by Laura Childs
Carmela walked around the room, acutely aware of her footfalls on the creaking wooden floors. There’d been other stuff in this room, too, hadn’t there? She crossed her arms, frowned, then stepped over to the closet and pulled it open. Two paintings and a framed needlepoint leaned against the back of the closet wall.
Grabbing the needlepoint and the smaller of the two paintings, Carmela decided they’d probably work well in the downstairs Haunted Library. That place would look its spooky best crammed full of paintings, leather books, candles, stuffed crows, and stuffed animal heads. Maybe even install a harpsichord and a candelabra with twisted candles.
Carmela climbed the stairs to the third-floor ballroom. Up here the air felt warm and close and a little suffocating. Dust motes twirled in shafts of light that managed to penetrate grime-smeared windows. Rustling sounds in dark corners of the vast room told her there might be bats.
Carmela felt frustrated that she still hadn’t come up with a workable theme for this place. Maybe because the attic was so enormous, maybe because it also felt . . . empty. Of course, if Olivia decided to sell Medusa Manor, then all their rush-rush decorating would be for naught. Their work would just be trashed.
A sad thought, Carmela decided. But the future of Medusa Manor wasn’t in her control, so there was no point fretting over it.
So . . . now what? she wondered. Just keep working on this place while keeping things in perspective? Go out with Ava tonight and have a good time?
But not that good. Because Melody’s killer was still walking free.
Tucking the artwork securely under one arm, Carmela turned, walked a few steps, and stopped dead in her tracks.
Because she’d heard a noise. Downstairs, on the second floor. And it was a real noise made by a real person, not an intruding bat.
Carmela slipped out of her shoes and cautiously, silently, descended the stairs to the second floor. And heard the same noise again. Feet shuffling across floorboards, the creak of a wire.
Someone walking among the ghost brides? Had to be.
Creeping forward, Carmela put a hand on the doorjamb, peered in . . . and saw real-life feet and legs moving among the ghost brides!
“Who are you?” she yelled. “What do you want? I’ve got pepper spray, so you watch out!”
“I was looking for you,” said a familiar voice.
Carmela put a hand to her heart and caught her breath. Babcock?
At that same moment, Edgar Babcock silently exited the swaying forest of ghost brides.
“What are you doing here?” she screamed, still caught in a paroxysm of fear. She took a couple of deep breaths, hiccupped, and tried to calm down. “How did you even know I was here?”
Edgar Babcock smiled at her, as though they’d simply met during a casual stroll through a garden. “I called Memory Mine. Gabby said you were over here.”
“Oh.”
His brown eyes flashed, and he gave a low chortle. “That’s all you’ve got to say?” He grinned and stretched his arms wide. “How did it go this morning? Is it over? Are you free?”
“Free as the wind,” she told him, dropping the paintings and shoes, stepping into his embrace.
“Hallelujah!” exclaimed Babcock, planting a big smacker on her cheek. “Of course, now I’m going to have to move my checking account.”
She pulled back. “Shamus wouldn’t . . .”
“I’m kidding,” said Babcock. “Kidding.” He leaned down, kissed her again, full on the lips, then circled his arms around her waist. “You know, I really wish you weren’t working on this.”
She pressed her cheek against his shoulder. “By this, you’re referring to Medusa Manor?”
He nodded as his hands moved in small circles on her back.
“After today I may not be,” Carmela told him. “I talked to Olivia Wainwright earlier, and she told me . . . confessed, really . . . that she may be selling this place to Sawyer Barnes.”
He released Carmela and held her at arm’s length. “She told you that?” He seemed puzzled.
“Yes,” said Carmela. “And now I just told you.”
“People like to tell you things, don’t they?” said Babcock.
Carmela nodded.
“You can get in trouble that way. I’d hate to see you get into any more trouble.”
Carmela shifted from one foot to the other. “You think I’m in trouble?” she asked, finally.
“Someone clearly tried to frighten you in the cemetery the other night. And last night . . .”
“What about last night?” asked Carmela.
“You were up to something,” said Babcock.
“Why would you say that?” Was this man psychic? Carmela kept a tight smile on her face.
“You had that look,” said Babcock. “And your body language projected a certain . . . what would you call it? . . . contained energy. Like something was coiled inside, just waiting to break free.”
“Well, I’m not going anywhere now,” she told him.
He lifted an eyebrow. “No?”
“Maybe a quick trip through Galleries and Gourmets tonight.” She smiled prettily. “Will I see you there?”
He nodded. “Sure. Probably.” He paused, then asked, “Did Garth Mayfeldt happen to call?”
Carmela decided Babcock had to be psychic. Or else he was just a very skilled detective. “Why do you ask?”
“Probably because you seemed so tight with him.”
“Maybe not so much anymore,” said Carmela, dodging the question.
But her answer was enough for Babcock. “Good girl,” he told her, pulling her close again. “Better to leave the detecting to the professionals.”
Carmela continued to smile at him, feeling the warmth of his hands on her back, the strength of his body pressed against hers.
Should she tell Babcock that she planned to see Garth tonight? No. Somehow that might be better left unsaid.
Just let events play out. See where they led.
Chapter 27
“WILL you look at that?” purred Ava. “Deep-fried strawberries!”
Carmela and Ava were right in the fray of Galleries and Gourmets, strolling through Jackson Square, ogling the food booths, heading for Royal Street, the part of the French Quarter where the finest art and antique galleries were located. People jostled all around them, while street artists did sketches, musicians played for coins and dollar bills, and horse-drawn carriages laden with tourists clip-clopped by.
“This is my idea of health food!” said Ava, stepping up to the counter and jamming a hand in her pocket to extract a few dollars. “These jeans are so tight I can barely get my money out,” she giggled.
“I think I see a couple quarters in your back pocket,” Carmela told her.
“Thanks,” said Ava, digging around. “Hey, you want fried strawberries, too?”
Carmela held up a hand. “Pass.”
“You’re gonna eat, aren’t you?” asked Ava. “I don’t want to be the only oinker here tonight.”
“Not to worry,” said Carmela. “I think I see a skewer of fried oysters that has my name on it.”
“Ooh,” squealed Ava, “get one for me, too!”
They nibbled as they walked and talked.
“I’m so thrilled you liked my ghost brides,” said Ava.
“I loved everything you did,” said Carmela. “It was above and beyond what I could have imagined. You’re a very skilled designer.”
“Be a pity if Olivia sells the place,” said Ava, alternately munching fried oysters and popping fried strawberries into her mouth. “I’d kind of like to finish staging the rooms, enjoy a sense of accomplishment.”
Carmela nodded. “I hear you.”
“If Medusa Manor does sell,” said Ava, “we ought to think about setting up our own haunted house.”
Carmela gave a genteel snort.
“No, I’m perfectly serious,” said Ava. “We could . . . um . . . set it up in your new Garden District home!”
&
nbsp; This time Carmela laughed out loud. “I love it!” she cried. “Shamus would go bonkers and Glory would . . .”
“Have a shit fit!” cried Ava.
Two people turned to stare at Ava.
“Oops, sorry, naughty word,” laughed Ava, sticking a hand out and making a wiping motion in the air, as if to erase her words.
“Even if we just tell Shamus that’s our plan, we’ll drive him nuts,” said Carmela. “So that’s what we’re going to do.”
“Ooh ooh,” said Ava, pointing at a frozen daiquiri stand. “We for sure need a couple of those. A little hickory dickory daiquiri therapy.”
So that’s what they did—finished their food, bought two frozen daiquiris in plastic geaux cups, and strolled past more food booths as well as a wooden stage that featured the zydeco rhythms of Lady Bee and the Evangelines.
When they hit Royal Street, they heard their names being shouted.
Ava’s head spun around, searching the crowd. “Who’s callin’ us, cher?”
But Carmela had already spotted Quigg Brevard, manning his Mumbo Gumbo booth. “It’s Quigg,” she told Ava.
Ava wrinkled her nose and wiggled a couple of fingers at Quigg. “I always thought you’d be dating him,” she told Carmela in a low voice.
“I did date him once,” said Carmela, as they strolled toward him. “After Shamus and I separated the first time.”
“No sparks?”
“It wasn’t that,” said Carmela. “He just seemed . . . I don’t know . . . a little obtuse.”
“He doesn’t look obtuse now,” commented Ava. “He looks gooood.”
Carmela had to agree. With his dark hair and olive skin, Quigg was the picture of a handsome restaurateur, glad-handing the crowd.
“Hey there,” said Ava.
Quigg immediately pushed a small bowl filled with steaming gumbo at her. “Here, beautiful, have some alligator gumbo.” Then, with a slightly leering look, he handed another bowl to Carmela. “You, too, gorgeous.”
“We’re beautiful and gorgeous,” said Ava. “Imagine that.”
“That’s what Quigg calls you when he can’t remember your name,” Carmela said, as she dipped a plastic spoon into the gumbo.
Quigg kept his eyes riveted on Carmela. “I’d never forget your name,” he told her, then winked. “That gumbo spicy enough for you ladies?”
“Maybe not,” said Ava, flirting. “We’re pretty spicy ladies.”
“Hey,” Quigg said to Carmela, “I heard your divorce is final.”
“How would you know that?” asked Carmela.
Quigg gave a wink. “Chalk it up to French Quarter chatter. Not much escapes us down here.”
“You should date him again,” said Ava as they strolled along.
“Or else I will.”
Carmela paused to look at a brass dog statue that was on display. It was a King Charles Cavalier, possibly old. “Not me, since I’m pretty happy with Babcock. But you, you should go for it.”
“Maybe,” said Ava. She nudged Carmela with her shoulder. “You and Babcock really got it goin’ on, huh?”
“I think so,” said Carmela. “I hope so.”
“You two planning to hook up later?”
Carmela set the dog statue down and nodded. “I’m supposed to give him a call.” They walked along, shouldering their way through the crowd, stopping occasionally to look at a painting or knickknack.
“Oh my gosh!” said Carmela.
“What?” asked Ava.
Carmela pointed an index finger at a sign over Ava’s head. “The Click! Gallery. Shamus’s photographs are on display there.”
Ava looked skeptical. “Now? Tonight?”
“That’s what he said.”
“Shamus actually got it together and snapped real photographs?” asked Ava. Because she’d always regarded Shamus as being positively indolent, she was having trouble wrapping her brain around this concept.
“I think he took the photos a couple of years ago,” Carmela told her. “He just now got around to printing and matting them. And . . . exhibiting them, I suppose.”
“This I gotta see,” said Ava, heading for the entrance.
“No,” said Carmela. “I don’t think—”
“C’mon, cher, it’ll be fun,” urged Ava.
“No it won’t,” said Carmela under her breath.
Shamus’s photos weren’t a total bummer. There were lots of rather competently done shots of misty bayous, swirling water, bayou landscapes, flying birds, and sunsets over water.
“Carmela!” exclaimed a stunned Shamus. “You actually came!”
“We just happened to be walking by,” murmured Carmela. “Ava kind of pulled me in.” She nudged Ava with her shoulder.
“We wouldn’t miss this for the world!” sang Ava. She took a step forward, whirled about, and took in the white-walled gallery with its blond wood floors and politely admiring crowd of Meechum relatives. “Very nice.”
Shamus’s photos lined both walls of the narrow gallery and, at the rear of the space, a large white linen-covered table was laden with bottles of expensive champagne and an enormous three-tiered cake.
“Even a fancy cake!” Ava exclaimed.
Shamus was quick to explain. “It’s Glory’s birthday tomorrow. So I thought we’d celebrate here . . . tonight.”
“Kill two birds with one stone,” said Carmela.
Shamus narrowed his eyes at her. “Something like that.” “And there’s the birthday girl now,” sang Ava.
They all turned to look at Glory posing stiffly beside Clark Berthume, the owner of Click!, who was grinning widely, if not a trifle uncomfortably, as he began lighting the candles. They watched as Berthume worked his way from the top tier down to the bottom tier.
“Lots of candles,” commented Carmela.
“And don’t they make a fine fire!” said Ava in a voice that rang through the gallery. “I haven’t seen anything like it since the burning of Atlanta!”
Carmela choked, hiccupped, and burst out laughing. Glory glanced sideways, caught sight of them, and gave her trademark glower.
“Be nice,” chided Shamus.
“Shamus, my dear boy,” said Ava, clapping a hand solidly on his shoulder, “when are you going to get a backbone?”
“That’s so not fair,” protested Shamus.
“But so very true,” said Carmela.
“See if you get any more invitations from the Pluvius krewe,” said Shamus, sounding both hurt and petulant.
“We know plenty of krewe members,” Ava told him in a breezy tone. “We can horn in on your parties any time we feel like it.”
“In fact,” said Carmela, “aren’t you supposed to be riding a float tonight?”
Shamus glanced at his watch and grimaced. “Yeah, yeah, I am. In fact, I better get going.” He looked unhappy as he put an arm around each of them. “You don’t mind if I escort you girls out, do you? I’d hate to see Glory get any more upset.”
“Sheesh,” said Carmela.
Carmela and Ava strolled out of Click!, turned down Royal, then hooked a left on St. Philip Street. The crowds were slightly thinner here, so it was easier to enjoy the gallery windows stuffed with art objects and admire the antiques and artworks that were on display outside.
“I sure hope folks are buying tonight,” said Carmela, thinking about Devon Dowling’s remark about people coming out just to enjoy the food and music.
“I don’t know,” said Ava, “times are still tough.”
“Fire and Ice is going to be open tonight,” said Carmela. “I told Garth I’d drop by.”
“What for?” asked Ava.
“Because he called me earlier and sounded semidesperate. Said he needed someone to talk to.”
“And you’re that someone?”
Carmela sighed. “Looks like.”
They bought Hurricanes in plastic cups, then turned back on Bourbon and strolled along, enjoying the strains of zydeco music that floated up from Jackson Squa
re. The strong drinks, the warmth of the soft spring evening, and the golden glow from the old-fashioned gaslights that lined the cobblestone streets had put them in a giddy mood.
“This is my favorite time in the French Quarter,” Ava sighed. “When the sky’s all purple and dusky and the gaslights flicker on. You can close your eyes and imagine what it was like here a hundred years ago.”
“Not so different,” said Carmela. “Same brick buildings, Creole cottages, and hidden patios with pattering fountains.”
“Same ladies of the night, House of the Rising Sun,” said Ava.
“Like I said, not so different,” grinned Carmela.
They wandered along Bourbon and turned down Pirate’s Alley. Because the street was fairly narrow, booths lined only one side of it.
Ava tried on a peridot ring, then a couple of silver bangles. “No, not quite right,” she muttered, looking around.
Carmela found a moonstone ring, but wondered if she could find it cheaper somewhere else.
When they were almost at the end of Pirate’s Alley, Ava said, “Don’t look now, but I think we’re being followed.”
“What!” said Carmela, alarmed.
Ava gripped Carmela’s arm. “No, no, don’t turn around. We’ll stop at this booth filled with antique glass and try to get a gander.”
“Okay,” said Carmela. Thoughts of Garth Mayfeldt, Sawyer Barnes, and Olivia Wainwright swirled in her head. Or was Babcock tailing her? Trying to be coy? Watching out for her? Or, worse yet, spying?
Ava was putting on a good show at the booth, acting indifferent to whoever was shadowing them. “How much is this candy dish?” she asked the sales clerk. “And do you have any pitchers?”
Carmela reached out, picked up an amber goblet of pressed glass, then turned slowly. As she did, there was an odd flash of light, and someone ducked behind a parked truck. “You’re right,” she told Ava. “Someone is watching us.”
They left the booth and walked another twenty feet, then stopped and whirled quickly. Nothing.
