by Laura Childs
“Boys on one side of the room, girls on the other,” Carmela said.
Only in this case, there was a line of uncomfortable-looking bachelors seated behind a podium and about three dozen predatory-looking women sitting in the audience. The auctioneer was a tall, dark-haired woman in a slinky black dress. Her name was Monica something, and Carmela recognized her from her time on the French Quarter Arts Board.
“This is gonna be interesting,” Ava said as they slid into seats in the back row. The room was fairly dark and moody, except for overhead spotlights aimed at the podium and the row of waiting bachelors. One bachelor was already up for auction.
“That’s Sugar Joe,” Carmela said. Sugar Joe Panola was one of Shamus’s good friends.
“As you can see,” the auctioneer said, “our bachelor is not only handsome, he’s very well turned out.”
At that, Sugar Joe stuck his hands in his jacket pockets and negotiated a jaunty little spin.
“Our bachelor, Mr. Joe, enjoys football, fishing, and fine dining,” the auctioneer said.
“The three F’s,” Ava said.
“Shall we start the bidding at one hundred dollars? Do I hear one hundred?” the auctioneer asked.
A smart-looking middle-aged blonde in the front row stuck her paddle in the air and said, “One hundred dollars.”
“One fifty,” another woman called out just as Carmela’s phone burped in her purse.
She pulled it out and said, “Hello?”
“Carmela?” It was Babcock.
“Hey there,” she said, happy to hear his voice.
“How’d the gumbo judging go?”
“It was actually kind of fun,” Carmela whispered into her phone as the bidding on Sugar Joe continued.
“No ill effects?”
“I feel full, if that’s what you mean.”
“Carmela?”
“Um, yeah?”
“Where are you? It sounds like there’s some kind of auction going on.”
“It’s nothing, believe me,” Carmela said. “Can you drop by my place tonight?”
“Can’t, sweetheart. I’ll have to call you tomorrow.”
“Absolutely.” Carmela clicked off, feeling slightly guilty about being at the auction. Oh well, it was for amusement purposes only. Nothing serious with Shamus, that’s for sure.
“Was that Babcock?” Ava asked.
“Yup.”
“Did you tell him where we were?”
“Nope.”
“Smart girl,” Ava said as she scanned her bachelor bio program. “Hey, you’ll never guess who bachelor number five is.”
Carmela answered, “Vampire man. Richard Drake.”
“How’d you know that? You haven’t even looked at your program.”
“Don’t have to. I’m staring at him right now.”
Ava blinked, focused her eyes on the line of bachelors, and made a sound somewhere between a giggle and a simper. “Drake is so delish. I think maybe I should bid on him.”
“On Drake? Are you crazy?” Carmela hissed. “What if he’s the one who killed Devon? Do you really want to end up in a scary dark place with him?”
“You think . . . not?” Ava said.
“I think . . . never.”
“Is everybody a murder suspect?” Ava muttered to herself. “Aren’t there any guys left to date? Well, I suppose T.J.’s too much of a boozehound, and I wouldn’t wanna date Roy Sultan, because he’s an old billy goat, but . . .”
Carmela lifted a hand to shush Ava. “Pay attention, it looks as if our dear sweet Shamus is up next.”
Looking confident and rich-boy languid in a tuxedo with black satin lapels, Shamus strutted across the stage.
“Next up, Shamus Meechum,” the auctioneer said. “And, ladies, this bachelor’s a rather good catch. Vice president at Crescent City Bank and owner of a luxury condo in the up and coming CBD, the Central Business District. Mr. Shamus is also a connoisseur of fine wines and a member of the Pluvius krewe. Shall we start the bidding at . . .”
“Two bits,” Ava called out.
The auctioneer laughed it off, but Shamus’s face darkened to a deep red.
“Surely, we can do better than that,” the auctioneer said in a light tone. “Do I hear one hundred?”
A young woman in a pink tweed Dior jacket stuck her paddle in the air and called out, “Five hundred dollars!”
“Five hundred dollars,” the auctioneer gushed. “That’s an amazing opening bid!”
“Six hundred dollars,” another woman called out.
There was a stir of excitement throughout the room, and the bidding continued, going up in fifty-dollar increments, until the woman in the Dior jacket finally raised her paddle and said, “One thousand dollars!”
“Sold!” the auctioneer said as she slammed her gavel down on the podium.
“Crap on a cracker!” Ava cried. “Who’d have guessed Shamus would fetch that kind of money?”
“He didn’t,” Carmela said.
“But that woman just . . .”
“She’s his girlfriend,” Carmela said.
“What!”
“One of three women that he’s currently juggling. Which means she’s a ringer,” Carmela said. “I’ll bet anything that Shamus gave her the money to drive up the bids on him. A lot of money so he was guaranteed not to lose face.”
“It’s like Louisiana politics,” Ava said. “The fix is always in.”
Chapter 25
“WE’RE all dressed up and it’s Friday night, the tenderloin of the weekend,” Ava said. “So what’s our next stop? Kizzy’s or Baby Blue’s should be jumping and bumping for Jazz Fest. Either of those clubs sound good to you?”
Pulling her two-seater Mercedes away from the curb, Carmela said, “I have a better idea.”
A block later, Ava drummed her nails on the dashboard and said, “I’m still waiting. What’s this ‘better idea’ of yours? Is it gonna blow my socks off? Oh, are you thinking about that new place on Frenchmen Street? I hear it’s a rather divine meat market.”
“I thought we might take a drive through the Garden District.”
“Whuh?” Ava shook her head. “You don’t fool me, mama. I know that tone of voice. You’re up to something sneaky.”
“Truth be known, I’ve still got my eye on Colonel Otis,” Carmela said.
“We’re all dolled up and you want to fritter away our gorgeousness stalking some old fuddy-duddy?”
“It’s not stalking . . . exactly. It’s just a drive-by. And he is a suspect, after all.”
Ava plucked at her white slacks. “Well . . . maybe. As long as we can go someplace super glitzy and glam afterward.”
But when they turned the corner onto Chestnut Street, they were shocked to see Colonel Otis’s antebellum house lit up like a Christmas tree.
“You’re sure this is the right address?” Ava asked.
“Pretty sure. I looked it up on the Internet.”
“Hot damn, looks like the old fuddy-duddy is really a party animal in drag.”
Carmela stopped her car even with the house. Every time a new car pulled to the curb, a red-jacketed valet ran out to assist the guest and then park the car. And gazing through tall windows swagged with velvet drapes, they saw a jostle of guests hoisting glasses while tuxedo-clad waiters offered hors d’oeuvres from silver trays. Bursts of loud music exploded outward every time the front door opened.
“This changes everything,” Carmela said.
“I agree,” Ava said. She rubbed her hands together. “You wanna crash?”
Carmela thought about this idea for all of one second. With a party this big, would a couple of extra guests be noticed? Perhaps it was time to find out.
She pulled her car around the corner and slid into a parking spot. Two minu
tes later, Carmela and Ava were tiptoeing down a shrubbery-lined alley. From there it was just a simple matter of easing themselves through a tangle of magnolias and onto the crowded back patio. Smiling, grabbing flutes of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter, they mingled with the crowd.
“This is fun, cher,” Ava said. “Like crashing a wedding, only better. You don’t have to do a stupid dollar dance and stick money in the groom’s pants pocket. I think we should do this party crashing thing more often.” She glanced around. “It might be an excellent way to meet men.” She took a sip of champagne. “I mean besides clubbing and cocktailing.”
Being practically anonymous in the midst of all these partygoers had emboldened Carmela. She gazed around an elegant garden with its flaming tiki torches, string quartet, slow-dancing guests, and bar that was professionally staffed.
This is how the other half lives, she thought to herself. A little bit . . . decadent.
Then again, this was New Orleans, also known as “The City That Care Forgot.” Money, liquor, rich food, trust funds, and crazy partying led to some truly bad behavior.
Carmela nudged Ava. “Let’s take a look inside and see what’s shakin’.”
As they walked through a set of French doors into an enormous living room, Ava let loose a low whistle.
“What’s shakin’ is greenbacks dropping out of the proverbial money tree,” she said. “Will you look at this place? Can you say palatial? With a touch of splendor? Your Colonel Otis must have spent a fortune on décor!”
The interior of the house was indeed stunning. Cream-colored walls displayed a superb collection of oil paintings, while large bronze sculptures rested on white marble cubes. There were two twelve-foot-long contemporary gray suede sofas along with clusters of traditional high-backed chairs covered in rose-colored silk fabric. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, a stone fireplace with enough room to roast a wild boar sat at one end of the room, and a large dining room could be seen through a doorway that was flanked by panels of Egyptian wood carvings.
“Yeah, I could live here,” Ava said. “I’m not averse to a little sumptuousness. Heck, I could be the queen of sumptuousness if you gave me half a chance.”
Carmela’s eyes were immediately drawn to the collection of paintings. “Every painting here is a collector’s dream,” she said as she stepped closer to take a look. “Museum quality.”
“That so?” Ava said.
“Just look at this landscape. You see the artist’s signature? It’s Thomas Cole.”
“The only Cole I know is Kenneth Cole,” Ava said. “Mr. Fabulous Shoes himself.”
“And this one’s a Thomas Hart Benton. Amazing.”
“You think some of this stuff could be stolen?” Ava asked. “That Colonel Otis makes it a habit to work with underhanded dealers?”
“I thought that might be the case at first, but now I don’t think so. These pieces are all by well-known artists. If they were stolen, there’s no way they’d be on display like this. They’d be hidden away in a secret room where only Colonel Otis could drool over them.”
“What about the painting he brought to Devon Dowling?”
“It could’ve been a fluke. The only one that had a checkered past.”
“Huh,” Ava said. “So nothing here.”
“Well . . . Colonel Otis is also supposed to have a rather extensive knife collection,” Carmela said.
Ava made a face. “Why does that sound so barbaric?”
“It’s slightly creepy, I agree.” Carmela finished her champagne and set down her empty glass. Did she want to see the knives for herself? Did she want to scratch that itch? Yes, she guessed that she did.
“Babcock said the knives were on display in his library,” Carmela said.
“Lead the way. I guess,” Ava said, looking somewhat reluctant.
They walked past an enormous, laden buffet table where guests helped themselves to fabulous food, and stepped into a small anteroom where waiters had stacked extra plates and silverware. That led to a long corridor hung with more paintings and a lovely blue and red Persian carpet underfoot. Luckily for them, there was nobody in sight.
“The coast is clear,” Carmela said. “Let’s hurry up and take a look.”
“Maybe in here?” Ava said. She opened a door and stuck her head in. “Nope, TV room. That big honker of a JBL is a dead giveaway.” She gazed at Carmela. “Ha ha, dead giveaway.”
“Not now, Ava. Keep looking.”
A blond woman in a tight red dress suddenly popped out from behind one of the closed doors. She smiled mysteriously, put a finger to her lips, and said in a whisper, “Are you hiding from Freddy, too?”
“We might be,” Ava said, looking interested.
The woman giggled and started to tiptoe away. “He’s such a dog,” she said.
“Excuse me,” Carmela called after her. “The library? Do you know where it is?”
“Second door on your left,” the woman said as she scampered off.
Carmela walked down the hallway and eased open the door.
In the dim light, the library looked like something out of an English movie. Floor-to-ceiling shelves stuffed with books, a rolling ladder, a large desk with a glowing green lamp, leather chairs with hobnail accents, a floral brocade love seat strewn with pillows.
“Thank goodness it’s not ocupado,” Ava said as they stepped inside and closed the door behind them. “No Freddy. Whoever he is.”
“This place is amazing,” Carmela said. She realized that, under the right circumstances, she could probably spend a lifetime in here. All these marvelous leather-bound books, plus little nooks and crannies to curl up in. All she needed was . . . well, she’d need the red-hot deed to Colonel Otis’s house.
“Hello there,” Ava said in a casual tone of voice.
Carmela spun around fast, her heart catching in her throat, wondering who on earth Ava was suddenly talking to.
But it was a cat. A lovely tiger cat with the most expressive green eyes.
“Aren’t you a pretty kitty,” Ava said as she scooped the cat into her arms and began petting it. The cat cuddled up against her and began to purr rhythmically.
“You made a friend,” Carmela said.
“Isn’t he sweet?” Ava ruffled the cat’s fur. Then she glanced around and said, “Where are the . . . ?” at the exact moment her eyes fell on a large display case that hung on the far wall. “Oh. There.”
“The knife collection,” Carmela almost whispered.
Slowly, almost cautiously, the two women approached it until their noses were practically pressed against the glass case. The knives were arranged in rows, according to size, on a backdrop of green velvet. In the dim light, the bright blades looked ominous and dangerous. And a little mysterious, as if they could become animated at any moment.
“Look at that curved knife,” Ava said. “The one with the ivory handle.”
“Looks Middle Eastern. Maybe Turkish. And do you see that one?” Carmela squinted, trying to read the label. “An Israeli combat knife.”
“Scary stuff,” Ava said.
“This is some amazing, extensive collection though.”
“Doesn’t it seem weird that a guy who loves beautiful art would also be gung ho for these wicked-looking knives?” Ava asked.
But Carmela didn’t hear her. She was focused on something else. A knife appeared to be missing from Colonel Otis’s collection. There was a faint outline of a long, curved knife, as if it had been pressed hard against the green velvet. The small white label was there, but no knife.
“One of them is missing,” Carmela said.
“What?”
“See, there’s an outline, but no knife.”
“Gulp.”
Carmela frowned. “I wonder when . . .”
Loud footfalls echoed in the
hallway.
“Somebody’s coming!” Ava hissed.
“Hide!” Carmela whispered back.
They dived behind a pair of heavy green velvet draperies just as the library door opened with a click.
“Oh shit,” Ava whispered. “What do we do now?”
“Pretend we’re looking for a lost earring?” Carmela whispered back. But, no, that probably wouldn’t work. They were too far into their deception. So what to do except try to stay hidden?
There was the sound of someone stepping into the room. Walking one, two, three steps in.
“Hello?” a man’s voice called out.
They both shrank against the window, holding their breath and hoping they could remain undetected.
“Is someone in here?” the voice called out. “If you are, I’m going to find you.”
As his footsteps came closer, the knot in Carmela’s stomach tightened.
Suddenly, Ava bent sideways and dropped the cat onto the floor. She gave it a little shove and a soundless admonition to scoot.
The cat shot across the room and jumped up onto the desk. Then it arched its back and let loose a loud meow.
“Cat,” the man chuckled. Then he turned and walked out of the room. Pulled the door closed behind him.
Carmela and Ava both breathed a huge sigh of relief.
“That was close,” Ava said. “I was afraid I was going to sneeze. Kind of dusty back there.”
“Still, hiding and then releasing the cat was smart thinking on your part,” Carmela said.
“Who do you think that was?”
Carmela shrugged. “Colonel Otis?”
“Or Freddy. Whoever he is.” Ava let loose a nervous laugh. “Oh man, my heart’s pumping like a steam engine. Thank goodness we’re off the hook.”
“But maybe Colonel Otis isn’t.”
“Because of that missing knife?” Ava said. “Jeez, you don’t think he’s the one who slashed Sonny Boy’s throat, do you?”
“I don’t know. Babcock didn’t think so. And he took a look at the collection just this afternoon.”
“And now one is suddenly missing. Maybe we should watch out . . .”
“For our own throats?” Carmela said. “Because we’ve been investigating all over town. Sticking our noses in . . .”
