Postcards from the Dead (8 page)

Then she let her mind wander even further afield.
Would a man who sells animal bones and thumbscrews be the same type of person who was interested in local murders? And who might even leave dead animals on someone’s doorstep? Hmm.

Chapter 8

S
HRIMP
,
tomatoes, brown sugar, and cream bubbled enticingly in a large pot, and a tin of muffins baked in Carmela’s oven, all exuding rich smells and promises. Carmela pulled dishes from her cupboard while Ava lounged at the dining room table, firmly ensconced with a glass of wine. Boo and Poobah lay at her feet, seemingly fascinated with their dear aunt Ava.

“When are you gonna get these saggy bottom chairs recaned,
cher
?” Ava asked. “I feel like I’m gettin’ pulled down into a sinkhole.”

“I know,” said Carmela, “I never seem to get around to that.” She had picked up a wonderful pecan dining room set in the scratch-and-dent room of a Royal Street antique shop. Only problem was, the chair seats sagged like old army hammocks. Probably, she decided, the end result of all the rich étouffée, soft-shell crab, stuffed artichokes, and other New Orleans butter- and cream-rich delicacies that had been consumed by the chairs’ previous owners.

“Still,” said Ava, “I gotta hand it to you. Your apartment looks fantastic.”

Carmela’s one-bedroom garden apartment was a tour de force. Posh and elegant from dozens of forays through French Quarter antique shops, the living room was furnished with a brocade fainting couch, marble coffee table, and squishy leather chaise with ottoman. An ornate gilded mirror hung on one wall, while lengths of handmade wrought iron that had once graced an antebellum mansion hung on the opposite redbrick wall. The wrought iron made a perfect shelf for her bronze dog statues and collection of antique children’s books.

“Is that painting new?” asked Ava. She pointed to a moody oil painting of a redbrick Creole cottage.

“Got it last week,” said Carmela. “At Dulcimer Antiques.”

“You do have impeccable taste,” said Ava.

“Which you always call white-bread Republican.” Carmela laughed, as she ladled her stew into yellow Fiestaware bowls.

“It’s just that your style’s decidedly classic,” said Ava, “what with all the Aubusson carpets, oil paintings, and antiquey stuff. While my personal preference veers toward fringe, feathers, and froufrou.” Ava’s apartment over Juju Voodoo always looked like a novelty shop had exploded. The walls were painted a lush peach, her window trim edged with gilt paint, and her chairs and sofas covered with furry leopard and zebra throws. Her lampshades were trimmed with feathers and her idea of artwork included leftover voodoo masks from her shop. The effect was basically Marilyn Monroe meets Marilyn Manson.

Carmela carried their bowls to the table and set them on woven rattan placemats she’d laid out earlier. “I’ll tell you, I felt like an oldie but goodie this afternoon when I talked to that reporter Zoe. She’s, like, twenty-four years old, but she’s got the business savvy of someone who’s forty-four.”

“She seemed like a real go-getter,” said Ava. She spooned up a helping of shrimp and tomato stew and blew softly on it.

“She’s a sharpie,” said Carmela. “Talking to her was like watching an updated version of that old black-and-white movie
All About Eve
.”

“Heard of it,” said Ava, “but never seen it.”

“Oh, you’d like it,” said Carmela. “Bette Davis plays an aging Broadway star while her mousy little assistant, played by Anne Baxter, plots to take over her life and starring roles. And then it actually happens! The mousy little girl elbows Bette Davis into oblivion and ends up a big star!”

“Huh,” said Ava. “That does sound kind of creepy.” She swallowed another spoonful of stew and said, “Dang, this is good! And just the right amount of garlic!”

“What really gave me goose bumps,” Carmela continued, “was the look on Zoe’s face when she talked about being on top of the world now that Kimber was gone and she was going to take her place.”

Ava glanced up sharply. “You think Zoe might have wanted Kimber out of the way?”

“I know she did,” said Carmela. “It was her heart’s desire.”

“Yeah, but did Zoe literally
push
Kimber out of the way?” said Ava. “Like off that balcony?”

“With a cord wound around her neck,” said Carmela.

“Can’t forget the cord,” agreed Ava.

Carmela hesitated. “I hate to point a finger at Zoe, because there isn’t a single shred of evidence. On the other hand, the girl certainly had motive.”

“Still . . .” said Ava. “She’s just a kid.”

“But think about it,” said Carmela, “you’re the underpaid, underappreciated assistant who’s constantly lurking in the wings, waiting for your big shot.”

“And you think Zoe maybe took that shot?”

Carmela’s shoulders slumped. “I’m not sure what to think. Although Zoe didn’t exactly seem heartbroken over Kimber’s death. In fact, it was pretty much the last thing on her mind.”

“Maybe Zoe just has a reporter’s focus,” said Ava. “I think they have to train themselves to block out emotions.” She grinned. “Kind of like I do when it comes to old boyfriends.”

“Anyway,” said Carmela, “for a newbie she certainly did a masterful job with that live segment last night. Handled it like a real pro.”

Ava grabbed a strawberry pecan muffin and spread a generous amount of butter on it. “What did you find out about Kimber’s boyfriend? What was his name? Durdle?”

“Durrell,” said Carmela. “I have a hunch he might know more than he’s let on so far. Particularly since I found out from Zoe that Kimber had a stalker.”

“A stalker?” Ava shivered. “That’s creepy.” She grabbed another muffin, broke off a couple of pieces, and fed them to Boo and Poobah.

“Yes, it is,” said Carmela.

“You think Kimber might have confided in Durdle? About who she thought the stalker might be?”

“Durrell,” said Carmela. “Maybe. Since they were going together it would seem logical.”

“But Kimber wasn’t logical,” said Ava. “She was . . . how can I put this delicately? Kapow crazy!”

“Babcock would spit a rat if he knew,” said Carmela, “but I’m going to meet with Durrell tomorrow morning.”

“Good for you. On what trumped-up pretext?”

“Sympathy?”

“Works for me,” said Ava. “As long as you’re able to keep a straight face.”

Carmela poured out another two fingers of wine for each of them. “What do you know about Oddities, that little shop that’s opening next door to me? The owner dropped by this afternoon to say hi and give me some sort of invitation.” She’d been so busy, she hadn’t even had time to look at it yet.

“Ooh,” said Ava, “I got an invitation, too. For their open house.” Ava grinned. “They probably think I’m a kindred spirit, owning a voodoo shop and all. Anyway, the Oddities open house is this Saturday evening. Want to go?”

“Why not?” said Carmela. “Who wouldn’t want to attend a party at a creepy little shop that has a stuffed monkey in the window?”

The phone jingled from across the room.

“Telemarketers,” said Ava. “Or maybe you lucked out and won a million bucks!”

Carmela jumped up to grab it. “Hello? Publishers Clearing House? Am I the lucky winner?”

“Carmela, darling,” came a smooth male voice, “I see you and your partner in crime were involved in a juicy little murder over at the Hotel Tremain. Or should I call it the Hotel Travail?”

“Jekyl,” said Carmela. Jekyl Hardy was one of New Orleans’s premier Mardi Gras float designers and an art appraiser by trade. He was also a dear friend of Carmela’s and had helped her cofound the Children’s Art Association.

“You okay, lovey?” he asked.

“Doing okay,” said Carmela. “Though Kimber Breeze did get herself hanged from the balcony. You probably read about it in the paper. Or saw the news.”

“Or got the full poop on Twitter,” called Ava.

“Are you a suspect?” Jekyl asked.

Carmela was taken aback. “No!”

“Well, you should be,” chuckled Jekyl. “There was never a shred of love lost between the two of you. Whenever you and Kimber were in the same vicinity you acted like a couple of hissing wombats.”

“You forget I’m not the murdering type,” said Carmela. “I’m a pussycat.”

“She is!” Ava yelled at the phone. “You’re the wacko in the group!”

“Tell Ava she’s the light of my life,” said Jekyl.

Carmela dropped the phone. “Jekyl says you’re a crazy bee-yatch.”

Ava flapped a hand. “Yeah, yeah.”

“So I got your message,” said Jekyl, “and the photographer
is
available Saturday morning. Shall I go ahead and set it up?”

Carmela thought for a minute. Kimber’s funeral was also scheduled for Saturday morning. “Just a minute. I gotta confab with Ava.” She dropped the phone again and asked, “Are we going to Kimber’s funeral?”

Ava nodded. “Oh, yeah. We gotta do that. We have to complete the circle of life and death.” She frowned. “Or would that be death and death?”

“Could we move the photo shoot to Sunday?” asked Carmela.

“Might work,” said Jekyl. “I’ll check with the photographer and get back to you.”

“Great.”

“You two divas are coming to the big party at the Pluvius float den Sunday night, aren’t you?” As head float designer for the Pluvius krewe, Jekyl was accorded access to any and all Mardi Gras parties.

“Is this a formal invitation?” said Carmela.

“You may consider it that,” replied Jekyl, “even though it’s not engraved in gold and printed on industrial-strength parchment.”

“Mmm,” said Carmela, “the Pluvius den.” Shamus was a member of the Pluvius krewe. “That means Shamus will be there.” Knowing her goofball ex-husband would be lurking about made the party somewhat less appealing.

Jekyl let loose a wicked, high-pitched cackle. “Just adorn your body in something super slinky with a plunging neckline and make him positively drool!”

“He probably won’t even notice,” said Carmela. In recent months Shamus had developed an eye for much younger women with cascades of blond hair. And even though Carmela hadn’t yet hit thirty, she felt practically decrepit next to Shamus’s current stable of bubble-headed kewpie dolls.

“Oh, Shamus will notice,” said Jekyl. There was a long pause and then he added, “Because he’s still in love with you.”

* * *

CARMELA WANDERED BACK INTO THE DINING ROOM
and plopped down at the table. “Two things. Jekyl says Shamus is still in love with me.”

“That’s not so far-fetched,” said Ava. “Shamus does get a stupid, moony look on his face whenever he sees you. On the other hand, it could be garden-variety gas pain. Or the dee-vorce blues.”

“The other thing,” said Carmela. “Jekyl says I should be a suspect.”

“Agh, he’s way off base on that,” said Ava. “Because you’re the
investigator
.”

“Babcock would have a cow if he heard you say that.”

“Let him,” said Ava. She scrunched her brows together. “Face it, Carmela, you’re good at this stuff. You’re the Nancy Drew of New Orleans.” She cocked her head and thought for a few moments. “Or are you Trixie Belden? I can never remember which one was my favorite girl detective.”

“Speaking of detecting,” said Carmela, “we were going to take a look at Raleigh’s DVD.”

“Then let’s do it,” said Ava.

They moved over to the leather couch and Carmela popped the DVD into her player.

“Will there be coming attractions?” asked Ava.

“No, but I have kettle corn,” said Carmela, as they waited for the video to cue up. She always had kettle corn.

“Pass,” said Ava, rubbing her tummy. “I’m way too fat as it is.”

“You’re a size six,” said Carmela.

“In Beverly Hills,” said Ava, “a size six is considered an extra large!”

Then the video was running, a grainy color image that was slightly out of focus but did seem to reveal most of last night’s action in the Bonaparte Suite.

“This must have been shot with a wide-angle lens,” said Carmela. “See how things look a little distorted?”

“I thought it was because everybody was drinking,” said Ava. She held up her wineglass. “Because I’m drinking.”

“Shh,” said Carmela. Even though there wasn’t any sound, she wanted to concentrate.

They watched as people came and went, jostled and smiled, kissed and hugged, drank and hung out.

After forty minutes of watching with not much happening, Ava said, “Nothing’s going on. In fact, it’s pretty much a total yawn.”

“But look,” said Carmela, pointing at the screen, “there’s Devon Dowling coming in from the balcony.” Dowling was a local antique dealer. “So the murder hasn’t taken place yet.”

“Okaaaay,” said Ava, “then it’s about to take place, right?”

“I think so,” said Carmela, leaning forward.

The picture suddenly shook, as if someone had jostled the camera, and then there was a shot of Sugar Joe stepping in from the balcony.

“There!” said Carmela. “Right after Sugar Joe came in, Raleigh was talking into his headset, trying to cue Kimber for a live break. That’s when it must have happened. Somewhere . . . in the next minute or so.”

They continued to stare at the screen.

“But nobody went out onto the balcony,” said Ava. She leaned back. “Holy bazookas, you don’t think Sugar Joe . . .”

“I don’t think so,” said Carmela. Sugar Joe had always seemed fairly even-keeled to her. At least compared to Shamus’s other friends.

“Still,” said Ava.

Carmela reached out and pushed the Stop button. She rewound for a couple of seconds and hit Play.

“What?” said Ava. “Did you see something I didn’t?”

“Watch the upper left-hand corner of the screen,” said Carmela. “You see that man dressed in a white clown costume?”

“Okay,” said Ava.

“You see where he’s standing? He’s right near the entrance to the balcony. And then, after those two vampires go by, he’s not there anymore.”

Ava stared harder. “Uh-huh.”

“It’s just possible,” said Carmela, “that guy could be the killer.”

Ava looked shocked. “You’re telling me the goofball clown did it?”

Carmela sat back. “I don’t know. It all happened so fast.”

They replayed it again, then Carmela put it on slo-mo.

“The clown is standing there and then he’s not,” said Carmela. “That has to mean something.”

“Maybe it means he stepped out to take a whiz,” said Ava.