Mumbo Gumbo Murder

by Laura Childs

  “Don’t go there, cher!” Ava suddenly looked terrified. She crossed herself and said, “Say a prayer. Right now. Say a quick prayer and the angels will help take it back.”

  “Okay, okay. Relax.”

  “Never, ever tempt fate.”

  Carmela knew that’s exactly what they’d been doing for the last few days. But to keep Ava calm, she said, “Okay, cross my heart, I promise I’ll be more careful.”

  Ava dug in her bag, pulled out a lipstick, and applied it shakily. She leaned forward and shook out her hair. When she stood up, she actually looked a little more pulled together.

  “Now what?” Ava asked.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Famished.”

  Carmela glanced around. There was nothing more to do here. She shrugged. “Something tells me we should probably go investigate that twenty-foot-long buffet table.”

  Chapter 26

  THE buffet table was dazzling even by Garden District standards. A long trestle table covered with a pristine white linen tablecloth was laden with sterling silver chafing dishes filled with crawfish étouffée, braised short ribs, Creole salmon cakes, crab-stuffed shrimp, jambalaya, and fried catfish. Enormous platters held raw oysters, cheese-stuffed portobello mushrooms, sweet potato fries, and hot water corn bread.

  Ava’s eyes lit up like twin beacons. “Can you believe this spread? If I weren’t such a Southern lady, I’d go facedown.”

  “Go for it,” Carmela said.

  “No, no, I’m going to graze. Exercise restraint and have a tiny taste of everything.”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  Carmela, on the other hand, definitely intended to go light. Almost had to after slugging down all that gumbo. She told herself she’d just have a single stuffed shrimp, a small salmon cake, and perhaps a few oysters. They’d slide down like nobody’s business.

  Ava’s voice was suddenly a hot whisper in her ear. “Don’t look now, cher, but there’s . . .”

  Carmela jerked bolt upright. The spoon she’d been holding clattered back into the silver chafing dish. “There’s what?” Had Colonel Otis spotted them? Did he have security working the party? Were they going to be unceremoniously escorted out by a pair of goons?

  “There’s a dessert bar,” Ava squealed.

  “You wicked woman, you,” Carmela said. “You scared me half to death.”

  “Didn’t mean to.” Ava sighed as she helped herself to a giant scoop of sweet potato galette. “Oh man, if only my bank balance was as high as my daily caloric intake.”

  “Come on, let’s fill our plates and head out to the patio.”

  “Good idea, the lighting is nice and dim out there. Nobody will notice us.”

  But somebody did notice them as they scooted out the door, reaching out to grab another flute of champagne on the way.

  “What on earth!” Baby Fontaine shrieked. Her hands flew up in the air, and a wide grin spread across her face. Then, “Kittens, what are you doing here?”

  “We crashed the party,” Ava said.

  “No,” Baby said. She was adorable in a short black cocktail dress and a diamond teardrop necklace.

  “Oh yes,” Carmela said. “You didn’t really think we were on the guest list, did you?”

  “You mean you just waltzed in the front door like nobody’s business?” Baby asked. “That’s hysterical.”

  “It was more like creeping through the crepe myrtle,” Ava said.

  Baby walked with them to a quiet corner of the patio where they all sat down at a white wrought-iron table.

  “So,” Baby said, “I take it you two are here on some sort of sleuthing expedition.”

  “You could call it that,” Carmela said. “We’re still trying to crack the mystery of Devon Dowling’s murder.”

  “So sad,” Baby said. She reached over and put a hand on Carmela’s arm. “But you’re good at ferreting out clues. You and Ava.” She leaned closer. “So tell me, what have you discovered? Why are you here?”

  “For one thing, there’s a knife missing from Colonel Otis’s collection,” Carmela said.

  “And you think . . . what?” Baby asked.

  “Well, there was a murder last night in St. Louis Cemetery,” Carmela said. “A man who admitted to robbing Devon’s safe got his throat slashed.”

  “Sonny Boy Holmes,” Baby said. “I read about him in this morning’s paper. You think Colonel Otis did it?”

  “It’s a possibility,” Carmela said.

  Baby leaned forward, nervous but a little interested. “So the plot thickens.”

  “Along with my waistline,” Ava said. “If I eat one more bite of this étouffée I won’t be able to zip my pants tomorrow.”

  But Baby wanted to hear more. “Tell me more about the missing knife,” she said.

  “The weird thing is, Babcock looked at Colonel Otis’s collection earlier today, and it was completely intact. Now, tonight, there’s a knife missing,” Carmela said.

  “What do you think that means?” Baby asked.

  “I don’t know,” Carmela said. “Colonel Otis could have just sent it out for repair. Or maybe he removed it from the case to show it to one of the guests.”

  Baby’s eyes burned into hers. “Or . . .”

  Carmela met her gaze. “Or he intends to use it on someone.”

  Ava held up an index finger. “Really? Then, excusez-moi, but maybe we should leave?”

  * * *

  * * *

  Rather than exiting via the front door, Carmela and Ava retraced their steps through the magnolias and fumbled their way down the dark alley to Carmela’s car.

  “I don’t know when I’ve had so much fun,” Ava said as she pulled her seat belt across. “I mean, hiding out in the library, getting scared silly, stuffing my fat face, running into Baby . . . that was really great.”

  “Then you, my dear, are easily amused,” Carmela said as she started her car and pulled away slowly from the curb. “Because the whereabouts of that missing knife still sticks in my craw.”

  “And that kitty. What a sweetheart. I wanted to take him home with me.”

  “I know what you mean.” Carmela knew there was no sense in pursuing the subject of missing knives with Ava. Not tonight anyway. “Every time I see a stray dog in the French Quarter, I want to scoop the poor thing up and rescue it.”

  “That’s what we should do,” Ava said. “Pool our money and buy a big old house where we can take care of rescued cats and dogs. Help them find forever homes. There’s even a place over on Coliseum Street that’s for sale right now. It’s kind of dilapidated and clunky-looking. And the yard is bare and scruffy, but we could . . .”

  “Ava. I think we’re being followed.”

  “Plant some grass,” Ava said. “Like that hardy straw-like stuff the maintenance guys plant alongside freeways. Grass that’s resistant to oil and gas and . . . What did you say?”

  Carmela was gazing into her rearview mirror as she drove. “There’s a pair of headlights that’s been following us steadily for the last few blocks.”

  Ava squirmed around. “Are you sure? I don’t see anything.”

  “I’ve made two turns, and that same SUV has made them, too. He keeps his distance, stays about a half block back, but he’s definitely on our tail.”

  “But I wanna go home. I need my beauty sleep.”

  “We can’t do anything until we lose this guy. We sure don’t want him to follow us home.”

  “Who do you think it is?”

  “No idea,” Carmela said.

  “Somebody from the party?”

  Carmela shrugged. “I don’t know. But hang on, I’m going to make a tight left turn and accelerate across St. Charles. If we’re lucky, he’ll get caught on the red light.”

  The Mercedes flew across St. Charles,
just clipping the red light. The SUV came on through, still following them.

  “Dang!” Carmela cried. She clutched the steering wheel as she took them down St. Charles, speeding up as she paralleled the streetcar track.

  “Now what?” Ava asked in a quavering voice. “I don’t like this chase business. After all I ate . . . my tummy’s feeling kind of rocky.”

  “I’m gonna catch up to that streetcar that’s ahead of us. Then nose ahead and cross directly in its path. Try to block this guy,” Carmela said.

  She gunned her engine, came up on the green and red streetcar that was peacefully rumbling along, then pulled ahead. At the next cross street, she made a hard right turn, passing directly in front of the streetcar with only inches to spare.

  Ava screamed as the streetcar driver rang his bell furiously. “Holy buckets! We almost ended up a tangled jangled mess!”

  “Tell me about it.” Carmela was grim faced and growing tired of playing tag with this jerk.

  Ava scrunched around in her seat. “But . . . did your foolhardy maneuver work? Did we lose him?”

  “You tell me.”

  “No, damn it, I think that’s him behind us.”

  It was like waving a red flag in Carmela’s face. She trounced down hard on the gas and flew down the street. She squeaked through yellow lights, blew completely through two red lights.

  And still the SUV kept coming.

  Carmela figured to lose him at the river. She hit Napoleon Avenue, turned left, and really poured it on. Only problem was, the road was completely pitted with potholes!

  “They haven’t fixed these roads since Huey Long was in office!” Ava cried as they jounced along.

  Carmela swerved left, then right, then left again, trying to avoid the dips and blips and minimize the damage they were doing to her tires and undercarriage.

  “Can you see what color that SUV is? Or the make? Or the license plate?” Carmela asked.

  Ava squirmed around. “No, it’s too dark. Well, maybe it’s blue.” She gazed out the side window. “Jeez, it’s dreadful scary over here.”

  They were flying past block after block of dark, deserted warehouses. To their right, an enormous seawall rose up to hold back (hopefully, anyway) the muddy Mississippi River.

  “Is there a method to this madness?” Ava asked. She was hanging on for dear life, her long fingernails practically slicing into the upholstery.

  “If we keep playing hare and hound, I figure I can lead this jerk right down Tchoupitoulas. From there we hit Canal Street and take him right into the craziness of the French Quarter.”

  “Bright lights, big city?”

  “Something like that,” Carmela said. “If we get to a spot where there’s lots of people around, maybe we can figure out who we’re dealing with.”

  Carmela’s plan worked. Sort of. Right up until the point where they led the SUV on a merry chase down Canal Street and tried to cross Chartres Street.

  “Watch out! There’s a hot dog cart coming up on your right!” Ava shouted.

  She rolled down her window to warn the vendor, but he pushed his red and yellow cart out into the street just as Carmela tapped her brakes and swerved. But it was too late and ill-timed. Carmela’s right front fender clipped one end of the hot dog cart and sent it spinning. The cart jerked and wobbled and looked like it was about to tip over.

  “Is he okay?” Carmela screamed as she kept going. She was terrified she’d killed the poor guy and crashed his cart. “Is the hot dog guy okay?”

  He was. His cart was another story.

  The SUV, following close on their tail, smashed into the hot dog cart like a Sherman tank hitting the broad side of a barn. The cart exploded with an ear-shattering, metal-grinding CRASH. Shards of glass, a rubber tire, dozens of hot dogs, and a gush of pickle relish and ketchup flew through the air. Hot dogs plip-plopped down on the pavement, splatted against shopwindows, and even landed at the foot of a Great Dane on a leash who promptly licked his chops and snatched up a couple of the wayward dogs.

  At the same moment, Ava let out a bloodcurdling scream.

  “I’m hit! I’m hit!”

  Her plaintive cries pierced Carmela’s heart like a barbed arrow.

  “Dear Lord, you got shot?” Carmela was gobsmacked. She hadn’t heard any shots fired. Had the SUV driver used a gun with a silencer? A suppressor?

  Carmela hit the brakes as hard as she could. Her tires squealed and pedestrians scattered as she spun in a jouncing half turn and finally rocked to a stop.

  “Where, honey, where?” Carmela was out of her mind with fear and worry, practically hysterical. “I didn’t hear any . . .”

  “Help me!” Ava cried, her voice growing fainter.

  Carmela wrenched herself around to help Ava. “Where are you hit? Show me!”

  “I think . . . I don’t know.” Ava flopped back in the passenger seat. “Just get me some medical help! Give me CPR, or call 911, or pour me a shot of Grey Goose!”

  Carmela grabbed for her cell phone to call 911. “Are you in terrible pain?”

  Ava nodded. “It’s pretty bad.”

  “Show me exactly where it hurts!”

  Ava moaned and pointed a finger. “There. Right at my waist.” She unsnapped her leather jacket and peeled it open. “Look! All over my slacks. I’m bleeding like a stuck pig!”

  Carmela stared for a second, then reached over and touched a finger to the smear of red. Something about it seemed familiar. She leaned forward, gave a sniff, and said, “Ava, that’s ketchup.”

  Ava gulped. “You mean I’m not shot?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I’m not going to die?”

  Carmela sighed. “Ava, you’re going to be fine. You just got a little overwrought, that’s all.” She glanced around. The blue SUV was nowhere to be seen. Her blood pressure was off the charts.

  Ava sat up in a kind of daze. “Oh. Sorry. But your car. Is it okay?”

  “I think we blew out a tire when we hit the curb back there. And there’s probably a dent. And that poor hot dog guy . . .” She started to dial her phone. “I gotta call Babcock.”

  “Because of a dent?” Ava asked.

  “Because of the dirtbag that was chasing us,” Carmela said.

  * * *

  * * *

  Babcock and two squad cars showed up a few minutes later. He scanned the accident scene, inspected the damage on Carmela’s car, talked to the terrified hot dog vendor, and then listened tight-lipped and grim faced to Carmela’s story: crashing the party, the knife collection, the chase. Finally, when all was said and done, when Ava had showed him her almost-gunshot-wound, Babcock said, “Besides breaking about two dozen laws, you ladies hit some kind of a trip wire.”

  Carmela squinted at him with one eye. “A whatchit? A trip wire? What does that mean exactly?”

  “It means you stumbled upon something you shouldn’t have.”

  “That’s why some jackhole chased us?” Ava said. “Why I almost got shot?”

  “You didn’t get shot,” Carmela said.

  “I could have.”

  “Thank goodness, you didn’t,” Babcock said.

  “Can you put out some kind of APB?” Carmela asked.

  Babcock shook his head. “On a blue SUV? You know how many of those vehicles there are in New Orleans? In Louisiana proper?”

  “A lot?” Ava asked.

  “Here’s the thing, you poked a stick in a den of snakes, and now you’re paying the price,” Babcock said.

  “What are you talking about?” Carmela asked. Although she kind of knew.

  “Someone—probably Devon Dowling’s killer—knows you’re onto him,” Babcock said.

  “But I’m not onto him,” Carmela said. “I have no idea who it is. Or who was chasing us tonight.”

  “
Doesn’t matter,” Babcock said. “Whoever the killer is, you’ve got him extremely agitated.”

  “Oh my gosh, that’s so exciting,” Ava cried.

  Dumbfounded, both Carmela and Babcock turned to stare at her. Finally, Babcock said, “It’s not exciting. It’s terrible!”

  Chapter 27

  AFTER the craziness of last night, Carmela and Ava decided to treat themselves to a nice, leisurely brunch at Antoine’s.

  “Wait a sec,” Ava said, as they stopped under the wrought-iron balcony that shaded the entrance to the iconic restaurant. “I gotta straighten my wig.”

  “Why are you wearing a wig when your own hair is perfectly gorgeous?” Carmela asked.

  “Naw, it was all frizzled this morning, but this Sassy Girl model gives me a headful of fun, bouncy curls.”

  “And a white skunk stripe, I might add.”

  “Never you mind about that. And by the way, ma’am, why are you trying to sneak that little dog into a fancy-pants restaurant like Antoine’s?”

  Carmela glanced down at her oversized pink nylon tote bag. Mimi was snuggled inside and being quiet as a mouse.

  “I thought it might be good for her to make a return trip to Devon’s shop.”

  Ava lifted an eyebrow. “So she can find closure?”

  “Maybe. Plus, I sensed that Mimi needed a little time away from Boo and Poobah. They can be a bit much.”

  “Hah!” Ava said. “We can be a bit much.”

  They walked through ornate glass doors and into an elegant entry where diners had been welcomed for the last 127 years. A maître d’, wearing a bow tie and perfectly tailored jacket, greeted them immediately.

  “Bonjour. Good morning. You have a reservation?” he asked in honeyed tones.

  “Not today,” Carmela said. “Is that a problem?”

  “Not at all,” the maître d’ said. He picked up two menus and led the ladies into a large dining room where soft music tinkled and cream-colored walls and brass fixtures lent a feeling of old-world elegance. Mark Twain, Tennessee Williams, the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, and five U.S. presidents had dined here.