by Laura Childs
“All the time, Johnny. All the time.”
Carmela had every intention of returning to Memory Mine. She’d been walking purposely down Governor Nicholls Street, stopping just for an instant to admire a string of pistachio-colored baroque pearls in a jewelry shop window. That was when her cell phone rang.
“Get over here!” Ava shrilled into her ear.
The intensity of Ava’s words jolted Carmela, the pearls suddenly forgotten. “Ava, what’s wrong? Don’t tell me Rain Monroe is making trouble for you again!”
With more urgency, Ava begged, “Please, just get over here!”
Ten minutes later, Carmela came crashing through Ava’s front door for yet another emergency. “What?” she called out. “What’s wrong?” She glanced around the dim little incense-filled shop, expecting to find Ava cowering and whimpering in a puddle of salty tears. Instead Ava was posturing and grinning like the proverbial Cheshire cat.
“I’ve got news,” Ava chortled. “Big news.”
Carmela’s mind flashed immediately to Byrle’s murder. And, for a split second, she figured there must have been a sudden break in the case. Maybe Babcock had called Ava’s shop looking for her? Then dropped the welcome news on Ava?
“What?” asked Carmela, brushing at her flyaway hair, trying to pat it into submission.
“You know that exceedingly charming restaurant owner we met the other night?” Ava asked, dimpling prettily. “The one who owns Purgatoria?”
“Drew Gaspar,” said Carmela, feeling suddenly let down. Was this big emergency because Ava had been asked out on a date? But Ava went on dates all the time and didn’t get nearly this revved up.
“Turns out,” said Ava, “Gaspar is a partner in a brandnew fashion line.”
“Fashion?” Carmela’s words came out in a squeak. The news was about fashion?
Ava wrapped her arms around herself and let loose a high-pitched giggle. “Gaspar and his partners are calling their new line Voodoo Couture . . . and guess what!”
Carmela took a step backward. “What?”
“They want me to be their muse!” Ava delivered the news like she’d just struck gold by winning the lottery.
“A muse,” said Carmela, a little stunned. This was clearly not the news she’d been hoping for. Not even close.
“Isn’t that incredible!” Ava squealed. “Little old me . . . a fashion muse!”
“Um . . . what exactly does a muse do?” Carmela wondered out loud.
Ava spread her hands apart and wiggled her varnished red fingertips. “I have no earthly idea. But doesn’t it sound utterly peachy? Like I’m some kind of wild, intuitive creative spirit?”
“Sure,” said Carmela. “It’s great.”
Ava’s smile slipped off her face as she peered across a pile of black plastic shrunken heads. “I wish your tone carried a little more oomph and enthusiasm, Carmela.” Her fingers reached out and toyed with the goat hair on the shrunken heads. “Are you not happy for me?”
Carmela leaned forward and put her hands on Ava’s shoulders. “I’m thrilled for you, really. I can’t think of a more . . . appropriate person to represent this Voodoo Couture clothing line.”
“Thank you,” said Ava.
Carmela released her hold on Ava. “What I’m not so thrilled about is Drew Gaspar.”
Ava’s lips crinkled into a semi-pout. “What are you talking about?”
“Frankly, Gaspar makes me a little nervous.”
“Because he’s handsome and urbane?” asked Ava. “Because he’s a go-getter?”
“No,” said Carmela. “Because his whole Purgatoria concept is slightly weird. Even Gabby thinks so. She met him when he dropped by my shop yesterday afternoon.”
“Really?” Ava looked surprised. “Gabby didn’t like him? But she likes everybody.”
“That’s right,” said Carmela. “Gabby’s outlook is pretty much rainbows and dancing unicorns. But, quite honestly, she was put off by Gaspar. And, after hearing her reasoning, I have to confess that I am, too.”
Ava cocked her head and said, “Explain, please. What are you talking about?”
Carmela swallowed hard. This wasn’t going to be easy. “After I told Gabby about the . . . what would you call it? The decorating motif at Purgatoria, the gargoyles and church benches and crosses, Gabby thought maybe the police should take a hard look at Gaspar.”
Ava gave a questioning glance. “For what?”
“For the murder of Byrle.”
Ava’s face crumpled. “Are you serious?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Chapter 18
AVA had been so upset by Gabby’s harsh accusation of Drew Gaspar that Carmela Bertrand, booster of frayed egos, rescuer of stray dogs, and picker-upper of trounced self-esteem, had invited Ava over for dinner tonight. She’d been chopping, stirring, and sautéing for the last forty-five minutes, planning to serve drunken pecan chicken along with corn pancakes. That is, if Boo and Poobah didn’t storm the kitchen and snarf everything up first.
Tap-da-da-tap.
Ava’s signature knock sounded at the front door.
“It’s open,” Carmela called out. “Just watch out for—”
“Boo! Poobah!” Ava sang out.
“—the dogs,” finished Carmela.
Ava stuck her head around the corner. “Guess the little darlings didn’t eat yet, huh? ’Cause their little pink tongues are lickin’ me to death.”
“They ate,” said Carmela, as she tossed an extra tablespoon of butter into the frying pan. “Enough for four Great Danes and a Portuguese water dog thrown in for good measure.” She watched the butter melt, then poured it over her mixture of sweet corn, red pepper, and onions.
“Boo, baby, stop it,” Ava giggled, as the wiggly little Shar-Pei snuffled around Ava’s bare ankles. “That tickles.”
“Try to ignore her,” said Carmela, as Ava held out a brown paper sack to her. “What’s this?” she said, accepting the gift.
“Peace offering,” said Ava.
“Did one of us break a treaty or something?” asked Carmela. She pulled a bottle of Beaujolais from the bag and nodded. “Because I sure don’t remember . . .”
“It’s an apology bottle,” said Ava. “Because I was so grumpy earlier today.”
“Oh, no problem,” said Carmela. She carried the wine into the kitchen, opened a drawer, and pulled out her corkscrew.
“I was just, you know, disappointed,” said Ava. “I thought I’d really scored a huge coup with the Voodoo Couture thing.”
“You did,” said Carmela. “So please don’t pass up this opportunity to be a fashion muse on my account. Or because Gabby suddenly has a suspicious mind.”
“Really?” said Ava. “You think I should do it?”
“I think you should,” said Carmela. She popped the cork and poured two glasses of wine.
“You don’t think my being a muse for Voodoo Couture would be a kind of... slap in the face? To you and Gabby?”
“Not at all,” said Carmela. She handed Ava a glass of wine, then took her by the arm and led her to the dining table. They sat down, knees touching. “All I’m asking,” said Carmela, “is for you to exercise caution.”
“I will,” said Ava, taking a sip of wine. “You know me, caution’s always been my thing.”
Carmela stared at her. “I mean really.”
“Okay,” said Ava. “Okay.” She took another sip of wine. “Does this mean you’re going to be investigating Drew Gaspar now?”
“I’m not sure,” said Carmela. She moved her wineglass around in little circles on the table. “I don’t have that part figured out yet.”
“In that case, would you come with me Saturday afternoon to look at the Voodoo Couture clothes?”
“Will Drew Gaspar be there?”
Ava scratched her nose. “I don’t think so. Not yet, anyway. There’s this boutique on Magazine Street that’s carrying the first dozen or so pieces. I was supposed to try them on and then .
. . I don’t know . . . think about the direction of the line, I guess.”
“Of course, I’ll go with you,” said Carmela.
Ava grinned. “You’re my BFF. Always got my back.”
“I try to,” said Carmela.
They were halfway through their drunken chicken when Carmela said, “I forgot to tell you. I talked to Johnny Otis today.”
Ava’s fork clattered to her dish. “You what?”
“I tracked Johnny Otis down.”
“Isn’t he Babcock’s numero uno suspect?”
“He was until they had to kick him loose,” said Carmela.
“And you talked to him,” said Ava, dumbfounded. “A real-life career criminal. How did you manage that?”
“Not without some problems,” said Carmela. “First Kimber Breeze came storming into my shop, trying to do an interview . . .”
“Hold everything,” said Ava. “Please tell me you shagged her scrawny butt right out of there?”
“Actually, Gabby did the honors on that. But not before Kimber let slip what trucking company Johnny Otis worked for. So I called up his dispatcher, found out where he was making a delivery, and went over there to parlez-vous with him.”
“Girl, you’ve got some chutzpah!”
“Thank you,” said Carmela.
“So what’d you say to him?”
“I told a few white lies about being a reporter and then asked a few questions.”
“Weren’t you scared?”
“A little,” said Carmela. Actually, a lot.
“Because Johnny couldn’t have been happy to see you.”
“He was incredibly hostile,” said Carmela. “Really angry.”
“The kind of anger that could kill somebody?”
Carmela thought for a few moments. “It sure seemed that way when I was talking to him. Or trying to talk to him.”
“There you go,” said Ava, flipping a hand up. “Johnny’s the guy you have to focus on.”
“I don’t know,” said Carmela, thinking about Norton Fried and his silver collection. Suddenly, a whole lot of folks were looking more and more suspicious.
“This is great coffee,” said Ava. She was relaxing on the couch, a pillow behind her head and her legs stretched out. “Makes me want to just laze the night away.” She raised her eyebrows and said, “What do you think? Should we order up a movie or something? A good, ten-tissue chick flick? Or maybe a comedy. Just not one of those goofy Pauly Shore or Harold and Kumar movies.”
“I was thinking you and I should do something a little less passive,” said Carmela.
Ava looked intrigued. “You want to hit some dance clubs? We haven’t been to Dr. Boogie’s since forever!”
“What about a drive out on Trempeleau Road?”
Ava’s brows knit together. “Huh? What’s out there?”
“Remember Brother Paul? He told us the Seekers had a church out that way?”
“Oh man,” said Ava, holding the back of her hand to her head, “you want to go there and check them out? You believed Brother Paul?”
“Yes, I think I did.”
“Well . . . turtle poop,” said Ava. She blew out air and sucked in her cheeks, giving a look of general discontent.
“Change of plans, then,” said Carmela. “You stay here while I go snoop on my own.” And she meant it, too. She could go solo. Might even be easier if she went alone.
“No way,” said Ava, finally pushing herself up. “I’m not going to let you traipse around in the swamp all by your lonesome.”
“It’s not the swamp.”
“If it’s off the sidewalk, it’s swamp.”
“So you’re coming?”
“Do chickens have lips?”
“We look like ninjas!” Ava chortled, as they sped down Highway 45. Both women had changed into black leggings and black oversized sweaters. Ava had even added a wide black headband to corral her mass of dark curly hair.
“I’m not sure ninjas wear cowl-neck Michael Kors sweaters,” said Carmela, a smile twitching at her lips. For some reason, Ava had perked up considerably.
“They would if they were fashion-conscious ninjas,” said Ava. “And watched Project Runway.”
“You really are addicted to that show.”
“Because that’s my big dream,” said Ava.
“You mean go to New York and take part in a design competition? Try to create an honest-to-gosh collection?”
“No, silly. To look like Heidi Klum!”
They both fell silent then, watching the woods and fields disappear and the land turn more lush and verdant. Rain had lashed down earlier, but now it was barely sprinkling.
“We’re out in the bayou,” Ava observed as stands of tupelo trees flashed by, and blue-black stretches of brackish water.
“Not quite,” said Carmela. “But we’re getting awfully close.”
“Gators around here?”
“Mmm, probably.”
Ava glanced nervously out the passenger window, as if a twenty-foot albino alligator might be huffing alongside the car, wanting to take a chomp. “Who in their right mind would build a church way out here in the middle of nowhere?” she asked.
“Oh, just off the top of my head,” said Carmela, as they breezed through the village of Mayport, “maybe . . . some sort of cult?”
“You think?” said Ava. “So maybe the Seekers do have something to hide?”
“Possibly,” said Carmela. As they flashed past a dirt road with a leaning wooden signpost, she tapped her brakes and exclaimed, “Holy smokes, I think that was Trempeleau Road.”
“That’s where we’re going? Where we’re supposed to turn?”
“I think so.” Carmela eased her foot off the brake and coasted over to the side of the road. “That’s what we’re here to find out.” She K-turned her car, then headed down the narrow road.
“How far we gonna go?” asked Ava, after they’d bumped along for five minutes or so.
Carmela let the car roll to a stop. “This is probably as close as we should venture.”
“But . . . you know where this church is located?” asked Ava.
Carmela frowned. “Not really.”
“Then what makes you think it’s around here?” asked Ava.
“For one thing,” said Carmela, “the road pretty much ends here. She stared out the windshield at swaying trees. “For another . . . oh, just call it intuition? A hunch?”
That was good enough for Ava. “Okay.”
As they climbed out of the car, Carmela said, “I left my keys in the ignition. Just in case.”
Ava grabbed her arm. “Just in case what?”
“We have to make a fast getaway?”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come down to that.”
Carmela and Ava bushwhacked through a stand of gum trees and emerged in a low, swampy area. Long grass squished and overhanging branches swatted their faces.
“Wet,” said Ava, in a stage whisper.
Carmela backtracked a few steps, cut over to her left, then said, “Better here. There’s a kind of trail. The grass is knocked down, so probably somebody drove this way not so long ago.”
“Lucky us,” said Ava.
“Where’s your ninja sense of adventure?”
“Back home in my sock drawer?”
But a few minutes of pushing through the forest brought success.
“Does that look like a church to you?” Carmela asked. Some two hundred yards ahead of them, a white building seemed to shimmer through a tangle of trees.
“If it’s a church,” said Ava, “then it came complete with a silo.” She hunkered down, hiding behind an overhanging tree branch. “See? It looks more like a barn. Where you’d keep cows and stuff.”
“Wait a minute,” said Carmela, crouching low, homing in on a small blaze that seemed to be growing brighter with every passing second. “I see people moving about now. See, over by that fire pit?”
“I think I see people,” said Ava, squinting. �
�But they’re wearing . . .”
“Robes,” finished Carmela. “Brown robes.” Just like the killer at St. Tristan’s had worn. Is this whack-a-doodle, or what?
“Oh man,” said Ava, looking spooked, “with the robes and flames and everything, this looks like something out of a John Carpenter movie. Like crazy devil worshippers. I mean, listen, do you hear that weird noise? They’re, like, chanting.”
“Yes, they are,” said Carmela, locking her jaw tightly. Was this some sort of evil cult that Brother Paul had been up against? If so, why didn’t he just launch a full-scale exposé? Take it to the media? Or make an appeal to local law enforcement?
“Holy shiitake mushrooms,” said Ava, as more cult members appeared. “They look like a cross between the Klan and a bunch of Ozark Mountain snake handlers.”
“Shh,” cautioned Carmela. “Keep quiet and stay low.”
“Don’t worry,” said Ava, “those guys look serious.”
Carmela thought for a few moments. If she could ease herself a little closer, perhaps she could see what they were rallying around. Like maybe . . . a stolen crucifix?
“Stay here,” she told Ava. “I want to inch closer and get a better look.”
Ava’s eyes went wide. “You’re gonna leave me here?”
“Just for a few minutes.”
“No way,” muttered Ava, “I’m tagging along. You’re not gonna leave me stranded in buckthorn and poison oak, or whatever this stuff is.”
“Okay,” said Carmela, “but caution’s the watchword.”
“I’ll try not to sneeze,” said Ava.
They sneaked forward through the darkness, parting low branches as they went. The earth was cool, spongy, and wet underfoot, and Carmela could feel dampness seeping slowly through the soles of her shoes. Her shoes, great. Why had she worn Ferragamos tonight and not Keds? Or better yet, why hadn’t she pulled on rubber wellies?
To make matters worse, the rain had started up again and now it pattered down, weighing down branches even more and making forward progress difficult and downright uncomfortable.
“Jeez,” whispered Ava, “another storm’s rolling in.”