by Laura Childs
“But he wasn’t an invited guest,” said Margo. “Zane is on our personal staff.”
“Is Zane here now?”
“He should be.”
“Then let’s get him in here,” said Carmela.
Beetsie crossed the rug, her soft-sole no-nonsense shoes barely making a whisper. Carmela looked down at the carpet on which she’d just trod.
Where exactly had Jerry Earl been killed?
Surely the delicate carpet would still be a bloody mess if Jerry Earl had been stabbed in his own office—and it didn’t appear as if the Rug Doctor had made a recent house call. Could the killer have lured Jerry Earl into the laundry room and done the deed there? That had a nice hard tile floor. Easy to spritz a little 409 and tidy up the blood once you were all done committing bloody blue murder.
And who had access to the laundry room? Well, she supposed pretty much anyone and everyone who wandered down that back hallway.
As Carmela mulled this over, Beetsie returned with an unhappy-looking Eric Zane. But Zane wasn’t just here to answer questions; he’d been pressed into service as a sort of temporary butler. He carried a silver tray that held a teapot and matching bone china cups and saucers. Tea for three. But not for four.
Zane poured a cup of tea for Carmela and handed it to her with a slightly trembling hand. Then he did the same for Margo and Beetsie.
“Eric, please tell Carmela what you remember about Sunday night,” Margo instructed.
Zane’s spine straightened as if Margo had prodded him with a hot poker. “Sunday night?” he said, his voice cracking.
Beetsie took a sip of tea and stared at Zane with hooded eyes. “Carmela is very clever. She’s going to help us find Jerry Earl’s killer.”
“Excuse me,” said Zane. He seemed to muster a bit of courage. “Are you asking what I remember about the party? Such as which guests were in attendance?” He frowned. “Because if you recall, I gave the detective our guest list—”
“It’s not so much what you remember,” said Carmela, “but rather the chain of events. For instance, I was wondering if you knew why Jerry Earl left the party. The last time I saw him—probably the last time any of us saw him—he was sitting in an easy chair talking to Buddy Pelletier. But shortly after his body was discovered and the police arrived, you mentioned that you’d spoken to Jerry Earl not ten minutes earlier.”
Zane blinked at her.
“Can you explain that?” asked Carmela.
“Well,” Margo demanded. “Answer her question.”
Eric shook his head as if he’d drifted off for a moment. “Oh. I . . . was there a question?”
Carmela set her teacup down with a clink. “It seems you were the last person to see Jerry Earl alive. So I’m just wondering about your interaction with him.” She knew Zane had related his story to Detective Gallant; now she wanted to hear it.
“There wasn’t an interaction,” Zane said crisply.
“You realize,” said Carmela, “we’re not accusing you of anything.”
“This isn’t a tribunal,” said Margo.
“All we’re trying to figure out,” said Carmela, “is what you were doing around the same time Jerry Earl was killed.”
“If you must know,” said Zane, “I was in and out of the kitchen and butler’s pantry looking for a bartender and waitress who’d skipped out on their posts.”
The couple in the bathroom? Carmela wondered.
“You also mentioned that you were tending to the linens,” said Carmela.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Zane. “When there’s a high-caliber event going on, you have to ride herd on everything. The catering and wait staff needs to be supervised, the bar towels have to be laundered, every detail has to be perfect.” He carefully enunciated his final words to Carmela as if he were talking to a very small child.
“But you were aware that Jerry Earl had retired to his office?” said Carmela. This time she was fishing a bit. She didn’t know if he really had.
“Oh yes,” said Zane. “I saw the lights on in Mr. Leland’s office and I peeked in.”
“And what did you see?” asked Margo.
Zane shrugged. “Just that he was on the phone.”
“Any idea who he was talking to?” asked Beetsie.
“I would never presume to eavesdrop,” said Zane. He squared his shoulders and stared at Margo. “I hope you’re not suggesting that I had a hand in Mr. Leland’s death.”
Margo waved her hands wildly, spilling a big splotch of tea in her lap. “No, no, Eric. We’re not suggesting that at all!”
“Because,” said Zane, “I didn’t talk to him, I didn’t quarrel with him, and I certainly didn’t kill him!”
Carmela noted the anger that seethed below the surface with Zane. Zane certainly had access to Jerry Earl, and lots of employees entertain murderous thoughts about their boss. But most of the time they were just . . . thoughts. If Zane really had murder on his mind, would he kill Jerry Earl smack dab in the middle of a fancy party? With a hundred guests milling around? Or would that be the ideal time to kill someone? When people were tipsy and raucous and there was a houseful of potential suspects?
“I can assure you,” said Zane, “I did everything humanly possible to ensure the success of Mr. Leland’s party—not disrupt it. I helped select the highest-caliber caterer, bartending staff, florist . . .”
“Your taste is to be commended,” said Beetsie.
Before Zane could respond, the phone on the desk started to ring. Margo reached out and grabbed it.
“Hello?” Margo squawked into the line. Then she smiled and nodded. “Oh yes, Detective, one moment.” She put a hand over the receiver and said to Zane, “I’m going to take this in the other room. Please hang up when I pick up the extension.”
Zane nodded. “Of course, ma’am.”
Margo set the phone down next to a large gold mask that rested on a black metal stand and hurried out of the room. Carmela, Beetsie, and Zane waited in silence until they heard Margo call out. Then Zane replaced the phone on the hook.
“Where were we?” Beetsie asked.
“Florist,” said Carmela.
Zane rolled his eyes. “That vendor proved to be slightly problematic. Mrs. Leland wasn’t one bit happy with the zinnias. We ordered lavender and pink and the florist delivered yellow and white. Ghastly. Not a bit of pop. And the dahlias were wilted.”
“First thing I noticed,” said Beetsie. “The poor things were losing petals by the minute. Reminded me of a Pomeranian I once had, shedding hair constantly until all that was left was his poor dimpled pink skin.”
With the conversation taking a sudden jog, Carmela wondered if she’d gotten as much information as she could. The answer was probably yes. Both Margo and Beetsie seemed prone to theatrics and veering off course.
Carmela aimed a smile at Zane. “Thank you for answering my questions. I’m sure this hasn’t been easy for you.”
Zane scrunched up his face and said, “I want Mr. Leland’s killer brought to justice as much as anyone. So if there’s anything else I can do, any way I can help, please let me know.” He reached down, picked up the teacups, and set them on the tray.
“Thank you,” said Carmela. “We’ll be sure to keep you in the loop.”
Zane scurried out of the office. By the way the teacups clinked and clattered against each other, Carmela guessed he was happy to escape.
Margo’s footsteps sounded in the hallway.
“Margo, dear,” said Beetsie. “Did the Detective . . .”
Margo staggered into the room, looking white-faced and stricken.
Now what? Carmela wondered.
“What’s wrong?” Beetsie gasped. “More bad news?”
“Strange news,” said Margo. “That was Detective Gallant on the phone.”
“What did he want?
” asked Beetsie.
“He asked about tattoos,” said Margo. She managed to walk another couple of feet then sat down heavily behind the desk, looking more than a little upset.
“Tattoos?” said Beetsie.
“Why was he asking about tattoos?” said Carmela.
“I can’t quite believe this,” Margo gasped, “but apparently the medical examiner found two tattoos on Jerry Earl’s body! Jerry Earl didn’t have any tattoos when he went off to prison!” She shook her head in total disbelief. “What on earth do you think it means?”
Chapter 8
CARMELA, ever the practical one, said, “I think it probably means somebody tattooed Jerry Earl with a ballpoint pen while he was in prison.”
Beetsie bought into Carmela’s explanation immediately. “Prisoners do that, you know. Take ink pens and gouge all sorts of crazy designs into their skin.” She nodded emphatically. “Crosses, eagles, even skulls.”
Beetsie seemed so knowledgeable, Carmela figured she must be a closet fan of Miami Ink.
“Do you think a gang of prisoners tattooed Jerry Earl against his will?” asked a horrified Margo. “I hate to think that they held him down and forced him!”
“I don’t know,” said Carmela. She could think of worse things. “I suppose it depends on where the tattoos are.”
Margo reached over with her right hand and absently touched her left shoulder. “The medical examiner said one was here. On his shoulder.”
“Did they say what kind of tattoos they were?” Carmela asked.
“No.”
“He must have joined a gang,” said Beetsie. “A prison gang.”
Margo shook her head. “Jerry Earl wasn’t a big joiner. Just the Springhill Country Club. And the Republican Party, of course.”
“Maybe he joined some sort of gang for preservation reasons,” said Carmela. “If he was part of a gang, maybe it meant the other members would offer protection.” Carmela hesitated. “When you spoke to Detective Gallant, was he able to tell you any more about the murder weapon?”
Margo’s hands fluttered to her chest and she covered her heart, clearly in distress. “No, he didn’t mention it. Should I have asked him?”
“Probably not,” Carmela said. Knowing the grisly details of her husband’s murder wasn’t going to help Margo sleep any. There was no reason to distress the woman more than she already was.
Beetsie leaned close to Margo and patted her hand. “You’re being so brave and strong about this when anyone else would have fallen to pieces.”
Carmela nodded in agreement.
Beetsie directed her gaze at Carmela. “Do you know, Margo’s even going ahead with her donation to the Cakewalk Ball on Saturday night.”
“I have to,” said Margo. “Everyone’s counting on me big-time. I’m co-chair of the event.”
The Cakewalk Ball was an annual charity event held at the New Orleans Museum of Art. Individual big-buck donors as well as major corporations commissioned lavish cakes from the finest bakeries in town. Then each cake was decorated with an expensive piece of jewelry. After the dining and dancing and schmoozing were done, all the cakes and jewels were grandly auctioned off, with the proceeds going to charity.
“Still,” said Beetsie, “it’s amazing how you manage to carry on in the face of adversity.”
“I just couldn’t let Angela down,” said Margo.
“You’re talking about Angela Boynton, the curator?” said Carmela. “She’s honchoing this event?”
“Yes,” said Margo. “Do you know her?”
“She’s a good friend of mine,” said Carmela. “And I’ve worked with Angela on the Children’s Art Association, too.”
“Then you simply must come to the ball,” Margo urged. “In fact, I’ll send over a couple of tickets for you and Eva.”
Carmela would have preferred to spend Saturday night at home, awaiting the arrival of Detective Edgar Babcock, who was due back that evening. But Margo looked so miserable and forlorn that Carmela couldn’t refuse. “That would be nice, I’ve always wanted to attend the Cakewalk Ball. I think Ava has, too.”
“Carmela?” Margo was casually studying one of her ginormous diamond rings. “There’s something else I want to ask you.”
“What’s that?” said Carmela.
“Could you possibly arrange a private tarot reading for me? At your friend Eva’s shop?”
“Ava’s shop,” said Carmela. A tarot card reading? Margo was just full of surprises.
“That’s a very good idea,” chimed in Beetsie.
But Carmela wasn’t so sure. “Are you sure you want to do that?” she asked. What if, through the luck—or bad luck—of the draw, Margo got the death card or some other card that freaked her out?
“I’m positive,” Margo said. “You see, I want to try very hard to communicate with Jerry Earl. Since he . . . um . . . left us so abruptly, I know there’s a passel of unfinished business. I’m sure there’s something he wants to tell me.”
“If only that he loves you,” Beetsie murmured.
“And another thing,” said Margo.
“Yes?” said Carmela.
“When I was at your scrapbook shop yesterday, I fell in love with that adorable shadow box that you created.”
Carmela smiled. “With the bird’s nest?”
“That’s the one,” said Margo. “Anyway, I was wondering if you’d create something like that for me. As a kind of artistic commission.”
Artistic commission. Just like the death portrait.
“I’d be happy to,” said Carmela. “Did you have a particular theme in mind?”
“Oh, I’d want it to be dedicated completely to Jerry Earl,” responded Margo. “A kind of mini memorial to celebrate his memory.”
I think that’s a lovely idea,” said Carmela. “Do you know what sorts of paper or photos or objects you’d like to include?”
“I have a few ideas.” Margo stood up, walked over to a shelf, and pulled down a red and blue paisley photo box. “For starters, I’m sure we can find plenty of material in here,” she said as she handed the box to Carmela.
Carmela opened the box and flipped through a stack of photos while Beetsie looked over her shoulder.
“Look at that one!” Beetsie giggled. “Back when Jerry Earl still had a full head of hair. What a charmer he was. And look at his shirt with the pineapples all over it! Isn’t that precious?”
Carmela fingered another photo. One of a smiling Jerry Earl in a more decorous-looking business suit holding some sort of plaque.
“Now that one,” said Margo, “was taken when the mayor gave Jerry Earl the Keystone Award for his many civic contributions.”
“Maybe this is the perfect photo for your shadow box,” said Carmela. Remembering Jerry Earl in his glory days.
Margo thought for a moment. “Maybe not, since that award was rescinded when Jerry Earl was sent to prison.”
“Next!” cried Beetsie.
Carmela’s eyes wandered across the top of Jerry Earl’s desk, taking in the scatter of geodes, gold coins, and fossils. “How about if we include something like this?” she said, fingering one of the geodes. “It’s a great little eye-catcher.”
“It’s certainly apropos,” Margo declared. “Fossils and geology were one of Jerry Earl’s passions.”
“We’ll also need some sort of background,” said Carmela. “I have some lovely handmade papers at my shop . . .”
Margo grabbed a small leather book from Jerry Earl’s desk. “Why not take a page from his notebook?” She handed it to Carmela.
Carmela turned the leather-bound book over in her hands and examined the worn leather. Then she flipped the metal hasp and opened the book. “Wow.” She ran the tips of her fingers over thin sheets of vintage parchment paper that were covered with scribbles, drawings, and notations.
“This looks quite old.”
“It is,” said Margo. “Jerry Earl discovered that notebook in an antique shop many years ago. Best we could determine, it belonged to a man who was an amateur paleontologist. Anyway, my dear husband decided it was good luck and always used it for jotting down notes or ideas for his fossil hunting.”
“So just use a page?” said Carmela.
“Tear out any page you want,” said Margo, sniffling. “Jerry Earl won’t be needing it now.”
“Margo?” Duncan Merriweather stood in the doorway, looking large and imposing with his hangdog face. “We have to leave now.” He tapped an index finger against the face of his gold Rolex watch. “The people at Baum and Bierman will be waiting.”
Margo’s face crumpled like a paper bag. “The funeral home,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “We have to go select . . . you know.”
Carmela gazed at Merriweather. “Can you give us a moment?”
He nodded and withdrew.
“Beetsie?” Carmela said. “I’d like to speak with Margo in private.”
Beetsie clenched her teeth so tightly she looked like she was going to pop a filling. But she rose from her chair stiffly and rather ungraciously stomped out of the room.
“What?” said Margo, staring at Carmela. She looked worried and a little perplexed.
“I hate to bring this up,” said Carmela. “But I have to ask . . .”
“Ask me anything,” said Margo.
“I understand you commissioned a death portrait of Jerry Earl.”
• • •
CARMELA HAD BARELY UTTERED HER WORDS when Margo’s lower lip began to quiver and tears shone in her eyes. Then her chest heaved and she let loose a stuttering moan.
“Margo?” said Carmela. She couldn’t tell if the woman was stonewalling again or completely overcome with emotion.
Margo pulled a tissue from the pocket of her jacket and dabbed at her eyes. “Yes,” she said. “I’m afraid I did.”
“Why. On. Earth?” said Carmela.
Margo gazed upward as if searching for an answer in the heavens. Or at least in the cove ceiling. “Because . . . at the time I did it . . . it seemed . . . fun.”