “You’re a good businesswoman, Carmela.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” said Carmela, hugging her back. “But I know Shamus’s
house . . . my house now . . . could turn into a money pit. Just the monthly upkeep is murderous.”

  “Shamus will have a fit if you turn around and sell it,” giggled Gabby.

  “You’re right,” said Carmela. “So there really is an upside to all of this.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Ava called, looking for her own update.

  “Well . . . ?” she said.

  “It’s over,” said Carmela. “Absolutely, formally, signed-sealed-and-witnessed-by-two-attorneys-and-a-notary over.”

  “Glory didn’t make trouble?”

  “I said it was over,” Carmela told her. “Not that it was over easy.”

  “But you got the house!” chortled Ava. “Which, I have to believe, is worth well over two million buckaroos in today’s real estate market. So you’re a multimillionaire, cher! Which means we gotta celebrate tonight at Galleries and Gourmets.”

  Carmela gave a slight groan.

  “I don’t want to hear it!” cautioned Ava. “You know we’ve been planning to go to this for weeks. I’m even gonna wear my fat jeans so we can really pig out.”

  “Your fat jeans are, like, a size four,” laughed Carmela. “While mine are . . . well, never mind.”

  “We gotta go,” said Ava. “I’ll wheedle and whimper until you plead for mercy!”

  “Okay, okay,” said Carmela. “I’ll do a turn around Jackson Square with you.” Jackson Square, adjacent to St. Louis Cathedral, was where most of the music and food concessions would be concentrated.

  “But we gotta check out the galleries, too,” said Ava. “And Jekyl’s gonna be doing his appraisal thing, so we gotta go bug his skinny ass.”

  “Forgot about that,” said Carmela. Yeah, it sounded like they were probably going to make a night of it.

  “Then maybe we can all mosey over to Dr. Boogie’s afterward,” suggested Ava. “You, me, Jekyl . . . maybe have Babcock meet us there, too. If he’s not too busy whaling on somebody with a rubber hose.”

  “Would we be going to Dr. Boogie’s to check out that cute bartender you’ve had your eye on?”

  “Uh . . . yeah,” said Ava. “Friends with benefits, as in free drinks.”

  “Okay,” said Carmela. “Sounds like a plan.”

  “Oh, cher, Miguel and I were at Medusa Manor this morning doing some decorating and arranging the downstairs coffin. Tate Mackie dropped by, too, to program in the final special effects, so don’t push any buttons or anything or you’ll find yourself being chased by zombies. Personally, I think everything looks spectacular, but I’m dying to hear high praise from you.”

  Carmela glanced at her watch. It was after one o’clock. The settlement meeting this morning had chewed up a good part of her day.

  “I’ll take a run over there right now,” said Carmela.

  “That’s assuming we still have the contract,” said Ava. She hesitated. “Do we?”

  “Ask me again tonight,” said Carmela. She hung up the phone, peeked at her watch, and frowned. Then, because Ava’s question was still ringing in her ears and she still hadn’t gotten last night’s image of Olivia and Sawyer Barnes out of her head, she grabbed the phone and dialed Olivia’s number.

  The housekeeper answered and, finally, after a five-minute wait, Olivia came on the line. “Hello?” she said, a slightly imperious tone to her voice.

  “Hello, Olivia, it’s Carmela.”

  “Yes?” The imperious tone was still there.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I was under the impression you were going out of town.”

  A silence spun out, and then Olivia said, “I was, but something came up.” More silence. Then, “Why are you asking? What business is it of yours?”

  “I’m curious,” said Carmela. “About the status of Medusa Manor and your relationship with Sawyer Barnes.” Before the words were out of her mouth, Carmela could almost hear Olivia bristling.

  “You are prying, Miss Bertrand.” Imperious had merged with haughty.

  “Probably . . . yes,” continued Carmela. “But with an unsolved murder hanging over all our heads and an unresolved situation with Medusa Manor . . . well, I just think it’s better to be open about everything.”

  “Really,” said Olivia, her tone icy.

  “Is Sawyer Barnes trying to buy Medusa Manor?” pressed Carmela.

  Olivia let loose a long sigh, then said, “Honestly, yes. He is. And I believe I could make more money by selling the place.”

  “I see,” said Carmela. “It’s your decision, of course, but I just want you to know that we’ve continued working on

  Medusa Manor and that most of the video effects are now in place.”

  “Fine, fine,” said Olivia. And now she sounded distracted. “We’ll see what happens. You’ll still get paid for all your work, of course.”

  “Of course,” said Carmela. “That goes without saying.”

  Chapter 26

  FOR some reason, Carmela couldn’t get out the door of Memory Mine. First, there was a sudden influx of customers and she didn’t dare leave Gabby to fend for herself. Then Devon Dowling called to say he just realized he had some matching teacups and would she be interested in buying a set? And then, just as Carmela was wolfing down a carton of yogurt, making plans to slip out the back way, Garth Mayfeldt called.

  “Carmela,” he said, “I really need to talk to you.” He sounded anxious and depressed. Then again, why wouldn’t he? The police had elevated him to suspect numero uno in his wife’s murder.

  “Garth,” said Carmela, sincerely wishing he hadn’t called. “What’s wrong?”

  “Everything!” wailed Garth. “Now the police are asking me to submit to a lie detector test!”

  Carmela wasn’t sure what to say. “Did you agree?” Deep in her heart, Carmela thought this request might be for the best. Strap a lie detector on Garth, ask the hard questions. Of course, some people had the innate ability to fool lie detectors. Sociopaths and psychopaths. The type of people who also profiled as cold-blooded killers.

  “My lawyer says no way,” said Garth, “but I’m thinking I should do it. To clear my name.” He hesitated. “What do you think?”

  Carmela was floored. “I . . . I really can’t tell you what to do, Garth. That a decision only you can make.”

  “I know,” said Garth. “It’s just that . . . well . . . there aren’t a lot of people whose opinion I completely trust.”

  Oh dear, thought Carmela.

  “But I trust you,” continued Garth. “You’ve stood by me from the very beginning. You were Melody’s friend, for goodness’ sake. You took on her Medusa Manor project. That counts for a lot!”

  “I don’t know what to say, Garth.” Now Carmela was in turmoil herself.

  “I’m in agony!” wailed Garth. “I go from being practically catatonic to this highly charged state where huge waves of grief wash over me.”

  “You may need some professional counseling,” Carmela said, gently. Clearly, this was way out of her realm of expertise.

  “I just need a friend,” whispered Garth.

  Carmela thought about Olivia Wainwright, thought about how friendly and solicitous she’d been at the funeral. Wasn’t she Garth’s friend? Wouldn’t she make a better counsel? Carmela pondered this for a moment, then was jolted by another thought. Have I been earmarked as confessor? Is Garth in such a state of high anxiety that he’s ready to confess that he murdered Melody?

  “Carmela,” said Garth. “Are you still there?”

  “I’m here, Garth.”

  “I . . . I just need someone to talk to.” Now his voice had dropped to a whisper.

  “Where are you, Garth? At Fire and Ice?”

  “Yes, we’re getting the shop ready for Galleries and Gourmets.”

  “You’re going to be open tonight?” asked Carmela.

  “Afraid so.”

  “Tell you what,” said Carmela. “I’m planning to catch the festivities this evening, so I promise to drop by. Okay?”

  “Will you
really?” asked Garth. “You promise?”

  “Absolutely,” said Carmela. “I’ll be there.” She decided that if Garth had a guilty conscience and might be aching to spill his guts, she’d be safe going to his store tonight. After all, there was safety in numbers, right?

  Carmela pulled up in front of Medusa Manor and glanced up at the third-floor tower room, steeply pitched roof, and arched windows. And she decided that even in benign daylight, the place looked slightly menacing. Which was mind-blowing if you were a dyed-in-the-wool haunted-house fan, but not so good if your friend had been murdered here.

  Sticking her key in the lock—the new, improved lock—Carmela pushed open the door. And was quite literally thrilled at what her eyes beheld. Because Ava and her assistant, Miguel, had clearly done some unique decorating. Rows of gleaming white skulls grinned eerily from their perches on the wall. Black netting and a myriad of huge, furry spiders hung over a reception desk that Ava had magically unearthed from somewhere—the basement, perhaps?

  The large bronze coffin had been arranged against the far window and was now flanked with brass candlesticks and stuffed with a life-sized tuxedo-clad dummy that Carmela supposed would, at the push of a button, sit up and shriek a welcome to guests.

  Carmela grinned as a shiver ran through her body. Medusa Manor was magical and maniacal at the same time.

  Upstairs, Carmela was delighted with the Exorcist-style bedroom. The headboard and footboard of the old bed had been padded with rags, just like in the movie. The walls were painted Williamsburg blue. A Bible sat on the night-stand. All the set needed now were actors to portray the possessed person as well as the exorcist himself.

  The next bedroom contained the ghost brides. Well, they weren’t really ghost brides, she told herself. Just dinged-up prom dresses that weren’t usable—except for this. Ava had gone so far as to rip and slash some of the skirts so the shredded remains caught the air currents and fluttered eerily. White, feathery masks had been hung to approximate heads, and the upper torsos had been stuffed with bubble wrap to appear more lifelike.

  Ava had been hard at work in the Witches’ Lair, too. Now the rubber witch heads were mounted on poles, and a larger scrim had been installed to accommodate the special-effects projection. Still, a lot of props were still missing. The cauldrons, dry ice, maybe even a few black cats. This clearly needed work.