by Laura Childs
Gabby, smart girl that she was, cocked her head. “What exactly are you asking, Carmela?”
“I think you probably know.”
Gabby crossed her arms in front of her in an almost protective gesture. “Okay, yes, I suppose I do. And my answer would have to be no. My impression of Garth is that he’s genuinely bereft. He and Melody had a loving and caring marriage and a really good business partnership. He would never . . .” She stopped abruptly, then said, “He would never,” with great finality.
“Okay,” said Carmela. “I was just trying to get a read on things. See if you picked up any weird vibes.”
“It’s your friend Babcock who’s cornered the market on bad vibes,” said Gabby. “If I were you, I’d give him a call and tell him not so politely to back off. Poor Garth has enough to deal with right now without being browbeaten by the NOPD.”
“I think you may be right,” said Carmela. She’d been planning to call Babcock anyway. Not to tell him to back off, but to ask him why he hadn’t bothered mentioning to her last night that Garth had suddenly morphed into a suspect.
She headed back to her office, chatting with customers along the way, then digging out sheets of marbleized paper for one woman. Finally, Carmela sat down at her desk and dialed the phone.
“Hey,” Babcock said to her. “I was wondering if I’d hear from you today.”
Carmela didn’t pull any punches. “How come you didn’t tell me Garth Mayfeldt was suddenly your prime suspect?”
There was a pause, and then Babcock said, “I was wondering how long it would take you to find that out and jump on my case. And the answer is, not very long. You must have a heck of a network, lady.”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“I didn’t tell you because you’re my girlfriend, not the police commissioner. And because it really isn’t any of your business.”
Carmela was taken aback for a moment. By his abruptness and his choice of words. “Your girlfriend? Is that what I am?”
“I guess so,” said Babcock. He let loose a warm, throaty chuckle, then added, “Face it, we weren’t exactly playing tiddlywinks last night.”
“Well, no,” said Carmela. “But girlfriend just sounds so formal.”
“Friend?” suggested Babcock.
“No, no,” said Carmela. “I really do prefer the former.”
“Okay,” said Babcock. “So no hard feelings about what has to remain my professional responsibility?”
Carmela thought for a minute. “Since I’m more than a little involved in Melody’s murder . . . since I was a peripheral witness to . . .”
“Is that what you are?” needled Babcock. “A peripheral witness?”
Carmela ignored him and plunged ahead. “Because Melody was my friend and you are my friend, I thought I might be allowed on the inside, so to speak.”
Babcock’s voice was kind when he spoke to her. “You know, Carmela, I don’t just close my eyes and toss darts at a board. And I sure don’t sit cross-legged and consult with mystics or swamis when I put together a solid list of suspects. There is a strict methodology.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Suspects are questioned for any number of reasons.”
“Sure, but what possible reason could you have for questioning Garth?”
Babcock exhaled loudly. Carmela was keeping the pressure on. “The money for one thing.”
“You’re talking about the insurance,” said Carmela. “Big deal. Lots of couples take out insurance policies on each other.”
“Let’s just say there were extenuating circumstances,” said Babcock.
Carmela was beginning to feel a tinge of frustration. Arguing with Babcock was like watching Beckett’s play Waiting for Godot. The plot was slightly glacial, and there never seemed to be a clear resolution. “What are you talking about?” she demanded.
“For your information,” said Babcock, “and I trust this will go no further, Fire and Ice is perilously close to bankruptcy.”
“What!” said Carmela. Clearly this was news to her.
“The shop is insolvent,” said Babcock.
“No way!” said Carmela, her words coming out as a surprised gasp. And all along she’d figured Garth and Melody were doing so well, thought they’d recovered from Hurricane Katrina and all of the ensuing nonsense with a minimum of pain.
“From what we’ve determined so far,” said Babcock, “unpaid creditors are circling like hungry vultures. So it’s only a matter of time before the shop goes under.”
“But there’s the insurance money,” said Carmela.
“Ah,” said Babcock. “Now we get to the crux of the matter.”
“Garth would never be that desperate,” said Carmela.
“That remains to be seen,” said Babcock.
“Innocent until proven guilty,” said Carmela, trying to sound tough, but feeling discombobulated by the news that Fire and Ice had been . . . was in . . . dire financial straits.
“So now you know,” said Babcock. He paused. “Happy?”
“Not really,” said Carmela.
“See?” said Babcock. “There’s a lesson there. Be careful what you—”
“Wish for,” murmured Carmela. “I know, I know, I’ve heard it all before. Talk to ya later.” She unceremoniously dumped the receiver onto its cradle.
Feeling out of sorts, tapping her foot nervously against the base of her chair, Carmela checked her e-mail and was rewarded with an answer from the Restless Spirit Society. She and her friend were indeed welcome to participate in their foray at the abandoned Mendelssohn Insane Asylum tonight. The group would meet at their chosen destination at nine. For her convenience, a map was attached.
Carmela snatched up the phone and hit speed dial.
“Juju Voodoo,” came Ava’s voice. “Two-for-one saint candles and seven ninety-nine for our special Cajun love potion that comes with a one hundred percent guarantee.”
“I think I might need some of that love potion,” Carmela told her friend.
Ava recognized her voice instantly. “Not to keep your cutie coming back. It’s obvious Edgar Babcock is head over heels for you.”
“Maybe so, but there seems to be a new wrinkle in Melody’s murder investigation,” said Carmela. And even though she’d told Babcock she’d keep quiet about it, she quickly related to Ava how Fire and Ice was close to bankruptcy.
“I had no idea!” exclaimed Ava. “That’s awful.”
“No,” said Carmela, “we haven’t gotten to the awful part yet. Now the police think Garth might have killed Melody out of desperation for the insurance money.”
Carmela expected Ava to say, “No way.” Instead, she just gave a long, drawn out “Hmmm.”
“You think Garth could have been that desperate?” Carmela asked. She hated to even voice the words.
“Possible,” said Ava. “But not probable.”
“Now it sounds like you’re sitting on the fence,” said Carmela.
“I’m a fence-sitter from way back,” said Ava.
“No, you’re not. You’re a lady who’s rarely afraid to take a stand.”
“Honey,” said Ava. “What we saw Monday night, Melody’s poor body cartwheelin’ through the air . . . I’m still having scary, jittery nightmares over it. So here’s the thing: if Babcock’s got issues with Garth’s innocence, then I’m willing to reserve judgment. I say let the police have a go at him.”
“Strange how things have unraveled since this morning,” said Carmela. “When I kind of promised Garth I’d look into things for him.” She paused. “He was so anxious to see if I could shake any suspects loose. Does that sound like the kind of request that would come from a guilty man?”
“Don’t know,” said Ava. “But, honey, we live in Louisiana. Down here lots of folks still believe in Napoleonic law.”
“Guilty until proven innocent,” said Carmela.
“Bingo,” said Ava.
Feeling more than a little uns
ettled, Carmela turned her attention to the flyer she’d been working on for Quigg Brevard, her friend and a local restaurateur. The flyer was supposed to promote the food booth that his restaurant, Mumbo Gumbo, was setting up on Bourbon Street for Galleries and Gourmets. Unfortunately, she’d been late starting the project and now was feeling bad. In fact, the one-page handout should have been finished last week. But then the scrapbook gods had smiled benevolently and Memory Mine had enjoyed a welcome flurry of business. And then, of course, the Medusa Manor job had come up. And so, like a lot of other things, the flyer had been temporarily forgotten.
Carmela frowned and stared at her 8½-by-11-inch layout. She’d started with a screened-back photo of a French Quarter brick building; superimposed smaller shots of candlesticks, an old painting, and a Tiffany lamp; then added fanciful drawings of Tabasco sauce, an oyster on the half shell, and a bowl of gumbo. Quigg’s flyer for Galleries and Gourmets was looking good, but it needed to be pulled together more. Carmela thought for a minute, then grabbed a handful of oil crayons. Working swiftly for ten minutes, she generously hand-tinted everything, giving it a unified look and theme.
Pleased with her efforts, all she had to do now was decide between plain Helvetica type or the bouncy . . .
Carmela straightened up, suddenly aware of a flurry of activity at the front of her store. And Gabby’s voice saying a friendly “Well, hello there.”
Then, before Carmela could pull herself out of her own personal design marathon, someone was standing behind her. She blinked, turned her head, and found herself staring into the intense dark eyes of Quigg Brevard.
The owner of both Bon Tiempe Restaurant and Mumbo Gumbo, Quigg Brevard was handsome, a shameless flirt, and a bit of a bachelor bon vivant. Tall, olive skinned, and broad shouldered, Quigg had the innate ability to set women’s hearts to racing—and knew it.
“Hey,” said Quigg, his voice almost a chuckle, “you didn’t color inside the lines.”
“No,” said Carmela, “it looks better all squiggly like that.”
He cocked an appraising eye. “At least you’re working on it. I wondered where that thing was.”
A hundred excuses suddenly bubbled up inside Carmela’s head. But instead of plucking one out and trying to run with it, she simply said, “I’m sorry, Quigg. I know I’m really late on this.”
Quigg’s brows knit together. “Galleries and Gourmets is just three days away.”
Carmela bit her lower lip. “Yes, and I feel awful. But . . . your flyer’s almost finished and I promise there’ll be no charge.”
Quigg’s big hand reached past her, and his index finger hovered at the top of the page where the headline read, Goody, Goody, Gumbo. “Cute,” he said. Then he quietly studied the rest of the copy, which pretty much listed all of his food items.
Carmela rolled her chair back, forcing Quigg to take a step backward. Then she stood up to face him. “I really am sorry.” She smiled up at him, aware of his presence so close to her.
“You already said that.” Quigg smiled as though he knew he made her slightly nervous.
“I’m just . . . flustered,” she told him. “I figured I could get this flyer done in a snap and then . . . I don’t know . . . things came up. As government bureaucrats are wont to say—mistakes were made.”
“But you do take responsibility,” he said, moving a half step closer to her. “And I appreciate that, seeing as how I came all the way over here to see what the heck was up with my flyers.”
Now Carmela was backed up against her desk. She could feel the edge of it pressing against her hip. “Which is good,” she told him. “Because now you can proof it.”
“Sure.” His eyes never left hers. “Actually, I just did. Looks great.”
“Then give me a little room and let me finish the design at the bottom.” Carmela grabbed a rubber stamp of a jalapeño pepper, rubbed it against a red ink pad, then made a series of impressions at the bottom of the page. “There,” she told him. “Done.”
He looked at the flyer, a little mystified. “Terrific, but that’s only one.”
“This is the original,” she told him. “Now I’m going to scan it into my computer and print out a few hundred on white linen paper.”
“That’s how it works, huh?” he asked.
“It’s one way,” she told him.
“Hey,” he said, grinning. “I saw you on TV the other night.”
Carmela waved a hand. “It was nothing.”
“You look good on camera. Very photogenic.”
“I was backing out of a store. Trying not to be interviewed. How good could I look?”
“You impressed me,” said Quigg. He cocked his head and gave her a lazy smile. “Say . . . your divorce final yet?”
Carmela shook her head. “Nope. But counting the days.”
“Mmm,” murmured Quigg. “Not soon enough.” He started to lean in.
Putting a palm flat against his chest, Carmela exerted a fair amount of pressure. “Whoa, there. Kindly back off.”
He did. But not by much.
“We had some good times together, didn’t we?” Quigg asked.
Carmela had to admit they had. Back when Shamus had left her the first time and she’d finally decided to get back into the swing of things, she’d attended a fancy Garden District dinner party with Quigg. It had been pleasant, but he hadn’t seemed eager to give up his bachelor ways. Since then, they’d had dinner together a couple times at Bon Tiempe, his upscale restaurant over in the Bywater part of town. There’d been sparks between them, but none that had seriously ignited. Still, Quigg did appear to be simmering a bit now. Now that she was . . . otherwise occupied?
“If you can wait five minutes,” Carmela told him, “I’ll have these flyers ready for you.”
Quigg fixed his laser-beam brown eyes on her. “What about distribution?”
Carmela smiled back. “That’s up to you.”
Now Quigg screwed his face into a worried look. “See, that’s where I’ve got a problem. I’m supposed to check out this property on Magazine Street that I might be signing a lease on. Then I have to drive all the way down to Theriot to pick up eighty pounds of alligator steak. To cook for Saturday night.”
“So you’re saying . . . what?” asked Carmela.
“The flyers should really be distributed today,” he told her.
“So run your errands tomorrow,” she told him.
“That alligator meat is thawing even as we speak. Do you have any idea what eighty pounds of alligator can do to a BMW?”
She grinned. It didn’t sound good. “So you’re . . . what? Asking me to distribute your flyers?”
“Only as a practicality,” said Quigg. “And then only to local galleries. The ones up and down your street here. And, um, maybe over on Royal and Bourbon Streets, too.”
She gazed at him, then finally said, “I suppose it’s the least I can do, considering I caused the delay.”
“You’re a peach,” he told her.
While Quigg’s flyers were spitting out of her printer, Carmela quickly ran to help Aysia Burgoyne, a woman who was fast becoming one of their regular scrappers.
Aysia, at forty, had cascades of reddish-blond curls, a peaches-and-cream complexion, and a romantic wardrobe of ruffled blouses and silk pencil skirts, and was married to Thompson Burgoyne, a private financier.
“I just discovered the most wonderful photos of my grand-mother,” cooed Aysia, “and decided to make some kind of commemorative album. But . . . I’m not sure where to start.”
“How many photos?” asked Carmela.
“Six really nice sepia-tone photos,” Aysia told her. “But all fairly small. None more than four by six inches.”
“What if you put them into a booklet?” suggested Carmela, pulling out a small, ready-made chipboard album that consisted of eight pages. She studied it quickly, then handed it to Aysia. “This one will give you three double spreads on the inside.”
“Okay,” said Aysia,
turning the album over in her hands. The stiff white paper didn’t seem to impress her.
“What you’d do is cover each spread with fabric,” Carmela hurriedly explained. “Pick something luxurious, like a brocade floral, to serve as your background. Then cover a piece of card stock with a contrasting piece of brocade and mount one of the photos onto it. Maybe add some bits of old lace around the edges, then flourishes like gold tassels, an old-fashioned beaded pin, gauzy ribbon, or pressed silk flowers.”
“I adore that idea,” declared Aysia.
“The real trick,” said Carmela, grabbing a snippet of plum-colored ribbon as well as a bronzed angel charm, “is to build up layers. Maybe keep the colors in the plum- magenta-Persian red family, and try for three or even four overlapping fabrics. And don’t worry if your album looks a little messy; you want it to look aged and atmospheric.”
“And you’ve got tassels and beaded pins?” asked Aysia.
“At the front counter,” directed Carmela.
Once Quigg’s flyers were all printed, Carmela tamped them into a nice thick stack, then decided there was probably time left to deliver some of them. She could hit a few antique shops and kill two birds with one stone. That is, deliver the flyers and ask the shop owners if Melody had been in buying antiques lately. Carmela was looking for some sort of thread or connection, though she knew it would probably be quite tenuous.
Devon Dowling, the owner of Dulcimer’s Antiques, was a short, fat, balding man with a scrawny pigtail down his back and a fat pug snuggled in his arms. He happily accepted a handful of Quigg’s flyers, but told Carmela he hadn’t seen Melody in his store.
“You’re sure she came in here?” Dowling asked. “Mimi are I are generally here every day, but I don’t recall seeing Melody.” He kissed the pug Mimi on top of her furry little head, then assumed a pensive expression. “Terrible thing, that poor lady.”
Peacock Alley Antiques was pretty much the same story. They were happy to take some of the flyers to pass along, looking forward to the upcoming Galleries and Gourmets festival, but didn’t recall seeing Melody in their shop.