by Laura Childs
She was about to steal a look when there was a soft crunch of gravel just behind her. Startled, she whirled around in a nervous panic and came face-to-face with a large, imposing figure. She blinked and tried to focus. Please don’t let it be Merriweather. That would be way too spooky.
It was Bobby Gallant, looking quizzical and a little amused.
“What are you doing over here?” he asked.
Carmela touched a hand to her heart. “You scared me half to death!”
“I didn’t mean to,” he said. Then, “What are you up to?”
“I . . . I was looking for you,” said Carmela.
“Here I am.”
She wondered if she should just blurt it out and decided, yes, that was the best course of action.
“I just picked up some information that could be critical to your investigation!”
A look of skepticism crossed Gallant’s face. “Oh really?”
Carmela ignored his Doubting Thomas demeanor and continued.
“Beetsie just told me that Duncan Merriweather is a retired funeral director!”
Gallant’s expression never wavered. “And you think that’s important . . . why?”
“Because of the nature of the murder weapon!” she shrilled. “The trocar. What if he . . .”
“Owned one?” said Gallant. “Knew exactly how to use one?”
“Yes! Exactly!”
“Your information is highly circumstantial,” said Gallant.
“Look,” said Carmela, “I can’t connect all the dots; I’m the first one to admit that. But you’ve got to look into this!”
“We’re looking into everything,” said Gallant. “Believe me. Even the mayor is exerting pressure on the department to solve this crime.”
“Then we really need to get cracking,” said Carmela. “We need to figure this out!”
Gallant gave her a wary look. “We?”
Carmela pursed her lips. “You, I meant you.”
“That’s right.”
Carmela wondered if she should tell him about her visit to Venice last night. But the look on Gallant’s face told her no. Save it. Wait until he’s in a more receptive mood. If that ever happens. Don’t tick him off any more than you have to, or he’ll really slam the lid shut on the investigation!
“Wait a minute.” Carmela stopped dead in her tracks. “Was Merriweather even at the party Sunday night?” Images of canapés of beluga caviar and champagne danced in her brain. And were immediately followed by the grisly memory of Jerry Earl tumbling lifeless and limp out of the clothes dryer. Tumble dry. How ghastly.
“He was on the guest list,” said Gallant. “But nobody I interviewed remembers seeing him.”
“Well,” said Carmela. “What does Merriweather say? Was he there or not?”
Gallant stuffed his hands into his pockets. “That, my dear Carmela, is proprietary information. I can’t tell you everything!”
Yes, you can, she thought as he sauntered away. Or at least you should!
• • •
COMMANDER’S PALACE WAS A NEW ORLEANS FIXTURE. Established in eighteen eighty-three by Emile Commander, this turreted Victorian structure had been a bordello back in the twenties. Now the aqua and white building with the matching awnings served as one of New Orleans’s premier restaurants.
Much to Carmela’s delight, Ava had snagged a lovely little table near the window. She half stood in her chair and waved as Carmela entered the elegant dining room with its overhead crystal chandelier.
“Cher! Over here!”
Carmela hurriedly joined Ava at the table. “I talked to Gallant.”
Ava wrinkled her nose. “Do you think we might put the murder on hold for, oh, say about thirty minutes? While we enjoy a cocktail or two as well as the food from this gorgeous buffet that Jerry Earl’s widow has popped serious money for?”
“Yes, of course,” said Carmela. “Sorry. I guess I am driving you nuts with all this stuff.”
“Just a teeny bit,” said Ava as they both slipped into the buffet line.
And once Carmela saw the food, and felt her stomach rumble, all thoughts of murder flew out of her head, too.
“Look at that,” said Ava. “Wild Louisiana white shrimp, tasso ham, and pickled okra.”
“Fantastic,” said Carmela. The luncheon was suddenly looking very good indeed.
“Ooh, and beef shish-kabobs. Let’s not forget these,” said Ava as she piled two skewers on her plate and two on Carmela’s.
Carmela eyed a pastry dome and scanned the place card in front. “Do we have room for oyster and absinthe dome?”
“I always have room for oysters,” said Ava, pushing aside some shrimp on her plate.
“We’ll have to make a return trip for the bread pudding,” said Carmela as they sat down at their table.
They ate for a few minutes, relishing their food and chatting amiably. Finally, Carmela said, “So I ran into Gallant and told him about Duncan Merriweather.”
Ava nodded. “Of course you did.”
“Something else happened, too. I overheard Eric Zane talking to some guy. Well, actually, it sounded like Zane was trying to extort or blackmail them.”
“Did you see who it was?”
“Unfortunately no.”
Ava looked over at the buffet line, which was still snaking its way past dozens of steaming chafing dishes. “I just saw Zane a few minutes ago.”
“Was he with someone?” Carmela asked, pouncing on her words.
“Not that I noticed. But he did look kind of stressed.”
“He’s probably working his buns off,” said Carmela. “Talking to the chef or harassing the kitchen staff to keep the chafing dishes filled. Trying to make things perfect for Margo.”
“So he’s working for her,” said Ava.
“Sure. I guess. I mean, now that Jerry Earl is dead and buried, he’s probably become Margo’s personal assistant.”
“That’s only if Zane decides to stay on.”
“He doesn’t seem to be making any motion to leave,” said Carmela.
Ava pulled out her compact and studied her hair and makeup. “Eeh, I look like I’m wearing a fright wig.” She stared at Carmela. “I look awful, don’t I? Be honest.”
Carmela lifted a hand. “It rained. You were caught without an umbrella.”
Ava stood up. “Come on, I need to do a major fix-up.” She cocked an eye at Carmela. “And, I’m sorry to say, your hair doesn’t look all that lush and springy, either.”
“Thanks a lot,” said Carmela.
They pushed their way through the dining room and wandered down a narrow hallway hung with all sorts of awards, notations, and autographed photos. Commander’s Palace had been honored by the James Beard Foundation, Wine Spectator, Food & Wine, Southern Living, and dozens of local groups and media organizations.
“Here we go,” said Ava. She put her hand on the aqua-colored door that said Ladies and gave a little shove.
Nothing happened.
“Huh?” said Ava. “Is this thing locked?”
“What’s wrong?” asked Carmela. She’d been scanning an award given by Zagat to honor what they were calling “modern New Orleans cooking and haute Creole.” Very impressive.
“This dang door is stuck,” said Ava.
“Here, let me try.” Carmela pressed a hand against it, but it still didn’t budge.
“See what I mean?” said Ava.
Carmela frowned. “Yeah.” She pushed harder on the door. When it still didn’t move, she leaned a shoulder against it and put her whole body behind it. It grudgingly opened a few inches. “Well, this is stupid.”
“Something’s blocking it,” said Ava. “See if, like, one of the vanity chairs tipped over or something.”
Carmela pushed the door open another c
ouple of inches and eased her head through the narrow opening.
And immediately wished she hadn’t.
There, sprawled on the carpet, legs and arms akimbo, was Eric Zane! He wasn’t moving, breathing, or even twitching. And the carpet that had once been a plush silver-gray had been turned into a soggy, squishy mess.
“What?” said Ava, seeing the look on Carmela’s face. “What’s wrong? Let me see!”
Carmela withdrew her head. “You don’t want to . . .” Carmela began.
But much like the cat, whom curiosity had killed, Ava had already stuck her head in to look.
Ava’s bloodcurdling scream echoed through the whole of Commander’s Palace. It bounced off the ceiling, rattled dishes in the dining room, and ricocheted back into the depths of the kitchen.
Carmela grabbed Ava’s arms, held them to her side, and hugged her tight. “It’s okay, honey. It’s okay.”
“It’s not!” Ava screamed again. “He’s in there and he’s dead!”
“I know he is,” Carmela soothed. She wondered how she could remain so calm. Had she actually become blasé about finding dead bodies?
But wait. Was Zane dead?
As nervous waiters and a quizzical maître d’ immediately rushed to join them, everyone venturing a horrified look and yammering at once, Carmela fought to take another look.
Zane hadn’t moved a muscle. Hadn’t even twitched. Yup. He was definitely dead.
“We called 911,” said the maître d’. He looked pale and stricken and was wringing his hands compulsively.
Another man in a tall chef’s hat poked his head in the door to survey the body. “We don’t want a problem here,” he told Carmela.
“It’s too late for that,” Carmela responded tiredly. “You’ve already got a problem.”
Chapter 16
FIVE minutes later, the front door flew open and Bobby Gallant blew in like an ill wind. His mouth was pulled tight, his brow was deeply furrowed, and his jaw was in locked position.
By that time, all hell had broken loose. A crowd had gathered, and Margo and Beetsie were toddling around like a pair of hysterical zombies. Only Ava seemed to have recovered fairly well from her fright and was sipping a hibiscus martini given to her by a passing waiter.
Gallant thundered down the hallway, two uniformed officers and a full paramedic crew in tow.
“Out of the way, let us through,” he barked as waiters and looky-loos scattered like bowling pins.
When Gallant saw Carmela, he said, “You! I should have known.”
“I didn’t do anything!” Carmela bleated.
“You found him,” said Gallant. “That’s bad enough.”
“I didn’t mean to,” said Carmela. “We just sort of . . . stumbled upon him.”
Gallant stood off to one side while the uniformed officers grappled with screwdrivers and crowbars and pried the entire door off its hinges. Then he pulled on a pair of latex gloves, ducked into the room, and knelt down next to Zane. He studied him for a couple of minutes, then said, “The personal assistant, right?”
“That’s right,” said Carmela. “Eric Zane.”
“Been dead for what?” said Gallant. “Maybe twenty minutes or so?”
One of the blue-suited paramedics nodded. He seemed to concur.
“But how?” Carmela asked. She continued to hover in the hallway just outside the ladies’ room. “What happened to him? I don’t see a gunshot wound or anything.”
Ava had edged down the hallway, the better to be in on the action. “We didn’t hear a gunshot.”
Gallant was grim. “Another stabbing.”
“Oh dear Lord,” said Ava. “Don’t tell me it was one of those trocar things again.”
“No, but I’d say this is equally strange,” said Gallant. He reached down and gently pointed to a thin trickle of blood on one side of Zane’s head. “It appears that someone jammed a thin piece of metal into his ear. Like a metal skewer or something.”
“Oh no!” said Carmela. “You mean a skewer from one of the shish-kabobs?”
“The what?” said Gallant. He looked up at them, half-angry, half-surprised.
“They served mini shish-kabobs at the luncheon,” Carmela explained. She was suddenly feeling queasy in her stomach.
“Fillet mignon and pearl onions,” Ava said helpfully.
“How long were the skewers?” Gallant asked.
“You haven’t pulled it out yet?” asked Ava. “Gack.”
“It’s part of the crime scene,” said Gallant. He sounded irritated. “So we have to leave it in place and let the ME deal with it.” He looked at Carmela again, waiting for an answer.
Carmela held her hands a few inches apart. “Maybe . . . seven or eight inches long?”
“Enough to do the job,” said Gallant.
“You mean enough to kill him?” asked Carmela.
“You pierce the central cortex,” said Gallant, “you’re talking instant death.” He shook his head. “Who would do this? And why?”
“I think I might know something about that,” said Carmela. “At the cemetery, just before I ran into you, I . . . I heard Zane arguing with someone.”
“Arguing? Arguing with who?”
“I have no idea. If I knew that, I’d tell you.”
“Was it a male? A female?”
“Now that you ask, I’m not totally sure.”
“Do you think it might have been Duncan Merriweather?” Gallant asked.
Carmela stared at him. Maybe he had taken her seriously.
“I suppose it could have been him,” she said. Then again, it could have been anyone. It could have even been Beetsie. Carmela tried to shake the feeling of helplessness that had suddenly engulfed her.
“Did Zane sound like he was being intimidated?” Gallant asked.
“Not at all,” said Carmela. “In fact, I got the distinct impression that he was the one who had the upper hand. That he might even be trying to blackmail someone.”
“Blackmail? Blackmail over what?” Gallant demanded.
“No idea,” said Carmela. “Maybe . . . maybe you should try to ask Margo?”
Gallant glanced down the hallway, where Margo was crouched and babbling. “I don’t know, she’s pretty hysterical right now.”
“You have to try,” said Carmela.
Gallant shrugged and walked down the hallway. He had a short conversation with Margo, the upshot being she started blubbering and waving her arms around in a spectacular fanning motion.
“I’m guessing Margo’s not making a whole lot of sense,” said Ava.
“I think you might be right,” Carmela agreed.
Gallant rejoined them. “No rational answers to be found there.”
“What did you expect?” said Carmela. “Margo’s had a bad shock.” Heck, she’d had a bad shock.
“Why don’t—” Gallant caught himself before he said another word.
“What?” Carmela said.
He grimaced and shook his head. He didn’t look happy. “I can’t believe I’m about to ask you this.”
“What?” Carmela said again.
Gallant gazed at her and said, “Why don’t you try to talk to Margo? She might respond more positively to a woman. A friend.”
“A friendly woman,” said Ava.
Carmela was mildly amused. “Me? I thought you wanted me to stay out of this.”
“Well, you’re in it up to your armpits now,” said Gallant. “So could you at least try? Talking to her, I mean?”
“Sure she will,” said Ava. “We’ll both try!”
• • •
CARMELA AND AVA LED MARGO INTO THE MANAGER’S office and sat her down on a plush blue love seat.
“Honey,” said Carmela. “Can we get you anything?”
“Maybe
a drink,” said Margo. She was sniffling like crazy and had black rings around her eyes where her makeup had run. She looked like a raccoon with a head cold.
“Water?” said Ava. “Maybe an Evian?”
“Bourbon,” said Margo.
Once Margo had sucked down two fingers of good Kentucky bourbon, she seemed to relax a little bit.
“I just want to ask you a couple of quick questions,” said Carmela. “Take your time and try to answer them as best you can.”
Margo took another long pull on her drink. “Okay.”
“Do you know who could have done this?” Carmela asked. “To Eric?”
“I don’t know,” Margo blubbered. “First Jerry Earl, now poor Eric.” Her lower lip began to quiver and she hiccupped abruptly. “It feels like some kind of curse has descended upon me.”
“A curse?” said Ava. She sounded interested for the first time.
Margo gripped Carmela’s arm tightly. “That’s it! There must be a terrible curse on my head!” she hissed. “A curse that latches on to everyone around me. On everything I touch!” Her voice rose and cracked, and she pinched Carmela’s arm so hard that Carmela winced.
“Oh no,” said Carmela. “There’s no such—”
“The psychic,” Margo said, her eyes big and fearful. “I’ve got to talk to her. Please! You have to get me an appointment with that tarot card reader!”
Carmela glanced at Ava.
“We can surely do that, darlin’,” said Ava.
“Soon,” said Margo. “We have to do it soon! I have to know what’s going to happen!”
“How about tomorrow morning?” said Ava. “I’ll call Madame Blavatsky and set everything up.”
Margo released her death grip on Carmela’s arm and gazed at Ava. “Thank you, Eva, thank you so much!”
Ava pursed her lips, but didn’t bother to correct her.
Carmela tried to ask a couple more questions, but Margo wasn’t having it. Finally she left Margo sitting in the office, having a second drink and commiserating with Beetsie.
“Nothing?” said Gallant.
“She thinks there’s a curse on her head,” said Carmela.
“Well, that’s real helpful,” said Gallant. “Maybe I should consult a witch doctor?”
