Mumbo Gumbo Murder

by Laura Childs

  Baby frowned. “Funny. One of my neighbors was burglarized last week.”

  “Who’s that?” Carmela asked, instantly on alert.

  “Jeffrey Cummins,” Baby said. “And his wife, Melinda. It was terrible. While they were attending a charity dinner someone slipped in and stole their Kandinsky right off the wall!”

  “Wow,” Carmela said. She wondered if Sonny Boy Holmes might be back in business after all.

  * * *

  * * *

  At four o’clock, Babcock called.

  “I hope I wasn’t too tough on you earlier today. Apologies. It’s just that I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

  “I know you do and I understand, I truly do,” Carmela said. “I know how hard you work, how much pressure is put on you to solve cases.”

  “Well . . .”

  “Why don’t you come over for dinner tonight? I could fix that cornbread-stuffed chicken you like so much.”

  “That’s not entirely a bad idea. We really do need to talk.”

  “Six o’clock?”

  “How about seven?” Babcock said.

  “Perfect. I’ll see you then.”

  Once Carmela and Gabby cleaned up the back table and straightened out the paper bins, Carmela ducked back into her office to put together a menu.

  She’d kick things off with ice cold martinis, then serve an arugula salad with bacon, snap peas, and pickled beets. Then she’d segue into her cornbread-stuffed chicken and add a side of fried green tomatoes.

  It wasn’t the most heart-healthy menu, but it was the perfect menu to win Babcock’s heart. Once he was fed and his appetite sated, she could carefully and logically present the paint and sip idea to him. And prove to him, once and for all, that he had absolutely nothing to worry about.

  Carmela smiled to herself as she doodled a row of X’s and O’s on her paper. Babcock would come around. Because, when all was said and done, he really was a reasonable guy.

  Chapter 8

  OOPS. Turned out, Babcock was not a reasonable guy. And he didn’t come around to her way of thinking.

  “I don’t understand,” Babcock said, jerking his hand and spilling part of his martini down the front of his Brooks Brothers shirt. When he felt dampness seep through, he growled, “Damn. See what you made me do.”

  Carmela put down the bowl of arugula salad she’d brought out from the kitchen and handed him a crisp linen napkin. Babcock yanked it out of her hand and began to furiously blot the mixture of gin and vermouth.

  “Now I smell like a gin mill.”

  “Listen, please. I’m trying to explain things to you,” Carmela said.

  “Tell me again why it’s suddenly such a marvelous idea to go into business with your old boyfriend.” Babcock looked at Carmela from beneath furrowed brows.

  “I haven’t decided. The business thing is still up in the air. And, once again, for the record, Quigg is not my old boyfriend.”

  “A wine bar,” Babcock grumbled as Carmela grabbed the martini shaker and refilled his drink. “Doesn’t every café, restaurant, bistro, and bar in New Orleans already serve wine?”

  “This would be something totally different,” Carmela said. “Geared more for women with an accent on crafts.”

  Boy, was Babcock ever crabby tonight! Even though Carmela was secretly pleased that Babcock was jealous of Quigg, the last thing she wanted was for his jealousy to cross the line and for him to become super possessive. Because just suppose she did decide to join Quigg in his paint and sip business—was Babcock going to get hysterical and carry on like this forever? She’d been on her own for too long to put up with this kind of silliness.

  Carmela drew a deep breath. “Like I said, I haven’t formally agreed to anything yet. But if I want to enter into a business agreement . . .”

  “Then you’ll probably do whatever you damn well please. Yeah, I get it.”

  “No, Edgar, you don’t get it. You are the man I dearly love, the man I am going to marry. But that doesn’t rule out my having business arrangements with other people. I want to be your wife, I’m dying to be your wife. But if I decide it’s a smart, proactive thing to do, I’ll be Quigg’s business partner.” She put a hand on his arm. “Do you get that?”

  “I may get it but I don’t like it.”

  Carmela had really hoped this evening could be a sweet, romantic interlude, but so far it wasn’t looking good. Maybe some food would help to calm tempers down? She counted to ten, smiled sweetly, and said, “Why don’t you sit down and I’ll serve dinner.”

  With a grumpy face, Babcock placed his glass on the dining table, pulled out a chair, and sat down. Boo and Poobah lay down quietly at his feet under the table, while Mimi remained on the sofa.

  Carmela grabbed her antique silver salad servers and mounded her arugula salad onto Babcock’s plate. “Here you go. I topped it with that tangy balsamic and mustard dressing you like so much. Go ahead. Have a taste.”

  “Buttering me up with mustard and vinegar, that’s a novel approach even for you.” Babcock nibbled at his salad. Then, as if he, too, had decided not to ruin their evening, said, “Mmn, you do know how to zip up a salad.”

  “Thank you.” The tight knot of tension that had formed in the back of Carmela’s neck loosened slightly. The battle may not have been won, but at least there would be a degree of détente during dinner.

  By the time Carmela brought out their main course of stuffed chicken, the temperature in the room had thawed considerably. Babcock had relaxed (a second martini helped) and seemed to actually be enjoying himself.

  “Cornbread-stuffed chicken with a side of fried green tomatoes,” Carmela said. “Bon appétit.” She sat down, picked up her fork, then set it down again. “I forgot. You brought along a bottle of wine. Do you want me to . . . ?”

  “Naw, let it go. I’m enjoying dinner too much. Besides, I’ve got work to do later. So I’d better keep a sober head. Two martinis is my limit tonight.”

  “More like one and a half.”

  “Touché.”

  They continued their small talk for a while, keeping it light and breezy, but Carmela was itching to bring up Devon Dowling’s murder. Was there any new information? Were there any suspects? Had anything come of the investigation into the robbery of Devon’s safe today? Carmela knew her questions might shift Babcock back into a cranky mood, but she had to know. Was dying to know.

  “Have your Crime Scene techs tracked down the plant matter that was found on Devon’s body?” Carmela asked. She figured that was a safe opening salvo.

  Babcock blinked, then cranked his head hard to the right. “Whoosh. That question certainly came shooting out of left field. Almost nicked me.”

  “Well, I’m curious,” Carmela said.

  “No kidding.”

  Babcock pursed his lips and cocked his head, as if deciding whether or not to satisfy her curiosity. Finally, he relented.

  “They identified the smidgen of the dark green leaf as probably a piece of water hyacinth.”

  Carmela shook her head. She wasn’t all that familiar. One green plant looked like another to her. And out in the bayous, most everything was green.

  “The water hyacinth’s an invasive plant that snuck up here from the Amazon basin a hundred or so years ago. Been running amok in our waterways ever since. Anyway, our tech guys tried to isolate the source but weren’t all that successful. They think this particular piece is likely from Bayou Terrebonne, Bayou Petit Caillou, or even the Barataria bayou.”

  “Barataria is where Shamus has a camp house.” Shamus was not only Carmela’s ex, he was the indolent scion to Crescent City Bank. “You don’t suspect Shamus, do you?”

  “Not this time.”

  “Thanks a lot.” Carmela was surprised that she still felt protective toward her annoying ex.

  “Hey, you went ahead a
nd married the dufus. You knew he had a lousy reputation,” Babcock said.

  “Actually, I didn’t know,” Carmela said. She hadn’t realized that Shamus was a certified hound dog until he crawled home one morning at 4:00 A.M. reeking of Jim Beam and Shalimar perfume. Heavy on the Shalimar.

  Once they finished dinner, Carmela cleared away their dishes, then brought out a plate of molasses cookies.

  “Here you go, Mr. Crabbypants. Care for a sweet?”

  Carmela waited until Babcock took a bite of her cookie, then said, “Now that you’ve identified the water hyacinth, did it point you in the direction of any pertinent suspects?”

  “Not the plant matter, per se. But I quizzed T.J. again today, trying to jog his memory about anyone who might have been angry or upset with Dowling. And, obviously, where they might live.”

  “Did he come up with anyone at all?”

  “I kept asking him to tell me anything and everything that might be related—you know, do a kind of data dump. But the poor guy’s mind was pretty much a blank slate. The only name he came up with was a client who was unhappy with an art appraisal that Dowling did. A fellow named Colonel Barnett Otis.”

  “Devon gave him a bad appraisal?” Carmela asked.

  “Not exactly. It turns out Otis owned a very pricey painting. The only problem was—it was stolen.”

  “What?” Carmela leaned back in her chair. This felt like something that might be important. “How did Devon figure that out?”

  “Don’t be so impressed, Dowling just checked with the FBI’s art registry file. It’s pretty standard for high-end dealers to check with the Feds when someone brings in an expensive piece for sale. Or, in this case, an art collector hoping for a rather large appraisal.”

  “So you think this Colonel Otis might have killed Devon because Devon discovered that the painting was stolen?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It sounds flimsy to me.”

  “However tentative, it’s a lead that needs to be followed up,” Babcock said.

  Carmela still wasn’t buying it. “And then Colonel Otis came back and burglarized Devon’s safe? I mean, what on earth would he have been looking for?”

  “You’ve just landed in the same place I am,” Babcock said. “Who knows what’s going on or what the sequence of events was?”

  “You sure don’t have much to go on,” Carmela said. She couldn’t imagine how Babcock and Gallant were going to track down Devon’s killer, make a case, and present enough evidence to the prosecution. It all felt like . . . smoke and mirrors.

  “I’m afraid there’s more,” Babcock said with a kind of grim determination.

  “There is? Tell me.”

  “I don’t . . .”

  “Please?”

  Babcock looked unhappy. “Now that we’re laying our cards on the table, I might as well tell you. During the autopsy, the ME found trace evidence of cocaine.”

  Carmela clapped both hands on top of her head and shouted, “What? On Devon’s body?” She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

  Babcock stared at her now, his eyes searching her face. “You knew Devon well. Was he a user?”

  “No! Of course not! I mean, I don’t think so.” Carmela blew out a long glut of air and then felt dizzy. “Oh jeez, this is terrible.”

  “It complicates matters, yes.”

  “No,” Carmela said. “What you just told me . . . it’s gut-wrenching.” This was the last thing Carmela had expected. Now she feared that Devon Dowling’s sterling reputation might be tarnished with hints of drug use. “It couldn’t have been his cocaine. It had to be . . .”

  “From someone else? Perhaps. But who?” Babcock asked.

  “I guess you’ve got to look harder at T.J. And obviously this Colonel Otis.”

  “We will, we are.”

  “And maybe . . . well, I didn’t tell you about this. But a man named Richard Drake stopped by Memory Mine yesterday afternoon.”

  Babcock shook his head. “I don’t know who that is.”

  “Drake is president of the Vampire Society,” Carmela said.

  Babcock narrowed his eyes. “What?”

  “The Vampire . . .”

  “Yes, I heard that part. I meant go on . . . continue,” Babcock said. “Even though this sounds like some kind of bad joke.”

  “This Drake guy quizzed me on how well I knew Devon. And if I knew anything about the piece of Lincoln’s coat that Devon supposedly owned.”

  “This guy Drake could be trouble.”

  “Could he be a suspect?” Carmela asked. “Do you think he might be dangerous?” Her words were getting tangled. What she really meant to say was, Do you think Drake killed Devon?

  “I certainly need to have a chat with this Richard Drake,” Babcock said. “And by the way, please don’t allow him back in your shop if he happens to show up again.”

  Carmela knew that was pretty much impossible, given the laissez-faire attitude of shop owners in the French Quarter, but she nodded anyway to appease Babcock.

  “Okay,” she said. Then, “There’s something I need to ask you about. An idea that’s been rumbling around inside my head for the last two days.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Stand up, please.”

  Babcock stood up as Carmela came around the table to face him. Boo and Poobah stood up, too, watching them with guarded eyes.

  “If the ice pick was stuck in Devon’s left ear, then his assailant had to be right-handed, is that correct?” Carmela asked.

  “Only if they were facing each other,” Babcock said.

  “So if the killer snuck up behind Devon, he was probably left-handed.”

  “Right. Correct.”

  “Do you know . . . was the ice pick driven straight in, or did it go in at a downward angle?”

  “This is very grisly, Carmela. And something you should leave to the medical examiner and trained investigators.”

  “Like you.”

  “Like me.”

  “I realize that, but I’m curious. I can’t get the ice pick image out of my head.”

  “Sweetheart, this is not something you should . . .”

  At that exact moment, Babcock’s phone began to vibrate. When he pulled it out of his pocket and glanced at the screen, his demeanor changed instantly. He was suddenly all business. “Babcock,” he barked. He listened for a few moments and then said, “When?”

  Carmela mouthed, “What?” but he ignored her.

  Talking in a low voice, Babcock did his usual move and stepped to the far end of the room.

  Honestly, Carmela thought, he acts as if I’d listen in. And then she stood perfectly still, straining to catch a word or two. Unfortunately, the only word she could pick out was “Bobby.” So he was either talking to Bobby Gallant or asking about his colleague’s whereabouts. Either way, it didn’t bode well for the romantic evening Carmela had been hoping for.

  Babcock clicked off his phone and grabbed his suit jacket from the couch, dislodging a sleeping Mimi in the process.

  “You’re leaving?” Carmela was disappointed at the abrupt end to their dinner. Babcock had loosened up considerably and had been starting to spill secrets.

  “There’s been a . . . Something needs my attention,” he said.

  “I need your attention, too.”

  Babcock placed his hands on her shoulders. “Carmela, be reasonable. Duty calls. I have to go to work.”

  Carmela crossed her arms. “We had a lovely dinner together and even exchanged ideas concerning Devon’s murder. Now, suddenly, you have to fly out of here like Batman?” She gave a little shrug. “Hmm, I thought maybe I came first.”

  Babcock leaned in and gave her a swift peck on the top of her head. “You always come first. I promise.” And then he really did fly out the doo
r.

  Carmela looked at Mimi who was looking back at her with expressive brown eyes. “Mimi,” she said, “he sure has a funny way of showing it.”

  Chapter 9

  “IMAGINE my surprise,” said a low, sexy voice, “when I discovered my ex-wife was involved in yet another murder investigation.”

  “Shamus!” Carmela cried. Her phone had rung five minutes after Babcock had slipped out the door. And, like an idiot, Carmela figured it must be Babcock calling to apologize for being such a jerk. No such luck. Though Shamus Allan Meechum was certainly the ideal stand-in when it came to all-time jerks.

  “You never disappoint me, Carmela.”

  “And you constantly disappoint me, Shamus,” Carmela cooed into the phone. They’d been married for less than a year when Shamus had started creepy-crawling home at all hours of the morning, his shirts untucked, his . . . well, you get the picture.

  “That’s my Carmela, always heaping dishonor upon my head,” Shamus said, though he sounded completely unfazed by her words.

  “Nothing you haven’t earned,” Carmela said.

  “So here’s the thing, darlin’. I’m right here in your neighborhood, like two blocks away, and I thought I’d pop in quick to see the dogs.”

  “You’re at a bar,” Carmela said. She could hear crowd sounds and the tinkle of ice cubes through the phone. “You know Boo doesn’t like the smell of alcohol on your breath.”

  “So I’ll gargle. Come on, whadya say? I’ve still got joint custody, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “Yes, I know.” Shamus had been a lousy husband, but he was a loving and attentive pet parent. Go figure.

  “Is my dropping by a problem? Or do you have company? Maybe that traffic cop you’ve been dating?”

  “He’s a homicide detective, and we’re engaged to be married.”

  “So you say.”

  “I have a ring, Shamus.” Carmela smiled to herself as she fluttered her fingers and watched her diamond shimmer and dance as it caught the light.

  “Have you set a date?” Shamus asked in a snide tone.

  Carmela stopped smiling. “I’m working on that. Okay, come over. I’ll tell the dogs you’re on your way.”