Mumbo Gumbo Murder

by Laura Childs

  “A confidante about what?” Ava asked as she took a sip of wine. “Etchings? Antique cameos?”

  Carmela took a deep breath. “Drake asked me if I knew that Devon might have owned a small piece of Lincoln’s coat.”

  Ava started choking on her wine. “Agh, agh . . . wait, you mean Abraham Lincoln’s coat?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why would Devon possess something as weird as that?”

  “You know antique dealers. They poke around in odd places and find all sorts of different things like old books, rare paintings, and valuable stamps. It gives them bragging rights. Plus, they’re a little bit fickle . . . sometimes dealers sell an item as soon as they find it. Try to turn a quick profit.”

  “Did you tell Babcock about this Lincoln’s coat thing?”

  ”Not yet. But I know he’d pretty much pooh-pooh it,” Carmela said.

  “Well, I’m intrigued,” Ava said. “And what’s this Drake guy like? I’ve never met an actual vampire before. You think he can handle a Caesar salad, what with the garlic and all?”

  “Drake’s not a real vampire, but I want to tell you, the man is drop-dead gorgeous. He’s very intense with these sensual lips and two distinguished streaks in his hair. And his hazel eyes . . .” Carmela stopped abruptly. “The only problem is, I think Drake was playing me. For all I know, he’s the one who killed Devon when Devon wouldn’t give him or sell him the piece of coat. If that piece of coat even exists.”

  “So you think Mr. Vampire was spoofing you today because you discovered Devon’s body and you’ve got a super tight connection to Babcock.”

  “That’s a possibility, yes,” Carmela said.

  “Carmela, you’re the French Quarter’s very own Nancy Drew. If there’s a riddle to be solved, you’re the girl to dig in and untangle it. And if there’s something shady about Drake, I bet you can sniff it out.”

  “Why would I want to?”

  Ava leaned toward her, a serious look on her face. “Because any information you learn could help lead to Devon’s killer.”

  “Gulp,” Carmela said.

  “I know, I know. Babcock warned you to stay away from his case. But face it, honey, it’s kind of our case, too.”

  They finished their dinner then, talking quietly about Devon Dowling. Reminiscing about the fun they’d all had together, the committees they’d served on for the Children’s Art Association.

  Carmela stood up and began clearing the plates. “You want another glass of wine? Something for dessert?”

  “I’m stuffed, cher. I ate and drank so much I’m sick to my stomach.” When Ava saw the look of concern on Carmela’s face, she added, “But in a good way.”

  “Sure.”

  Ava picked up the wineglasses and snuffed out the candles. “But I’ve got some news for you,” she said as she followed Carmela into the kitchen.

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ve decided to take control of my love life.”

  “Um . . . what?”

  “I made an appointment with a genuine matchmaker.”

  “What’s it called?” Carmela asked. “Dudes R Us?”

  “No, it’s with Penelope something at Turtledove Matchmaking. You should read her ratings on Yelp. Talk about satisfied customers. Some scored actual marriage proposals!”

  “Were these customers male or female?” Carmela asked.

  “Both! What I have to do now is go for an interview—that way they pick my brain to find out all my likes, dislikes, preferences, and deal breakers. That sort of thing.”

  Carmela lifted an eyebrow. “When is this interview supposed to take place?”

  “Wednesday night. And, cher, will you pretty please come with me? This isn’t the kind of thing a girl can do alone. Heaven forbid I leave out something important.”

  “What is this all about, really? Did you just take one of those Cosmo quizzes?”

  “Mostly it’s because I have so much trouble connecting with men,” Ava said in complete seriousness.

  Carmela laughed until she almost choked. Finally, when she could control herself and had wiped away the tears that were streaming down her face, she said, “Ava, you connect with men just fine. You’ve basically broken the land speed record for making men fall in love with you. It’s the caliber of men you connect with.” Carmela hesitated for a second, because she wanted to say this next part with as much kindness as possible. “Face it, honey, you’ve dated every dingbat, peckerwood, dolt, dunce, and dullard that New Orleans has to offer.”

  “You’re saying I’ve just about run through everyone?”

  “Well, no. I wouldn’t go that far,” Carmela said. “But you do tend to date more men in a single year than other women do in a lifetime.”

  “What was it you just said? Dolt, dunce, and dullard? That sounds suspiciously like a law firm.”

  “Ava, you just need to raise your sights a little more, that’s all. You deserve a good guy, a nice guy,” Carmela said.

  “But that’s exactly why I need a matchmaker. So she can turn up an entirely new crop of men. Some really good guys.” Ava gave a little wiggle. “After all, I’m not getting any younger. I have to buckle down and get serious about a relationship. Why, I haven’t even had a starter marriage yet!”

  Carmela sighed. “When you walk down the street, men practically throw themselves at your feet.”

  “I need a gentleman, not some goombah with a foot fetish.” Ava suddenly looked stricken. “You know that eastern European bag boy at the Picky Quicky Grocery? The one with the crazy eye?”

  “Yeah?” Carmela said.

  “I put a little shine on him, and he didn’t respond.”

  “He may not be the best subject.”

  “C’mon, Carmela, using a matchmaker is basically outsourcing my dating life and using an expert who can push me in the right direction. You found Babcock, now I need to find a guy who’s not a self-centered dingbat.”

  Carmela put her arms around Ava and gave her a hug.

  “It’s true, I do have Babcock now,” Carmela said. “But please don’t forget that I bumbled my first marriage with the lying, cheating Shamus Meechum.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m trying to avoid—marrying a spoiled, selfish jackhole like Shamus. Or his doppelgänger.” Ava sighed. “So will you come with me?”

  Carmela nodded. “Of course I will.” If only to make sure this matchmaker is really on the up-and-up.

  Chapter 6

  “I THINK I had a nightmare about Lincoln’s coat fragment,” Gabby said. It was nine o’clock Tuesday morning, and Carmela had just arrived at Memory Mine. Correction, she was there physically, but she still needed to jump-start her brain with a cup of industrial-strength chicory coffee.

  “You’re worried about that?” Carmela asked.

  “Not me, per se, but my subconscious. Ever since that guy Drake came here and cornered you, I’ve been seriously creeped out. I mean, it can’t be true, can it?”

  “I don’t know, stranger things have been known to happen,” Carmela said. “I mean, look at all the relics that are purported to exist around the world. There are all sorts of cathedrals in Europe that claim to have pieces of the true cross or the bones of St. Peter or the original crown of thorns.”

  “How about the Shroud of Turin?” Gabby said.

  “There you go.” Carmela lifted a hand. “More proof positive in the case for relics. And relic hunters.”

  “I think there’s even supposed to be some saint’s bones preserved at that church in the Garden District,” Gabby said.

  “And didn’t someone truck a vial of saint’s blood through here a couple of years ago?”

  “So there’s a precedent,” Gabby said.

  “There is in New Orleans anyway. Where just about anything hinting at the supernatural is warmly em
braced.” Carmela was dead serious. New Orleans claimed to have had more haunted houses, hotels, and cemeteries than anywhere else on earth. A few voodoo priestesses, too.

  Gabby fingered a roll of purple velvet ribbon. “You didn’t bring Mimi along today.”

  “She’s back home ruling the roost. Nipping at Boo’s and Poobah’s heels.”

  “Good for her,” Gabby said. “I’m glad she’s fitting in with the pack.” Then, “I’ve been thinking more about our greeting card workshop this afternoon. Really looking forward to it.”

  “Me too.”

  “In between customers this morning I should probably gather up our stash of cardstock.”

  “That would be great,” Carmela said. “Plus, you can haul out that big box of paper snippets and remnants that we’ve been saving since time immemorial.”

  “You mean since we first opened,” Gabby said. “But you’re right, the best cards always happen when you add little bits and pieces of paper and fabric and build up several layers of color and texture.”

  “And add twine, colored ribbons, and raffia.”

  “A lot of card shops used to sell handmade cards like that, but you don’t see them so much anymore,” Gabby said.

  “Probably too cost prohibitive.”

  “Have you, um, thought any more about Quigg’s wine bar?” Gabby asked.

  “Thought about it, yes. But I’m still weighing my options.”

  “It might be fun,” Gabby ventured.

  “I wish the wine bar thing hadn’t come right on the heels of Devon Dowling’s murder.” Carmela picked up a basket filled with brads and beads and started sifting through it. “It feels like there’s too much going on.”

  “Is there anything new concerning Devon? About suspects or when the police might apprehend his killer?”

  Carmela shook her head. “Prying information out of Babcock is like trying to scrape a hunk of fossilized chewing gum off the bottom of your shoe. It’s probably not going to happen.” She tossed a couple of packets of gold brads onto the counter. “On the other hand . . .”

  “What?” Gabby asked.

  “Maybe I could make it happen.”

  “Carmela.” Gabby’s voice carried a warning tone.

  “Not in a big way or anything. But I was thinking maybe I’d pop into Devon’s shop and have a quick confab with that guy T.J., Devon’s assistant. I might learn something.”

  “Is the shop even open?” Gabby asked.

  Carmela smiled. “I guess I’ll just have to mosey over there and find out.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Devon Dowling’s shop wasn’t open. In fact, it was locked up tighter than a drum, and the front window was completely boarded over with plywood. But that didn’t stop Carmela. She banged hard on the front door until T.J.’s face finally appeared in the door’s small rectangular window, looking nervous and frightened.

  “Mr. Jackson. Trevor,” Carmela said, knocking again. “May I come in?” When he still didn’t respond, she said, “We kind of met the other night even though we were never properly introduced.”

  “You,” T.J. said, recognizing Carmela as he creaked open the front door. “You’re Devon’s friend.”

  “I’m Carmela,” she said. “Carmela Bertrand.”

  “Yes, Mr. Dowling mentioned you many times. Please come in.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Jackson.”

  “T.J. Call me T.J.”

  “All right.”

  Carmela walked in and glanced around the shop. The pieces that had been smashed had been cleaned up and a few new things put in their place. And even though a small table had been placed over the bloodstain, the carpet was still discolored. Awful.

  “Are you planning to reopen for business?” Carmela asked.

  T.J. shook his head. “I don’t know what the future holds. Everything’s up in the air right now.”

  “I’m so sorry this happened,” Carmela said. “It strikes me that you and Devon were quite close. Please accept my sincere sympathies.”

  “Thank you, that means a lot to me right now.” T.J. wore khaki slacks and a rumpled denim shirt. His dark hair was disheveled, and he hadn’t shaved. His face looked narrow and haunted with hollows under his eyes. It was a stark contrast to the polished, good-looking young man of the other night.

  “I don’t mean to insult you,” Carmela said, “but you do look absolutely devastated.”

  “Because I am. I thought the world of Mr. Dowling, and now he’s gone.” T.J.’s voice was rough with emotion. “On top of that, the police grilled me for two full hours yesterday.”

  Carmela was shocked. “Wait a minute, the police think you murdered Devon?”

  “I’m apparently suspect numero uno. Unbelievable, huh?” T.J. shook his head. “The police kept saying things like, We’re just trying to assimilate all the facts, but I could tell that under all their nicey-nice talk they had their beady eyes focused directly on me. They didn’t want to believe me when I told them I worshipped the ground Mr. Dowling walked on. Mr. Dowling was a gentleman and a true professional. Nobody, but nobody, could discern a legitimate Erté from a knockoff like he could. Or tell a handloomed silk Bokhara carpet from a machine-made wool rug from Pakistan.”

  “Devon knew his antiques, that’s for sure,” Carmela said.

  “He was one of the best. Maybe the best.”

  “So. The police who questioned you . . .”

  “It was the same two who showed up Sunday night,” T.J. said. “That Babcock guy and his henchman Gallant.”

  “I see.” But Carmela really didn’t. Why were the police looking so hard at T.J.? Did they have a legitimate reason? Had they discovered a hidden motive? Or were they wasting their time while the real killer chuckled at their antics and watched from the sidelines?

  A knock on the front door startled them both.

  “Now what?” T.J. muttered as he started for the door.

  But it turned out to be Roy Sultan, the landlord. He was a portly, silver-haired man with a benevolent-looking basset hound face who owned a half dozen buildings in and around the French Quarter.

  Once Sultan had introduced himself to T.J. and Carmela, he was quick to admit that he, too, was absolutely devastated by Devon Dowling’s murder.

  “Devon was the best commercial tenant I had,” Sultan said. “He’s been in this same location for almost fifteen years. Never a problem, never a peep. My other tenants, they’re forever demanding this or that—upgraded wiring so they can run Wi-Fi. Or they want new paint, carpeting, and AC. I can’t imagine who I’ll ever find to replace Devon Dowling.”

  Sultan was still shaking his head, bemoaning the loss of his tenant as he shuffled out the front door.

  “What’s going to happen to the shop?” Carmela asked once Sultan had left.

  “I don’t know,” T.J. said. “Keep it going, close it for good, whatever’s in the cards.”

  “Does Devon have family?”

  “His brother is flying down from Chicago for the funeral.”

  “When’s that supposed to be?”

  “Tomorrow. At St. Roch Chapel.”

  “So soon,” Carmela murmured. It felt like it’d been all of five minutes since she’d discovered Devon’s dead body.

  “Apparently, his brother is some kind of high-test business executive. Doesn’t want to drag things out.”

  “Clearly, his brother has no concept of how New Orleans works,” Carmela said. New Orleans wasn’t called the Big Easy for nothing. Time was a concept that was routinely dismissed and generally kicked to the curb. New Orleans took its own sweet, rapturous time to sort things out. The city moved as lackadaisically and as leisurely as the Big Muddy that flowed through it.

  “I’m guessing Mr. Dowling’s brother will make a fast decision about the shop,” T.J. said. “About whet
her it will stay open. Or if someone else stands to inherit.”

  Carmela thought about this for a few moments. If there were designated heirs, would that have been a reason to kill Devon? After all, Devon dealt in high-end antiques. Baccarat glasses and decanters, sterling silver teapots, Tiffany lamps, oil paintings from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.

  “Did Devon leave a will?” Carmela asked.

  “I assume so.”

  “Where do you think that would be?”

  “In the safe?” T.J. said.

  Carmela decided to take a gamble. “Do you by any chance know the combination?”

  “No, but I know where Mr. Dowling kept it. He wrote down the numbers and told me once that he kept them under his desk blotter.”

  “Did Devon keep a lot of things in his safe?”

  T.J. gave her a wary glance. “Valuables, sure. Stuff like estate jewelry, some old mine cut diamonds.” His brows pinched together. “But why? Why are you asking?”

  Carmela drew a deep breath. “Because I heard a rumor . . .”

  T.J. held up a hand. “Stop right there. I know exactly what you’re going to say.”

  “A piece from a coat. A snippet.”

  “Lincoln’s coat,” T.J. said.

  “Well? Did Devon really have it?” Carmela asked.

  “He told me he did. But I don’t really know for sure.” T.J. hesitated. “Do you think we should . . . take a look?”

  Carmela’s heart blipped with excitement. “What harm could it do?”

  The combination was right where Devon said it would be. From there it was only a matter of spinning the dial and letting the tumblers fall into place.

  “Exciting,” T.J. said, from his kneeling position in front of the squat safe in Dowling’s office.

  Carmela was practically holding her breath. She was hoping there might be some critical piece of paper stuck in the safe that would offer a clue to help ferret out Devon’s killer.

  No such luck.

  “There’s nothing in there,” T.J. cried when he pulled open the door of the safe. “No will, no diamonds, no nothing!”

  “No piece of Lincoln’s coat?” Carmela asked, leaning forward, eager to see. But the safe was completely empty, just like T.J. said it was.