by Laura Childs
Margo opened the door wider. “Of course. Come in.”
Carmela and Ava followed Margo through the dark parlor, down a long hallway, and into a small TV room. There was a sofa, two chairs, and a table. A glass half-filled with amber-colored liquid sat on the table. Probably bourbon.
Carmela felt a wave of sadness for Margo. Tonight, Margo looked like a woman who’d just lived through a horrible week. A botched party. The murder of her husband and his assistant. And countless rumors. Not to mention two failed marriages. In New Orleans social circles, any one of those things could signal the end of a career as a glamorous hostess.
“Can I get you ladies something to drink?” Margo asked. “Carmela? Eva?”
Ava’s lips pulled back in a semi-snarl.
“Maybe a glass of Chardonnay?” Carmela asked quickly.
Margo nodded and promptly disappeared.
“That lady better start getting my name right,” Ava snarled.
“Just don’t start with her now,” Carmela warned. “Let me ask my questions first, okay?”
“Yeah, whatever.”
Margo returned with two glasses of wine in elegant crystal goblets that were so heavy Carmela knew they had to be Baccarat.
Once Margo was settled in a chair, her bourbon in hand, she said, “What did you want to ask me?”
Carmela gave Margo a quick, sanitized version about locating Bill Beck today as well as what she’d found out about the land deal.
Margo sipped on her bourbon and said, “I really don’t know a lot about Jerry Earl’s business dealings.”
“The thing is,” said Carmela, “are you familiar with a company by the name of Spangler Enterprises?”
Margo closed her eyes, thought for a minute, and shook her head no.
“You’re sure?” said Carmela.
Margo blinked at her. “You said the company might have something to do with construction?”
“That’s right,” said Carmela.
Margo was suddenly incensed. “How much do you want to bet that rat, Conrad Falcon, is involved! He was always sniffing after Jerry Earl’s deals, trying to get a step up on him. Trying to crowd him out!” The ice cubes in her glass rattled with outrage. “It has to be owned by Falcon!”
Chapter 22
“I WAS also wondering,” said Carmela, “if we could look around your husband’s office.”
Margo’s eyebrows were double apostrophes above her sunken eyes. “What on earth for?”
“Perhaps he had some information about that land deal or his proposed project in his files or on his computer,” said Carmela. It was a shot in the dark, but certainly one worth taking.
“That’s not such a terrible idea,” said Margo. She got to her feet and padded down the hallway, listing like a sinking ocean liner. “You know where his office is, so help yourself. I’m just going to, um, run into the kitchen and grab myself a refresher.”
So Carmela and Ava trooped into Jerry Earl’s office once again. It hadn’t changed one iota as far as Carmela could tell. Same black-and-persimmon-colored carpet, same bookshelves dotted with fossils and gold trinkets, same French doors that led out to the secluded backyard.
Carmela peeked out the French doors. Across the alley, on Conrad Falcon’s second floor, a light shone. Was he up there right now, watching their comings and goings? Or was she just being paranoid? And when was paranoia really just your brain warning you to be careful?
“This house feels so empty,” said Ava.
“Without Eric Zane around? Yes,” said Carmela.
“Do you think Margo feels responsible for his death?”
“No idea,” said Carmela.
“You think she’s going to plan his funeral?”
“Are you serious?” said Carmela. “She didn’t even plan her own husband’s funeral.” She slipped into Jerry Earl’s chair and ran her fingertips across the keyboard of his computer. “Time to get to work.”
“Is his computer password protected?” Ava asked.
As if in answer, his desktop files suddenly appeared.
“Nope,” said Carmela.
“So what do you see?” asked Ava. She leaned forward and studied the screen along with Carmela. They hunted and searched for a few minutes but came up with nothing. Just files of blueprints that had been digitized and boring notes on several past projects.
The clatter of Margo’s fresh ice cubes heralded her return. “Did you find anything?” she asked as she flopped down into a chair.
“Not yet,” said Ava. “But we’re still working on it.”
Carmela pulled open the file drawer on the right side of Jerry Earl’s desk. There were maybe a dozen folders there, all neatly arranged in Pendaflex hanging files. She scooped them all out and stacked them on top of the desk. “Maybe we should each take a couple of these files and go through them?” she suggested.
Margo pursed her lips. “Honestly, I can never make head nor tails out of any of that stuff. Not unless I get my reading glasses and . . .” She took a sip of her drink and crossed her legs. “You know, I haven’t the foggiest idea where they could be.”
“Don’t worry,” Ava told her. “Carmela and I can whip through these pretty fast. She grabbed a stack and settled into the leather armchair next to Margo.
Margo sipped more bourbon. “Jerry Earl was always so interested in geology. I imagine you’ll come across quite a few plot maps and topography maps. Different charts, too.”
Ava held up a sheet. “You mean like this one?” It was a map illustrating rainfall averages in Louisiana.
Margo nodded. “That’s my Jerry Earl. He liked to keep on top of things.”
“Do you know anything about this?” Carmela asked. She held up a handful of papers that she’d been reading. “They look like some kind of laboratory report.”
“A lab report?” Ava asked. “Was Jerry Earl on some sort of medication?”
“Not that I know of,” said Margo. “Although he did have bunions and a nasty hammer toe. What report do you exactly have there, dear? You’re starting to worry me. Was it blood work?”
“No, nothing like that,” said Carmela, studying the pages. “These look more like results from a land sample.”
“Ah,” said Margo. “It’s probably an analysis on the age of some soil.” She nodded, half to herself. “Jerry Earl was always taking soil samples. And he was crazed about finding fossils.”
Carmela shook her head as she pored over them. “I don’t really know what they are. I’m no whiz kid when it comes to science, and these reports look like they’re written in a foreign language.”
Ava stood up and leaned across the desk. “Let me see whatcha got there.”
Carmela spun the pages around for Ava to see.
Ava scanned them. “This looks like some kind of mineral content analysis,” she said. “Wait a minute, hold everything . . .”
“What?” said Carmela.
She tapped a finger against one of the sheets. “This one’s a geological survey. And it’s for . . .” She looked up, her eyes suddenly wide and questioning.
“What?” Carmela repeated.
“It’s for West Feliciana Parish,” said Ava.
Their eyes locked together. Now it was Carmela’s turn to jump up. “What else is here?”
“Looks like receipts,” said Ava, fingering a few more pages.
“Jerry Earl was always buying me jewelry,” sang Margo. “He was generous to a fault.”
“I don’t think you’d want to wear this,” said Ava. She squinted, trying to make out the fine print. “This receipt is for some pieces of heavy equipment. A trammel and a power sluicer.”
“A juicer?” said Margo.
“Sluicer,” said Carmela. “What on earth would that be used for? It doesn’t sound like something you’d use for digging up a
ncient dinosaur bones.”
“It sounds more like it would rip them apart,” said Ava.
“Let me go online and look that up,” said Carmela. She sat down at the computer again, brought up a search engine, and typed in “power sluicer.” Watched a few hits spin out.
“Here we go,” said Ava.
“‘A power sluicer, sometimes called a highbanker,” Carmela read out loud, “is a piece of gold-prospecting equipment that uses a pump to force water through a sluice box to mimic the natural flow of a stream.’” Carmela looked up and stared at Ava. “Apparently a power sluicer is used for separating gold particles from sand and gravel.”
“Gold?” said Ava.
“Gold!” said Margo.
Three sets of eyes suddenly focused on the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that were crammed with boxed sets of shimmering gold coins, glass tubes filled with gold nuggets, and gold-encrusted statuary.
“Holy Coupe de Ville!” said Carmela. “Jerry Earl was going to hunt for gold on that property!”
“Wait a minute,” said Ava. “There are gold deposits there? Really?” She sounded skeptical. “I thought you only got gold from . . . um . . . maybe the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Or is it the Superstition Mountains in Arizona?”
Carmela turned back to the computer. “Let’s just see about that.” She executed another search. And then another. After a few minutes she had some of the information clear in her head. “It turns out,” she said, “there were small deposits of gold found in West Feliciana Parish some hundred and twenty-five years ago.”
Margo squinted at Carmela. “You can tell all that from the computer?”
Carmela smiled. “It’s just a search engine.”
“But aren’t you a whiz,” Margo marveled. “Almost better than a tarot card reading!”
Ava frowned. “The computer can spit out facts and information about the past, but it can’t see into the future.”
Fearing that insurrection was about to break out, Carmela interrupted with, “It says here, ladies, that the price of gold is well over sixteen hundred dollars an ounce!”
Margo gasped. “Holy Hannah!”
“But is there any gold still to be found in northern Louisiana?” asked Ava. “That’s the real question, right?”
“Who knows?” said Carmela. “But the information I’m getting here is that lots of old mines and gold deposits are being given a careful second look. Especially now that there are new ways of extracting gold.”
The three women stared at each other again.
“So who is Spangler Enterprises?” asked Ava. “And why did they buy that exact parcel of land?”
“The land that Jerry Earl first spotted!” put in Margo.
“I don’t know,” said Carmela. “Maybe they’re also . . . prospecting for gold?”
“Ask that thing again,” Margo instructed. “See if that rat Conrad Falcon is involved.”
Carmela did a quick search on Spangler Enterprises cross-referenced with Conrad Falcon. And came up empty-handed. “Nothing,” she said.
“Agh,” said Margo. “That thing’s not so smart after all.”
• • •
ON THEIR WAY OUT THE DOOR, AVA MUTTERED, “She could be a real Lady Macbeth.”
“You mean Margo?” said Carmela. “Yeah, she’s still on my suspect list.”
“What about the guy she got all frothed up about? He lives next door, right?”
“Conrad Falcon?” said Carmela. “His house is kind of around the block. But backed up to this place.”
Ava lifted one shoulder delicately. “Maybe we should . . .”
“Pay him a visit?” said Carmela. What if he’s the killer? she thought. What if he’s . . .
“Come on,” said Ava. “What are you waiting for? Let’s take a chance.”
Conrad Falcon answered the door wearing an elegant navy cashmere sweater with a dark paisley ascot tucked in the neck and dove gray slacks. He looked, Carmela thought, like Sean Connery if he starred in an updated version of Gone with the Wind.
“Yes?” said Falcon. His face registered nothing. They could have been there to sell Girl Scout cookies. But, of course, they weren’t.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” said Carmela.
“Me, too,” said Ava.
“Do I know you ladies?” Falcon asked. He seemed ready to close the door on them.
“We met the other night,” said Carmela. “At the Star of the South Cat Show?”
Falcon’s eyes were cold and flat. Then he said, “Yes, now I remember you. You were the impertinent one.”
“And I’m the sweet one,” said Ava, offering her most dazzling smile.
“What is it you ladies want?” asked Falcon, clearly ruffled by their presence.
“The answer to a question,” said Carmela.
“And what might that be?” said Falcon.
Carmela gave him a tight smile. “Why did you buy the parcel of land up by Laurel Hill?”
Now Falcon looked even more confused. “What? Laurel Hill?” If he was acting, it was masterful. Worthy of the Actor’s Studio.
“In West Feliciana Parish,” said Carmela. “Thirty acres.”
Falcon frowned. “I didn’t buy any land in West Feliciana Parish.”
“Sure you did,” said Carmela. “Under the guise of building a discount shopping mall. But instead of stores that sell tube socks and tennis shoes, you’re really going to mine for gold!”
“That’s right,” said Ava. “You somehow got wind that Jerry Earl was looking there and you stepped right in and bought the land out from under him.”
“Right after you blew the whistle on him,” Carmela added.
“Are you crazy?” said Falcon. “Get out of here. Stop bothering me before I call the police.” He started to shut the door.
“That’s a great idea!” said Carmela. “In fact, I’m going to call the police myself!”
At that, the door slammed with a resounding bang.
“Good girl,” said Ava. “You’ve got him running scared now.”
Carmela gave her a sideways glance. “You think? He didn’t look all that scared to me. He mostly looked ticked off.”
“He’s compensating,” said Ava. “With all that bravo and machismo.”
“Maybe so,” said Carmela. “But if he’s really the killer, we just tipped our hand.”
Ava thought for a second. “Maybe you should call Bobby Gallant,” she suggested. “Kind of fill him in on what’s happened. What you figured out so far.”
“Maybe tomorrow morning,” said Carmela as they walked to her car in darkness.
“Okay,” said Ava. “But make sure your lock your door tonight.”
“Will do. You, too.”
Chapter 23
EVEN kisses from Boo and Poobah couldn’t rouse Carmela from her dreams this Saturday morning. In fact, it wasn’t until the insistent ringing of the phone finally insinuated itself into the far recesses of her brain that Carmela finally pried one eye open.
She sighed, sat halfway up in bed, and fumbled for her phone. “Hello?”
“Turn on your TV right now!” Ava shrieked.
This uncalled-for, noisy intrusion prompted Carmela to open both eyes. “Why?” she said. “What’s going on?” Was there a fire in the building? Had another hurricane swept through town?
“There’s a news alert,” said Ava.
“So?” Carmela yawned.
“Duncan Merriweather has been apprehended and taken in for questioning in the murder of Jerry Earl Leland!”
Carmela sat straight up in bed. She was wide awake now. “What?” she blurted. “Why?”
“Because a trocar was found in the garbage can just down the block from Merriweather’s house!” cried Ava.
“Dear Lord!” Carmela exclaimed
. “You’re telling me that Duncan Merriweather is the killer?”
“Looks like. Isn’t that something? He was right under our noses all along. And, of course, you knew about his background as an undertaker.”
“Beetsie told us,” said Carmela. “She was the one who really pointed the finger at him.”
“But you were smart enough to put it all together and tell the police,” said Ava. “And now . . . the case is solved!”
Carmela was still brushing sleep crusties from her eyes. “I guess.”
“Gotta go, kid. Lots going on. But I’ll be over this afternoon with some gowns for us to try!”
Carmela crawled out of bed and padded into the living room. Boo and Poobah followed her, relentlessly wagging their tails and grumbling to be let out.
“Just a minute, sweeties, your momma has to figure out what’s happening.”
Plunking herself down onto the chaise lounge, Carmela flipped on the TV and found the typical mindless Saturday morning programming. Cartoons, infomercials for tummy toners, infomercials for pimple products. Needing none of it, she flipped to KBEZ-TV, their local station, and caught the tail end of the big news story. There was a grainy photograph of Duncan Merriweather looking dapper in a tuxedo. Choppy red letters across the photo screamed APPREHENDED! The morning news anchor, a chirpy twenty-five-year-old, was saying, “. . . and now it looks as though we may finally have some answers in the gruesome slaying of Garden District resident Jerry Earl Leland.”
As the anchor happily switched to sports highlights, Carmela grabbed her phone and punched in Gallant’s office number from memory. She fidgeted nervously as it rang.
Gallant could be talking to Duncan Merriweather at this very moment, she thought.
But he wasn’t. After bluffing her way through two different gatekeepers, Carmela finally got him on the line.
“What?” Gallant said. His tone was hurried and quiet.
“I just heard that Duncan Merriweather was picked up,” said Carmela.
“That’s right. He’s being questioned right now, even as we speak.”
Carmela was still confused. “But how did you know . . . how did you locate the murder weapon? The trocar?”
