Mumbo Gumbo Murder

by Laura Childs

  “He’s over there right now,” Gabby said. “I saw Quigg walk by, like, five minutes ago.”

  Carmela inhaled sharply. “He is? You did?”

  Gabby’s smile was that of a cat who’d licked up all the cream. “It’s hard not to notice a good-looking guy like that.”

  “You really think Quigg is good-looking?”

  “Yes, but in that swarthy-pirate-bad-boy way.”

  “I know what you mean,” Carmela said, giving a little shiver. Did she ever. Didn’t all the women who stumbled into Quigg’s aura? He was a handsome, dark-haired spider who’d spun the perfect fail-safe web.

  The bell above the front door dinged, and two women walked in.

  “Are you open?” the younger T-shirt-and-jeans-wearing one asked.

  “Absolutely,” Carmela said.

  “Oh, what a cute dog,” the other woman said. She was older and wore a blazer over her T-shirt and jeans.

  “What can we help you with?” Gabby asked. She transferred Mimi back to Carmela and walked around the counter.

  “Albums,” the younger woman said.

  “Paper,” said her older chum.

  “Right this way,” Gabby said, beckoning them into the heart of the shop.

  Carmela smiled to herself as she gazed around her shop and watched the two women eagerly poring over paper, cardstock, rubber stamps, tempera paints, and all manner of ephemera. With the yellow brick walls and sagging wooden floor, her little craft shop oozed cozy. What better place to display hundreds of scrapbooking papers than on her floor-to-ceiling shelves? Or paper theaters, decoupaged frames, and handstamped pillows. Ditto that for beads, brads, Paperclay, ribbon, tassels, and colored pens. At the far back of her shop was an old wooden table that had been left by previous tenants. This was Craft Central, where all the classes and lessons took place. Off to one side was her small office. A little untidy, yes, but where else was Carmela going to keep her sketches and ideas for her stamping, album-making, and paper classes?

  * * *

  * * *

  An hour and several more customers later, Carmela was ringing up an order of papier-mâché portfolios and Krylon spray when she heard the first hint of a disturbance next door. Shouting? Yes, it sounded like angry shouting. What on earth was going on over there?

  Carmela walked her customer to the door, thanked her, waited for a hot moment, and then stuck her head outside. There. Now she could see and hear a whole lot better.

  “I quit!” a screechy voice blurted out.

  A tall woman with frizzy red hair suddenly burst onto the sidewalk. She was gesturing like crazy, waving her hands in the air and screaming at the top of her lungs. Not two seconds later, Quigg Brevard rushed out after her.

  “You can’t do that, Darnelle!” Quigg shouted. He looked upset, as if he’d tried to placate her and failed miserably. And Quigg was not used to failing when it came to women.

  “Watch me!” the woman screamed back. As her shrill cries echoed up and down Governor Nicholls Street, Quigg continued to plead with Darnelle, practically begging her to stay.

  “Not on your life! I will not put up with this.” She spun around, her arms flung outward. “This place is way too dangerous.” Then she turned on her heels and rushed down the street.

  “Please, Darnelle,” Quigg pleaded after the retreating figure. “Don’t leave me in the lurch like this.” But his words fell on deaf ears. Darnelle not only kept on running, she picked up the pace.

  Quigg stood there on the sidewalk, looking puzzled and alone. He shook his head as he muttered to himself and said, “Damn it.”

  “What was that all about?” Carmela asked.

  Quigg spun around as if he’d been zapped with a thousand bolts of electricity. “Carmela, I didn’t see you there.”

  “Looks like you’ve got a problem,” Carmela said. She didn’t want to get involved. Well, not involved involved. But, truth be told, she was curious about what had just happened. Seems that curiosity gene of hers never could be tamed.

  “My manager just quit,” Quigg said. He scratched his head, looking puzzled. As if nobody had ever stormed out of one of his restaurants before.

  She didn’t just quit, Carmela thought. She ran down the street like she was in a red-hot sprint with Usain Bolt.

  Carmela lifted an eyebrow. “That lady was your gumbo shop manager?”

  “Was being the operative word,” Quigg said. “Darnelle got all freaked-out when she heard about the murder last night.”

  “Devon Dowling,” Carmela said. “Yeah. Ava and I were there. We followed the parade over to Royal Street.”

  Quigg closed one eye halfway and stared at her. “You saw it happen?”

  “Heard it happen. There was this super loud crash of his front window shattering, and then we found Devon lying on the floor. Bleeding all over his Persian rug.”

  “You guys were friends. I’m sorry.”

  “Yes, we were. Thank you.”

  Quigg blew out a long breath. “Tough luck for both of us.”

  Carmela nodded. “I can see where losing your manager presents a terrible problem.” She tried to sound sympathetic even though she was secretly pleased. She hadn’t mentioned anything to Babcock about Quigg opening a shop right next door to hers. Now, thank goodness, it was probably a moot point. Quigg would undoubtedly fold the business and focus on his other restaurants like a good little restaurateur.

  “I never saw it coming,” Quigg said. “Darnelle quitting was like . . . kerpow. Out of the blue.”

  “This probably derails your big opening, huh? Or maybe you’ve changed your mind completely?” Carmela gazed at the narrow storefront and shook her head. “That space was too small for a gumbo restaurant anyway.”

  “I completely agree.”

  Whew, Carmela thought to herself. Saved by a screaming red-haired woman she didn’t even know.

  Quigg glanced at her, then turned suddenly thoughtful. Which made Carmela’s scalp itch. She knew that look. It meant an idea was percolating.

  “What?” Carmela asked in a slightly tentative voice.

  “To be honest, I’ve been noodling around a concept for a slightly different kind of shop.”

  “What are you talking about?” Carmela asked. Alarm bells were suddenly clanging inside her head. “You mean like an oyster bar?”

  “New Orleans is up to its eyeballs in oyster bars,” Quigg said. “No, I don’t want to go in that direction, but I can’t back out of this three-year lease I signed. The landlord did a complete build-out, and the interior designer is charging me an arm and a leg.”

  So he intends to stay? To go forward with . . . well, whatever he decides to go forward with? This is so not good.

  “Do you know what the absolute hottest retail concept is today?” Quigg asked.

  “No, but I have an idea you’re going to tell me,” Carmela said.

  “Have you ever heard of a paint and sip shop?”

  Carmela gave a faint nod. “Heard of them, yeah.” She was starting to get a queasy feeling. Not exactly a run-for-the-porcelain, toss-your-cookies alert, but something approaching it.

  “Paint and sip shops are hotter than ghost peppers right now. What you do is combine wine drinking with some kind of craft.”

  “Craft,” Carmela said slowly. Now Quigg was veering dangerously close to her territory.

  “Yeah, you pattern it after a traditional wine bar but include painting on canvas or decorating pottery.” Quigg rolled back on his heels and smiled. “If I opened a shop like that, I could call it something like Decant & Design. Or Brush with Wine. What do you think of that?”

  “I think you’re off your rocker.”

  “And I think you’d be the perfect person to manage it.”

  “Me!” Carmela’s horrified shriek echoed all the way down the street, causing a c
ouple of T-shirt-and-bead-wearing tourists to stop dead in their tracks.

  Chapter 4

  “YOU know what that crazy Quigg Brevard wants to do next door?” Carmela said to Gabby. She was practically frothing at the mouth, and her eyes had gone all googly. Her hair was . . . well, never mind her hair.

  “What?” Gabby asked, wide-eyed.

  “Quigg’s got this insane idea of opening a wine bar where you can also paint your own glasses. Or pots. Or something.”

  Gabby clapped her hands together. “I love it!”

  “And he wants you and me to run it!”

  “Oops, maybe I don’t love it.”

  “I know,” Carmela said. “Like we could even find the time. We’re frantic enough as it is, running around like gerbils on crack.”

  Gabby tipped her head from side to side and gave a shy smile. “You have to admit, it is a cute idea. I know about a gazillion women who’d love to hang out at a place like that.”

  “So do I,” Carmela said. “Fact is, they’d be standing in line. And the place could be decorated like one of those cute little ‘she sheds’ you see in women’s magazines, with poufy pink pillows, velvet curtains, and leopard print chairs. Only with a never-ending supply of wine.”

  “And maybe a few appetizers.”

  “The place would be an instant moneymaker,” Carmela said. “It’d be the first of its kind in New Orleans.”

  “Honey, it sounds like you might be coming around to the idea.”

  “No, no, I’m just thinking out loud,” Carmela said.

  “Okaaay.” Clearly, Gabby didn’t believe her.

  Carmela bit her lip and frowned. “Would a paint and sip shop be that much different from what we’re doing now? Would it be a problem?”

  “Yes, because then you and Quigg would become business partners. Which . . . oh, let me see . . . might present a huge problem for your soon-to-be life partner, Detective Edgar Babcock.”

  “Yeah, I know. I keep forgetting that I’m engaged.”

  “How on earth could you forget with that big rock glittering on your finger like a disco ball?”

  “Being engaged, getting married . . . it just doesn’t feel like me.”

  “You’re not going to call off the engagement, are you?” Gabby looked horrified. She loved all things romantic and was positive that Carmela and Babcock were absolutely right for each other. Unbeknownst to Carmela, Gabby had even started designing their wedding invitations. Well, she’d only gotten as far as the typography and paper. But still.

  “Oh no, I adore Babcock too much,” Carmela said. “We’re going to get married all right. It’s just that I can’t picture myself all glitzed up in a white wedding dress and veil. Or white shoes. Yuck.”

  “You don’t have to wear white. Or a veil. Or shoes, for that matter.”

  “The thing is, even if I wore crimson, I’d still feel like a tarted-up Wedding Barbie,” Carmela said.

  “Then plan a lovely low-key wedding. Lots of people do. You don’t have to get married in St. Louis Cathedral with a gospel choir and a flock of white doves. You could . . . oh, I don’t know, get married in a small chapel. Or on a beach. Or in the bayou if you don’t mind some bugs and alligators. Think of it as the new ‘I do.’”

  “This is Babcock’s first wedding. I think he wants something more traditional.”

  “Then you might have a problem,” Gabby said. “Right along with the problem that seems to be fermenting next door.”

  “The wine bar,” Carmela said.

  “What about the name Blush and Brush.”

  “Jeez, you make it sound like we’re seriously considering going in with Quigg on this project.”

  Gabby grinned. “Well, aren’t we?”

  * * *

  * * *

  By two o’clock they’d had more than two dozen customers come through the doors of Memory Mine. More and more, Carmela was focusing on crafts rather than just scrapbooking. These crafts included handmade wine and jelly jar labels, handstamped wrapping paper, journals, decoupaged tins and cigar boxes, giant paper flowers, invitations, personalized stationery, and so much more.

  When there was a break in the action, Gabby crept up to the front counter, where Carmela was going through a stack of invoices, and said, “The crazy thing about the wine bar is—I know we could make it a huge success. There’s a million things we could do . . .”

  The tiny bell over the front door went da-ding, and Detective Edgar Babcock strolled in, looking handsome as ever in a well-cut Brooks Brothers suit. His vivid blue tie perfectly matched his always-searching blue eyes.

  As usual when he arrived unexpectedly, Carmela nearly lost her breath at the sight of him. Her hand automatically went to her mouth. When Carmela was really worried, she sometimes fell back on her childhood habit of biting her nails—and she was extremely worried now. How could she possibly tell Babcock about the Paint and Sip, or the Wine and Design, or whatever Quigg ended up calling the place?

  “Hello,” Carmela stammered.

  From her spot in the corner, Mimi gave a tiny yip.

  “So I was right,” Babcock said. “That dog disappeared from the crime scene at the exact same time you and Ava did. I figured you snatched her up, but poor Officer Toohey just about went crazy looking for her.”

  “Sorry about that,” Carmela said as Gabby headed for the back of the shop, the better to give them some privacy.

  Babcock glanced at Mimi. “You still think that dog can eyeball a suspect?”

  “No, but she might be able to sniff one out.”

  “So you say.”

  Carmela moved a step closer to him. “To what do I owe this . . . ?” She let her voice trail off.

  “I just stopped by to see how my best girl was doing.” Babcock put a hand on Carmela’s shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. “I know you and Dowling were friends for many years.”

  Were, Carmela thought. He’s already taking about Devon in the past tense.

  “This has to be a terrible shock for you,” Babcock said.

  “It’s awful,” Carmela said. “I can still hardly believe it.”

  Babcock nodded as his cell phone beeped from inside his jacket pocket. “Murder is a ghastly criminal act. And it’s even worse when the victim is a close friend. It’s hurtful and frightening all at the same time.” He raised his phone, said, “Yup?” Then, “Hey, Bobby, whatcha got?”

  Carmela figured it was Bobby Gallant and wondered if he was calling about the case. When Babcock moved a few steps away from her and lowered his voice, she knew he was, and she guessed something important had to be up. But what? A clue? Maybe a serious suspect?

  “So T.J. didn’t turn tail and run. Okay. Yeah, it’s interesting.” Babcock glanced at his watch. “No, I’m supposed to talk to him in forty minutes or so. You get anything from the lab yet?” He bent forward, listening intently. “Yeah, that is weird. Okay, keep pushing them to try and nail it down. I’ll catch you later.” Babcock stared at his phone for a second, then turned to look at Carmela.

  “What?” she said. Something was going on. She could feel electricity sparking in the air.

  Babcock shook his head as if this was all routine.

  “Nothing to concern you,” he said.

  But Carmela wanted answers. “Everything about Devon’s murder concerns me.”

  “Carmela. Just . . . no.”

  “What was that about T.J.? What was Bobby Gallant saying to you?”

  “You shouldn’t be listening in like that.”

  Carmela offered him a shrug and a faux-guilty smile. “You were standing, like, two feet away from me.”

  “Point taken,” Babcock said.

  “So?” Carmela decided to go for it. “I know Bobby said something about T.J. And by the way, where exactly was this T.J. person when Devon was murdered? I m
ean, why wasn’t he in the shop? With all the action on Royal Street and potential customers everywhere, you’d think, as an assistant, T.J. would be Johnny-on-the-spot.”

  “Trevor Jackson claims that, per Dowling’s request, he ran out to grab sandwiches and coffee. What we can’t seem to ascertain is how long he was absent. How long it took him to run down the street to get takeout.”

  “Maybe he’s the one who tossed the flash bomb at me,” Carmela said.

  “Maybe,” Babcock said. “But he didn’t have any sort of residue on his hands. And his prints weren’t on the ice pick.”

  “So you’re ruling T.J. out?”

  “Not necessarily,” Babcock said. “For one thing, we know he’s not exactly an upstanding citizen. He’s a heavy drinker . . .”

  “Seriously?”

  “. . . And a brawler. With a police record.”

  Carmela felt like she’d been punched in the gut. Had kindhearted Devon Dowling allowed a snake to crawl into his lovely little antique shop? Had his kindness and innocence been his final undoing?

  Babcock continued. “It’s not a terrible record, but Jackson does have two DUIs.”

  “So you do consider T.J. a serious suspect.” Could Devon’s murder be that easy to solve?

  “We’re not ruling anyone out at this point,” Babcock said. “It’s too early.”

  “Did Devon have any—what do you call them? Defensive injuries?”

  “Not that we’ve determined.”

  “So someone surprised him,” Carmela said. “Except that . . . his front door was locked.”

  “So maybe he let someone in and locked the door after them,” Babcock said. “A customer . . . a friend.”

  “So Devon might have known his killer,” Carmela said, and the notion chilled her.

  “It’s possible,” Babcock said. “Anything’s possible.”

  “And your lab is working on some kind of—what would you call it? Forensic evidence?” Carmela asked.