by Laura Childs
“Ava Gruiex,” said Ava.
“Is that your married name?” said Charlie.
“I’m not married,” said Ava, dimpling prettily.
“Good to know,” said Charlie. If he’d been a puppy dog, he’d have wagged his little tail.
“Do either of you know,” said Carmela, her eyes now riveted on the body bag, “how Jerry Earl was really killed? I mean, it wasn’t just death by clothes dryer, was it?”
“From preliminary examination, it appears he was stabbed,” said Gallant.
“You mean with a knife?” said Carmela.
“Nooo,” said Charlie, jumping in. “It’s actually . . . a little strange. And rather interesting. It appears that the deceased may have been stabbed with a weapon that was long and possibly serrated.”
“Like some kind of butcher knife?” said Carmela.
“More like a knife used to cut sugarcane or stick hogs,” said Charlie.
“Eeyuh!” said Ava. “That sounds awful.”
“It does,” said Charlie happily. “Of course, that’s just a guess on my part. Any final determination will have to be made by the medical examiner.”
“Murdering someone with a serrated knife is grisly enough,” said Carmela. “So why the coup de grâce? If Jerry Earl was already dead, why stuff his body in a clothes dryer?”
Gallant thought for a moment. “Dumped in postmortem, yes. Maybe because the killer wanted to throw us off on time of death?”
“That would do it,” agreed Charlie. “That would alter the lividity factor big time.”
Carmela’s eyes wandered back to the metal gurney that was parked in the hallway. Jerry Earl’s body was lying in that black plastic bag, stiffening and getting cooler. “That doesn’t seem . . .” she mumbled to herself.
“What?” said Gallant. “Why do you think he was stuffed in the clothes dryer?”
Carmela hesitated for a moment, then gazed directly at Gallant and said with great earnestness: “I think it was done out of hatred. Pure, unabashed hatred.”
Chapter 3
“WHEW,” said Ava. “What a night.” They were crossing the flagstone courtyard that separated Carmela’s garden apartment from Ava’s Juju Voodoo shop and her tiny, funky upstairs apartment.
Carmela paused next to a large pot of candy pink bougainvilleas. “Come on over,” she said. “I’ll make us a cup of tea.”
Ava nodded. “I need something to warm me up. I feel out of sorts and chilled to the bone by all of this.”
“And you didn’t even get to see the grisly part!” Carmela said. She inserted her key into the lock and let them both into her French Quarter apartment.
“I didn’t need to,” said Ava. “Or want to. Your description alone scared the bejeebers out of me.” She was about to say something else when two furry bodies came hurtling toward her.
“Boo, Poobah,” Carmela warned. “Be careful of your Aunt Ava.”
But Carmela’s words fell on deaf doggy ears. Boo, Carmela’s wrinkly, fawn-colored Shar-Pei, basically rushed in and knocked Ava for a loop. And Poobah, a spotted mongrel that Carmela’s ex-husband had rescued from the streets, had also closed in for the kill. Or in this case, killer kisses.
“Uncle! Uncle!” Ava cried while the dogs pranced, danced, and swirled about her as she tried to hobble her way to the leather chaise. Finally, she flopped down, but not before she was overwhelmed with more kisses and coerced into stroking Boo’s tiny triangle ears.
“Are they bothering you?” Carmela called. She was standing in her small galley kitchen, filling a red tea kettle with fresh water.
“I’m okay,” said Ava. “I’m just enduring a little canine lovefest.”
“Are you hungry?” Carmela asked. “Because if you are, I’ve got banana nut bars and peanut butter cookies.”
“Home baked? By you?”
“Yes, of course,” said Carmela. She was pretty good in the cooking department; now she was trying to fine-tune her baking skills.
“Then let’s have at ’em. You know I’ve got a serious sweet tooth issue.” Ava picked up the remote control, aimed it at the TV, and snapped it on. “Think there’ll be anything on about the murder?”
“I sincerely doubt it,” said Carmela. “Jerry Earl’s body isn’t even cold yet.”
“That’s never stopped the relentless 24/7 news cycle before,” commented Ava.
The tea kettle let loose a piercing shriek, and Carmela measured out tea, then poured hot water into a floral bisque teapot she’d found in one of the scratch-and-dent rooms of the French Quarter antique shops that she liked to haunt. Placing the teapot onto a wicker tray with cups, saucers, and a small plate of cookies and bars, she squeezed past her dining room table and over to Ava. She settled the tray onto her marble coffee table and plunked herself down on her brocade fainting couch.
There, she thought. Better. Better than a champagne luge. More comforting than a room full of crazy people, and infinitely cozier than a mansion in the Garden District. Home was where you could relax, let down your hair, and let down your guard. And feel safe, too.
Ava took a sip of tea. “Mmn, this is tasty. What kind?”
“Chamomile,” said Carmela. “I ordered it from the Indigo Tea Shop in Charleston. It’s not really caffeinated, so it’s supposed to be highly conducive to relaxation and pleasant dreams.”
“I always have pleasant dreams,” said Ava.
You wouldn’t if you saw what I did tonight, Carmela thought to herself. You’d be tossing and turning and having bad dreams.
Ava aimed the remote control at the screen and switched over to KBEZ-TV. Instantly, bright blue lights swirled around the station’s logo and a graphic that said NEWS BULLETIN lit up the screen.
“Uh-oh,” said Carmela.
“And you said it was too soon,” said Ava. “But look!” A photo of Jerry Earl Leland suddenly appeared in a framed box that was superimposed behind the TV anchorman’s head.
“Turn it up,” said Carmela. “Let’s see how bad it is.”
It was bad. Real bad.
“Murder in the Garden District!” proclaimed the anchorman. He had perfectly blow-combed hair, what appeared to be a spray tan, and impossibly white Chiclet teeth.
“What are they sayin’?” asked Ava, leaning forward.
“Details are sketchy so far,” intoned the anchorman in a voice that promised to deliver vivid details as soon as they were available. “But what we know for sure is that prominent New Orleans business tycoon Jerry Earl Leland was brutally murdered at his Garden District home earlier this evening. In a strange chain of events, Leland had just been released from Dixon Correctional Institute, where he’d been serving a three-to-five-year prison sentence for fraud. Though police officials were reluctant to comment on the exact details of tonight’s violent crime, it has been learned through an unnamed source that a welcome home party had been in progress at the time.”
“I wonder who the unnamed source was,” said Carmela.
“Not me,” said Ava.
The anchorman continued: “Standing by to comment, we have our own Zoe Carmichael talking to Conrad Falcon, the businessman and whistle blower who helped put Leland in prison.”
There was a quick shot of a distinguished-looking man with dark eyes and gray hair gazing directly into the camera’s lens. “Jerry Earl Leland made a lot of enemies,” said Falcon. “It was probably only a matter of time.”
“Ouch,” said Ava.
The camera pulled back to reveal a two-shot. “So you think it was a kind of justice?” Zoe asked. She was petite and pretty with reddish-blond hair and a cherubic smile.
Falcon drew breath and shook his head. “A very sad justice.”
“I understand,” said Zoe, “that you had been vehemently opposed to Mr. Leland’s early release?”
“Yes, I was
,” continued Falcon. “I was on the phone with several legislators, cautioning them against his release. In fact, had the justice system not been so severely tampered with and Mr. Leland remained incarcerated, this murder might have easily been averted.”
Zoe dimpled prettily and said, “And now back to you, Guy.”
“Look at that,” said Ava, still studying the screen. “That guy Conrad Falcon was pretending to be all serious and concerned, all on-the-fence politically correct. But you can tell he’s really jumping with joy.”
Carmela was skeptical. “You think so?”
“Oh yeah. I read this article about body language in Star Watch magazine. It said that if somebody looks up to the left when they’re talking, it means they’re lying. And if they look right, it means they’re telling the truth.”
“No kidding.”
“It was all very scientific,” said Ava. “A lot like astrology or tarot cards.”
“Shhh,” said Carmela, “I want to hear what else they have to say.”
The camera moved in tight on the news anchor and he said, “As our viewers may recall, Leland’s construction company, Leland Enterprises, was found guilty of overbilling the federal government for twelve million dollars’ worth of highway and bridge work in and around the New Orleans area.”
“I guess that explains why Margo’s got such fancy jewelry,” said Ava. “And why Conrad Falcon wasn’t a guest at tonight’s party.”
“If Falcon had been there,” said Carmela, still studying the screen, “he’d probably be the number one suspect.”
“But he wasn’t there,” said Ava. “So it had to be somebody at the party, don’t you think?”
“Maybe,” said Carmela. She nibbled at one of the cookies.
“The weird thing is, we were all having such a great time! At least it sure felt that way.”
“I guess we’ll just have to wait and see who pops up on Detective Gallant’s radar screen,” said Carmela. “Although he’s got a ton of interviews to get through.”
“Some of those people aren’t gonna want to talk to him,” said Ava. “You know, the wealthy ones, the people who jealously guard their privacy.”
“There’s a lot of that going around,” agreed Carmela. The wealthy of New Orleans, especially those who resided in the Garden District, were especially careful of their privacy. Many of the homes had security systems worthy of Fort Knox, and many families even employed private security forces.
Ava took a final sip of tea and stood up. “Well, time to shove off, I guess. Big day tomorrow. I’ve got a busload of tourists coming in for tarot readings and voodoo doll demonstrations.”
“Take a cookie for the road,” said Carmela.
Ava grabbed two cookies. “Don’t mind if I do, cher.”
Carmela walked Ava to the door, then watched as her friend hurried across the courtyard and let herself into her shop. From there it was a crooked flight upstairs to an apartment that had been painted a rather amazing Pepto pink.
Because Carmela’s head was still in a whirl, because she was a little too keyed up for bed, she fussed about her own apartment for a few minutes. Packing up the leftover cookies, rinsing out teacups, thinking about poor old Jerry Earl.
Why had he been murdered? What was the motive? Did it have something to do with all the glittering gold and antiquities that were strewn so casually about his office? Was it related to his construction business? To the people he’d bilked out of money? Or was it something else entirely?
Carmela frowned and let loose a deep sigh. Had it been an inside job? Someone who’d been at the party?
Had to be.
She spun around, her back to the sink now, and gazed about her apartment. At the cozy brick walls, leather furniture, and plush Oriental carpet that gave it such a warm, lived-in feeling. Happy to be here, she thought to herself. Happy to be safe and comfortable. And yet Margo Leland had probably felt that exact same way, too. But someone had come to her party, invaded her inner sanctum, and murdered her husband.
Like Plague in the Masque of the Red Death, Carmela thought. Stealing quietly among the unsuspecting revelers with ice-cold death in his heart.
A sudden noise outside startled Carmela from her reverie.
Someone crossing the patio?
That didn’t happen very often, since the only street access was a narrow porte cochere. But no, there was Boo, the perennial watchdog, her ears laid flat against her head, nose pointed toward the door, a low growl rising in her throat.
Carmela hastened to the window to peer out cautiously. And saw . . . absolutely nothing. Just the low branches of a live oak tree swaying in the evening breeze, the small fountain pattering away.
But she had heard something.
Just like I heard something outside Jerry Earl’s office window.
For some reason that incident had completely slipped her mind! But now Carmela knew she had to tell Detective Gallant. It could have been nothing, or it could be a detail that was critical to his investigation!
Should she call Gallant right now? She started across the room to grab her phone, then stopped. Walked back over instead and double-checked the lock on her window.
Tomorrow, Carmela decided. She’d definitely tell him tomorrow.
Chapter 4
AFTER spending a fitful night, Carmela was excited to get back to the Monday morning normalcy and routine of her scrapbook shop. She lifted a knee, angled her hip, and bumped open the front door of Memory Mine—all the while juggling two cups of chicory coffee that she’d picked up at the nearby Café du Monde.
She also carried a ubiquitous green-striped cardboard container that held the richest, sweetest treats known to man or beast. Because after what she’d been through the night before, Carmela had decided she needed a delicious and sugary kick-start to her morning. And then there was Gabby to contend with.
Gabby Mercer-Morris, her very capable assistant, saw her struggling to get through the door and quickly lunged to help. Grabbing the cardboard box, she said, “Let me help you with that.”
Carmela had to laugh. Gabby had gone for the good stuff right away. “It’s the Pavlov dog effect, isn’t it?” she said. “This box could be empty, but you’d still start salivating.”
“If I know you,” said Gabby, brushing back blondish-brown shoulder-length hair, “it’s not empty.” She raised delicate eyebrows as she eagerly pried open the box to reveal three powdered sugar–covered beignets. “Wow. Talk about loot.”
“There’s more,” said Carmela. She carefully placed a small jar of raspberry jam and a container of vanilla dipping sauce on the counter.
Gabby took in the sweet treats and raised her eyes to Carmela. “Okay, what’s wrong? What happened?”
Carmela handed one of the coffees to Gabby and said, “What do you mean?” What she was really thinking was: Doggone it! After working together for five years, Gabby knows me a little too well!
“Raspberry jam? And dipping sauce?” said Gabby. “These are heavy-duty stress busters. What’s going on? Did you break up with Babcock?”
Carmela shook her head. “No. Thank goodness.”
“Well, something happened,” said Gabby. She plucked a beignet from the carton and held it daintily to her nose. “Ah, the delicate essence of powdered sugar, oil, and . . . what? Is it butterfat that smells so divine?”
“Has to be,” said Carmela.
Gabby took a bite and waggled her fingers. “So c’mon. What gives?”
Carmela knew she had to spill the beans eventually. “Okay, do you remember the lady I did the party invitations for last week? The Get Out of Jail Free Party?”
“Sure,” said Gabby, chewing. “Margo somebody.”
Carmela nodded. “That’s right. Margo Leland. Well, Ava and I went to her party last night and there was an incident. Really an accident.”
&n
bsp; Gabby took another bite of beignet. “Yeah?”
“Basically,” said Carmela, trying to back her way into an explanation, “Margo’s husband was murdered.”
Gabby’s eyes suddenly bulged as roundly as her cheeks, which were stuffed with half a beignet. “What!” she cried out in surprise. Only it came out “Whuh?”
“Margo’s husband, Jerry Earl?” continued Carmela. “I found him dead and stuffed inside a clothes dryer.”
“What?” Gabby said again.
Carmela handed Gabby a paper napkin and indicated her chin. “Un petit peu of cleanup.”
Gabby swiped at her chin a couple of times while she fought to find her voice. “That’s terrible!” she finally cried. “It’s awful!” She took a step backward, as if to distance herself from the bad news. Her chin quivered and she looked as if she was about to burst into tears.
Oh dear, Carmela thought. She knew Gabby possessed a fairly delicate constitution. And she really hadn’t meant to ruin her day like this. Or her coming week.
Gabby waved a hand rapidly in front of her eyes in an attempt to ward off possible waterworks. “So what did you . . .”
“We called the police,” said Carmela. “What else could we do?”
“And when you found him, he was . . .”
“Dead,” said Carmela. Dead as a doornail.
“Oh dear,” said Gabby. “Oh my.” She wiped her hands on a paper napkin, then pulled her mint green cardigan closer around her as she gazed at Carmela with limpid brown eyes. “So . . . then what? Did Detective Babcock show up?” She was well aware that Edgar Babcock was Carmela’s boyfriend, sweetie, and snuggle bunny du jour. In fact, Carmela and Babcock had met on a case a few years earlier when Carmela’s ex-husband, Shamus Meechum, had been kidnapped. They’d managed to get Shamus back in one piece, but their marriage had been left in disarray.
“Not Babcock,” said Carmela. “He’s out of town. Remember I told you he was attending that seminar on forensics up in DC?”
“Okay,” said Gabby. “I guess.” She still didn’t look happy.
“But Detective Bobby Gallant got the call-out,” said Carmela.
