by Laura Childs
“Okay.” Carmela wasn’t sure what kind of philosophical prose that was supposed to be, but she wasn’t about to argue. The clock was ticking and the dogs were padding back and forth between her and Ava, making nervous little figure eights, as if they were in a figure-skating competition.
“Cher, how are you fixed for coffee?”
“Sorry, no time.”
“Coca-Cola?” asked Ava. “I always need a hit of caffeine to get my engine purring.”
Ava’s engine seemed like it was purring just fine. “In the refrigerator,” said Carmela. She grabbed a bag from under the cupboard and poured kibbles into two aluminum bowls for the pups. Petit déjeuner for dogs. “Help yourself.”
Ava found her Coke and wandered over to the dining room table. She plunked herself down, did a sort of double take, and said, “Holy chibata, girlfriend. That’s a sweet-lookin’ little bauble you got here!”
Oops, Carmela thought. Ava had just spotted the diamond necklace.
“Where did you get this?” Ava had pulled it from the pouch and was practically drooling.
“From Shamus.”
Ava’s brows instantly puckered. “Oh no! Problema! Please don’t tell me that lying, scheming skunk is trying to ply you with expensive gifts? Don’t you dare think about taking him back!”
“Not to worry,” Carmela chuckled. That was never going to happen. “The necklace is for the top of a cake he asked me to decorate for the Cakewalk Ball.”
Ava plucked the little pendant up and dangled it from her fingers. “You’re telling me Crescent City Bank is donating this?”
“That’s right.” Pause. “Would you like to go?”
“To the ball?” Ava nodded. “Sure, why not.”
“With me as your date, since I only have two tickets.”
“Okay by me.” Ava studied Carmela for a couple of seconds, then batted her eyelashes. But in a friendly way. “Carmela dear.”
“Yes?” Carmela could pretty much guess what was coming.
“Can I wear this?” Ava asked, giving the little pendant a shake. “Just for the funeral? I mean, it’s the closest I’ve come lately to a gen-u-ine diamond.” She fluttered her left hand absently. “Honestly, I thought for sure I’d be married and divorced by now, out of my starter marriage and working on finding a second, more successful husband. And what am I? A single woman with a cat! I’m a cliché!”
“But it’s a prizewinning cat,” said Carmela. When her words failed to cheer Ava, she added, “I suppose you can wear it. After all, what Shamus doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”
Ava hastily strung the pendant around her neck, where it glittered and gleamed and caught the light. “Isn’t it funny,” she said in a breathy voice, “that diamonds are a girl’s best friend, but dogs are man’s best friend?”
Carmela thought for a moment. “I guess that tells you which sex is smarter.”
• • •
CARMELA AND AVA WALKED ACROSS THE PLAZA to St. Louis Cathedral, arguably the heart of New Orleans. With its triple steeple, the cathedral was an architecture gem. It towered above its historic neighbors, the Cabildo and the Presbytere, and looked down benevolently on the green of the Square and the block-long Pontalba Buildings with their lacy ironwork galleries.
Inside, the church smelled distinctly Catholic, a blend of frankincense and sandalwood mingling with the scent of votive candles, oil, and fresh flowers.
“Wow,” Ava whispered as she and Carmela stood in the back of the church and looked around. “Margo’s turned this funeral into a real shindig.”
The great rococo altar was adorned with extravagant floral bouquets of porcelain white camellias and English roses. Enormous candles burned on two six-foot-high brass stands. And front and center, between two rows of wooden pillars, was Jerry Earl’s ornate mahogany casket. It rested atop a wooden bier and was draped with a white flag embroidered with a gold Mardi Gras emblem.
“It looks like a state funeral,” Carmela whispered. She decided that all that was lacking was some red, white, and blue bunting. The kind politicians seemed to love. Then her eyes searched the crowded church, a veritable sea of darkness with everyone dressed in black like a flock of grackles. Finally, she spotted Gallant, sitting just a few rows ahead of them. “C’mon,” she whispered.
Carmela and Ava tiptoed to the pew, where Bobby Gallant was camped out. He looked up expectantly, then scooched over to make room for them.
“Anything new?” Carmela asked him.
But before he was able to answer—or maybe he wasn’t going to answer her at all—a hush descended upon the crowd.
There was a clatter at the back of the church, then Carmela and the two hundred or so mourners turned to watch as Margo began her way up the center aisle. Escorted by Duncan Merriweather, Margo was dressed in a flowing black dress and wore a perky hat with a veil. As she stepped smartly along, knowing full well she was being scrutinized by everyone, it became quite apparent that her intent was to show off. Her dress, edged with pale pink lace, was knee-length in front, but fell into dramatic, sweeping, floor-grazing folds in back.
“She’s wearing a mullet dress,” Ava whispered. “Business in the front, party in the back.”
As Margo continued up the aisle, a chill ran down Carmela’s spine. She realized that Margo, with her black dress and matching veil, looked more like a bride than a grieving widow. Only she was a bride dressed in black, like a witch bride or a character out of some unholy fairy tale.
Margo finally made it to her seat in the front row. She and Merriweather slid in and settled next to Beetsie, who extended a bony hand to each of them. Beetsie, Carmela noted, appeared more severe than ever. She wore a plain sack-like black dress that hung loosely around her hips, and she sported a fresh-cropped haircut that revealed rather large ears.
Seated directly behind Margo was Eric Zane and two other people that Carmela recognized as household staff.
From the third row on were the hoi polloi of the Garden District. Friends and neighbors, many of whom had been present at Margo’s soiree last Sunday night. Carmela even recognized Buddy Pelletier, looking dignified and somber. He was clutching the hand of a petite blond woman seated next to him. Presumably his wife.
Suddenly, organ music burst forth with an impressive rendition of “How Great Thou Art.” The priest marched in, accompanied by two altar boys, and the service was under way.
The Requiem Mass was longer and more elaborate than Carmela had remembered. And so, when Buddy Pelletier took the lectern to speak, she found it to be a welcome break. His manner was gentle and caring, and he spoke elegantly and meaningfully about his dear departed friend.
There was more incense as well as prayers and songs. And then, finally, the service came to its inevitable conclusion. The casket click-clacked down the aisle, followed by a weeping Margo, who was barely supported by a teetering Duncan Merriweather.
“Very dramatic,” Ava whispered to Carmela.
Carmela nodded. Then turned to speak to Gallant. But like a will-o’-the-wisp, he had suddenly disappeared down the side aisle.
“Doggone,” Carmela said under her breath. “I wanted to talk to him.”
“Maybe you can catch him at the cemetery?” said Ava.
“That means we have to go to the cemetery,” said Carmela. She hadn’t planned on that.
“We have to go!” said Ava. “Because . . .” She hesitated.
“What?”
“There’s a fancy luncheon afterward. At Commander’s Palace. You know I don’t get to go there all that often.”
So of course, they drove down St. Charles Street from the French Quarter to the Garden District. Or “back to the scene of the crime,” as Ava called it.
• • •
“YOUR PINK AND ORANGE TOP IS A WELCOME hint of color in all this gloom,” Carmela told Ava as they walked
through the wrought-iron gates of Lafayette Cemetery No. 1.
“Nothing will ever be dull around me,” agreed Ava. “Not even the weather.”
In the distance, a bright flash lit up the sky. It was followed by a loud clap of thunder.
Carmela laughed. “Did you do that?”
Ava raised her brows and glanced sideways at her. “That’s only a small sample of my bewitching powers.”
They followed a group of mourners through the jumble of tombs and markers and mausoleums. Rain pattered down lightly as white gravel crunched underfoot.
“Spooky in here,” Ava muttered.
“I thought you liked spooky,” said Carmela.
“I like my brand.”
“Oh,” Carmela laughed. “You mean the manufactured kind. The voodoo dolls that come wrapped in plastic from a factory in China.”
They assembled with a small group of about thirty people, then waited in the light rain as a cadre of pallbearers carried in Jerry Earl’s casket.
“At least this isn’t filled with theatrics,” Ava whispered.
At which point a flash of lightning blazed across the sky and Margo Leland stepped forward to place the memory box that Carmela had crafted atop the polished casket.
“Ooh, look what’s suddenly front and center,” whispered Ava.
“Shhh,” said Carmela as Margo turned to address the group.
“I’m so glad y’all could come,” Margo said in a halting voice. “It means a lot to me, and it would have meant so very much to my dear Jerry Earl.” She brushed back tears. “He did so love a good party.”
“She’s not just the life of the party,” Ava whispered. “She’s the death of the party.”
Margo turned and touched a hand to Jerry Earl’s casket. “Now he’s gonna join his momma and daddy right here in this magnificent Leland family tomb.” Her eyes went a little wonky. “Where I will probably join him sometime in the distant future.”
Carmela had seen weird send-offs before—this was New Orleans, after all. But this one took the cake.
“Buddy,” said Margo, turning slightly, “would you do the honors?”
Buddy Pelletier nodded at her and stepped smartly up to the mausoleum. As he pushed open the wrought-iron gate, it creaked back loudly on rusty hinges. Then it took another few minutes for the pallbearers to grapple with Jerry Earl’s casket once again and muscle it into the tomb.
Carmela knew that family tombs were a grand tradition here in New Orleans. Coffins were often left inside for years at a time to dry out and decay. Then they were discarded and the dear departed’s bones shoved down a slide to a repository below. She wondered if Jerry Earl was next in line, or if he was going to have to wait his turn. Then, because she knew her thoughts were dark and grisly, she glanced around to clear her head. And noticed Eric Zane wiping away a tear.
Is he sorry that Jerry Earl is dead? Or relieved that he’s gone?
Another thunderclap rumbled, this one closer than ever, and Carmela felt fine droplets starting to hit her head.
Good thing I didn’t pop for an eighty-dollar blowout.
They all bowed their heads as the priest stepped up and gave his final blessing, his voice sounding hollow and stark in the old cemetery. Even he seemed to rush through the ritual before the thunderstorm threatened to let loose and soak them all.
When it was finally over, the crowd began to quickly disperse, but Carmela sought out Buddy Pelletier.
“You gave a really lovely eulogy,” she told him.
Pelletier tilted his head at her in appreciation. “Thank you, my dear.” He placed his hand over his heart and patted it. “It’s a very sad day for all of us.”
Carmela nodded. “Indeed it is. Though Margo seemed to hold up fairly well.”
“Margo’s a trooper,” said Pelletier. “She’ll carry on no matter what. Of course . . .” He gazed at her pointedly. “She’ll need a little help from her friends.”
“That goes without saying.”
“I wanted to tell you,” said Pelletier, “how much I admired the little shadow box you created. Very appropriate.”
“Thank you. It was really just stuff that Margo gave me. The coins and photo, a geode plus Jerry Earl’s notebook.”
“Still, a lovely and meaningful piece of artwork,” said Pelletier. “Perhaps I could commission one myself someday. But something a little more feminine in nature, since it would be a gift for my dear wife.”
Just then Ava walked over to join them.
“Carmela could do it,” said Ava, always the promoter. “She’s a real artist.”
Pelletier smiled. “I know she is.” He paused. “Are you ladies coming to the luncheon?”
“We wouldn’t miss it for the world,” said Ava. She waggled her fingers. “Bye-bye. See you later.” Ava could generally charm the stitches off a baseball.
“Save it,” said Carmela when Pelletier was out of earshot. “He’s married.”
“Why is it that the rich, good-looking ones always are?” she sighed.
“Come on,” said Carmela. “We should say something to Beetsie.”
“Why?” said Ava. She pulled a mirror out of her bag and made a big point of checking her hair. “Ooh, I’m getting soaked to the bone. Soaked to the bone, get it?”
“Be nice,” said Carmela. She forced a smile to her face and called out, “Beetsie.”
Beetsie turned toward her, dabbing at her eyes, and Carmela realized that she’d been crying.
“What a lovely funeral,” Carmela told her. “It was so kind of you and Duncan Merriweather to help with the planning.”
Beetsie nodded tiredly. “Yes, it was quite a fine send-off. But really, aside from ordering flowers and a few minor details, Duncan handled most of the details himself. He’s a retired funeral director, you know.”
Carmela stiffened. “No. I had no idea.”
Beetsie nodded. “I don’t think Mr. Merriweather did any actual embalming in the last few years of his career, but he ran a fine, dignified business. Perhaps you know it? Broussard’s over on St. Charles?”
“I’ve heard of it,” said Carmela.
“Yes,” said Beetsie. “Broussard was his mother’s maiden name.” She smiled brightly, showing amazingly long incisors. “Duncan Merriweather comes from a long line of undertakers!”
Chapter 15
CARMELA and Ava exchanged hasty, astonished looks. This was front-page news for both of them!
“But that’s neither here nor there,” Beetsie prattled on. “Goodness, I do think it’s really going to pour.” She hunched her shoulders and tried to shield her head with her clunky black purse. “I guess I’d better dash across the street to the luncheon reception.” And without even a polite good-bye, she turned and scuttled over to join Margo, who was still surrounded by a small group of mourners.
“Did you hear that?” said Carmela, her voice rising a couple of octaves. “Undertaker? That means Merriweather probably has a trocar. Just like the murder weapon!”
“It also means he probably knows how to use it,” said Ava.
“If Merriweather’s an expert, and it sounds like he might be, he could probably kill someone in an instant.”
Ava snapped her fingers. “In a heartbeat. Why . . . he could probably stab someone at a party and no one would even know until it was too late!”
Carmela rubbed at the goose bumps on her arms. “Where’s Bobby Gallant? Did you see him? I need to talk to him. I think I should tell him about this.”
“I know he was here,” said Ava. “I just saw him a couple of minutes ago.” She glanced at the sky and flinched. “But if he has any common sense at all, he’s somewhere out of this weather. C’mon, we should go, too. Let’s head over to Commander’s Palace and find us a nice cozy table. Ponder this new information where it’s nice and dry.”
Carmela glanced around. “You go grab a table. I’ll be right behind you, I promise. I’m just going to take a quick look around, see if I can find Gallant.”
Ava wagged a finger at Carmela. “Okay. But be careful. Stay out of trouble!”
Like that’s going to happen, Carmela thought to herself. She was already in too deep and knew it. She probably shouldn’t have agreed to help Margo in the first place. Now here she was. Checking out suspects, stumbling on a couple more. Madness, for sure.
Carmela dodged around several tombs and mausoleums, looking for Gallant. She really needed to find him! Making that connection between Merriweather and the trocar had given rise to a very bad feeling!
Could Duncan Merriweather be the murderer?
He was older, she reasoned. But he was big. And maybe still strong enough to wield a weapon like that. If Merriweather got it in his head that he wanted to be Margo’s next husband—and inherit the wealth that way—that could be a powerful motivator. A powerful motive.
Voices rose from behind a nearby crypt. Carmela ignored them and was about to call out Bobby’s name when she realized the voices had turned harsh and were rising rapidly in pitch.
An argument? Sure sounds like it.
Now she recognized one of the voices!
That’s Eric Zane!
Creeping closer to the crypt, Carmela ducked down, hoping to listen in on the conversation.
“It’s worth a lot of money!” Zane said angrily.
Carmela pressed herself against cold, damp marble. What’s worth a lot of money? she wondered. What was going on? Was Zane blackmailing someone? Trying to strong-arm someone?
But the person’s response was a low, angry mumble.
Carmela tried harder to listen in on the conversation.
“I know you have the money,” Zane snarled.
Trying to ease her way around the crypt, Carmela wondered if she could sneak a peek without getting caught. She heard another irritated response, this time softer. And realized the conversation was fading out, like a bad radio signal. The two people were drifting away.
Maybe I can still catch a look!
