Mumbo Gumbo Murder

by Laura Childs

  “How awful for you.”

  “And for my art collection,” Colonel Otis said.

  “Where will the painting be returned to?”

  “A museum in Denver.”

  “But you must have some recourse with the painting’s seller, am I right?” Carmela knew she was being pushy and didn’t care. In her mind, this counted as a legitimate investigation.

  “The seller was a private dealer who had actually contacted me. He seemed to have all the appropriate credentials and provenance,” Colonel Otis said.

  “This was someone you knew? That you’d worked with before?”

  “Not really. And I clearly won’t ever again. This particular dealer contacted me out of the blue, and I suppose that probably should have been a warning sign in and of itself.” Colonel Otis gave a rueful smile.

  “Do you know how this disreputable dealer got your name?”

  Colonel Otis favored her with a tolerant smile. “Probably because I’m listed as a gold patron donor with the New Orleans Museum of Art.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “I have two words for you,” Ava said to Carmela a few minutes later. “Buffet line. As in let’s hustle our tushies over there right now. Before the food gets cold. Or is depleted by hungry, voracious guests.”

  “Okay,” Carmela said as they walked over and grabbed plates. “Let’s do it.”

  They helped themselves to panfried veal grillades, crab-stuffed crepes, eggs Sardou, home fries, red beans and rice, and baked apples in pecan sauce.

  “So what did you find out from talking to Colonel Mustard over there?” Ava asked.

  “Colonel Otis. And to answer your question, not a whole lot. He basically told me he’d been snookered in an art deal.”

  “Did you believe him?”

  Ava’s question gave Carmela pause. “Probably. I mean, the police got involved. On the other hand, Colonel Otis is kind of a big-time collector . . .”

  “And you think he may have collected something from Devon Dowling?”

  “It could have happened that way.” Carmela helped herself to a small cup of seafood gumbo. “Colonel Otis impresses me as a bit of a fat cat. And fat cats often have a tendency to get what they want. Never mind how they go about it.”

  “The snippet of coat?” Ava asked.

  “Maybe.”

  They carried their plates over to Jekyl’s table and sat down to eat. One of the servers had brought over a bottle of Chablis, and now Jekyl carefully poured out drinks for them.

  “To Devon,” Carmela said as she raised her glass. “May he rest in peace.” The three of them gently clinked glasses in a toast to their fallen friend.

  Once they’d tucked into their entrées, Jekyl said, “I have news.”

  “Now what?” Carmela asked.

  “No, it’s good news,” Jekyl said. “The Corinth krewe asked me to do some preliminary sketches for their Mardi Gras floats.”

  “I thought Julian Bragg was designing their floats,” Carmela said.

  Jekyl looked pleased, more than pleased. “He was. But now it appears as if he’s completely skipped town. Maybe he ran off to join the circus, maybe he skipped out on his bar bill at Commander’s Palace. Whatever the reason, I couldn’t be more pleased.”

  “Congratulations, then,” Carmela said. “I’m happy for you.”

  “This is nice,” Ava said as she nibbled her eggs Sardou and took another sip of wine. “All of us lunching together. It’s so terribly civilized.”

  The word civilized had barely escaped Ava’s mouth when a loud noise ripped across the room, startling everyone. Either a steam locomotive had exploded or a T. rex had stumbled in. Then a fist hammered down on a table, jouncing silverware and tipping over wineglasses.

  “Now what?” Carmela cried. But as she spun in her chair and gazed across the room, she saw Richard Drake standing over T.J., who was still seated at his table. Not only had Drake assumed a threatening posture, he was screaming at the top of his lungs.

  “You did it!” Drake cried. “I know it was you!”

  “Get out of my face, you overage poseur!” T.J. yelled back. “Why don’t you go back to whatever Twilight movie you crawled out of!”

  “You won’t get away with it!” Drake screamed.

  T.J. jumped to his feet. “Back off, jerkwad, before I call the cops!”

  “Ooh,” Ava said. “This is getting serious.”

  Hands balled into fists, Drake and T.J. circled each other like a couple of wary prizefighters. Guests craned their heads, and chairs squeaked as everyone shifted to get a better view. Would there be a fight? A hush fell over the room as everyone waited expectantly.

  “I just found out that Devon’s safe was robbed,” Drake said. Now he dropped his voice to a low, menacing snarl. “And I know it was you who did it!”

  “You’re crazy!” T.J. spat out.

  “You stole the piece of Lincoln’s coat,” Drake continued.

  “The cat’s out of the bag now,” Ava said as an excited murmur ran through the crowd.

  “No way!” T.J. shouted back.

  “That relic was promised to the Vampire Society, and we want it now.”

  “You want it?” T.J. bounced on the balls of his feet. “Okay, asshole, I’ll give it to you.” He swung wildly at Drake, not a championship punch but enough to clip him upside the head. A loud thwok rang out, like a ripe watermelon being thumped.

  Drake staggered sideways, looked like he was about to collapse, but managed to recover at the last moment. He came back at T.J. like a ball of fury and landed a right uppercut square on his jaw.

  Ava said, “Vampire guy is not only good-looking, he isn’t afraid of a fight.”

  T.J. wobbled for a split second and fell backward, sprawling inelegantly in the lap of a very startled woman who wore a large black hat with netting that was either a messy bow or a scraggly crow.

  “S’cuse me,” T.J. said to the woman as his eyes goggled. Then he pushed himself up and staggered forward. When his eyes managed to refocus on Drake, he snarled, “You seriously wanna mix it up? Good.” He looked like a bandy rooster ready to explode. “Now I’m really gonna let you have it!”

  “Can’t you do something?” Carmela whispered to Jekyl.

  “I’ll try,” Jekyl whispered back. He leaped to his feet and charged across the room, threading his way through tables of stunned guests, heading for the two fighters. “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” he said, trying to sound appeasing. Trying to sound reasonable. “This is hardly the time or place . . .”

  Drake heard Jekyl’s plea and gave a slight nod. He unclenched his hands and looked as if he was willing to back off.

  T.J., on the other hand, decided to up the ante. Bellowing like a raging bull, he reached out, grabbed an upholstered chair, and hoisted it over his head. He staggered for an instant, then swung the chair in a wide arc directly at Richard Drake.

  At the very last second, Drake saw the chair hurtling toward him and managed to twist his body. The chair struck him on the shoulder with such force that he dropped like a sack of flour.

  Then the chair, carried by centrifugal force, turned completely upside down, made a loud BOING as it bounced once, and proceeded to hit Jekyl squarely in the chest.

  “Oof,” Ava said as four startled waiters suddenly rushed toward the three men. “Bummer for Jekyl.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Two minutes later it was all over. T.J. stomped out, Drake apologized to a nearby table, and Jekyl was still trying to catch his breath.

  “Do you want us to take you to the ER?” Carmela asked Jekyl.

  Jekyl shook his head. “I’m good,” he gasped. He fluttered a nervous hand in front of his mouth. “Just need to . . . catch my . . . breath.”

  “I think there’s one of those doc-in-the-bo
x places over on Rampart,” Ava said. “Maybe you could suck some O’s.”

  But Jekyl shook his head. “I just want to . . . go home,” he rasped.

  Carmela was still feeling stunned. “That was awful,” she said. “If Drake and T.J. can act this crazed, one of them could have easily smashed up Devon’s shop. And maybe even murdered poor Devon.”

  Ava nodded. “You just said a mouthful, cher.”

  Chapter 12

  WITH a heavy heart (and an impending case of heartburn) Carmela dropped Ava at Juju Voodoo, then drove back to Memory Mine.

  Why did Drake and T.J. have to fight? she wondered. Why did they have to ruin a perfectly good funeral luncheon? And could Richard Drake be right about T.J. stealing the coat fragment from Devon’s safe? If so, had T.J. also murdered Devon? Or had Drake been the thief as well as the aggressor? It all felt murky and confusing with nary a single answer to shed any light on a nasty, baffling situation.

  Carmela’s mood didn’t improve when she walked into Memory Mine.

  “There you are,” Gabby said. “Quigg’s been looking for you.”

  “For me?” With all that had happened today, Carmela had practically forgotten about Quigg and his wine bar. Had relegated him to the back burner.

  “Yes, you. Quigg’s been getting things all set up next door.” Gabby smiled. “It’s really starting to take shape and, my goodness, he is an attractive man, isn’t he? I can see why you . . .”

  But Carmela was already out the front door.

  Her heart in her throat, she pushed her way into Blush and Brush. And stopped dead in her tracks when she saw the flurry of activity. “Oh no!” The little wine bar really was starting to take shape.

  Quigg saw Carmela standing there with a look of utter panic on her face and, with a burst of enthusiasm, said, “Isn’t it great?”

  “No!” Carmela shot back.

  Quigg flashed his trademark grin and pretended not to hear. Then, like a genial host introducing his guests, he said, “Carmela, you remember Dewey and Ardice, don’t you? Part of my inner circle at St. Tammany Vineyards?”

  “Hey there,” Dewey said as he shifted white marble tables around the shop, as if trying to find the perfect spot for each one. He was mid-fifties, tan from working outdoors, and wore white overalls, the kind housepainters often wore.

  Ardice, who was busy unpacking wine bottles from their crates, gave a little wave and said, “Hi, Carmela.” Ardice was mid-thirties, African American, and the business manager at St. Tammany Vineyards. She also did the buying for their gift shop.

  “Hi,” Carmela said back in a small voice. This is definitely beginning to look like a legitimate wine bar. I’d better straighten things out right now before Babcock sees this place and has a coronary.

  “What . . . what are you doing?” Carmela asked Quigg.

  “Are you kidding me? What does it look like we’re doing? We’re prepping for our big grand opening. Have you made up your mind yet, Carmela? Are our customers going to paint plates or wineglasses?”

  “Grand opening? But I haven’t even decided if I should be your partner yet. You can’t rush me on this! I told you before, I’ve run into some, um, serious resistance.”

  Quigg gave her a look of supreme innocence. “Certainly not from me.”

  Carmela frowned. “You know who.”

  “That’s for you two lovebirds to work out. Meanwhile, Dewey and Ardice are doing a bang-up job of getting us set up.”

  Dewey’s ball cap, decked out with the New Orleans Saints’ fleur-de-lis, slid to one side as he shifted a crate of wine bottles from the floor to the countertop. “You should come visit the vineyard more often. You’re greatly missed. Ain’t that right, Ardice?”

  Ardice held up a wine bottle. “We always love company at the vineyard. But this . . .” She swept her hand to indicate the shop. “This is going to be spectacular. We’re so happy you bought into Quigg’s concept.” She flashed a smile at Quigg. “He’s quite the marketing genius.”

  “Uh-huh,” Carmela said.

  Quigg made a show of consulting his oversized gold Rolex. “The interior decorator and her crew should be here in twenty minutes or so,” he told Carmela. “To handle the wall finishes and the rest of the décor. Meanwhile, we’re moving in as much wine as we can.”

  Ardice held up a bottle of Bayou Sparkler. “Remember this one, Carmela? Our finest bubbly. And for white wine drinkers we brought along our Sauvignon Silver, a terrific blend of Sauvignon Blanc and Blanc du Bois.”

  “Tell her about our newest wine,” Quigg urged.

  “Jazz Fest Red,” Ardice said, her long gold earrings swishing against her neck. “A smoky Grenache with hints of cherry and apple. Perfect for an artsy setting like the French Quarter.”

  “Plus we’ll be serving our Mardi Gras Medley and our Cajun Cabernet,” Quigg said.

  Carmela felt overwhelmed as she backed out of the shop. “And you say you’ve got a decorator coming in?”

  Quigg glanced at his watch again. “Any minute now. Don’t worry, I’ll let you know when you can come back and get a peek at the finishing touches.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “What’s wrong?” Gabby asked when Carmela returned to the scrapbook shop. She looked dazed and walked with the stiff-legged gait of a zombie.

  “Everything,” Carmela said. “If I say white, Quigg says black. If I say no, he says yes. He . . . he doesn’t listen.”

  “Carmela.” Concern flooded Gabby’s face as she hurried around the counter and embraced her in a gentle hug. “Don’t worry about it. Everything’s going to be fine.”

  “You really think so?”

  That stopped Gabby dead and caused her to reboot her words. “Well . . . you know me. I’m generally the optimistic one.”

  “You are. And I love that about you. But this wine thing . . . it’s got me in a huge kerfuffle.”

  “Imagine that,” Gabby said, smiling. “I’m sure . . . no, I’m positive, that your dear sweet Detective Babcock will end up being completely supportive. After all, it’s just a little painting and crafting now and then.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Now. Tell me something good. Like how was the luncheon at Brennan’s? Did they serve eggs Sardou and their famous cornmeal-battered shrimp?”

  “It was more like assault and battered,” Carmela said.

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “There was a fight.”

  “Mercy!” Gabby cried, taking a step backward.

  So Carmela laid it all out for Gabby. Gave her the rundown about quizzing Colonel Otis, Ava’s outrageous flirting, and Richard Drake and T.J. getting into a knock-down, drag-out fight. Finally, she told Gabby about poor Jekyl getting hit in the cross fire.

  “Was Jekyl hurt?” Gabby asked.

  “More like a bruised ego.”

  “That will heal. But poor Jekyl . . . and poor you. How about a cup of tea to help you calm down? We’ve got hibiscus and chamomile that we ordered from that lovely tea shop in Charleston.”

  “Chamomile tea would be great,” Carmela said. “And thank you.”

  “No problem.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Carmela was standing at the front counter, sipping her tea and sketching a design for a miniature theater, when Babcock walked in.

  “Hey, you,” he said, smiling at her.

  “Hey, yourself,” Carmela said. “This is unexpected.” Then, “Come on back to my office.”

  Babcock followed her back and slipped into one of the director’s chairs that faced Carmela’s desk. “I heard about the fisticuffs at the funeral luncheon,” he said. “Not good.”

  “You’re telling me?”

  “I can’t let you go anywhere, can I?” Babcock stretched out his long legs, bumped her chair with his
toe.

  Carmela raised her hands as if in surrender. “Not my doing. T.J. and Drake just started going at it like a couple of rabid polecats.”

  “Are you sure you weren’t an instigator?”

  Carmela shook her head. “No way. Not this time. I was merely an innocent bystander.”

  “That’s the way I like my sweetheart—innocent until proven guilty and not embroiled in the thick of things.” He pointed to her sketch pad. “What are you working on?”

  Carmela picked up her sketch pad and showed him. “Just an idea for an Italian theater. It’s going to be kind of a triptych. You know, three-sided, three-dimensional.”

  “Cute.”

  Then, because Babcock seemed to be in a relatively good mood and Carmela couldn’t resist, she said, “How’s the investigation coming along?”

  “Which one?” Babcock gazed at her benignly.

  “You know which one,” Carmela said.

  “Carmela . . .” Now his voice carried a warning. “You know we’re doing the best we can.”

  “There’s something you should know about. Something I didn’t get a chance to tell you this morning,” Carmela said.

  “Tell me about what?”

  “Devon’s building has gone condo.”

  “So?”

  “Don’t you find it suspicious that, like, two minutes after Devon is found dead in his shop, his landlord suddenly decides to take the building condo?”

  Babcock leaned forward. “This condo business is for sure? How do you know about it?”

  “Roy Sultan, the building’s owner, put up an enormous sign.”

  “So you think . . .”

  “I think maybe Sultan wanted Devon Dowling out of that building, tried to get him out, but Devon was holding up progress. Maybe he’d signed a long-term lease that couldn’t be broken.”