by Laura Childs
The clerk let out a sigh and crossed over to a computer station. “Let me bring up the plot map.”
Carmela breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”
The clerk fiddled on the computer as Carmela squinted through the service window, trying to read the screen.
“That’s . . . yes, that’s it right there.” Carmela pointed out the grid that corresponded to the land where she’d nearly been buried alive.
The clerk copied down the parcel number. “I have to look this record up in back. It’ll take a few minutes.” Her look was stern, indicating that Carmela was causing her to stay late. And on a Friday yet.
“I sure do appreciate this,” Carmela said smoothly. “It’s very important.”
“Is this information for personal or business use?” asked the clerk.
“Business,” said Carmela. “For the Crescent City Bank Corporation.” She crossed her fingers at her little white lie. What Shamus and his cohorts didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.
“Oh sure,” said the clerk, recognizing the name. “I think we’ve done searches for them before.” She scurried to the back room and returned two minutes later with a smile on her face. She glanced at the pad of paper she carried and said, “That parcel was purchased by Spangler Enterprises.”
“That’s it? That’s the only name?”
“That’s the corporation it’s registered to.”
“Do you know if they have plans to build some kind of shopping center?” Carmela asked.
The woman shook her head. “No idea. The information we have so far indicates the land is pending development. So it’s currently taxed as undeveloped land.”
“Thank you,” said Carmela. “You’ve been a big help.”
Now if I could just figure out the link between Conrad Falcon and Spangler Enterprises, I might actually get somewhere!
• • •
CARMELA SKIRTED LAKE PONTCHARTRAIN ON I-10, heading for home. She felt tired, dusty, and achy, and couldn’t wait to jump into a nice hot shower. But when she hit the French Quarter and spotted a familiar beat-up van parked outside the Click! Gallery, she cranked her wheel sharply and pulled over to the curb.
That van belonged to Sullivan Finch, Ava’s death portrait friend, and Carmela had just developed a sudden hankering to talk to him. She found a lucky parking spot, jumped out of her car, and let her eyes rove up and down the street. She figured Finch was either hanging out at Click! or he was up to no good at Shooters Oyster Bar, which was right next door.
She tried the Click! Gallery first and—bingo—there he was.
Finch was standing at the far end of the blazingly white gallery, looking blasé and shooting the breeze with the young female receptionist, who sat behind a stark white desk. Carmela walked slowly through the gallery, noting the new photographs that were hanging on the wall. They were black-and-white, moody and gritty. Lots of shots of barges on the Mississippi, dilapidated warehouses, and tough-looking dock workers. Interesting and well composed, but not exactly her taste.
Finch had his back to her and was waxing prosaically to the young receptionist about his favorite subject, postapocalyptic and dystopian art.
Then, in a purely calculated move, he leaned forward and reached a hand out, gently smoothing a strand of the young woman’s long blond hair.
Honestly, if Ava thinks she has a lock on this guy, she is so mistaken.
When she was about ten feet away from him, Carmela called out, “Finch!” Her voice was loud and authoritative, but not so menacing that she’d unnerve him.
Sullivan Finch whirled around, caught unaware. And even though his watery blue eyes looked startled, he managed to project the scruffy, I-don’t-care look of a serious artist. Shoulder-length hair, drooping mustache, and tweedy but slightly frayed jacket worn casually over blue jeans.
“Carmela,” Finch said when he finally recognized her. He didn’t sound happy.
“I need to talk to you,” said Carmela. She crooked her finger and motioned for him to come join her. She wasn’t about to air Margo’s dirty laundry in front of the receptionist.
Finch walked slowly toward Carmela, his tennis shoes making little squeaking sounds on the polished wood floor. “What’s up?” he asked.
“You gave Margo Leland a quote on a painting?” said Carmela. She saw no need to mince words.
Finch’s head lolled to one side. His nose wrinkled and his lips puckered. “Oh jeez,” he said. “First the cops and now you.”
Carmela gazed at him. So Babcock had followed up on Margo’s death portrait commission. Good. “That’s right,” said Carmela. “Now me. I’d like some answers if you don’t mind.”
Finch looked suddenly surly. “You got a problem with an artist trying to make a decent living? I got rent to pay, you know, just like everybody else. And business expenses.”
“I’m not concerned with the rates you charge,” said Carmela. “I’m concerned about your basic arrangement with Margo.”
“Oh.”
“Tell me,” said Carmela, “was Beetsie Bischoff the one who pressured Margo Leland into giving you the commission?”
“You mean the skinny older woman?”
“I guess you could call her that.”
“Yeah,” said Finch. “I’d say so. She was the one who really flashed on my paintings. She was the one who kept urging on her friend.”
“It didn’t concern you that the death portrait was for a living person?”
Finch shrugged. “Why should it?”
“Let me guess,” said Carmela, lowering her voice. “You saw dollar signs when you laid eyes on Margo Leland. And don’t tell me you don’t know who she is—I’ll bet the society pages are your Bible.”
Much to his credit, Finch didn’t try to bluff his way out of it. “Like I said, an artist’s gotta make a living. We’re in a recession, in case you hadn’t noticed. It’s not like five years ago when anybody with money was practically salivating to invest in art.”
“Poor you,” said Carmela. She turned to leave, assuming that Finch, with his line of art patois, was probably surviving just fine.
“Hey,” said Finch, just as Carmela was almost to the door. “Tell your friend Ava I’ve been thinking about her.”
“Tell her yourself,” Carmela shot back.
Chapter 21
CARMELA was just out of the shower and bundled in a fluffy robe when the doorbell rang.
Boo and Poobah came unglued.
“Shh,” Carmela warned them as they spun and barked. “If you don’t show a little more reserve, you’re going to get us all evicted!” She opened the door for Ava and said, “I swear you must stuff dog biscuits in your purse!”
Ava laughed. She was dressed in a purple leather halter top and tight blue jeans and waving a bottle of Chardonnay. “Cher, I’m a natural woman. I don’t stuff anything anywhere!”
“Come on in and let’s uncork that sucker,” said Carmela, indicating the wine. “After the day I’ve had, I could use a drink.”
Ava handed the bottle over to Carmela. “First I have to spread the love.” She leaned down and stroked Boo’s ears, then rubbed Poobah’s tummy.
Standing in her kitchen, Carmela jammed her corkscrew into the top of the bottle. She twisted it hard and the cork slipped out, making a soft popping sound.
Ava, posed next to the dining room table, tipped her head back and sniffed the air. “Wait,” she said with all the dramatic flourish of a Shakespearian actor. “What’s that I smell?”
Carmela frowned. “What?”
“Nothing!” said Ava. “I don’t smell a darned thing!” And then, “Why aren’t you cooking dinner for us, cher? Stuffing the heck out of a pullet or braising some short ribs with a splash of Jack Daniels?”
Carmela raised an eyebrow and stared at her. “Was I supposed to? I don’t remem
ber that we . . . why, are you hungry?”
“Please,” said Ava. “Does a chicken have lips?”
“I don’t know,” said Carmela. She grabbed two Reidel wineglasses, which she’d filched from Shamus. “Tell you what, let’s have a drink first. Then I’ll scrounge around and see what we can have for dinner.”
Ava waved a hand. “Ah, don’t worry about whipping something up. We can just order takeout. Pizza or chicken drummies. It’ll be a nice change. Give me a chance to break out the Pepcid AC.”
“Someday,” said Carmela, “you’re really going to have to learn how to cook.”
“No way. In fact, I’m thinking of having the landlord rip out my stove and refrigerator and install a couple of vending machines.”
They settled on the sofa, music playing softly, wineglasses in hand. The dogs lay attentively at their feet, like court dogs in a Velázquez painting.
“Okay,” said Carmela. “After our riotous tarot card reading with Margo this morning, I went back to my shop and did a little research.”
“On what?” said Ava.
“For one thing,” said Carmela, “I located that guy Beck. The one Squirrel mentioned to me. He’s the guy that Moony and Squirrel delivered a couple of messages to.”
Ava looked askance. “From the deep recess of a bright yellow tennis ball?”
Carmela sipped her wine. “Something like that, yes. Anyway, this guy Beck was going to lease a parcel of land to Jerry Earl. But the deal fell through when Jerry Earl got sent to jail.”
“Okay,” said Ava. She stared at Carmela, then waggled her fingers. “What else? I know there’s something else.”
This time Carmela took a generous gulp of wine. “I went out to look at the land, just to sort of satisfy my curiosity . . .” She stopped and gave a nervous hiccup.
“What happened?”
“Um . . . some guy was running a bulldozer and he pushed a bunch of gravel down on top of me and I almost got buried alive.” Carmela tried her best to downplay the drama. “But see! I’m okay now.”
Ava wasn’t having it. “What! You’re telling me that the operator didn’t see you?”
“I suppose that’s what happened, yes. I mean, he was probably plugged into his iPod or something and just way too distracted.”
Ava was staring at her with great concern. “You think that’s what happened.”
Carmela felt goose bumps practically exploding on her arms. “I’m pretty sure that’s what happened.”
“What if it wasn’t?” Ava snapped back.
“What do you mean?” Ava had just voiced the one terrible thought that Carmela had been trying desperately to hold at bay. The thought that had been swirling around in the nether regions of her mind.
“What if somebody followed you up there and tried to get rid of you?” said Ava.
Carmela worried her bottom lip with her teeth. “Who would do that?”
“Duh,” said Ava. “The killer?”
That pretty much put the kibosh on the evening’s fun. They were suddenly back to talking about the investigation big-time.
“You shouldn’t have gone out there alone,” Ava scolded.
“I never thought I’d be in danger,” said Carmela. “It never crossed my mind.”
“Two people are dead and it never crossed your mind that you could be the third?”
Carmela shook her head. “Not exactly.”
“Holy hominy!” said Ava. She reached a hand down and stroked Boo’s ears. “Did your momma park her brains in her sock drawer this morning?” She turned back to Carmela. “Okay, what else? You were obviously out on some secret-agent-CIA-NSA-fact-finding mission.”
“Well,” said Carmela. “I found out that Beck has since sold the land to a company by the name of Spangler Enterprises.”
“Who are they?”
“No idea,” said Carmela. “But I think they’re in the construction business. I think the plan is to build some kind of discount mall there.”
“Construction,” said Ava. “The same as Jerry Earl’s business.”
“That’s right.”
“Interesting,” said Ava. “We should try to find out who they are.”
“I agree.”
“Do you think Shamus would know anything about Spangler Enterprises?”
“No idea,” said Carmela.
“Call him,” said Ava. “He’s a business guy. He gets around.”
Carmela made a face.
“I know,” said Ava. “The last thing you want to do is talk to your sad sack husband. Especially on a Friday night when neither of us have hooked up with a hot date. But I want you to give him a call anyway. And put it on speaker phone so I can hear.”
So Carmela picked up her cell phone and called Shamus. It rang three times then went to his voice mail: “Hi, this is Shamus. If you’re calling about business, get back with me first thing Monday. If you’re a good-lookin’ gal, get over here right now!”
“Gack!” said Carmela, tossing the phone down.
“No luck there,” said Ava. She frowned and poked a finger into her mass of dark, curly hair and scratched thoughtfully. “Hmm.”
“What hmm?” said Carmela.
“We’re missing something,” said Ava. “Wait a minute, do you think Margo might know something about Spangler Enterprises?”
“I don’t know. I suppose I could call her.”
“She was pretty upset this morning,” said Ava. “So, hint hint, maybe we should go over there and check on her?”
Carmela laughed. “You just want to stop and have dinner on the way.”
Ava dimpled prettily. “Nothin’ wrong with that. My stomach is growling so loud I sound like a circus act.”
“What do you feel like eating?” Carmela asked.
Ava rubbed her hands together in anticipation. “Chang’s Golden Dragon is right on the way.”
Carmela finished the last of her wine. “You won’t catch me saying no to General Tsao’s chicken.”
“Or moo goo gai pan,” said Ava. “Hurry up and throw some clothes on, will you please?”
• • •
CHANG’S GOLDEN DRAGON ON MAGAZINE STREET was redolent with spicy peppers, sizzling duck, and steaming noodles. Carmela and Ava ordered three different entrées and ate family style, enjoying the hot Szechuan-style food and washing it down with bottles of Tsingtao Beer. Ava even managed to negotiate her dinner using chopsticks.
When the waitress finally delivered their tab along with a couple of fortune cookies, Ava made a grab for hers and immediately cracked it open.
“You think fortune cookies are more accurate than tarot cards?” Ava asked.
“No, I do not,” said Carmela. She wasn’t a big believer in cards, fortune-telling, or even the I Ching.
“Don’t be so hasty to judge,” said Ava.
“Fortune cookies are made in a factory,” said Carmela. “Where the same fortunes are probably inserted into every twenty-fifth cookie. Then they’re randomly packaged.”
Ava stared at her. “You like to suck the magic out of things, don’t you?”
“I had no idea I was ruining it for you. Sorry, go ahead and read your fortune.”
Ava peered into her teacup. “Maybe I’ll just read my tea leaves instead.”
“What do you see in there?”
“Hmm,” said Ava. “I think it’s something about Margo.” She tilted her teacup and gave a wicked smile. “It says, ‘Oolong time no see’!”
• • •
THE GARDEN DISTRICT WAS A FLURRY OF ACTIVITY. Lights blazed inside many of the larger homes, cars were double-parked in driveways and lined every curb, while couples strolled up front walks to attend fancy soirees and dinner parties.
Only Margo Leland’s home looked quiet. A small light burned over the front do
or, and flickering blue light shone through one of the front windows. A television set, no doubt.
“It looks awfully dark,” said Ava as they walked toward her door. “You think she’s home?”
Carmela shrugged. “Probably. The Cakewalk Ball is tomorrow night. I imagine she’s fretting over what to wear.”
Ava suddenly gave a knowing smirk. “I wonder what we’re going to wear.”
Carmela, who’d been planning to wear a long black dress, stopped in her tracks and said, “I hadn’t really thought too much about it.” Then, “Why? Do you have something up your sleeve?”
Ava shrugged. “I might have.”
Carmela knew Ava must have hatched some sort of dress-up plan. She was acting so mysterious. Had she borrowed dresses from The Latest Wrinkle? Or was she going to raid her own closet, which rivaled that of a Las Vegas showgirl?
“Never mind,” said Carmela as they stepped up to the door. “I don’t want to know. My only rule of thumb is that I won’t wear anything crazy from Oddities.”
“Oddities?” Ava drawled. “Why would your ball gown come from there?”
“Because Joubert is now carrying a line of steam punk fashion.”
Ava looked suddenly interested. “Steam punk? You don’t say. A touch of Goth meets Victorian? Lace meets studs? I like it.”
“I’d really prefer something soft and frilly,” said Carmela.
“Ah, yes,” Ava said knowingly. “Babcock will be back home tomorrow night.”
Carmela pushed the doorbell. They heard a deep bong resound inside the house. They waited a few seconds but no one appeared at the door. No Beetsie, no housekeeper, no live-in maid. Could it be that Margo was all by her lonesome?
“Maybe she’s . . .” Carmela began. Then the door suddenly creaked open and Margo peered out. She was clad in a red silk kimono robe embroidered with gold dragons. Her face was scrubbed clean and devoid of makeup. She looked as if she was ready for bed.
“Carmela!” Margo said with a surprised gasp. “And Eva.”
“Sorry to call on you so late,” said Carmela, though it really wasn’t all that late. “But I got involved in a little more research today and wanted to ask you a couple of questions.”
