by Laura Childs
“Now you’re talking,” said Carmela.
• • •
BY FOUR O’CLOCK, THEIR DRESSES SELECTED, A pitcher of frozen strawberry daiquiris consumed, Ava drifted back to her own apartment to shower and fix her hair.
Carmela was also feeling no pain. She climbed into her shower, cranked up the hot water, and under the needlelike spray, felt her entire self begin to decompress.
This is good, she told herself. I’ll take a couple of hours to relax and get ready. Then I’ll get all prettied up for tonight. And be ready to dance the night away when Babcock finally shows up.
She washed her hair, threw in a little cream rinse for good measure, then stayed under the shower until the hot water dwindled and the pipes began their familiar clank.
This is the life. Well, it was anyway.
She stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around her head, and cozied up in her terry cloth robe. With the bathroom door still closed tight, the room was steamy and warm, the mirror completely fogged.
I suppose I have to think about makeup, she told herself. Maybe she’d do the Full Monty. Not just tinted moisturizer and mascara, but eyeliner, blusher, lip liner, the works. Really glam it up.
Carmela gazed into the mirror, but it was so fogged up that all she could see was an ethereal, wavering image. She reached out a hand and began to wipe away the steamy residue and beads of moisture. There, that was a little better.
She leaned forward, wondering if she should line her lower eyelids, too. Go for the cool catwalk look she’d just seen illustrated in Vogue. She tilted her head to one side, trying to decide.
Only her image didn’t tilt with her!
What?
Her heart banging out a timpani solo inside her chest, Carmela suddenly realized that there was another image in the mirror. An image that didn’t belong to her!
Carmela whirled around and stared in horror at the tiny bathroom window that was positioned directly across from her mirror.
A shadow wavered for an instant and was gone!
Was someone just looking in at me? Dear Lord, I think so!
She fought to quell the rising tide of fear.
But who could it have been?
Without thinking, Carmela kicked into overdrive. She tore through her apartment, dashed out the front door, and scampered around the side of her building. She knew she looked like a crazy woman, but she didn’t much care. Someone—and she was pretty sure there had been a someone—had been watching her!
Her bare feet felt the hump and bump of every cobblestone as she tore down the narrow alley. There were garages here, old corrugated tin things, where people parked their cars. Some of the garages were leased by the people in the surrounding apartments; others were used by people who lived blocks away. Parking was always at a premium in the French Quarter.
But who had been watching her?
She slowed to a walk. And where had they disappeared to? Was someone lurking right now behind one of the hulking, rusted Dumpsters at the end of the block? Or waiting quietly in one of the open garages? Some of the garages had been broken into so many times, their doors no longer closed.
Maybe it was a bad idea to be out here.
And I left my door standing wide open. My apartment completely unlocked!
That thought got Carmela moving again.
She tiptoed back down the alley and slid around her building. A woman with a small, curly-haired dog, a Schnauzer she thought it was, was walking toward her. Carmela racked her brain, trying to remember the woman’s name.
Mrs. Peabody. That was it. And her dog’s name was Antoine.
“Mrs. Peabody,” Carmela said breathlessly. “Did you see someone run by here?”
Mrs. Peabody stared at Carmela as if her face had just been spray-painted green.
“Why, no,” she replied. Then she seemed to register that Carmela had basically just stepped directly out of the shower. “Is something wrong? Is there a problem?”
“I was . . .” Carmela faltered, not sure what she was trying to say. “I just thought I saw . . . um, someone.”
With that, Carmela turned and walked back inside her apartment. But she didn’t pull her door closed tight until she’d checked inside all of the closets and knelt down to look under the bed.
After all, a girl couldn’t be too careful.
Chapter 25
THE evening was warm and languorous as Carmela and Ava strutted down the street, headed for the Cakewalk Ball. Correction, Ava strutted while Carmela tiptoed. Her three-inch-high Louboutin pumps matched her canary yellow dress perfectly, but they were a bear to walk in. Narrow and strappy, dazzling and pinchy, they were a distinct contrast to the one-inch-high comfy shoes she usually drubbed around town in. But fashion was a petulant mistress, and Carmela had decided she should make a few sacrifices in order to impress Edgar Babcock.
Babcock. Where is my little cupcake anyway?
He hadn’t called or checked in with her yet, and Carmela wondered if maybe his plane had been delayed.
Please, no. It’s been such a long week.
“This is gonna be one terrific night,” Ava sang out as they stepped into the lobby of the New Orleans Art Institute. “We look great. We’re gonna crush it!” Dozens of couples dressed to the nines in black tie and evening gowns swanned around them, exchanging excited greetings and elaborate air kisses.
“I hope so,” said Carmela. Her self-confidence wasn’t as blatant as Ava’s.
“Can’t you just smell the money?” whispered Ava.
Carmela dug in her jeweled clutch and presented their tickets to the tuxedoed doorman. Then they were sailing down the main hallway, where Greek statues, Renaissance paintings, and Chinese vases mingled in artistic harmony.
“Don’t you love being a patron of the arts?” asked Ava as they whooshed past four grand pillars and entered the museum’s grand Sky Ballroom.
“I do when I don’t have to pay for the tickets,” said Carmela. She looked around at the breathtaking décor. Swags of pink and white tulle—like decorations on a cake—were draped everywhere. A jazz quartet, looking dapper in purple tuxedos, played soft, sexy tunes from their perch on a raised bandstand. A large bar was arranged on one side of the vast room along with conversation groups of shiny black tables and comfy club chairs for relaxing. The dance floor, already crowded with couples dancing cheek to cheek, featured a towering ten-layer cake as a centerpiece. Flickering candles and colored lights also added an ethereal, dreamlike feel to the room.
“I love the Moby Cake that’s sittin’ right square in the middle of the dance floor,” said Ava. “But where are all the decorated cakes? The ones with all the tasty jewels and gems?”
“They’re on display in the room next door,” said Carmela. “Patiently awaiting their turn until the auction begins.”
“And when do you think that will be?”
“Probably not until all the guests are sufficiently liquored up. Then everyone will be in a hale and hearty good mood, ready to show off and try to outbid each other.”
“That’s not a bad fund-raising tactic,” mused Ava.
“Trust me,” said Carmela, who’d seen her fair share of these benefits. “It works every time.”
“Hmm,” said Ava, making a Mae West–type cooing sound as she scanned the crowd for eligible men. “Maybe I’ll meet Mr. Right tonight.”
“Or at least Mr. Okay for Right Now,” said Carmela.
“Like that cute little stud muffin over there,” said Ava. She cast an interested glance at a tall man in a tuxedo with wavy, over-the-collar blond hair. He had that well-scrubbed preppy look, complete with Roman nose and dimpled chin.
“Kind of East Coast meets Louisiana businessman,” observed Carmela.
“Who’s about to meet me,” said Ava. “Lucky thing I’ve got a black belt in sassy!�
�� And just like that she pranced over to Mr. Roman Nose and struck up a conversation.
Then Gabby and her husband, Stuart, spotted Carmela and came speedballing through the crowd to greet her.
“Carmela!” said Gabby. “I just saw your cake. It’s fabulous!” She was dressed in a gorgeous hunter green gown that had tiny pearls sewn into the sweetheart neckline. “And I love your dress—you look beautiful tonight!”
“So do you!” Carmela said, kissing Gabby’s cheek. She turned and greeted Stuart, who graced her with his standard, somewhat bored expression. “Stuart, lovely to see you.”
Stuart delivered a chaste peck on Carmela’s cheek. “Always good to see you, too, darlin’.”
“How’s business?” Carmela asked him. Stuart liked nothing better than to talk about business.
A smile spread across Stuart’s broad face. “Pretty dang good,” he enthused. “Most of our primary lease terms are three years now, so our vehicle remarketing program has added significantly to our bottom line.”
“That’s wonderful,” said Carmela. She had no idea what Stuart had just said.
“You know, Carmela,” Stuart continued, “I could put you in a brand-new Celica for three ninety-nine down.”
Before she could respond, Jekyl suddenly appeared at her right elbow. In his black sequined jacket and bright red bow tie, he looked like a stylish game show host.
“Little bird!” Jekyl cried. “You look so delightfully perky in yellow!”
Carmela laughed. “I better look good, because these shoes are killing me.”
Jekyl grabbed her by the hand and pulled her away. “Speaking of killing, m’dear, I’d say beaucoup congrats are in order!”
Carmela stared at him. “What do you mean?”
Jekyl led her closer to the bar, where a waiter tipped his tray toward them and offered a choice of shrimp pâté on crackers or blobs of shiny black caviar on toast points. Carmela helped herself to one of each. She figured it was going to be a long night and she needed to fortify herself.
“Darlin’,” said Jekyl, his dark eyes lighting up. “You solved the murder!” He popped a cracker into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “Of course, I always knew you would. You have the raw and natural instincts of a real-life investigator. And here I suspected meek little Beetsie all along. I guess it just goes to show how off base moi can be.”
“Jekyl.” Carmela tapped a finger against his shiny lapel. “I don’t think I did solve the murder. Yes, the police picked up Duncan Merriweather for questioning, but . . .”
Carmela’s cell phone buzzed from inside her beaded bag.
“One second,” she told Jekyl. “I have to get this.” She grabbed the phone, checked her Caller ID. Yes, it was Babcock! “You’re here!” she said.
“I’m back in town, yes.” His voice sounded mellow but tired. “My plane just landed.”
“Just in the nick of time,” said Carmela. “Why don’t you jump into your tux and get over here, okay?”
“A tux,” he said. There was a giant sigh attached to that.
“That’s right,” said Carmela. “That same one you wore to the Rex Ball would be absolutely perfect.”
“Carmela, I’m pretty beat . . .”
“Please,” she said. “Just get your sweet self over here, okay?” She lowered her voice. “I’m really . . . dying to see you.”
Now Babcock gave a low chuckle. “With a heartfelt invitation like that, how can I resist?”
“Ooh, wait a minute,” said Carmela. “You don’t have an invitation. I mean, like, tickets.”
“I’ve got a gold shield,” said Babcock. “That should be invitation enough.”
As Carmela hung up, Jekyl rolled his eyes. “I take it your sweetie is back in town.”
“Finally,” said Carmela. She linked her arm through Jekyl’s and they strolled around the ballroom.
“Carmela!” called Baby, giving an eager wave.
Carmela and Jekyl quickly joined Baby and her husband, Del. Baby was dressed in a burgundy gown with a yellow sash that perfectly matched her sleek blond hair.
“You’re the talk of the walk!” Baby exclaimed.
“Why is that?” said Carmela, somewhat guardedly. Oh no. Not more talk about the murder and Duncan Merriweather!
But Baby was all jacked up over Carmela’s cake. “Your delightful little bird cake is getting tons of attention. I’ve heard from a couple of people that it’s their number one favorite, so I’ll bet you get the highest bid!”
“I think the attention is probably being paid to the diamond pendant and not my cake,” said Carmela. She knew the pendant was a real stunner. Who wouldn’t want it? Heck, she’d love to have it!
“We’ll see!” chirped Baby.
Baby’s husband kissed Carmela fondly on the cheek. “It’s a good thing the auction isn’t silent,” he said. “Then we’d have nothing to gossip about.”
“Nothing ever remains silent in New Orleans!” Carmela replied.
Carmela and Jekyl moved on. Then, when Jekyl spotted a bunch of friends from the Pluvius krewe, he suddenly dashed off to greet them. Leaving Carmela standing alone.
But not for long.
Buddy Pelletier, Jerry Earl’s old business pal, suddenly had her in his clutches. “Carmela,” said Pelletier. “I’d like to introduce you to my wife, Melba.”
Carmela greeted Melba warmly and they made small talk for a few minutes. Then Pelletier pulled her aside.
“Thank you so much for helping Margo,” Pelletier told her.
“I’m not sure I did all that much,” said Carmela.
“Dear lady, you did far more than you think. You were a friend during her time of need and, from what I’ve been hearing, pointed a firm finger at Duncan Merriweather.”
“Yes, but I . . .”
“Don’t downplay your good work, Carmela,” said Pelletier. “You made a significant contribution to this investigation.” He hooked a thumb and pointed at Margo Leland across the dance floor. “Look at Margo over there. Merriweather’s arrest this morning came as a terrible shock to her, but it’s also lifted an enormous weight off her shoulders.”
“You think?” Carmela didn’t think Margo looked all that happy or relieved.
“Absolutely,” said Pelletier. “Now she knows. Now she’s got closure and can start rebuilding her life.” He smiled his handsome smile.
“I suppose you’re right,” said Carmela. Somehow, deep in her heart, she didn’t feel like there’d been any sort of closure. Then again, maybe she was still coming to terms with the two murders.
“I’m going to make sure all Margo’s friends continue to rally around her,” said Pelletier. “I’m going to ensure there’s a good, solid support group.”
“That’s very sweet of you,” said Carmela.
Pelletier was gazing at her intently.
“I think I’m going to go over and say hello to Margo,” said Carmela. “Thank her for the tickets.”
Pelletier nodded forcefully. “Do that. I know she’d love it.”
• • •
WHEN MARGO SAW CARMELA COMING TOWARD her, she stretched out a hand and said in a quavering voice, “Carmela. You dear, dear girl.”
Carmela put her arms around Margo and gave her a big hug. “How are you holding up?” she asked. “I can’t believe you’re even here tonight.”
“I know, I know,” said Margo. “But at least this whole terrible ordeal is practically over with now.” She stepped back and turned plaintive eyes on Carmela. “Can you believe it? Duncan Merriweather? Our Duncan? It surely came as a complete shock!”
Now Beetsie chimed in. “He was always right there, always so close to us!”
“I get chills every time I think about it,” said Margo, making google eyes. “Duncan was always with us—our little troika, he liked to ca
ll us. He was at every party, every social engagement, pretending to be helpful, pretending to be solicitous.”
“But we had a viper in our midst!” said Beetsie. She wore a long black dress and low, squashy heels. Margo, on the other hand, was dolled up in a flamboyant fuchsia-colored dress with her trademark gold accessories and super-high stilettos. Her forehead looked smooth and a little puffy, and Carmela wondered if she’d just had a hit of Botox.
“Being part of our inner circle gave Duncan access to everything and everyone!” cried Margo.
“At least he’ll be behind bars now,” Beetsie added sharply.
“I should hope so!” said Margo. “It’s utterly chilling that we were associating with such a vicious killer!”
Carmela said nothing. It was obvious the two of them were still in shock over the discovery of the trocar and Merriweather’s subsequent arrest. Still, she couldn’t help wondering if any actual evidence had come to the surface. After all, the phone tip had been anonymous, there were no eyewitnesses to the murders of Jerry Earl and Eric Zane, and the arrest seemed to have been prompted by pure emotion. So was the jury still out on this?
Goodness, Carmela thought, the jury hasn’t even been selected yet!
Chapter 26
“SHAMUS!” said Carmela, suddenly startled. She’d been elbowing her way through the elegant crowd, trying to hunt down Ava. And instead, she’d run into the two people she really had no interest in talking to—Shamus and Glory Meechum.
“Glory wants to see her cake,” said Shamus. He was dressed to kill in a black Armani tuxedo with a tartan plaid cummerbund. Glory, his older sister, had mean, wary eyes sunken into her doughy face, a lacquered helmet of gray hair, and wore her version of a sensible evening gown. In other words, it was brown, long, and shapeless.
Carmela peeked down at Glory’s shoes. Her feet looked like two gunboats encased in brown leather. Good heavens, even Beetsie could give this woman pointers!
“Well?” said Glory. She was mean as a puff adder and rich as Croesus. She’d never liked Carmela and liked her even less now that she’d been forced to relinquish the Garden District home in the divorce settlement. “I’d like to see my cake if it’s not too much trouble, Carmela.”
