by Laura Childs
The thought made her shiver.
So what to do? Go home, flake out for a while, and then go out with Ava again tonight? Well . . . she had promised her friend. And Babcock, that squirrel, was still complaining about how busy he was.
Which he really was, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t craving a little snuggle-bunny time with him.
Carmela looked through the darkened window again and sighed. Then she spun on her heels and fought to get her head clear. It was a lovely, late-October afternoon, crisp and cool, just a faint residual shimmer of sun off to the west in the darkening pinkish-purple sky. She strolled along slowly, thinking about Joubert’s untimely death, thinking about possible suspects. Flickering gaslights were coming on in their old-fashioned wrought-iron stanchions, musicians were tuning up in nearby jazz clubs, neon lights were starting to buzz and blaze.
As an idea slowly took root in Carmela’s brain, she picked up her pace and marched down the block to the Gilded Pheasant.
Unlike the desolation that hung over Oddities, James Stanger’s front window glowed warmly and was chock-full of choice merchandise. Carmela gazed at an ornate French mantel clock, a painted Limoges vase, and a string of pistachio-colored Baroque pearls. There was a landscape oil painting, too, probably Northern European, that had to date to the seventeenth century. Everything looked very tasteful and elegant. And expensive.
When did Stanger start carrying such upscale pieces? Carmela wondered. She’d had always thought of him as more of a second-tier art and antique dealer, but it looked like he’d seriously upgraded his merchandise of late.
Acting on impulse, Carmela climbed the two steps to his shop and pushed open the door. The lights were low and music played over the speakers, a light, frothy piece, harpsichord only. Several large, ornate library tables held a wide mix of pieces. There were bronze sculptures of horses and dogs, a stone Buddha, snuff bottles, gilded French candelabras, and what looked like a piece of Tiffany glass. The dark red walls were hung with original oil paintings, crowded so close together they looked like a mosaic.
Her hand outstretched, Carmela walked a few more steps and touched a cloisonné vase. The enamel, done in colors of rose and green, felt cool and pure and looked expensive. She checked the price tag. It was expensive. $1,200.
Crooking her head to the side, Carmela looked around for Stanger and saw that he was sitting in his small office. He was behind his desk, talking urgently to a customer who was seated directly opposite him. The two were speaking in low, hushed tones, as if their discussion was very much in earnest. A negotiation of some sort? Maybe.
Her curiosity piqued, Carmela moved a little closer, trying to keep her body language nonchalant, but, at the same time, angling to see who Stanger’s customer might be.
No dice.
Carmela gave up and busied herself with a collection of snuff bottles on a rosewood stand. They were cunning little bottles carved from jade and some other highly polished, bronze-colored stone. Then she heard the back door click open and felt a whoosh of cool air. Stanger’s mysterious customer had left by the back alley. Interesting.
Two seconds later, James Stanger rushed out to greet her.
“Carmela,” said Stanger, “I had no idea you were going to drop by.” He was cordial but cool at the same time, his brittle manner reinforced by his staid black suit.
“I had no idea, either,” said Carmela. “This is just . . . impromptu.”
They smiled at each other. Not much of a joke but there it was, hanging in the air between them.
“I didn’t meant to interrupt your meeting,” said Carmela, glancing back at his office. She was still wondering about the visitor who’d beat a hasty retreat into the alley, wondering if Stanger would offer an explanation. He did not.
“Not a problem.” Stanger clapped his hands together then spread his arms out wide. “What can I show you? What lovely treasure can I tempt you with today?”
Carmela, who was really on a fact-finding mission, decided to play along with his largesse.
“I’m on the hunt—actually I’ve been looking for a while—for something to punch up my living room. A piece that’s Old World and a little special.”
“Do you live around here? I mean, I assume you do, since your shop is right here, too.”
“Yes, I’m fairly close.” Something inside Carmela told her not to reveal her exact location. She pointed to a pair of Chinese ceramic dogs. They were fierce-looking creatures with bulging eyes and oversized muzzles. “Those are gorgeous creatures. Just the kind of thing I was looking for.”
Stanger immediately launched into dealer mode. “Those are foo dogs, sometimes called lion dogs, dating from the Qing Dynasty. Done in blue and white porcelain as you can see.”
“So they’re old, they’ve got some age on them.”
“Absolutely. More than three hundred years.”
“Isn’t it difficult to get pieces like that out of China?” Carmela glanced around, suddenly noticing dozens of different Chinese art objects. The snuff bottles, various jades, Chinese porcelain plates on rosewood stands.
Stanger basically ignored her question and continued on with his sales patois.
“I don’t know if you realize this, Carmela, but Chinese foo dogs are quite significant. These regal beasts were the traditional guardians of temples and palaces. And they always come in pairs—a yin and yang.” He paused. “Quite lovely, wouldn’t you say?”
“They’re beautiful. What is the price?”
“Those particular dogs are priced at twenty-two hundred for the pair.” He eyed her cautiously, as if knowing the price might be a stretch for her. “I really don’t want to split them up.”
Carmela smiled. “I think the dogs would be upset if you did.”
“I know it’s a pretty penny,” said Stanger. “But think about it. The dogs are not only unique, they’re an amazing investment as well.”
“I will think about it.”
Stanger offered up a smile with very little warmth. “I understand you’ve been doing some investigating into Marcus Joubert’s murder.”
She remained impassive. “Why would you think that?”
“Because that’s what you do. At least, that’s what I’ve heard you do.”
“No, not really.”
Stanger upped the wattage in his smile. “Come on, Carmela, you can level with me.” He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial tone. “The Countess Saint-Marche seems to think you’re the second coming of Nancy Drew.”
“In that case,” said Carmela, “maybe you won’t mind me asking you a couple of questions.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I happened to see you lingering outside Johnny Sparks’s pawn shop the other night.”
“What?” He suddenly looked on edge.
“Did you not hear what I said?”
“I heard you just fine,” snapped Stanger. “I just don’t know where you’re going with this.”
“I was wondering why you were meeting up with Sparks?”
Stanger’s brows pinched together. “That’s really none of your business. But in the interest of quelling any wild and crazy rumors on your part, I’m going to tell you.” He paused. “Johnny Sparks had some sort of Chinese bronze that he wanted me to look at. An archaic piece.”
“Archaic,” said Carmela.
“From the Bronze Age. A vessel called a yu.”
“He was trying to sell it to you?” asked Carmela.
“That was his pretext,” said Stanger. “But I think he really just wanted to pump me for information and try to get an idea of what it was worth.”
“So did you ever connect with him?” asked Carmela.
“No,” said Stanger. “And considering he was a no-show, I don’t intend to ever deal with him again!”
SITTING at a table in Glissa
nde’s Courtyard Restaurant, Carmela enjoyed the people-watching as she sipped her glass of red wine. After sunset was when all the partiers, carousers, and phantoms came out, while legends of ghosts and specters were whispered in every dark alley of the French Quarter. Covering just seventy-eight square blocks, the Vieux Carré, or Old Quarter, had almost three hundred years of history in its rearview mirror. So it was no surprise that the city proper flocked here to enjoy the music clubs, absinthe bars, strip clubs, haunted hotels, and gumbo shacks, not necessarily in that order. And, of course, the 5K Witches’ Run was the main attraction tonight.
As the caped and costumed crowd swirled and shifted, Carmela caught sight of Ava shouldering her way toward her. Then again, Ava always stood out in a crowd. Her high cheekbones, snapping eyes, and raven hair turned heads and generally caused grown men to stumble and gape in her wake.
Tonight, however, there was something different about Ava.
“What did you do?” Carmela squealed.
Ava batted her lashes and smiled a radiant smile as she scraped back a metal chair and plopped down at Carmela’s table. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Your lips. They’re, like, totally blimped out!”
“I told you I was getting Botox above my brows,” said Ava. “Anyway, it went so well, I opted for lip plumper, too.”
“You sure did.”
“The place I went to . . .”
“Place,” said Carmela. “Was it a clinic? Cosmetologist? Plastic surgeon?”
“My manicurist,” said Ava. “Remember Bambi, the girl with the hot pink extensions and the boyfriend doing three to five in Dixon Corrections? Well, she was offering a special.”
“Three syringes of blowfish-my-lips for the price of one? I mean, for that kind of volume, she can’t have used just one vial.”
Ava giggled. “No, no, we’re talking multiples.”
“So you want a drink? Maybe some wine? That’s if you can get those lips around a wineglass.”
Ava nodded. “I’ll work it out. But why don’t we wander around the Quarter and grab us a couple of geaux cups? Check out the action and watch the race.”
“Sure,” said Carmela. She tossed down a few dollars and they skittered off on their adventure.
* * *
The very cool thing about the Witches’ Run was that most of the runners were in costume.
“Lookie,” said Ava, as they paused in front of Deek’s Oyster Bar. “Here come some of the runners.”
There were witches, fairies, a Red Riding Hood, a football player, and a cowboy. They loped along, looking almost professional, obviously the front-runners in the pack.
After these more serious runners—those who’d probably finish the 5K at around twenty minutes—came the amateurs. Glinda the Good Witch, as well as her counterpart, the chartreuse-faced Wicked Witch, were both zooming along on roller skates. Then there was a monk, a guy in a bear suit, and any number of fluttering ghosts.
There was also a man running with two bulldogs, the three of them chugging along as best they could.
Luckily, a local running club was manning a nearby stand of cauldrons, all of them stocked with bottles of water and cups of Gatorade that were handed out to runners as they streamed by.
Carmela and Ava bought strawberry daiquiris and wandered up Bourbon Street. Around eight o’clock there was a loud burst from a cannon.
“What’s that?” asked Ava, startled. “The redcoats are coming? There’s going to be a redux of the Battle of New Orleans?”
“I think that’s to announce the winner,” said Carmela. “Somebody must have crossed the finish line.”
“Oh, sure. I knew that.”
“Yeah,” said Carmela. “The race is over for sure. Look, here comes the parade.”
Two black-and-white police cars, lights flashing, led the way as a marching band high-stepped its way up the street. Instead of traditional band uniforms, the band members were dressed completely in black ninja outfits with outlines of neon skeletons affixed to the front. They played a jazzy version of “When the Saints Go Marching In” as they passed by.
Following close behind were a trio of flambeaus twirling their flaming torches. And behind them was a troupe of acrobats, flipping and bounding along.
As the first parade float rolled into sight, Carmela immediately recognized a familiar face. It was her ex-husband, Shamus Meechum, riding proudly at the helm, standing next to a red and purple octopus. Glowing red eyes moved from side to side in the behemoth’s head, while four scantily clad mermaids writhed and struggled in the octopus’s tentacles. Shamus and his friends waved and played to the crowds as they tossed out candy and glow sticks.
“Shamus! Hey, Shamus!” Ava hooted. They waved and hollered at him until he looked down and grinned in recognition. He gave a wave, and then dashed toward the back of the float. Two seconds later, the float slowed down to a crawl and Shamus hopped off.
“Uh-oh,” said Carmela. “He’s coming over to talk to us. I didn’t think he’d do that.”
“Just play nice,” said Ava.
Carmela’s grin stretched uneasily across her face as Shamus approached. He was dressed in a jaunty black leather jacket, gray slacks, and black boots, with not a hair out of place. And he was still devastatingly handsome with his easy smile and languid, confident way of moving. Still, she decided, it was a strained relationship. Especially since they shared joint custody of the dogs.
Shamus wrapped Carmela up in an uncomfortable hug. “You look amazing,” he purred, his lips lightly brushing her throat.
“You look great, too,” said Carmela. Then, “How come you didn’t run in the 5K tonight?”
“Yeah,” Ava piped up. “I thought you were a real jock. Didn’t you letter in track at Tulane?”
“He did,” said Carmela. She took a step back. “At least he said he did.”
“So you should have been out there leading the pack,” said Ava.
Shamus offered a pained expression. “Me? Heck no, ladies. I’ve got myself a really bad knee.” He reached down and made a big production out of massaging his left knee. “My patella’s all screwed up. Old football injury, you know.”
Carmela frowned. “That’s funny. I thought it was your ankle that gave you trouble.”
“And that you played soccer instead of football,” said Ava.
“Yeah,” Shamus said, suddenly switching over and favoring his right leg. “That, too.”
Carmela peered at him. “Have you been drinking?”
“What if I have?” said Shamus. “You’ve got no reason to tell me not to. Not anymore.”
“He probably crossed over the legal limit at one o’clock this afternoon,” said Ava. She said it lightly, but there was a touch of venom in her voice. Ava still liked to needle Shamus for bugging out on Carmela.
“So what?” said Shamus. “We’re coming up on Halloween, after all.” He offered them his trademark shit-eating grin. “A major holiday.”
“Which explains why you also drink on Flag Day and Arbor Day,” said Carmela. “And pretty much every . . .”
“I hear you finally sold the house,” said Shamus, hastening to change the subject. Carmela had received Shamus’s Garden District home as part of their divorce settlement. “Get a real sweet price on it?”
“We’re supposed to close next week,” said Carmela. The selling price wasn’t any of his business.
“It’s the end of an era,” Shamus lamented as he clapped a hand to his chest. “The last nail in the coffin of our relationship, and our family manse . . . gone.”
“But you didn’t want to live there,” Carmela pointed out. “You never wanted to live there. Face it, Shamus, you’re happier than a nerd at a Star Trek convention living in your high-rise condo. That way you can date lingerie models and bottle hostesses to your heart’s content and never have to h
ide or shred another hotel receipt again.”
“Ooh,” said Ava. “Bottle hostesses. That’s your seriously sleazy type of gal.”
“Doesn’t matter where I live now, babe,” said Shamus. “But I got to say it, that house was in the Meechum family for almost a hundred years. It has a serious history.”
“Look on the bright side,” said Ava. “Now it can be in some other dysfunctional family for the next hundred years.”
Shamus’s float was about to turn the corner and disappear into the night, when Shamus suddenly yelled out, “Hey, Darlene,” to a lithe blonde who was driving a bright red convertible in the parade.
She squealed and waved back at him.
“Put your tongue back in your mouth, Shamus,” said Ava.
Shamus was suddenly hot to move on. “Gotta go! Maybe I’ll catch you gals later.”
“Sure,” said Carmela, knowing he’d be off trying to charm Darlene.
“What a poser,” said Ava. “Talk about dodging a bullet, cher. Your divorce was the best thing that clown ever gave you.”
“That and the house.”
“And the house,” agreed Ava. “Now let’s go get us a big bowl of gumbo.”
* * *
Mumbo Gumbo was a cozy restaurant located in a former art gallery that had gone belly-up three years ago. Crumbling brickwork crept halfway up the interior walls, giving it a rustic, European feel. From there the smooth walls were painted in a gold and cream harlequin pattern. A large bar, high gloss and the color of a ripe eggplant, dominated a side wall. Above the bar, glass shelves displayed hundreds of sparkling bottles. Heavy wooden tables with black leather club chairs were snugged next to antique oak barrels that held glass and brass lamps. Large bumper-car booths were arranged in the back. Potted palms and slowly spinning wicker ceiling fans added to the slightly exotic atmosphere of the place.
The music tonight was zydeco interspersed with haunting Cajun ballads, while about three dozen people jostled at the hostess stand, hoping for a table.
Quigg Brevard, the owner, spotted Carmela immediately and hustled over to greet her. All broad shoulders in a sleekly tailored sharkskin suit, Quigg was slightly dangerous-looking with his dark eyes, olive complexion, and full, sensuous mouth.
