by Laura Childs
Carmela smiled down at her book. “Yes, I did. But I’m quite positive all of you will come up with designs that are even better than this one.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” one of the women said.
“Just think about what kind of book you’d like to create,” Carmela said.
The woman squinted. “Maybe a book I could write poetry in?”
“Perfect,” Carmela said. She grabbed a sheet of pink vellum. “What if you used this as your album cover, then added some nature or floral images? You could enhance those with a rubber stamp of a sun image and maybe even add a dragonfly charm.”
“I’m loving this,” the woman said. She shrugged out of her jacket and rubbed her hands together. “Time to get started.”
Everyone seemed to have an idea then and wandered through the scrapbook shop picking out various papers, ribbons, rubber stamps, and even small bags of ephemera. When her crafters had finally settled down to some serious work, Carmela slipped into her office.
She had to make a call she really didn’t want to make. A call to Babcock telling him about Allan Hurst of Fat Lorenzo’s fame and how Hurst had actually been a vendor at the Winter Market a few nights ago. She figured it was hard evidence that could point his investigation in a totally different direction.
Carmela stared at the phone for a few moments, let out a long, slow sigh, and hit the speed dial for Babcock’s number. She half hoped she’d get his voice mail, but no such luck. He picked up on the second ring, sounding very distracted.
“Carmela?”
“If this is a bad time . . .” Carmela was hoping for a way out.
“No, no, it’s okay. If I sound abrupt it’s because I’m up to my eyeballs in work. My caseload right now is a nightmare.” He paused. “What can I do for you?”
“I’ve got some information I need to pass along to you.”
“And that would be . . . ?”
“Here’s the thing,” Carmela said. “I found out that Martin Lash wrote a scathing review of Fat Lorenzo’s, this restaurant over on Magazine Street.”
“Yes?” Babcock’s voice was just this side of chilly.
“And then I found out that Allan Hurst, the owner of Fat Lorenzo’s, was pretty much gobsmacked by Martin Lash’s review. I mean, people have been staying away from his restaurant in droves. His business is in a shambles.”
“Uh-huh.” Now Babcock’s voice had dropped below the freezing point.
Carmela gritted her teeth and pressed forward. “And then I found out that Allan Hurst had a food booth at the Winter Market. He was right there, for gosh sakes, the night Lash was murdered. So you see . . .” Her voice trailed away.
A long silence spun out. Then Babcock finally said, “You’ve been investigating. When I specifically asked you not to.”
Carmela tried her best to whitewash her information, to cover her trail. “I heard about the bad review in passing. And then Ava and I just happened to have dinner at Fat Lorenzo’s last night. There was a talky waitress and . . . well, big deal. There’s no law against what I did.”
“Au contraire, Carmela. You’ve been doing more than just twirling forkfuls of fusilli pasta and munching focaccia bread. You’ve been meddling and poking your nose in where you shouldn’t.”
“Okay, yes, I’m guilty of asking a few questions. Maybe more than just a few, because you know I’m a naturally curious person. But please tell me if you knew that Allan Hurst had a food booth at the Winter Market?”
“Of course I knew that. I am a homicide detective and investigating is my job. The first thing we did was take a look at the roster of food vendors.”
“Because of the nature of the murder weapon?”
Babcock was losing patience. “Obviously the fork was one of the key factors, yes. As you know, we also discovered rather quickly that Martin Lash wrote restaurant reviews as a sideline. Again, we are the NOPD.”
Carmela was well acquainted with that tone of voice. Babcock was reminding her, yet again, that she’d crossed the line.
“Now that we’re actually sharing information,” Carmela said. “Please tell me you checked to see exactly what type of meat forks are used in Allan Hurst’s kitchen.”
“We did check. And you know who else we looked at? Your slippery-when-dry friend Quigg Brevard. As it turns out, Mumbo Gumbo’s kitchen staff use the exact same kind of meat fork that our killer planted in Martin Lash’s throat.”
Carmela was quick to defend Quigg. “Same type of fork? That’s all you have? Babcock, quit fooling around. You know Quigg didn’t kill Lash. You’re just making him your personal patsy. When you get tired of jerking him around you’ll just kick him to the curb. Besides, there must be hundreds of those forks around. New Orleans is a restaurant town. Where there are restaurants, there are meat forks.”
Babcock let out a half chuckle. “You sound so earnest. Like you’re really into this.”
“Because I am.”
“Don’t be. I’m handling things, okay?”
Carmela sighed. “Okay.” She wasn’t about to capitulate but she did know when to back off. “So . . . is the mayor still on your back?”
“Lord, Carmela, everybody from the dog catcher on up is on my back. Everyone wants this crime solved posthaste. They’re still worried it’s going to impact tourism.”
“Do you have any room in your schedule for dinner tonight? My place, my treat?”
“Listen, sweetheart, you’re the reason I have to work such long hours. The quicker I close this case, the sooner I can stop worrying about you throwing yourself in harm’s way, trying to make an end run and catch this killer.”
“Tomorrow, then?” Carmela asked.
“We’ll see.”
Carmela had barely hung up the phone before it rang again. She snatched it back up and said, “Did you change your mind?”
“I hope you haven’t,” Ava drawled. “Because it’s party time tonight, baby girl.”
“What? What’s going on tonight?” Certainly not a hot date with Babcock—sob.
“It’s the Holiday Art and Wine Stroll. The entire French Quarter will be jumping with Christmas cheer. Cher, please don’t tell me you forgot. The galleries are all having open houses and you know what that means. They’ll be trying to liquor people up in hopes of selling them overpriced art and photography.”
“Oh jeez.”
“Don’t back out now. You promised to go with me.”
“Ava . . . we’ve been going out a lot lately. I’d seriously rather stay home tonight and kick back with a book.”
“You can sit and veg when you’re ancient. Which we are a long ways from. So tonight we party. Besides, have you forgotten that Harrison will have some of his photos on display?”
Carmela gave it one more try. “Do I have to go?”
“The short answer is yes. The long answer is, when you were married to Shamus you endlessly dragged me to see his out-of-focus photos of egrets and herons. Now you are indebted to me. You have to come ooh and aah over Harrison’s out-of-focus shots of turtles and alligators.”
“Quid pro quo, huh?”
“You got it, babe. See ya tonight.”
Chapter 17
THIS Wednesday evening the French Quarter smelled of roasted chestnuts, spun sugar, chicory coffee, and cigar smoke. A nice, sweet, familiar mélange that appealed to Carmela as she and Ava strolled down Royal Street. The French Quarter’s most fabulous and hideously expensive antique shops and galleries were located here, of course, and they could barely go a few feet without being drawn in by some tasty bauble or piece of art.
“Look at this,” Ava said. They stopped and gazed in the window of Madelaine’s Sculpture Gallery. Colored lights circled the window, illuminating a large pewter statue of a nineteenth-century gentleman in top hat and tails, posturing with two dogs. At his feet, a la
dy in an enormous bell-shaped skirt sat and gazed adoringly at him. A bronze marker titled it Enchanted.
“I don’t get it,” Ava said. “Why is she sitting on the ground in what has to be the most uncomfortable dress imaginable?”
“This probably isn’t feminist art,” Carmela observed dryly.
“Better if it was. Better if that dude was gazing at her with stars in his eyes.”
Carmela glanced at Ava, who had genuine diamond studs along with two pairs of gold hoops in her ears, wore a shiny red faux-leather micro jacket, and had shimmied (probably with the aid of a can of Crisco) into gold stretch pants. She looked, Carmela decided, like a mash-up of Hillbillies for Hire meets Tiffany jewelers. And because it was the Holiday Art and Wine Stroll, wine being the operative word, Ava clutched a geaux cup filled with sparkling rosé. Carmela, who had worn a black leather jacket and black slacks, decided she looked like a slightly hip undertaker.
“What’s Babcock going to get you for Christmas?” Ava asked. She came to a stop in front of Trifles Estate Jewelry and pressed her nose up against the window. “Maybe a big honkin’ engagement ring?”
Carmela gave a sarcastic chuckle. “The way things are going between us right now I’ll be lucky to get a ring from a Cracker Jack box.”
“It can’t be that bad. You’ve been on the outs with Babcock before and he’s always come around. Face it, the guy is nuts about you. Anyone can see that.”
Ava slid along to the next window, marveling at every shiny piece that caught her eye, wishing she could find every last one of them nestled in her Christmas stocking.
“Ooh,” Ava said. “You see that fancy diamond bracelet?”
“They’re all fancy,” Carmela said. She didn’t quite share Ava’s thirst for shiny stuff.
“The one in white gold with the panther clasp. I bet it’s vintage Cartier.” She grinned. “You know what they say . . .”
“No, Ava, what do they say?”
“The older the jewelry, the older the money.” She bent suddenly and dug in her purse. “I almost forgot. I brought you something.”
“What’s that?” Carmela asked.
“The answer to all your trouble,” Ava said. She pulled out a little white cotton voodoo doll and handed it to Carmela.
Carmela stared at it. The little guy looked like a puffy, naked gingerbread man with two black cross-stitched eyes. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
“Every time Babcock acts like an ass, I want you to stick one of those red pins into that doll.”
“Ava, this is a cute little novelty, but you know I don’t believe in voodoo.”
Ava spun to face her. “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. You’d be surprised at all the spells and charms that have worked for me.”
“Okay, okay.” Carmela dumped the doll into her purse and promptly forgot about it as they approached a cluster of street vendors. Some were selling holiday candles, two more had boards that displayed colorful bead necklaces. But when they hit the purse vendor, a guy in a long coat and tweed cap who was chomping on an unlit cigar, Ava really went nuts.
“Look at this bag,” Ava screeched, pointing at his display. “It’s gorgeous!”
Carmela stared at a brown oval-shaped bag that had so much fringe it looked like a lion’s mane.
“That there is a genuine Carlos Femberly,” the vendor said out of the corner of his mouth. He unhooked the bag and handed it to Ava
Ava clutched the bag tightly to her chest. “Did you hear that? It’s a genuine Femberly!”
Carmela did not exactly share her enthusiasm. “I can’t say I’m familiar with that particular designer.”
“Trust me, lady, he’s important,” the vendor assured her.
Ava was over the moon with her discovery. “I’m positive Carlos Femberly is big-time European.”
“You mean like it was jacked out of some warehouse in Bulgaria?” Carmela asked.
Ava slung the bag over her shoulder. “No, silly, like an anorexic supermodel lugged it down a Paris runway.”
“Right before she fainted from hunger,” Carmela said.
“I’ve gotta have it!” Ava cried. She held the bag up to the vendor. “Is this genuine leather?”
The vendor chomped down hard on his cigar. “I can see you have a very discerning eye. What you have here is genuine aminoplast stitched with cellulose.”
“I just knew it was genuine,” Ava said, digging out two twenties.
“Aren’t you afraid it might melt in the first big downpour?” Carmela asked as they walked down the street, Ava cuddling her new bag.
“Don’t be silly,” Ava said. “It’s mega-gorgeous and totally me. What better to go perfectly with all my animal prints?”
Carmela couldn’t argue with that.
* * *
The very upscale Gallery Napoleon carried some of the finest paintings and sculptures on Royal Street. The brick interior walls were painted stark white, the gray industrial carpet lent a hushed atmosphere, and pinprick spotlights illuminated the art to perfection.
Tonight the focus was on modern art. Which meant paintings with broad streaks of color, twisty metal sculptures, and black-and-white photography. The well-heeled, artsy crowd that had turned up for the gallery opening tended to favor all-black clothing, chic Oliver Peoples glasses, and hair that was either clipped extremely short or worn long and straight. And that held true for both sexes.
The gallery’s proprietor, William Deveroux, had been known as Billy Donaldson in his former life. But that was back when he sold aluminum siding on the South Side of Chicago. Now that he’d moved to New Orleans, he’d upgraded his name and his merchandise.
“Carmela,” Deveroux exclaimed, gliding over to greet her. “And Ava. Lovely to see you both.”
“How-de-do,” Ava said. Deveroux wore a blue-and-white-striped cravat tucked into the open neck of his crisp white shirt. A casual, but affected attitude.
“I am enchanted, just enchanted, that you two ladies have elected to grace my gallery,” Deveroux said. “Could it be you’re shopping for a special piece of art for that special someone?”
“Monsieur Deveroux, these charming ladies are my guests.” Harrison Harper Wilkes III came up behind Deveroux and clapped him on the back.
“But of course,” Deveroux said. Then, sensing the absence of a big-ticket sale in the making, he melted away to greet his other guests.
Harrison planted a smacker on Ava’s right cheek. “Can you believe this!” he exclaimed. “Here I am in one of the most prestigious art galleries in the French Quarter and they’ve put three of my photos on display. Three of them!” He swallowed hard and caught his breath. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
He led them to a small display at the very back of the gallery where three completely out-of-focus eighteen-by-twenty-four-inch black-and-white photos hung on the wall next to a red fire extinguisher.
“Wow,” Ava said. “This is very impressive.” She squinted at one of the photos. “You captured quite a nice-looking log sunk into that mucky water.”
“It’s an alligator,” Harrison pointed out. “Can’t you see the row of teeth?”
She tilted her head. “Oh yeah?”
Harrison beamed. “You see how I managed to capture such a peaceful look on the gator’s face?”
“He looks positively beatific,” Carmela said. “He must have just eaten.”
A skinny woman dressed completely in black, one of the gallery’s young interns, touched Harrison on the arm. “Excuse me, but Mr. Deveroux would like to introduce you to one of his clients.”
“Yes, of course.” Harrison turned to Carmela and Ava and gave a delighted shrug. “Could be a sale. Talk to you later.” He hurried after the woman.
Carmela rolled her eyes. “And I thought Shamus’s photos were bad.”
“W
ho cares about talent?” Ava said. “All the good stuff is airy-fairy and out of focus these days anyway. This gallery show is a huge step for Harrison. It could be the start of a real career.”
“Versus him being an indolent trust-fund baby who whiles away most of his afternoons at a private men’s club?”
“Yes, of course. If he keeps shooting photos it could mean he’s got an actual future.”
Carmela studied the photos more carefully. No matter which way she cocked her head or squinted, they were still wacky and out of focus. As for composition, Harrison displayed no real gift in that department, either. “A future, yes,” she said. “Just probably not in photography.”
“Come on, Carmela. Don’t be so dang . . .” Ava suddenly realized she’d lost Carmela’s attention. “What?” She turned and followed Carmela’s gaze. Then she wrinkled her nose and said, “Holy Hannah, isn’t that . . . ?” But the man Carmela was staring at was walking straight toward them.
“Josh Cotton,” Carmela said, just as Cotton came to a stop in front of them. “From the Environmental Justice League.”
“As I recall, you’re . . . Carmela?” Cotton said.
“Yes, and this is Ava. We met at . . .”
“The visitation,” Cotton said. “Yes, I remember.” He smiled, revealing his enormous teeth. “And you two were at the funeral service as well.”
“You delivered a very nice testimonial,” Ava said.
Cotton pulled his lips into a sedate smile. “Thank you.”
“So,” Ava said, “you come here often?”
Cotton blinked. “To this gallery, you mean? No, I’m just out enjoying some of the art and wine. I was supposed to meet up with some friends here.” He glanced around. “Don’t see them yet.”
Carmela decided to do a little probing. “How is your organization doing? I’m sure Martin Lash’s death must have been a devastating loss to everyone involved.”
“Absolutely it was,” Cotton said. “But I’m hanging in there, trying to rally the troops as best I can. After all, we’re committed to carry on our good work.”