Postcards from the Dead (24 page)

But, at this exact moment, she needed to ask her cheating, lying skunk of an ex-husband a couple of critical questions.

She found him at the buffet table, loading up on steamed shrimp. “Shamus.” She tapped him on the shoulder.

Shamus glanced at her and pursed his lips. “Now what?”

“We need to talk.”

“I need to eat.”

“Don’t be a dolt,” said Carmela. “You can eat and talk. Besides, I need to ask you about something.”

Now Shamus looked apprehensive. “What?” He scooped a big dollop of rémoulade sauce onto his plate.

“It’s about a mortgage customer.”

“Jeez, Carmela, how many times do I gotta tell you I don’t do mortgages.” He put his free hand to his chest, let loose a burp, and gave a sheepish grin.

Carmela took a step backward. “Just hear me out.”

“Mortgages are
tough
,” he said. “You gotta figure out all that principal and interest stuff. And payment schedules.”

“Give me a break,” said Carmela, “that stuff’s all calculated with garden-variety plug-and-play computer programs.”

“That so?” said Shamus.

“C’mere.” Carmela grabbed his sleeve and pulled him out into the hallway, where it was quieter. “Do you know who Billy Laforge is?”

Shamus let loose another little Jack Daniel’s–fueled burp. He frowned, trying to look serious, then said, “No, should I?”

“Billy is Kimber Breeze’s brother,” said Carmela.

“So what?” He nibbled on a shrimp.

“Billy Laforge is also a customer at your bank. A mortgage customer who’s being foreclosed on.”

“I told you . . .” Shamus was starting his broken-record act again.

“I just spoke to Laforge,” said Carmela. “And he told me that somebody at Crescent City Bank threatened to steal his gun . . . and made off with his dog.”

Shamus looked suddenly pained. “What? You think we can’t collect somebody’s mortgage, so we go harass them?”

“And steal his dog,” said Carmela.

“What kind of dog?” asked Shamus.

“Shamus, it doesn’t matter what kind of dog!” said Carmela. “The point is, something weird is going on!”

“The problem,” said Shamus, poking a shrimp in her face, “is that you’re too involved in this murder investigation!”

“No,” said Carmela, “the problem is, there are more darned suspects than dead bodies in a Quentin Tarantino movie!”

“Hah,” said Shamus. “Funny.”

But it wasn’t. Not to Carmela. “And you were supposed to get me some more information on Whitney Geiger and Royale Real Estate.”

“Give me a break,” said Shamus.

Carmela was about to flip Shamus’s plate of shrimp in his face when an ungodly scream rose from the front parlor. A hideous, banshee-like scream that spiraled upward in a shrill crescendo.

“Holy Christmas!” said Shamus. “That sounds like Glory!”

The two of them sprinted toward the front of Baby’s house, only to find Glory standing in the middle of the party, screaming her head off. Her face was beet red, her hands were clenched tightly at her sides, and long, undulating screams bellowed from her.

“Shamus,” said Carmela, as everyone in the room gaped, “
do
something!”

Shamus gave a reluctant sigh as he set down his plate. “Looks like the party’s over.”

* * *

“WAS THAT THE DJ PLAYING CRAPPY SOUND EFFECTS
or someone really screaming?” asked Ava. They were in the front parlor now, moments after Shamus had quickly spirited Glory away.

“Take a wild guess,” said Carmela.

“Glory? Having one of her usual freak-outs?”

“It would appear so,” said Carmela.

“Somebody oughta put a muzzle on that lady,” said Ava. “Or shoot her. Put her out of her misery.”

“I think that’s what her meds are supposed to do.” Glory had a few psychoses that even the doctors didn’t seem to understand.

Ava shook her head. “They ain’t working. She needs stronger stuff. Horse pills, maybe.” She glanced around, gave a start, and nudged Carmela with her shoulder. “Hey, looks like your buddy-boy is stepping out early.”

Carmela swiveled her head, just in time to see Davis Durrell slip out the front door.

“And the night is still young,” said Ava.

Something pinged deep in Carmela’s brain. “He’s . . . I think he’s got some kind of meeting.” She paused to gather her thoughts. “Remember, I told you I overheard a phone call he took at the funeral?”

“Yeah. So?” Ava was still mellow from drinking champagne.

“I think it was supposed to be tonight.” Carmela let this information cycle through her brain. “Where do you suppose he’s off to?” she wondered.
Could it be a meeting with Kimber’s killer? Could he be paying off a hired killer? Was that why he had acted so hinky and weird?

Ava yawned as she struck a pose, the better to show off her curvaceous hips. “I don’t know.” She snapped her mouth shut. “Oh crap. You want to follow Durrell, don’t you? Dang, I
knew
it.”

But Carmela had already pulled her car keys from her clutch. “Hurry up,” she urged. “We don’t want to lose him.”

Chapter 27

T
HE
night was cold and moonless, but up and down Prytania the elegant homes glowed from within.

“Careful,” murmured Ava, “don’t get too close.” They’d hopped into Carmela’s car, then prowled slowly down the block without benefit of headlights. And, two blocks later, they were rewarded when Davis Durrell backed his Jaguar down his driveway and took off with a throaty roar. Hanging back as far as she dared, Carmela flipped on her lights and slid into traffic, tailing him for about six blocks until he cut over to Coliseum Street.

“Where’s he going?” Carmela wondered out loud.

“Maybe he’s got a hot date,” said Ava.

“So soon after Kimber’s death? Do you think he ever cared for her at all? Do you think he’s just a serial Romeo?”

“I don’t know,” said Ava. “That’s what makes his encounter tonight a potentially hot date.”

But Durrell wasn’t headed for the jazz clubs of the CBD or even the frivolity of the French Quarter. Instead, he skimmed past Coliseum Square and hooked a right onto BR 90. Still hot on his tail, Carmela whisked across the bridge that spanned the turgid Mississippi. Below, tugboats prodded barges while a paddle wheeler, sparkling like a bedazzled Christmas ornament, churned madly as it carried tourists on a late-night cruise.

Carmela followed Durrell’s car into a spiral turn and soon found herself navigating the mash-up of warehouses and industrial complexes in neighboring Algiers.

“Dang,” said Ava, as they cruised down a dark street lined with hulking buildings. “This area makes me nervous. Too many big old warehouses and spooky buildings. If something happens, nobody can hear us scream.”

“It’s Mardi Gras,” said Carmela. “People are screaming their heads off all over town and nobody cares.”

“That’s a great comfort.”

Carmela eased her foot off the accelerator. “Durrell’s turning.”

“Just coast on past,” Ava advised.

So, of course, Carmela flipped off her lights and followed him.

“No!” Ava hissed, “what if he spots us! You’re gonna get us in deep doo-doo.”

“We’re like a ghost car,” said Carmela. “Gliding through the dark, ethereal and silent. He’s not going to see us.”

“What if he’s got ESP and can spot our ectoplasm?”

“Stop it,” said Carmela. “We’ll be fine.”

Ava leaned forward until her nose practically touched the windshield. “Wait a minute, where’d he go?”

“Huh?” said Carmela. In the inky darkness, she’d lost sight of him, too.

“Where is he? Where is he?” gibbered Ava.

Red brake lights flared some fifty yards ahead of them.

“There!” said Carmela. She eased off the gas again and coasted along.

“He’s turning again,” said Ava. “Back toward the river.”

“Then so are we.” Slowly, very carefully, Carmela angled her car into the driveway Durrell had taken. And found herself crunching across a parking lot that was part dirt, part hunks of broken concrete. The lot sloped down toward a long, low wooden building that hunkered directly ahead of her, but there was no sign of Durrell. He’d obviously skirted the building and was parked somewhere on the other side.

“What is this place?” asked Ava.

Carmela cut the ignition and rolled down her window. The place smelled like damp earth, diesel fuel, and something else.
Fish?
“I think this might be some kind of fish-processing plant,” she said to Ava.

“So what’s Durrell doing here?” asked Ava.

“Darned if I know. But I’m guessing whoever owns it isn’t benefiting from his financial advice.”

“You don’t know that,” said Ava. “There could be big money in fish.”

“Something tells me,” said Carmela, climbing out of her car, “that Durrell’s up to no good.”

Ava opened her door. “Don’t leave me here,” she whispered.

“Then come on,” Carmela whispered back.

Together they tiptoed across damp earth.

“We look like idiots in these dresses,” said Ava, trying to gather up her long skirt.

Carmela had crept to the corner of the building and was peering around it.

Ava touched a hand to Carmela’s back. “What do you see?”

Carmela made a little come-hither gesture and Ava flattened herself against the wooden building and peered around the corner with her.

Durrell was there, all right. He was standing next to his car, gazing out across the Mississippi. Lights from the city gleamed on the surface of the undulating river, sparkling and shimmering. Around the edges of the small clearing, where Durrell had parked, were junked cars, towering piles of scrap metal, and dozens of enormous wooden cargo containers that lay tumbled like wooden blocks.

“Think he’s just enjoying the view?” whispered Ava.

Carmela shook her head. “I’d say he’s waiting for something.”

“But what?”

Carmela held up a hand. A soft putt-putting sound echoed from out in the middle of the river. It mingled with the engine noise and churn from other boats going by, and the rumble of traffic from the bridge downstream. Then slowly, cautiously, a small boat throttled back its engines and pointed its bow toward shore.
And Durrell.

“That’s what he’s waiting for,” said Carmela. “C’mon, we gotta get closer.”

Together, Carmela and Ava dashed forward and took refuge behind a huge wooden crate. Crouching, they spent a few moments trying to catch their breath, then peered over the top of the crate, just the tops of their heads and eyes showing, like a couple of cartoon characters.

“That boat’s coming in for sure,” whispered Carmela.

“There’s a dock?”

“No, but I see pilings where they can pull up and moor.”

“Strange time to take a boat trip,” murmured Ava.

“I don’t think he’s going, I think he’s expecting something,” said Carmela.

“Or someone,” said Ava. “What do you think we should do?”

“Just stay low and quiet,” said Carmela. “See what he’s up to.”

Ava’s nose twitched. “This crate smells like rotten cabbage. Maybe we should . . .”

Carmela, nervous and on edge, glanced right, then left. And suddenly did a double take. “Oh, no.” Her heart sank.

“What?” hissed Ava.

“We’re smack-dab in the middle of something,” said Carmela, as the boat cruised closer and a spotlight suddenly flicked on.

“Well, I know that.”

“No, look over to your left,” prompted Carmela. “Tell me what you see.”

“Dark stuff. Piles of junk.”

“Look harder.”

“Um . . . oh!”

“See that brown car?” said Carmela, as the spotlight from the boat began to probe the shoreline. “Tucked close to that enormous scrap heap?”

“Uh-huh,” said Ava. “Kind of like the car Babcock drives.”

“It
is
the car Babcock drives!”

“Oh, man!” said Ava. “Did we stumble upon some kind of sting operation? Like in the movies?”

“That’d be my guess.”

“Now what?” asked Ava.

“Now we exit stage left,” said Carmela, her heart beating a timpani solo inside her chest. “As fast as possible. And we don’t let Babcock
or
Durrell see us! We don’t dare get caught in their little nighttime soap opera, whatever it is!”

“Just tiptoe back the way we came,” said Ava, ducking down.

“And do it verrrrry carefully.”

“Okay,” said Ava, “on the count of three we make a dash for it. One, two . . . three.”

They scooted out from behind the crate, heading for the wooden building. Halfway there, Ava stumbled and let out an audible
“Whoof!”
as her heel caught in the hem of her dress. As her arms flailed wildly and Carmela paused to grab her, the boat’s searchlight flicked over and caught both women, silhouetting them like dancing images in an old black-and-white movie. Then the light winked out and everything was plunged into darkness.

* * *

CARMELA SAT ON THE BED, FACING AVA. WEARING
a pink velour top and slacks, she looked anything but cozy and ready to tuck into bed.

“Maybe he didn’t see us,” said Ava. She handed Carmela a mug of cocoa with a raft of tiny white marshmallows bobbing on top. Her concession to cooking.

“Babcock saw us all right,” said Carmela.

“Maybe he won’t
say
anything.”

“He’ll have plenty to say,” said Carmela, managing a sip.

“You want something stronger in that?” asked Ava. “Brandy or schnapps? Tincture of poison?”

Carmela’s phone shrilled. She clenched her jaw and gazed at the small green screen in front of her. Babcock.

“It’s him?” Ava asked.

Carmela nodded.

“So don’t answer it.”

“I have to.” Carmela flicked the On button. “Hello?”

There was a burst of static, and then Babcock shouted, “Are you certifiably
insane
? What were you
doing
there? You blew our cover!”

“Sorry,” said Carmela.

“Sorry?” he sputtered. “Sorry doesn’t cut it with me, Carmela. I’m furious! No, I’m beyond furious!”

“I can hear that,” said Carmela.

“If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like a reasonable explanation! Like how exactly did you know to turn up there?”

“I . . . er . . . overheard Durrell’s phone conversation the other day at the cemetery. And then he left Baby’s party early tonight . . .”

“Which you blew off,” Ava called from across the room. “Some boyfriend you are.”

“Was that Ava?” asked Babcock.

Carmela nodded, then said, “Yes.”

“Tell her to shut up!”

“He says to shut up,” said Carmela.

“Tell him to taking a flying . . .”

“Anyway,” Carmela continued, trying to sound contrite, “I kind of put two and two together . . .

“And I ended up with a big fat zero!” Babcock shouted. “Damn Durrell jumped on the boat and that was that!”

“Really,” said Carmela, “this isn’t long distance. You don’t have to shout, I can hear you just fine.”

“You blew it, Carmela.” Babcock’s voice was cold as ice now. “You blew our drug arrest.”

Carmela was contrite. “I had no idea!”

“That’s not good enough,” said Babcock. “That’s not . . . aw, forget it.” There was a loud click.

Carmela stared at her phone. “He hung up on me.”

“That’s rude,” said Ava.

“No,” said Carmela, “I probably deserved it. “I blew his drug bust.”

“Drug bust?” Ava just about choked on her cocoa. “What the heck are you talking about?”

“Babcock was working on this drug deal,” said Carmela, “but he never clued me in as to who he was staking out. I didn’t know it was Durrell!”

Ava shook her head and pushed a mass of curly dark hair off her face. “Come again? Durrell was involved in drugs?”

“Apparently.”

“Jeez,” said Ava. “If he’s dealing drugs and stuff, maybe Durrell really did kill Kimber!”

“I don’t know,” said Carmela, offering a glum face.

Ava grabbed a bottle of schnapps, unscrewed the top, and poured a shot into her cocoa. Carmela held out her mug and Ava gave her a shot, too. “Let’s think about this,” said Ava. “About how Durrell might be a real psycho.”

“I’ve been wondering the same thing,” said Carmela.

“So . . . what now?” asked Ava. “You’re the one who always seems to fit the pieces together.”

“You mean like . . . oh wow!” Carmela looked suddenly stunned. “It just occurred to me . . .”

“What?” said Ava.

“What if Kimber had gotten wind of Durrell’s drug involvement?”

“She might have known,” said Ava. “She was dating him, after all.”

Pieces were rapidly clicking into place for Carmela. “But think about it! Maybe that’s
why
Kimber was dating him!”

“Whaddya mean? You’re saying she was a cokehead?”

“No,” said Carmela. “Maybe Kimber was trying to get a line on this whole drug operation.”

“You mean she was
using
Durrell?” said Ava.

“Maybe,” Carmela reasoned. “Maybe Kimber planned to blow the lid off his drug deals and make Durrell the subject of a big investigative report!”

“And Durrell figured it out,” finished Ava. “He’s smart, so he saw what her motive really was.” She puckered her brows. “And so he killed her?”

“Could have happened,” said Carmela. There were a few holes in her theory, but she figured she was close. “And then we came stumbling along, into the middle of the NOPD’s drug bust, and blew it.”

“Which means . . .”

“I don’t know what it means! Maybe it means we blew the whole case!” said Carmela, looking miserable. “Oh man, no wonder Babcock never wants to see me again!” She reached down, scratched Boo’s ear. “Oh, crap.”