Postcards from the Dead (19 page)

“Don’t you love it?” asked Ava, sagging against Carmela. “Isn’t it spectacular?”

Carmela nodded even as a wide grin split her face. This was the absolute best. This enormous parade that completely jangled your nerves and sensibilities with strobing lights, brilliant colors, bulbous heads, and blaring music.

And the throws, the marvelous throws! Crews of fifty and sixty costumed men rode atop each float, tossing out beads, medallion necklaces, plastic cups, and even MoonPies. There were frenzied grabs, midair snatches, and heartfelt pleas of “Throw me somethin’, mister!”

The Bacchus Parade, like all the major Mardi Gras parades, was a collective crowd experience. Everyone was delighted and dazzled and never disappointed.

“Here comes the Bacchawhoppa!” screamed Ava. “I love this crazy thing!” The Bacchawhoppa float was an eighty-five-foot giant humpback whale that held sixty-eight krewe members. Its rounded blue whale head seemed to poke up into the stratosphere and its enormous body held a seething mass of krewe members, all garbed in white and tossing strands of green and purple beads.

A dozen more floats and another fifteen marching bands streamed by, each more dazzling and dizzying than the next. Until, finally, the last float, the last horseman, clattered past and the aura that was part spectacle, part Venetian
carnivale
faded back to reality.

Ava held a hand to her heart. “Whew.”

“Amazing,” said Carmela. She felt like she wanted to go home and curl up in a cozy armchair and replay every single visual image that had been seared into her brain.

The crowd around them was still jubilant, but a little subdued now. Fantasy time was over; reality was beginning to set in. Time to walk back home or try to find their car, wherever it might be parked. Or towed to.

Carmela and Ava sauntered down the sidewalk, content to be carried along with the crowd. Until Carmela suddenly spotted a familiar face. Zoe Carmichael from KBEZ-TV!

“Hey!” Carmela cried, as they approached Zoe and a cameraman. Zoe was dressed in a sophisticated red suit with a slim, short pencil skirt. She was busily coiling a cord around a small handheld microphone, while her cameraman was still up on a stepladder, getting crowd shots.

“Carmela,” said Zoe, smiling. “And . . .” She searched for Ava’s name.

“Ava,” said Ava.

“Great parade, huh?” said Zoe.

“Fantastic,” gushed Ava. “One of the best I’ve ever seen.”

“Did you guys shoot the whole parade?” asked Carmela.

“Pretty much,” said Zoe. “Plus some interviews and crowd reactions.”

“Is this more footage for the documentary?” asked Carmela.

Zoe shrugged. “Some of our stuff might make it into the doc, sure. More likely it’ll run on our ten o’clock news tonight or the morning news tomorrow. But mostly they’ll just use snippets, kind of like video postcards.”

“Postcards,” said Carmela. “Interesting choice of words.”

Chapter 21

T
HE
band that rocked the Pluvius krewe’s float den this Sunday night called themselves the Blond Zombies, but they weren’t blond and they didn’t appear to be stumbling zombies. Rather, they were eager young rockers who wailed away with macho enthusiasm, playing a medley of Springsteen, Black Eyed Peas, and Lady Gaga.

“Finally,” said Ava, as they pushed their way into the enormous float den, “a real party.”

Located in the CBD, the Pluvius den was a cavernous, barnlike building. Enormous, colorful floats ringed the outer walls, while in the center, the party swirled madly around the band and a three-sided bar that had been installed temporarily. Krewe members and their guests stood four deep at the bar, clinking glasses, laughing, and boasting to each other. A few dancers were jigging to the music.

Jekyl came rushing up to greet them immediately. “The floats aren’t done yet, but all my volunteers are two sheets to the wind!” he cried. He wore a red sequined jacket, matching red slacks, two tiny devil horns glued to each side of his forehead, and a look of utter panic.

“You’ve got time,” said Carmela. “You’ve got another forty-eight hours before these floats have to roll.”

“You think?” asked Jekyl. He looked as if he wanted to climb onto the bandstand, grab the microphone, and threaten everyone with a hot glue gun. Then, of course, he’d conscript them all into gluing glitter and tacking crepe paper streamers onto his floats.

“This happens every year,” said Carmela, trying to impart some degree of calm. “You think the floats won’t get done, but they always do.”

“Last year my Cassiopeia float rolled without all her stars in place,” muttered Jekyl.

“And nobody noticed,” said Ava. “Because everything else about it was perfect. Your overall
design
was perfect.”

“You think?” Jekyl was one of those artistes who was never convinced his work was good enough.

Carmela grabbed Jekyl’s arm and pulled him close. “What’s your theme this year?”

“Oh,” said Jekyl, brightening suddenly, distracted by her question, “it’s Myth and Man. But we’re specifically featuring mythical animals. Unicorns, centaurs, fauns, and satyrs, that sort of thing.”

“I’d love it if you showed us,” said Carmela.

“Let’s see the unicorn,” said Ava.

They walked into a quieter part of the den where an enormous float depicted a sprightly woodland scene complete with moss-encrusted trees and a leaf-covered forest floor. Smack-dab in the middle, rearing up on its hind legs, was an enormous white horse with a silver horn sprouting from its forehead.

“Fantastic!” said Carmela. “You sculpted this?”

Jekyl nodded, pleased. “I started with a chicken wire frame and just kept building with papier-mâché. Once the basic horse outline was pretty much established, I used wood putty to refine it.”

“It doesn’t look like putty,” said Ava, peering at the enormous unicorn, which looked ready to leap off the float. “In fact, he looks all fuzzy. Kind of like a teddy bear.”

“That’s because once I finished sculpting him, we glued on white feathers,” said Jekyl.

“Feathers?” said Carmela. She studied the horse’s pelt more closely.

“Buckets full of feathers,” said Jekyl. “It looked like a pillow factory had exploded in here. But we overlapped each feather just so, to achieve real depth and dimension. You oughta see the unicorn when the blue and green spotlights are turned on. Spectacular! Ethereal, really.”

“It looks great now,” said Carmela.

They strolled back to where the party was happening. The Blond Zombies launched into a rockin’ rendition of Springsteen’s “Born to Run” and Ava, who was practically tapping her toes, said, “I’m gonna find myself a handsome dance partner.”

“Go for it,” said Carmela.

Then Jekyl said, “Let’s ankle up to the bar and get a drink, shall we?”

They pushed their way through the crowd and up to the bar, where three bartenders were working frantically. When one finally glanced up, Carmela said, “Could we get two glasses of red wine, please?”

The bartender shook his head. “No wine. Just Abita Blue, Wild Turkey, Jack Daniel’s, and some really rotgut whiskey.”

“Two Jack and Coke then,” said Carmela, glancing at Jekyl, who nodded. As the bartender hurriedly fixed their drinks, Carmela said, “Shamus must be in charge of the bar this year. Those are all his faves.”

At which point a familiar baritone voice broke in with, “Did I just hear my name taken in vain?”

Carmela spun around. “Shamus!”

Shamus Allan Meechum beamed down at her. “Hey, babe,” he said. “Long time no see.” Dressed in black slacks and a tailored black button-down shirt, he had an impossibly young woman in a gold sequined dress hanging on one arm.

Carmela grabbed her drink, took a fortifying sip, and said, “Did you forget? We just saw each other two nights ago.”

Shamus rocked back on his heels and looked surprised. “We did?”

Carmela cast a glance at his young date in her sparkly dress and six-inch platforms and said, “Sure, at the Click! Gallery. Remember?”

Shamus let loose an annoying chuckle. “Heh, heh, I guess you’re right, babe. It just
seems
like a long time.”

“And your frantic call yesterday,” Carmela reminded him.

Shamus frowned through his alcohol haze. It was all coming back to him now. “Oh yeah, about the—”

“I’m Jekyl Hardy,” said Jekyl, sticking his hand out to greet Shamus’s date. “And this is Carmela Bertrand.”

Carmela pounced on Jekyl’s deft change of subject. She leaned toward the girl and said, “And you are . . . ?”

“Tinsley Wyatt,” said the girl, in a high squeaky voice. She peered at Carmela, wrinkled her perfectly unlined brow, and said, “Wait a minute . . . you’re Carmela? That means you’re . . .”

“The ex–Mrs. Meechum,” Carmela filled in. “Yup, that’s me. Nice to meet you, Tinsley. Having a good time?” Carmela’s grin was wide and cheesy. Inside she felt the tiniest little pang. Shamus was dating a girl who was barely in her twenties, barely . . . legal.

But Tinsley seemed utterly thrilled to be here. “This is fantastic!” she cooed. “I’ve never ever been to a float den before. I feel like such an . . . an insider!”

“That fluttery feeling should last for about two more minutes,” Jekyl said in a caustic tone. “Until reality sets in.”

“Be nice,” Carmela warned, under her breath.

“As nice as you are,” Jekyl whispered back.

“Shamus,” said Carmela, “you still owe me some information.”

Shamus glanced around, obviously looking for a getaway. When he didn’t find one, he tried to focus on Carmela. “Huh?”

“About Whit Geiger?” said Carmela, snapping her fingers under his nose. “Remember?”

“Uh, he’s here tonight,” said Shamus. “You should talk to him yourself.”

“Really,” said Carmela. This was opportune news. She quickly slid in between Shamus and Tinsley and grabbed Shamus’s arm. “Be a gentleman and introduce me, will you?”

Jekyl, who always had Carmela’s back, smiled at Tinsley and said, “How would you like to see a unicorn float close up?”

“Would I ever!” whooped Tinsley, who suddenly skittered over and attached herself to Jekyl.

“You’re an evil witch,” said Shamus, as he and Carmela strolled through the crowd.

“That’s why you married me,” Carmela said, in an airy tone. “You always did enjoy a challenge.”

“Still do,” said Shamus, suddenly gazing at her with brown puppydog eyes.

Carmela shook a finger at him. “Unh-uh, I know what you’re thinking and you can
forget
it. We’re divorced. Remember?”

“How can I forget?” Shamus grumped. “You took my house and everything!”

“Glory’s house,” corrected Carmela. “The house you were always complaining about. The garage wasn’t big enough, the yard was too big, the wiring was kaput . . .”

“But now I’m left with nothing,” complained Shamus.

“Cheer up,” said Carmela. “When Glory kicks the bucket you’ll probably inherit the whole chain of Crescent City Banks.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say,” said Shamus. “About Glory, I mean.” But he said it with a big smile.

* * *

THEY PAUSED AT THE CORNER OF THE BANDSTAND.

“Over there,” said Shamus, inclining his head. “That’s Whitney Geiger.”

Carmela gazed at a tall, silver-haired man who was holding court with a group of six people. Geiger had the air of an imperious CEO who was used to serious eye contact and deferential treatment. “He likes to talk,” she said. “He enjoys being the center of attention.”

“And how,” said Shamus. “Geiger is fairly new to the Pluvius krewe, but he’s always yapping about some dang thing. Why don’t we increase membership? How can we start our parade planning earlier? I don’t know why he doesn’t just shut his trap and have fun like the rest of us.”

“Maybe,” said Carmela, “because he’s a real businessman?”

“A cutthroat businessman, from what I hear,” said Shamus.

“I thought you didn’t know anything about him,” said Carmela. “Just that he owns Royale Real Estate and his company’s incorporated in Florida.”

“I don’t know much,” said Shamus. “But I was talking to Dickie Winthrop earlier tonight . . . you remember Dickie Winthrop?”

“The dopey-looking guy who fell off the sea serpent float last year and broke his collarbone?” said Carmela.

“That’s our Dickie,” said Shamus. “Anyway, Dickie was telling me that some TV station was gonna do a story about Geiger.”

Carmela did a slow reptilian blink. “What?” she said.

“Yeah,” said Shamus. He paused. “Something wrong with that?”

Carmela clutched his arm. “Never mind, let’s just go find Dickie. Is he here?” She gave Shamus a sharp yank to show she was serious. “I want to talk to him.”

“Yeah, he’s here. Whoa, babe, you’re spilling my drink!”

They found Dickie Winthrop on the dance floor, looking like he was in the final throes of an epileptic seizure.

Shamus tapped Dickie on the shoulder of his white
Saturday Night Fever
three-piece suit. “Dickie, Dickie, I gotta talk to you!”

Dickie’s dance partner, grateful for the interruption, spun away with a look of sheer relief on her face.

Dickie was six feet tall and weighed maybe one hundred and fifty pounds sopping wet. He grabbed Shamus by the lapels. “Did ya see us?” he wailed, his face shiny with perspiration. “We were doing the hustle. Remember the hustle? The L.A. hustle, the Latin hustle, just like Travolta used to do? I’m good, man. I’ve still got it.” Dickie had to be midfifties, so he probably had grooved to the Bee Gees and
Saturday Night Fever.

“Dickie,” said Shamus, “you remember Carmela, don’t you?”

Dickie, who’d clearly hit his limit on drinks, blinked and said, “Carmela. Whoa, aren’t you a cutie!” And to Shamus, “This chick’s your date?”

“I’m his ex,” said Carmela, an edge to her voice. “Don’t you remember, Dickie, you were at our wedding?”
In fact, you spazzed out at our wedding and pretty much cleared the dance floor.

Dickie pulled out a hanky and made a big show of mopping his face. “Oh yeah,” he muttered. “Sorry things didn’t work out for y’all.”

“Don’t be sorry,” said Carmela. “Just try to be lucid for one minute.”

“Carmela wants to ask you about Whit Geiger,” put in Shamus. “Remember, you were saying something about him earlier?”

Dickie nodded. “Yeah?”

“You mentioned to Shamus that Whit Geiger might be interviewed for TV?” Carmela prompted.

Dickie furrowed his brow as if deep in thought, then said, “Not exactly interviewed. What Geiger told me is that some TV station wanted to do a story about him.”

“About his real estate dealings?” said Carmela.

“That’s right,” said Dickie. He nodded to himself as if recalling the conversation, then poked an index finger at her and chuckled. “And Geiger told me he dodged the bullet.”

“Really,” said Carmela. “What do you think he meant by that?” She tried to line up her thoughts. “What exactly did Geiger tell you?”

Dickie fixed her with a soggy smile. “Remember that crazy broad who got killed a few days ago? The one who got hung during the parade?”

“Kimber Breeze,” said Carmela, trying to quell the flutter that had started up in the pit of her stomach.

“That’s the one,” said Dickie.

“What about her?” asked Carmela. Pulling information out of Dickie was like pulling taffy. Sticky and lugubrious. Plus he kept drifting off course.

Dickie glanced over his shoulder, as if the CIA might be monitoring his every word. “Geiger told me she was planning to do an exposé on him,” he said in a scratchy whisper.

“An exposé about what?” asked Carmela, determined to get an answer.

Dickie shrugged. “I dunno exactly. But I got the feeling it was something to do with real estate. Maybe . . . eminent domain housing that he bought for a song from the city?” Dickie winked. “Lot of that going on.”

* * *

CARMELA FOUND AVA LOUNGING AT THE BAR, SIPPING
a drink.

“What’s that?” asked Carmela, pointing to her glass.

“Red Rooster,” said Ava. “Vodka, orange juice, and cranberry juice. Really quite delicious.”

“How come I could only get a crappy Jack Daniel’s when you scored a tasty mixed drink?”

“You have to flirt with the bartenders,” said Ava. She twirled a finger in the air, then pointed at a dark-haired, mustachioed bartender, who smiled engagingly and gave her a slow wink.

“I gotta talk to you about something,” said Carmela.

“Shoot,” said Ava.

“You remember Dickie Winthrop?” asked Carmela.

Ava thought for a minute. “The dumb-ass who broke his arm when he fell off a float?”

“Collarbone,” said Carmela. “But, yes, that’s the Dickie we all know and love. Anyway, I was asking him about Whit Geiger, that real estate guy I told you about, and Dickie said Kimber was trying to do an exposé on Geiger.”

“Do tell,” said Ava. She took another sip of her drink. “So that means what exactly?”

Carmela lowered her voice. “I think it means that Geiger should be on my suspect list.”

Ava grimaced. “Because Geiger had an ax to grind with Kimber?”