by Laura Childs
“Sorry,” said Carmela. “We tried; we gave it a shot.” She paused. “Is Duncan Merriweather still around?”
“Yes, he’s sitting in the dining room with the rest of the guests who’ve been stunned into silence.” Gallant rolled his eyes. “Now I have to conduct more interviews.”
“Too bad,” said Ava.
After muttering a few more words to Gallant, apologizing for not getting any useful information out of Margo, Carmela tried to steer Ava toward the door.
“Let’s blow this pop stand, Ava. Before something else happens!”
A look of shock crossed Ava’s face. “Wait a minute, we’re leaving now? But we didn’t even get a chance to sample the bread pudding!”
• • •
CARMELA FELT A WAVE OF RELIEF WASH OVER her the minute she entered Memory Mine. She was finally back in familiar territory, her safety net, her home away from home with its racks of colored paper and rubber stamps and rolls of ribbon. Gabby was, as usual, expertly holding down the fort as she rang up one customer while she demonstrated to another how to make a crepe paper rosette.
When both customers had made substantial purchases and finally exited the shop, Carmela grabbed Gabby’s hands in hers and said, “You’ll never guess what happened after the funeral!”
Gabby frowned. “Margo freaked out and tried to jump into her husband’s grave?”
Carmela shook her head. “Close but no cigar. Rather than putting Jerry Earl’s coffin in the ground, they stuck it inside the family mausoleum.”
“Then what are you talking about?”
“After the graveside service, right smack in the middle of the funeral luncheon, Eric Zane was murdered in the ladies’ room at Commander’s Palace!”
Gabby frowned. “Zane? What on earth was he doing in the ladies’ room?”
“I don’t know!” said Carmela. “Dying, I guess.”
“Oh my gosh,” said Gabby, her eyes going big. “You’re not kidding, are you? You’re absolutely serious!”
“Hey,” said Carmela. “You can’t make this stuff up.” She paused and thought for a moment. “Well, maybe you could if you were a really bad sitcom writer.”
“I think you better start from the beginning and tell me everything!” said Gabby.
Carmela gave Gabby a quick rundown on the entire morning. She gave her the Reader’s Digest version of the funeral and graveside service, and ended with her account of Eric Zane’s bizarre murder.
“Holy frijoles!” said Gabby. “And you say Bobby Gallant did a complete switcheroo and asked you to talk to Margo? That’s pretty bizarre.”
“Isn’t it?” said Carmela. “Who would’ve thought that he’d ask for my help?”
“But maybe you shouldn’t be looking into this at all, Carmela. There’s a killer out there who doesn’t seem to be afraid to take down anyone who gets in his way.” Gabby glanced furtively at the shop’s front door. “Which means you might not be safe anywhere.”
“I hear you,” said Carmela. “Which is why I can hardly wait for Babcock to get back.”
“Were you able to pry anything at all out of Margo?”
Carmela shook her head. “Nope. Margo was in the advanced stages of hysterics. She’s also convinced herself that there’s some sort of evil curse hanging over her head. And that it can be transferred to anything or anyone she touches.”
“Wow,” said Gabby. “That’s kapow crazy!”
“Isn’t it? Anyway, to calm her down, Ava and I had to schedule a tarot card reading for her tomorrow.”
“A lot of good that’s going to do,” said Gabby. “I don’t think you’ll find any real answers in those cards.”
“Margo’s convinced we will.”
“But what about suspects?” said Gabby. “You must have some ideas on possible suspects.”
“I’m guessing it had to be someone who was at the funeral luncheon,” said Carmela.
“But who?”
“I don’t know,” said Carmela. “The two people closest to Margo seem to be Beetsie Bischoff and Duncan Merriweather, but . . .” She debated telling Gabby about Merriweather’s background as a funeral director, then decided not to. She’d spooked poor Gabby enough for one day. Instead she said, “Beetsie always seems to be around whenever someone gets killed.”
“That’s nothing,” said Gabby. “So are you.”
“Thanks a lot,” said Carmela. She slipped her jacket off. “You know what? I suddenly have a splitting headache. So I think I’m gonna take refuge in my office for a while. Maybe work on a scrapbook page or start that history scrapbook I promised the French Quarter Association.”
“Let everything percolate for a while,” said Gabby.
“That’s right,” said Carmela. “But if we get super busy, give me a holler.”
• • •
CARMELA SANK INTO HER CHAIR AND KICKED OFF her shoes. There. Much better. It felt comforting to be surrounded by all her familiar things. Even if they were just drawings pinned to the wall, some brocade pillow boxes she’d created, and a handful of decoupaged boxes. She pulled out her sketch pad and turned to a clean sheet.
I should work on a few ideas for Shamus’s cake. Not leave it to the last minute like I usually do.
But what could she do for a cake topper? How to incorporate the great little necklace that was still dangling around Ava’s slim neck. Carmela thought for a few minutes, then picked up a fat, squishy pencil and started sketching.
What if she did a cake decorated with twigs and branches that were made out of frosting? What if they swirled their way up the side and around the cake? And what if, at the very top, was a lovely little bird’s nest made out of frosting?
The bird’s nest would hold the necklace nicely. And for added color and interest she could add a few of the miniature feathered birds she had in the shop.
Yes, I like that a lot. Better yet, I think it’s something I can actually pull off. It’s kind of cake décor slash memory box.
As she continued to sketch, a light blinked on her phone. She steadfastly ignored it, hoping Gabby would take care of whoever was calling. Then she heard footsteps and Gabby’s light knock on the wall outside her office.
Carmela spun around in her chair. “Yes?”
“Bobby Gallant is on the phone.”
“Okay, thanks.”
Gabby paused. “Carmela. Please be careful.”
People keep telling me that, she thought to herself as she picked up the phone. Maybe I should start listening to them.
• • •
“I SHOULDN’T BE TELLING YOU THIS,” WERE GALLANT’S opening words.
“What?” said Carmela, practically pouncing on him.
“You were one hundred percent correct. It was a metal skewer.”
“From one of the shish-kabobs,” said Carmela.
“The chef confirmed it, so yes.”
“What do you think? Was it the same killer who stabbed Jerry Earl?”
“That possibility certainly exists.”
“Then it had to be someone who was at the funeral luncheon,” Carmela said.
“Or someone from the kitchen staff,” said Gallant. “But that’s kind of a stretch.”
“Not if they were also on the catering staff from the other night.”
“I thought of that,” said Gallant. “And we’re checking it out.”
“Do you have a guest list of who attended the services and luncheon today?” Carmela asked.
“That, of course, was Eric Zane’s job,” said Gallant.
“Oh.”
“And Margo was still pretty weepy, but her friend managed to pull together a list for me.”
“You mean Beetsie?”
“That’s the one.” He paused. “Then I asked Margo if she thought Zane might have been trying to blackmail
someone.”
“What did Margo say?”
“Basically, nothing. Margo was stunned; she didn’t have a single idea in her head.”
“She never does,” said Carmela. “Which is starting to make me a little suspicious.”
“Are you telling me you suspect the grieving widow?”
“I don’t know what to think,” said Carmela. “For one thing, I’m not even sure about motive anymore. I can understand if someone hated Jerry Earl and wanted him dead. But then to kill his assistant? What’s that all about?”
“But if Zane was trying to blackmail somebody . . .”
“Blackmail them over what?” Carmela asked. “Zane was basically a flunky.”
“But maybe he knew something,” said Gallant.
“Because he spent so much time hanging around the Lelands’ home?”
“That’s right,” said Gallant. “So I need to keep asking questions.”
“Did you talk to Duncan Merriweather?”
“Yes, I did. After you told me about Duncan Merriweather’s background, I spoke to him and he did admit to having a number of antique mortuary items in his possession. But here’s where it gets a little crazy. Merriweather also told me that several of them were stolen from his house when it was burglarized a few months ago.”
“What? Do you believe him?”
“I pulled the police report and there was indeed a burglary,” said Gallant.
Carmela sighed loudly. “Don’t tell me a trocar was stolen.”
“A trocar was listed among the stolen contents.”
“Dang!” said Carmela. “I still think you’ve got to look at him hard. Because you know why? He could be Margo’s next-in-line!”
“What are you talking about?”
“I didn’t think it was strange at the time, but Merriweather escorted Margo to my shop last Monday. And he hangs around her house all the time. And he was comforting her at the funeral this morning . . .”
“That’s what friends do,” said Gallant.
“Or he could have another motive.”
“Which is?”
“What if Merriweather is angling to marry Margo, get her money, then dump her for Beetsie!”
Gallant was shocked “That sounds like a storyline on Days of Our Lives, not a motive for a murder!”
“What if it’s both?”
“Then God help us,” said Gallant. He was quiet for a few moments, then he said, “No, you’ve got to be overthinking this. It has to be business related.”
“What makes you say that?” said Carmela.
“Because Merriweather still strikes me as a nice old guy. Kindly and sweet.”
“So was John Wayne Gacy,” said Carmela. “He dressed up as Pogo the Clown to entertain kids, yet turned out to be one of the worst serial killers of all time!”
“Point taken,” said Gallant.
• • •
CARMELA WORKED FOR ANOTHER TWENTY MINUTES until she was interrupted again. Her realtor, Miranda Jackson.
“Hey there,” said Miranda, “I’ve got some good news for you.”
“You finally sold the house!”
“Noooo, but I’ve got an offer I’d like to present.”
“When?” asked Carmela.
“What are you doing in thirty minutes?”
“Oh,” said Carmela. “That soon?”
“You’re the one who wanted a quick sale,” said Miranda. “And it is a buyer’s market out there.”
“Good point,” said Carmela. “So . . . where do you want to meet?”
“At the property, of course.”
“The Garden District house,” Carmela said slowly. She wasn’t all that keen on going back there. Too many bad memories.
“There are a few contingencies we need to go over,” Miranda said breezily.
“Okay,” said Carmela. “I’ll see you there.”
Chapter 17
NEW Orleans’s Garden District is considered to be one of the best-preserved collections of historic Southern mansions in the United States. Greek Revival, Italianate, and Moorish-designed homes stand shoulder to shoulder amid lush foliage and abundant flowers. Authors such as Anne Rice and Truman Capote have found inspiration among all these white columns and louvered shutters, and dozens of novels and movies have been set here. The Garden District is, to put it mildly, utterly enchanting.
With tentative movements, Carmela pushed open the front door of her soon-to-be-former home. She stood in the marble-tiled entry, breathed in the scent of sweet jasmine mingled with dust bunnies, and called out, “I’m home, dear.”
The voice of Miranda Jackson, her realtor, floated back to her.
“I’m in the dining room.”
Carmela stepped into the living room, or Grand Salon as she’d once jokingly referred to it. She took in the marble fireplace, cove ceilings, arched windows, and magnificent chandelier. Even unlit and unlived in, the home was definitely a beauty. And deep inside her chest she felt a small flutter of . . . what?
Is it regret?
No, she knew she was far better off with her life firmly rooted in the here and now. With her cozy apartment, wacky friends, and chugging-along-fairly-well business. Not to mention her hot cop boyfriend. Carmela tamped down her feelings and ghosted through the house, following the clicking sounds that were coming from the dining room. She found Miranda seated at the expansive pecan table, pecking away on her tablet computer.
Miranda looked up and smiled. She was a pretty woman in her midforties with a mane of curly blond hair and a pair of pink half-glasses perched on her pert nose. Her worn leather briefcase was puddled on the table, and sheets of paper covered every inch of fine polished wood.
“Your new office,” said Carmela.
Miranda shoved a pencil into her hair. “Don’t I wish. This is such a grand old place.”
“Maybe you should buy it.”
“Can’t,” said Miranda. “I just closed on two duplexes over by Tulane. Rental properties, you know.”
“You think I should invest in another home? A smaller home?”
“Couldn’t hurt,” said Miranda. “Now’s the time to make your move. Before all the homeowner tax loopholes get closed by those greedy Feds.”
Carmela wandered absently over to the bay window and gazed out into the back garden. It was lush and beautiful, the low afternoon sun casting a soft glow on the crepe myrtle and azaleas that were in bloom.
“Don’t look out at that magnificent view,” Miranda warned. “I don’t want you getting cold feet.”
Carmela chuckled. “I won’t.” She took a deep breath. “So you brought me an offer?”
Miranda pulled the pencil out of her hair and tapped at a legal-size sheet of paper. Then she indicated the chair next to her.
Carmela came over, sat down, and stared at the paper. It was filled with numbers and line after line of small print. Weasel words, as she liked to call them.
“It’s an impressive offer,” said Miranda. “Not full price, but close enough for jazz.”
“Hmm.” Carmela wasn’t sure how to respond, she was so dazzled by all the zeroes that danced before her eyes.
So this is it?
She would sign on the dotted line and be free of the massive home and the nagging memory of Shamus? She suddenly felt a strange hollowness deep in the pit of her stomach.
Probably just need something to eat!
Miranda’s phone buzzed.
“Where do I sign?” Carmela asked.
Miranda fumbled with her phone and sent the call into voice mail. “Not so fast.” She held up a hand. “Your buyers are asking for a few sweeteners.”
“Sweeteners?”
Miranda sighed. “They walked in and absolutely went gaga over your furniture. So they’re asking you to throw in a few
pieces.”
“How few?” Carmela asked.
“This dining room table and chairs, as well as the mahogany secretary and side table from the living room.”
Carmela drummed her fingers on the table, thinking.
“We can always counter,” said Miranda. “Remember, this is all about negotiation.”
“No,” said Carmela. “I want to get this done. So . . . they can have the furniture.” She didn’t really want to deal with it and had already talked to Jekyl about selling whatever pieces seemed worthwhile. He’d promised to place them on consignment in various antique shops up and down Royal Street.
“All right,” said Miranda, surprised by Carmela’s decisiveness. “We’ll include those few pieces.” She made a few notations on the document. “Oh, and one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“The buyers also want you to share in the closing costs.”
Carmela frowned. “How much would that be?”
“They usually run a couple thousand dollars. Maybe three at the most.”
“So I’d pay half?”
“Yes.”
Carmela pulled a pen from her purse. She was almost ready to agree, but then caught herself. “Anything else?”
Miranda smiled. “No. They love the house and they’re good solid buyers. We should have a quick escrow.”
“I’m willing to concede on those two points just to make this sale happen,” Carmela told her.
“Excellent.” Miranda’s phone buzzed again and she sent another caller into voice mail. She tapped a manicured finger against the paper. “Then all you have to do is sign right here.”
Carmela signed.
“Good,” said Miranda. “Perfect.”
“Now you have to relocate your office,” Carmela said, hiding a smile.
Miranda gathered up all her papers and shuffled them into a tidy little stack. “Not a problem. I’d do just about anything to make this sale happen.”
Carmela nodded. “Me, too.”
• • •
AFTER SIGNING THE PAPERWORK, CARMELA floated out of the mansion, feeling surprisingly free and light. As if a very heavy weight, namely a hulking mansion, had been lifted from her slender shoulders. Now she had a nice tidy bit of cash to invest or use to buy another house. Whatever. She didn’t have to decide today or even tomorrow.
