by Laura Childs
“Hey!” he cried.
Carmela didn’t stop to apologize or explain. She pulled the foam mitt onto her own arm and batted aside shards of glass as she lifted a leg and stuck it through the shattered window. She needed to find Devon to see if he was okay. Had he possibly experienced some sort of cardiac incident and collapsed against the window? Was someone in there with him? Had there been a knock-down, drag-out fight? Was Devon perhaps in dire trouble?
Carmela swatted another nasty shard aside and stepped all the way through the window, her shoes immediately crunching hard on broken glass.
“Devon?” Carmela called out, louder this time. “Mimi, sweetheart?” The little pug danced toward her, eyes rolling in fear, still barking frantically.
BANG!
A deafening roar and a shower of bright sparks exploded directly in front of Carmela and sent her reeling. Half-blinded by the smoke and feeling frantic now, she reached out for something—anything—to keep from falling. Luckily, her hands grasped a small walnut desk and she was able to steady herself.
Dear Lord, what was that? Carmela wondered, even as the words flash-bang zipped like jagged lightning through her brain. And was that the slam of the back door she’d just heard? Or were her ears, shocked by the loud explosion, playing tricks on her?
As smoke began to clear, Carmela crunched her way forward into the darkened shop. She moved two steps, then three, and stopped to draw a shaky breath. The place smelled of smoke, dusty furniture, old canvases, and something else . . .
Carmela shook off the foam mitt and reached around blindly. Her heart was beating out of her chest, her breath coming in sharp rasps. Where was Devon? And after that last explosion, had someone outside thought to call the police?
In complete darkness, feeling beyond apprehensive, Carmela finally reached out and touched a lamp. She fumbled for the switch, felt the lamp wobble slightly, and was flooded with relief when she heard a tiny click and the lamp spilled its warm yellow glow.
“Devon?” Carmela called again.
Mimi let out a sharp, terrified yip that pulled Carmela’s bewildered eyes downward. And there, sprawled like a rag doll on a priceless Persian carpet, his eyes drooped shut, head in a puddle of crimson blood, was Devon Dowling!
Chapter 2
CARMELA’S hands were shaking so badly she could barely punch 911 on her cell phone. But she finally managed to pull it together and call for help. And even though it felt like hours dragged by, the first responders arrived within minutes.
Carmela scooped up Mimi as two men from Fire and Rescue smashed out the rest of the front window with metal tools, ducked their heads in, and surveyed the scene. Shouting ensued, and the fire guys quickly brought in light stanchions, followed by two EMTs equipped with portable oxygen and medical gear.
As the EMTs performed CPR on Devon and hung a bottle of IV fluid, Detective Bobby Gallant arrived. Gallant was a good-looking, slightly bulked-up detective, who cast a curious eye at Carmela’s presence. Yes, they knew each other. Gallant was the right-hand man to Detective Edgar Babcock, Carmela’s fiancé. How convenient!
Except it wasn’t at all, because if Babcock arrived at the scene, Carmela figured he’d immediately banish her from the premises. The last thing Babcock would want would be for her to get messed up in one of his cases. And, chances were, this would end up being one of his cases.
Carmela touched a hand to Gallant’s arm and hastened to explain her presence here. “I heard the crash when his front window broke, and I couldn’t find Devon Dowling anywhere!” Her words spewed out in a hot rush. “So I came in to investigate. Hoping that I could help.” She gazed at Gallant as she flapped a hand in frustration. “There was a huge explosion, and then I noticed Devon.”
“Wait,” Gallant said. “There was an explosion after you came inside?”
“Yes. Like those flash-bang things you guys use. Oh, and I think I heard the back door slam shut.”
Gallant just nodded as Ava stuck her head through the front window, blinked, and then stumbled into the shop on sky-high stilettos. “Oh no,” she said when she spotted Devon’s body. “Is he . . . ?”
“They’re working on him,” Carmela said.
“You shouldn’t be in here,” Gallant said to the ever-curious Ava.
“She’s with me,” Carmela said.
But Gallant had bigger fish to fry than dealing with Carmela and Ava. “Getting a pulse?” he asked the EMTs.
One of the EMTs shook his head. “Barely.”
“Please try harder,” Ava said as she fingered the silver crucifix that hung around her neck.
“They’re doing everything they can,” Carmela whispered. Still hanging on to Mimi, she pulled Ava away from Devon’s body and then slipped an arm around her friend’s shoulders.
“Maybe I should say a little prayer?” Ava asked.
“Just stay back,” Gallant told them in a no-nonsense tone. He was part of the tight little scrum of Fire and Rescue and EMTs that now surrounded Dowling.
As the EMTs worked on Dowling, another disturbance was suddenly taking place outside: loud shouting, accompanied by howls from the anxious, curious crowd. Then a voice boomed out that Carmela recognized immediately. Detective Edgar Babcock had arrived, and he didn’t sound one bit happy.
“Push ’em all back,” Babcock shouted. “Every last gawker. Then get some crime scene tape strung up and post as many officers as possible. Give me a twenty-foot perimeter. No, make that thirty feet.”
“Babcock,” Ava whispered.
Carmela just nodded. This crime scene—because that’s surely what it was at this point—was about to get even more intense.
“And will somebody please unlock this damn door!” Babcock shouted.
“That’s my honey,” Carmela said under her breath. She watched expectantly as a tall ginger-haired man hovered in front of the broken window. Then she caught her breath as he ducked his head and stepped on through.
Babcock was, to put it mildly, extremely good-looking: tall, broad shouldered, elegant in his carriage and manner of dress, and with intense blue eyes. At this moment, he also looked incredibly on edge. As if his brain was spinning at warp speed, trying to stay one step ahead of . . .
“Carmela!” Babcock blurted out. “What are you doing here?”
“Funny you should ask,” Ava murmured.
“We were at the festival and heard a terrible crash,” Carmela said, gesturing toward the front window. “We rushed in to investigate.”
“Wrong answer. I’m the one who rushed in to investigate,” Babcock said. But he didn’t say it in a mean way, just in a firm tone that confirmed he was definitely in charge.
“Devon and I are friends,” Carmela added. She figured that was enough of an explanation for now.
Babcock leaned in to where the EMTs were still administering oxygen and doing chest compressions. “How’s he doing?”
“Not good,” one of them said.
“Let me through! Let me through!” came another scream from outside.
“What now?” Babcock muttered.
A uniformed officer stuck his head through the broken-out window. “Detective Babcock? We’ve got a guy outside who says he works here.”
“Let me in! Please!” came the frantic voice again. Then a head bobbed in the front window.
“Who’re you?” Babcock called out.
“T.J.,” the young man said. “Trevor Jackson. I work here!”
“Let him in,” Babcock said.
A young man in blue jeans and a tweedy jacket clambered over the glass and into the store. “What happened?” he demanded. “Did we get robbed? Please tell me what’s going on!”
“We were hoping you could tell us,” Babcock said.
T.J. looked momentarily stunned. Then he caught sight of Devon Dowling lying on the floor surrounded by the pac
k of first responders, and his eyes went wide as saucers. He opened his mouth but only managed a faint, “I . . . I . . .” T.J.’s dark hair was tousled, his eyes dark pinpricks of worry, and he carried a cardboard tray that held two muffuletta sandwiches and two cups of coffee.
“Do you know him?” Ava asked Carmela.
Carmela shook her head. “No, but Devon mentioned that he’d hired someone to help around the shop.”
From that point on, the scene built in intensity. The Crime Scene team arrived as reporters continually tried to break through the barrier to shoot photos and film footage. Peter Jarreau, the NOPD public information officer who worked closely with Babcock, showed up and did his best to handle the always-pushy media, but he looked strained and caught off guard.
“No, no!” Jarreau snapped at the reporters. “We’ve got nothing to release yet.”
“Then when?” the reporters clamored. There were so many camera flashes outside it looked like a Stones concert.
Jarreau pulled open the shop door and shot a look at Babcock, who simply shook his head.
“We’ll let you know,” Jarreau shouted to the TV and newspaper people. He turned back to Babcock. “The TV guys are hoping to get something for the ten o’clock.”
“Probably not going to happen,” Babcock said. He was watching the EMTs minister to Dowling. It wasn’t going well.
Carmela and Ava remained pressed up against the back wall of the shop, keeping an eye on the law enforcement and medical personnel as they worked on Dowling and mumbled among themselves.
“I wonder what happened?” Ava whispered to Carmela. “Why’d the window shatter?”
“I think there was some kind of fight,” Carmela said. It was fairly obvious that someone had viciously attacked Dowling and, in the ensuing struggle, smashed lamps, glassware, a few clocks, and the large plate glass window. The question now was Dowling’s medical status. Was he hovering at death’s door or was there hope for him?
“Don’t let Mimi see Devon looking this way,” Ava whispered to Carmela. “If she sees all that blood, she could be scarred for life.”
“I’ll hang on tight to her,” Carmela promised. She leaned down and planted a kiss on Mimi’s furry head as she cradled the shivering little dog in her arms. Outside, lights pulsed blood red and police radios blared unintelligible static. Night had settled hard on the French Quarter, and garbled voices from the crowd on the street sounded like a drunken cocktail party.
Carmela and Ava finally got some answers when Babcock stood up, dusted his hands together, and said in a somber tone, “Just leave it in while we transport him.”
One of the EMTs frowned. “It’s awfully wobbly. Could dislodge at any moment.”
Charlie Preston, one of the Crime Scene techs, leaned forward. “Anchor it with a strip of adhesive tape,” he said. “We gotta leave it there. It’s critical we preserve his body in situ.”
Carmela nudged her way into the pack as if she were negotiating a quarterback sneak. “What exactly are you talking about?” she demanded as the metal gurney they’d brought in uttered a dull clank. “How’s Devon?”
For a homicide detective who’d seen it all, Babcock looked more than a little rattled. “Now Carmela . . .”
“Leave what in?” Carmela asked as she stared down at Dowling’s pale face. His head was canted at an odd angle, and his lips were almost blue.
Babcock pursed his lips, still stalling. When he saw the purposeful look on Carmela’s face, he knew he had to tell her. “The ice pick,” he finally said. “We have to leave the ice pick in for the ME to examine.”
“What!” Carmela said, practically shouting now. “Ice pick?”
“The one that’s jammed in Dowling’s left ear,” Babcock said.
As one of the EMTs gently turned Devon’s head with his gloved hands, Carmela was finally able to see the cause of the physical damage. The worn wooden handle of an ice pick protruded rudely from Devon’s left ear.
The floor swayed beneath Carmela’s feet, and now, finally, the realization hit her that her friend was dead. “He’s dead? That’s what killed him?” She gulped hard and drew a sharp breath. “I can’t believe . . .” Carmela was stunned by the sheer grotesqueness of the murder even as she remained achingly curious. She’d never heard of such a bizarre way to kill someone. Well, maybe in a B movie. But only ones that involved the Mafia.
“Take him away,” Babcock said.
Carmela held up a hand. “Are you sure he’s really . . . gone?”
“Sweetheart,” Babcock said, “that ice pick didn’t just kill him; it made mincemeat out of his prefrontal cortex.”
“There’s nothing the doctors can do?” Ava asked. She’d wiggled her way in to catch a glimpse of Dowling as well. “There’s no hope for a meaningful recovery?”
Babcock grimaced. “Not unless his middle name is Lazarus.”
Chapter 3
CARMELA walked into Memory Mine bright and early on Monday morning, juggling Mimi in one arm and a box of handmade washi paper in the other.
Gabby Mercer-Morris, Carmela’s assistant, took one look at Mimi and her face fell. Then she gazed at Carmela and said, “I heard. About Devon Dowling.”
Carmela set her box of paper down but hung on to Mimi. She hadn’t wanted to leave the little pug at home with her two dogs, Boo and Poobah. They’d been curious about their visitor last night and pretty much on their best behavior. But today, the three of them left alone to their own devices . . . well, you never could tell.
“I suppose the news about Devon is all over the French Quarter,” Carmela said.
Gabby nodded. “They’re already talking about it at the Café du Monde. Plus, the graphic details were splashed all over TV last night and the front page of this morning’s paper.”
“So there was actual news footage?”
“It was grainy, but I could kind of pick you out. You and Mimi and Ava.”
“Just what I needed,” Carmela said.
Gabby stood behind the front counter, one hand worrying the strand of luminous pearls that nestled around her neck. Her other hand nervously smoothed the edge of the cashmere cardigan of her jonquil yellow twin set.
“The look on that little dog’s face is breaking my heart,” Gabby said.
Carmela had to smile. Gabby was the epitome of sweetness and competence. She’d been with Carmela for so many years that she could be trusted to run the shop single-handedly. But what Carmela admired most about Gabby was her unfailingly sweet nature. She was a champion of hummingbirds, puppies, and toddlers. When kids came into Memory Mine with their moms, Gabby practically lost her mind with joy.
“You should have seen Mimi last night,” Carmela said. “You know those awful sci-fi movies where some ginormous alien ship destroys every building in New York City but there’s always a tiny kid left crying in the street because its parents were killed?”
Gabby’s face crumpled. “Yes?”
“That’s what Mimi looked like last night. A poor little orphan.”
Gabby reached over and gathered Mimi into her arms, letting the little dog cuddle up against her. “What are you going to do with her?”
“I don’t know. But Mimi’s the only witness we have.”
Gabby put a hand on Mimi’s head and rubbed gently. “This sweet little dog is a witness? I’m sure she’s smart but . . . Carmela, you can’t be serious.”
“Now you sound like Babcock. I suggested last night that Mimi might be able to identify Dowling’s killer, and he pooh-poohed the whole idea.”
Gabby looked doubtful, but she said, “You think Mimi could really do that? Recognize the killer, I mean?”
“We won’t know unless we try. Mimi was right there in Dulcimer Antiques when Devon was murdered.” Carmela gave a shudder as she recalled seeing the ice pick protruding from Devon Dowling’s ear. It had been a harsh
dose of reality.
“Carmela, hold it right there. You do realize you’re meddling in one of Babcock’s cases again.”
“I wouldn’t call it meddling.” Carmela paused and squinted, as if carefully weighing her answer. “Well, maybe superficially I am. But it’s really all about Mimi. She’s involved whether Babcock likes it or not. And right now, I’m the one who’s taken custody of Mimi.”
“Carmela, I know how your mind works. You have some sort of murder-solving plan, and this poor baby”—Gabby stroked Mimi’s head again for good measure—“is going to get mixed up in it.”
“Devon was my friend,” Carmela said, almost defensively.
“I realize that, but you have to leave a murder investigation to the professionals. And by professionals, I mean Babcock and his team of homicide detectives.”
“I haven’t actually done anything yet.”
“But you’re thinking about it,” Gabby said. “And the thing is, you’ve already dabbled your little pink toes in a bit of hot water.”
Carmela sighed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” But, of course, she really did.
“Perhaps we should address that point,” Gabby said. “Does Babcock know that your old paramour is opening a gumbo shop in the space right next door to us?”
“Let’s get one thing straight. Quigg Brevard is not my old paramour. We dated once.”
“Twice.”
“Who’s counting?” Carmela asked.
“I think Quigg might still be counting on you for, shall we say, some serious female companionship.” Gabby paused. “If you ask me, Quigg’s still a little bit in love with you.”
“Quigg is only interested in things he can’t have. He’s one of those guys who barks at the moon.” Carmela gave an offhand shrug. “But there’s nothing to worry about. I happen to know that Quigg’s already hired a manager for Gumbo Ya Ya.”
“That’s what he’s calling his little gumbo bar?”
“As far as I know, yes. So between Gumbo Ya Ya, his other restaurants—Fishbones, Mumbo Gumbo, and Bon Tiempe—and his St. Tammany Vineyards, he’s going to be way too busy to ever show his smiley little face next door.”
