by Laura Childs
Carmela shook her head slowly. “No, I didn’t.”
“Too bad.” Ava took another sip of wine and said, “I have to say, that was a pretty crazy party. I’ve attended my share of wild warehouse raves, but Margo’s party topped out majorly on my wack-o-meter.”
“You think?” said Carmela. “What about the Mardi Gras party you threw at Juju Voodoo?” Juju Voodoo was Ava’s pride and joy, her cozy little shop just across the courtyard that was stuffed to the rafters with magic charms, evil eye jewelry, voodoo dolls, and saint candles. “One of your guests swore to me that he was an honest-to-goodness werewolf.”
“I think he was just off his meds,” said Ava.
Carmela laughed and stood up. “I better go check my shrimp.”
“Wait.” Ava picked up the bottle and topped off Carmela’s wine. “It’s good to keep the cook happy.”
Carmela swirled the inky Syrah in her glass and smiled. “If you really want to keep me happy, you can set the table.”
“I’m on it,” said Ava.
While Carmela pulled together the final stages of the meal, Ava set out yellow Fiesta ware plates and bowls for each of them.
“What about flatware?” Ava asked.
“Over there in that mahogany cabinet.”
Ava pulled open the top drawer and said, “Hey, girlfriend. You got new knives and forks and stuff?”
“Not really,” said Carmela.
Ava held up a spoon to the light. “And it’s embellished with the letter M. Wait a minute . . . don’t tell me. You didn’t!”
“M for Meechum,” said Carmela. “That’s right, I finally talked Shamus out of the good silver.”
“How on earth did you manage that?”
“Told him he needed to polish it. And since Shamus abhors menial labor of any sort, he gladly traded the stainless steel for the sterling silver.”
“You literally pried the silver spoon out of Shamus’s mouth,” said Ava, clearly impressed. “Good for you!”
Ten minutes later, the table set, two white candles flickering, they sat down to eat. Two drooling dogs sat nearby, watching with beady eyes.
“Perfection,” said Ava. “Hot, creamy shrimp étouffée on rice and creamy cole slaw. You know the way to my heart.”
“Or an early grave,” joked Carmela.
“Please,” said Ava. “Who cares if New Orleans is infamous for our slightly unhealthy food? We’re happy. That’s what really counts! I mean, do you really want to live in hippy-dippy land and eat tofu burgers and baked kale?”
“Not me,” said Carmela. “In fact, everything turned out so smashingly well tonight, I’m probably going to repeat this same menu for Babcock. To make up with him.”
Ava frowned. “Are you two lovebirds in a peck fest?”
“More like a duel of wills. He called this morning and told me to basically mind my own business. So I’m sure he’ll go absolutely postal if he finds out I’m meeting with Margo tomorrow.”
“That’s easily solved,” said Ava. “Just don’t tell him.” She frowned and suddenly pointed a finger at Carmela. “Wait a minute. I just had a very nasty thought. What if Margo did it? What if she killed Jerry Earl?”
“Why on earth would you think that?”
“For one thing, Margo could have easily lured him into the laundry room and stabbed him. And then cleaned everything up.” Ava snapped her fingers. “Yeah. I forgot to tell you. Charlie told me they found bloody towels stuffed in the washing machine.”
Carmela shuddered. “Oh man. It just gets worse and worse.”
“See?” said Ava. “It could have been Margo.”
“What possible reason could Margo have?”
“How about pure embarrassment?” said Ava. “What if, besides putting on the dog, Margo was putting on a brave face at her party? What if she was really furious with Jerry Earl because he disgraced her in front of all those Garden District swells?”
“Then why wouldn’t she have just divorced him?” said Carmela. “Yet again. Instead of staging an elaborate party and acting like she was all gaga over him.”
“That could be part of her ruse,” said Ava. “With Jerry Earl out of the way, Margo doesn’t have to settle for inheriting half of his money. She seizes what is literally a golden opportunity and inherits the whole enchilada.”
“Versus just a smaller chile relleno,” said Carmela. She took a sip of wine and rolled it around inside her mouth. “I hear you. I hear where you’re coming from. But if Margo is truly guilty, why on earth would she ask me to look into things?”
“I don’t know,” said Ava. “Maybe she thinks you can function as a kind of smoke screen. Maybe she’s trying to get as many people as possible to stick their fingers into the pie and mess things up. Maybe she’s trying to manipulate this thing from both ends.” She took a sip of wine. “I don’t know, maybe you should just come right out and ask Margo if she did it.”
“I don’t think so,” said Carmela. “I’m thinking I should just have a low-key meeting with her and let this thing play out. Sometimes people let slip a lot more information when you don’t pry or ask questions.”
They cleared the dinner dishes together, gave a few judicious scraps to Boo and Poobah, then settled in the living room with the remaining Syrah.
“You bought a new print,” said Ava. She pointed to a framed etching of Andrew Jackson addressing his troops.
“It’s just something Toby White had hanging in his antique shop. It finally went on sale.”
“It’s nice,” said Ava. “Conservative but nice. But you gotta admit, Jackson’s certainly no George Clooney.” She grinned wickedly as her cell phone burped from inside her purse. She pulled it out and glanced at the Caller ID. “Oh! It’s Sully!”
Carmela raised one quivering eyebrow at her.
“Don’t make the lemon face,” Ava said.
“What?” said Carmela. Am I that obvious?
“That face you make every time he calls, like you just sucked on a sour lemon!” Ava hit a button on her phone and purred, “Hey there, sugar.”
Carmela was not a big fan of Sullivan Finch. He was an artist they’d met recently at a charity art show at the Click! Gallery. The fact that he painted what he called “death portraits” creeped her out. And his smart-ass, erudite Ivy League posturing bugged her like crazy. But Ava was a woman smitten, and when Ava was smitten, there was no stopping her.
As Ava cooed into the phone, Boo and Poobah crowded around her. Obviously they thought the cooing was intended for them.
“Hey, guys,” Carmela murmured softly. She grabbed Boo’s collar and pulled her away. As she was reaching for Poobah, trying to get a grip as he wiggled around, she heard Ava say, “Seriously? Margo Leland?”
Now what? Carmela thought to herself. Does everyone and his brother-in-law know what’s going on? Was this going to turn into one of those high-profile society murder mystery cases? If that was the case, she was going to be crowded out and squished like the proverbial bug.
Ava shook her head as she set down her phone.
“What?” said Carmela. “Something about Margo?”
Ava put a hand to her heart and drew a deep breath. “Cher, I think we might have a problem.”
“What problem? What’s wrong?”
“Margo Leland,” said Ava.
“I get that,” said Carmela. “What about Margo Leland?”
“Sully just told me that Margo commissioned him to paint a portrait of Jerry Earl.” Ava raised her right hand and made a spinning motion. “You know, one of his infamous death portraits.”
Something pinged deep within Carmela’s brain. Something felt not right. “When?” she demanded. “When did Margo call him? Like . . . today?”
“That’s the really cuckoo thing,” said Ava. “Sully said she called him last week!”
> Carmela sucked in a sharp breath. Why on earth would Margo Leland commission a death portrait when Jerry Earl was still alive? Unless she had the ability to see into the future. Or worse yet, had manipulated the future!
Chapter 7
RUNNING more than a little late this Tuesday morning, Carmela skipped across Decatur Street, dodged past a yellow and red horse-drawn jitney on Bourbon Street, and headed down Governor Nicholls Street. The sun was lasering down, bathing the brick storefronts with a creamy light, making all the little cottages that were painted Caribbean pink and blue and green look as if they’d been air-lifted in from Jamaica. So pretty—she could almost forget that a brutal murder had cast its pall over the city.
The first thing Carmela saw when she sailed through the door of Memory Mine was Gabby being her usual helpful self with a customer.
“Hey there,” Carmela called out as the bell da-dinged overhead.
Gabby gave a decorous nod and smiled.
Their lone customer, a young woman in a snappy silver-gray dress with knee-high black boots, grinned expectantly at Carmela. She was flipping through one of the sample scrapbooks Carmela had put together and was obviously impressed.
“I had no idea that scrapbooks could be so pretty,” the woman told her. “Each page is like its own individual work of art.”
Carmela gave a distracted smile and said, “Scrapbooking is all about preserving your memories in a personal way.” Was that what Margo had intended when she hired Sullivan Fisk to paint a death portrait of Jerry Earl? she wondered. Preserving a memory of his death?
There was nothing wrong with having a portrait of your dead husband, of course. The only catch, the big trip wire in all of this, was that Margo had hired Sullivan before Jerry Earl had died. Which seemed to make no sense at all. Or perfect sense if Margo Leland was the nasty, scheming sort of wife.
Part of Carmela dreaded going to her meeting with Margo Leland today. The other part craved answers. Would Margo really ask her to help snoop out Jerry Earl’s killer if she was the one who was guilty? That didn’t seem to make any sense at all. Therefore, there had to be a lot more to this story.
“Do you think you could help me get started?” the customer asked Carmela.
Carmela snapped back to attention and realized she had no idea what the woman had just said.
Luckily, Gabby stepped in. “Why don’t you let me assist you? We’ll select an album and look at some of the fun papers. Also, in case you’re interested, we’re having a Paper Moon class tomorrow afternoon. Perhaps you might like to join us?”
“I might like to!” the woman said.
Carmela left Gabby and the woman at the counter and hustled back to her office. There were orders to be placed, catalogs to be perused, and bills to be paid. It was paperwork, just not the creative hands-on kind that she really enjoyed. But Carmela worked doggedly at her tasks, and by midmorning, she was able to slip out the door for her meeting with Margo.
• • •
THE LAVISH GARDEN DISTRICT MANSION LOOKED oddly sad and neglected to Carmela in the wake of Jerry Earl’s death. The camellias drooped, the grass was uncut, even the windows seemed to reflect a lifelessness.
Nevertheless, Carmela trudged up the front walk and rang the doorbell. She waited, heard a deep metallic bong resonate from inside the house, then peered through the wrought-iron security door as the impressive wooden door slowly creaked open.
A woman peered out at her. Not Margo. This woman, whom Carmela was pretty sure she remembered from two nights ago, had black, cropped hair and a narrow, angular face that could only be described as severe. She wore slim black slacks and a black turtleneck.
“You’re right on time,” said the woman. She extended a bony hand to Carmela. “I’m afraid we haven’t been formally introduced. I’m Beetsie Bischof, Margo’s dearest friend.”
Carmela shook her hand. “Carmela Bertrand.” She offered a faint smile. “You were the one comforting Margo Sunday night.” Actually, Beetsie had been wailing piteously right alongside Margo.
“That’s right,” said Beetsie. She had the low, throaty voice of a lifelong smoker. And probably the metabolism of one, too, Carmela decided, since Beetsie appeared to be just skin and bones as she led her through the parlor and down a long hallway. Carmela noted that the home’s interior was significantly more somber than it had been Sunday night.
Beetsie threw open the door to Jerry Earl’s office and announced in a deadpan voice, “She’s here.”
Margo was seated at Jerry Earl’s desk. Next to her was Duncan Merriweather. Their heads were bent close together, nearly touching, as they sifted through a number of important-looking documents.
Startled by Beetsie’s introduction, Margo looked up expectantly. Then a smile bloomed on her pink face. “Carmela! You came!” She sprang to her feet and lurched toward Carmela, grabbing her and embracing her so tightly that Carmela couldn’t draw breath for a moment. “Thank goodness!”
Carmela gently disengaged herself from Margo, noting that this morning she was decked out in a flouncy pink skirt suit with a dozen gold bangles once again encircling her chubby wrists.
“Duncan?” said Margo, practically batting her eyes. “Could you make those calls now?”
“Of course,” said Duncan. He surreptitiously slipped the papers he and Margo had been discussing into a folder and quietly gathered it up. Nodded solemnly to Carmela as he exited the room. Held the folder protectively to his side.
“Obviously you’ve met Beetsie,” said Margo, shifting gears. “She happens to be my oldest and dearest friend. You might say I trust her implicitly.”
Carmela just smiled.
Margo flapped a hand, motioning for Carmela to sit in the chair that Merriweather had just vacated. “Sadly, we were just planning Jerry Earl’s funeral. It’s going to be Thursday at St. Louis Cathedral. Internment will be in our family tomb at Lafayette Cemetery Number 1.” She paused, her face downcast. “You’ll come, won’t you?”
Carmela nodded as she sat down next to Margo. “If you wish.” She thought about how Margo and Merriweather had been whispering so conspiratorially. How he’d carefully removed the folder.
What else could Margo and Merriweather have planned together? Possibly a murder?
“So,” said Carmela, eager to start things off, anxious to ask a few questions. “Have you put together that list for me?”
With an erratic change in mood, Margo cocked her head playfully. “What list?”
Carmela leveled her gaze at Margo. “The list of Jerry Earl’s potential enemies.”
Margo shook her head. “Everybody loved Jerry Earl,” she said emphatically.
“Clearly not everyone,” said Carmela. After all, the man had been murdered.
Margo’s hands flew to her face and she suddenly seemed distressed. “I never in my wildest dreams imagined that . . .” She paused and sucked in a great gulp of air.
Carmela decided that Margo was good at turning on her emotions at will. And stonewalling, too.
“Yes,” Margo said finally. “I suppose there were a few people—mostly workers—that Jerry Earl had cause to fire over the years.”
“Were any of them present Sunday night?” asked Carmela.
From across the room Beetsie gave a delicate snort.
“No workers were guests at our party,” said Margo. She said the word workers as if she were referring to manure.
“Okay,” said Carmela. “What about the people Jerry Earl did business with? Construction clients. Any of them present?”
Margo’s nod was imperceptible. “Yes. A few.”
“Any strained relationships among those people?”
“None that I know of.”
Carmela tapped a finger against the top of the desk. This was like pulling teeth. “What about Conrad Falcon?” Aka The Whistle Blower.
&nb
sp; Margo reared back as if she’d been struck in the face. “That thieving rat! Do you seriously think I’d have him in my home?”
“I’m guessing he’s not one of your favorite people,” Carmela said mildly.
Margo was practically foaming at the mouth now. “Conrad Falcon hated Jerry Earl. Falcon was always jealous of Jerry Earl because he was smarter and more successful.”
“You’re telling me they were fierce rivals,” said Carmela. “Because they both owned construction companies.”
“They were in rival Mardi Gras krewes, too,” put in Beetsie. “Jerry Earl was in the Rex krewe, while Falcon was in the Pluvius krewe.”
Conrad Falcon was in the same as Shamus, Carmela thought. Interesting.
“It seems to me,” said Carmela, “that you’re pretty much pointing a finger at Falcon.”
Margo frowned. “Yes, I suppose I am highly suspicious of the man. Obviously I am.”
“And there’s no way Falcon was at your party Sunday night?”
“Never!” said Margo.
“Absolutely not!” echoed Beetsie. “He may live in our neighborhood, but we always make it a point to snub him.”
“Tell me,” Carmela said to Margo, “did you share your suspicions about Conrad Falcon with Detective Gallant?”
“I might have mentioned it,” said Margo.
Carmela gazed at Margo, who was toying idly with a gold coin in a Lucite frame. “Why do you think Jerry Earl slipped away from the party?” Privately, Carmela figured the man had tucked into his office because he’d developed a burning desire for a few nips of a real drink, a man’s drink like bourbon or whiskey.
“I don’t know,” said Margo. “Perhaps he received a phone call?”
“How would Jerry Earl know that?” Carmela asked. “The musicians were playing, the crowd was noisy and exuberant, and your husband was being lauded by well-wishers and mingling with guests.”
“I suppose Eric would have told him,” said Margo.
Carmela stared at her. “Eric . . .”
“Eric Zane,” said Margo. “Jerry Earl’s personal assistant.”
“Ah, yes, he was at the party,” said Carmela. Of course, he was. She remembered Zane as the brittle young man who’d been questioned at length by Gallant.
