Mumbo Gumbo Murder

by Laura Childs

  They ordered wine, sipped it, and watched as more people arrived downstairs.

  “Do you get the feeling something is about to happen?” Ava asked.

  “I do,” Carmela said. “But I have no idea what.”

  “Something to do with puppets?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Ooh, don’t look now, but Old Scratch is watching us,” Ava said.

  “Old who?” Carmela glanced around.

  “I said don’t look.”

  “Okay, I’m not looking. Now tell me again what you just said.”

  “There’s a devil watching us. You know, as in Beelzebub or Mephisto? He’s sitting at the end of the bar, kind of peering at us from behind a post.”

  When Carmela got a chance, she casually glanced that way. And discovered that Ava was right. A man in a shiny red mask with tiny white horns and a slim-cut black jacket was staring intently at them.

  “Who could that be?” Carmela asked.

  Ava shrugged. “Dunno. But it’s weird. Kooky.”

  “This whole place is kooky.”

  “Yeah, it kind of gives me the creeps.”

  “Holy crap, Ava, now what are those ninja puppet guys doing?”

  They both turned away from the bar and watched as a half dozen ninjas formed a circle and grabbed a series of black ropes. Their eyes followed the ropes up to the ceiling where some kind of black, poufy shroud hung in the center of the room.

  “What is that thing?” Ava asked. “Some kind of weird piñata?”

  Suddenly, a man’s voice boomed over a loudspeaker.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, if you’ll please direct your eyes to the center of the room.”

  “I hope something doesn’t pop out at us,” Carmela said.

  Everyone’s eyes were focused on the dark thing that hung suspended from the ceiling. Then, as if a silent command had been given, the ninjas jerked on the ropes, causing the shroud to pull away.

  An enormous puppet suddenly dangled in the center of the room.

  “It’s a woman!” Ava cried. “Wearing an ornate eighteenth-century ball gown.”

  “But look where her head’s supposed to be!” Carmela cried.

  The woman’s head was completely missing, and red streamers, meant to indicate blood, fluttered from her gaping neck.

  “OMG, there is no head,” Ava said in a startled voice.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer intoned. “I give you the newest addition to the Beastmaster Puppet Theater. Queen Marie Antoinette!”

  “Whoa!” Ava said. “This is beyond creepy.”

  “But not as creepy as the devil that just got up from his barstool and is heading our way.” Carmela grabbed Ava’s arm and said, “Let’s get outa here!”

  * * *

  * * *

  They sprinted up the stairs, fighting their way against a tide of people who were coming down, anxious to get a look at the new Marie Antoinette puppet.

  “Hurry, hurry,” Carmela urged. She continued to pull Ava behind her.

  “Oh man,” Ava cried, “I knew coming here was a bad idea.”

  “You did? Really? And you didn’t say anything?” They were upstairs now, Carmela hurdling a footstool and losing her grip on Ava. “Come on. Hurry up!”

  Ava was right behind her, panting like crazy, her stilettos ringing against the wooden floor like a pair of castanets.

  “Just a few more steps and we’re home free,” Carmela huffed. She slid to a stop, pushed her shoulder against the front door to shove it open, and screamed!

  Ava didn’t know why Carmela was screaming, but when she heard her friend shriek, she couldn’t hold back, either. Together they cowered in front of a tall man who was backlit in the doorway. With the faint glow from a streetlamp, they were unable to see his face.

  “Wait. What?” Carmela said. She touched a hand to her chest and let out a gasp of recognition. It was Babcock!

  “What are you doing here?” Babcock yelled, stunned out of his mind to literally run into them like this.

  “What are you doing here?” Carmela yelled back. She still wasn’t using her indoor voice.

  “I was following someone I thought was Roy Sultan. But I lost him. He either came in here or ducked down the alley.”

  “You think Sultan came in here?” Carmela asked.

  “Maybe he was the one who was watching us!” Ava cried. “And wearing the devil costume.”

  “Somebody was watching you?”

  “Old Scratch,” Ava said.

  Babcock looked puzzled. “He was scratching? You mean like making obscene gestures?”

  “No, like coming after us,” Carmela said.

  “Who is this guy?” Babcock asked. “Show me!”

  So the three of them descended to the Hellfire Club and looked around the very crowded room.

  “Ye cats!” Babcock said when he saw Marie Antoinette hanging there, sans head. “What the hell is that thing supposed to be?”

  “Their newest puppet,” Carmela said. “Like it?”

  “It’s hideous,” Babcock said. “Enough to give you nightmares.”

  “I think that’s the general idea,” Carmela said.

  Babcock surveyed the bar. “Where’s your devil guy? Point him out to me.”

  “I don’t see him,” Ava said. “He’s gone. He must have ducked out.”

  “Are they selling drinks here?” Babcock asked. “If it’s a cash bar, they need a special permit to do that.”

  Carmela touched his shoulder. “Can you not be a bureaucrat for one minute? Can you maybe just take us home?”

  They left quietly and crawled into Babcock’s car, which was parked a half block away. Nobody spoke as he drove them back to their apartment complex and pulled into the back alley.

  Then Ava clambered out of the back seat and said, “Well, it’s been peachy. Thanks for being my wingman, Carmela. Thanks for the ride, Edgar.”

  In the darkness, Babcock said, “Where did you two go tonight? Besides that weird party.”

  “Matchmaker,” Carmela said.

  “I don’t know what that is. Explain, please.”

  “You know, like in Fiddler on the Roof. Ava hired a woman to fix her up with a suitable date.”

  “She needs somebody to fix her up? Ava does?” Babcock chuckled. “Now I know you’re pulling my leg.”

  “It’s the truth,” Carmela said.

  “The kind of truth where you’re only a sort-of partner in a wine bar? That kind of stretched-out, bungled-up truth?”

  “I wasn’t deliberately trying to upset you, really I wasn’t.” Dear Lord, he brought up the wine bar again? “I just thought the wine bar would be a fun thing. A diversion. And then it all got away from me.”

  “So you’re really not a proprietor?”

  “Of course not. What it comes down to is this—I’d probably teach one painting class one night a week. And if that works out, then Gabby and I will alternate. So it’d only be every other week.”

  Babcock gazed at her expectantly.

  “And I promise I’ll have Quigg change that sign. Remove my name.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Well, more like tomorrow. And if he doesn’t, I’ll climb up on a ladder myself and slop on five gallons of white paint.”

  “Promise?” Babcock asked.

  “I do.”

  Babcock’s face creased in a smile. “Carmela, those are the words I definitely want to hear from you.”

  Chapter 16

  THURSDAY morning and the French Quarter was flush with blue skies, abundant sunshine, toe-tappin’ music, and good feelings.

  “I knew Babcock would come around, I just knew it,” Gabby said. She and Carmela had hung out their OPEN sign and were standing at the front counter sipping cups of strong chicory c
offee from their trademark MEMORY MINE mugs.

  “I promised him I’d only be leading a class now and then. That you and I would be trading off,” Carmela said.

  “And he’s okay with that?”

  “He said he was.” Carmela looked thoughtful. “You know, I think Babcock’s finally learning to trust me.”

  “That’s the most critical element in a relationship.”

  “Do you trust Stuart?” Carmela asked.

  “No,” Gabby laughed. “Of course not. I may be sweet, but I’m not stupid.”

  Carmela nodded. “There you go. The age-old unacknowledged tension between men and women.”

  Their reverie was interrupted by two women who burst through their front door expectantly.

  “We’re visiting for the weekend,” one of the women announced. “And we were told this was craft central in New Orleans.”

  “Your information was spot-on,” Carmela said. “Come on in and let’s see what we can do to get your creative juices flowing.”

  “We’re sisters,” the woman said, as if Carmela and Gabby couldn’t tell by their nearly identical curly brown hair and wide smiles. “I’m Janice and she’s Denise. I’m into painting and Denise is way big into scrapbooking.”

  “Carmela’s our resident painter,” Gabby said to Janice. “And I’m pretty heavy into scrapbooking myself.” She pointed at their wall of scrapbook paper. “Want to take a look?”

  “Do I ever,” said Denise.

  While Gabby and Denise pored over paper, Carmela led Janice to the back of the store where she had a stash of blank canvases as well as unpainted birdhouses, wooden frames, candleholders, and cigar boxes.

  “Cool,” Janice said. “You paint on all this stuff?”

  “And more,” Carmela said. “Plates, rocks, knickknack shelves, canvas bags, you name it.”

  “I love that cute little cigar box. You think I could give something like that a whirl?”

  Carmela grabbed the unpainted cigar box off the shelf and placed it on the table.

  “But I’m not sure where to start,” Janice said.

  Carmela held up an index finger. “Give me a second.” She ducked into her office, grabbed a cigar box she’d decorated several months ago, and handed it to Janice.

  “Wow.” Janice was enthralled. “It looks like an antique box that was crafted during the Renaissance.”

  “That’s the whole idea,” Carmela said. “Give it some personality, make it look old. For this box I painted the inside gold and the outside black. Then I rubbed a smidge of black paint over the gold and distressed the outside. Then I scrubbed on just a hint of blue paint and some bronze glaze. And you see how the lock and hinges have a green patina?”

  “Nice.”

  “It’s really just paint. The thing is, you can create almost any special effect using paint. And a judicious application of two or three layers is always useful for giving wood a faux aged look.”

  “And then you added those cute little angel faces,” Janice said.

  “The painter Raphael’s angels. They come as decals.”

  “I think I’d like to try that,” Janice said.

  While the two sisters happily crafted their way through the morning, Carmela and Ava waited on several more customers. One woman wanted metallic ribbon and matching brads so she could decorate cream-colored pillar candles for her dinner party.

  Another woman wanted charms so she could make her own dangly earrings. Of course Carmela had a rather wondrous stash of charms in the form of dragonflies, keys, Egyptian elements, petroglyphs, and animals.

  And, finally, two more regulars, Jill and her daughter, Kristen, wanted a pink album so they could put together a scrapbook for baby Jillian.

  Back at the front counter, Carmela signed for a UPS package and skimmed through the morning mail.

  “Anything?” Gabby asked.

  “A few vendor invoices.” She picked up the UPS parcel and shook it. “And I think our calligraphy pens finally arrived.”

  “I can’t believe that tonight’s going to be your first painting class next door. You must be excited!”

  “More like nervous.”

  “You? Carmela, you’ve taught so many craft classes over the years that this should be like child’s play!”

  “But none of the classes I’ve taught had Quigg Brevard breathing down my neck. Or Babcock lurking in the wings, waiting for me to fall on my face.”

  “He wouldn’t do that,” Gabby said.

  Carmela stared at her.

  “Well, I think you’ll do just fine. Better than fine.”

  Carmela breathed a sigh. “All we can do is start slow and see how it goes. A paint-your-plate class tonight, miniature canvases next Tuesday.”

  Gabby smiled. “And then we’ll switch off.”

  “You’re sure Stuart’s okay with you helping me?” Carmela asked.

  “Stuart’s a pussycat. I guess Babcock’s the one we should worry about after all. There could be . . . what would you call it? Recidivism?”

  “He doesn’t like me working with Quigg, that’s for sure. But he’s tolerating it for now.”

  “The man is a saint.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t go that far.”

  * * *

  * * *

  While Gabby rang up a customer at the count-er, Carmela slipped into her office and dialed Babcock’s number. Gabby’s comment about him being a saint was swirling in her brain, and she wanted to make darned sure that things were still copacetic between them.

  “Hello?” Babcock said. “What?”

  “Don’t sound so excited,” Carmela said.

  “Carmela?”

  “You were expecting someone else?”

  “In this job I never know what to expect,” Babcock said. “We’re always on the fine edge of disaster around here.”

  “And they’re talking about making you a chief?”

  “Bite your tongue, because I don’t want the job. I don’t need the headache and hassle.”

  “How about the status and extra income?” Carmela asked.

  “Well . . .”

  “Exactly.” Then, “I thought we should talk.”

  “We are talking,” Babcock said.

  “I mean about . . . you know.”

  “We’re good.”

  “Did you go back and try to find Roy Sultan last night?”

  “No. I think I got a bum tip.”

  “You were following him because you got a tip?”

  “An anonymous tip. Tiresome, isn’t it?” Babcock said. There was a burst of loud voices on his end, and then he said, “Sorry, sweetheart, gotta run.”

  Carmela sat there for a few minutes, thinking about the devil she’d seen last night in the Hellfire Club, wondering who it could have been. When she couldn’t come up with any definitive answer, she grabbed a huge cardboard box and carried it out to the craft table. Janice and Denise had since left, and Carmela was anxious to get a jump on her class.

  “What have you got there?” Gabby asked.

  Carmela reached in and pulled out a tall glass cylinder.

  “It looks like you’re about to make a terrarium,” Gabby said.

  “Something like that, only minus the green plants and dirt.”

  “Ah, this is for your Vacation in a Bottle class. What time’s that supposed to start?”

  “Two o’clock,” Carmela said.

  “I can’t wait to see what you come up with.”

  “Neither can I,” Carmela said as she dumped a small bag of fine white sand into the glass jar. “After all, I’m breaking new ground here. Literally.”

  In between helping customers, Carmela worked on her vacation in a jar. She put in a red rubber flip-flop, added some colorful shells, a starfish, and an old pair of sunglasses. She was c
ontemplating what else to add, when, out of the blue, Trevor Jackson—T.J.—walked into her shop.

  “May I help you?” Gabby asked. She was standing behind the front counter, ringing up a customer.

  T.J. spotted Carmela at the craft table, waved a hand at her, and walked back through the shop.

  “T.J.,” Carmela said. This was a nasty surprise. What could he possibly want?

  T.J. stared at her with eyes that were narrowed and intense. “I need a favor. I need your help.”

  “Excuse me?” Carmela was completely taken aback since, in her mind, T.J. was still a legitimate suspect. “Help with what? What can I do?”

  “Can we talk somewhere privately?”

  Carmela sighed as she led him into her office. She had no idea where this was going. Maybe she didn’t want to know.

  “That was quite a scene you created yesterday,” she said as she plunked herself down in her chair. “At the funeral luncheon.”

  T.J. settled in a director’s chair opposite her and did everything but hang his head. “I . . . That was really stupid,” he said. “Inexcusable. I don’t know what came over me.”

  I do. You went totally postal.

  He rubbed his arm gingerly. “I’ve even got bruises from tossing that chair and then falling on my ass.”

  I bet you do. Dummy.

  “So what do you want?” Carmela asked. She got right to the point because she was busy. Customers, crafts, a murder investigation. No sense making small talk with some goofball who went ballistic at the drop of a hat. No sense at all.

  “I need your help,” T.J. said.

  “Yes, you mentioned that. In what way?”

  In a halting, plaintive voice, T.J. said, “I know you’re in tight with Detective Babcock. So I was hoping that maybe you could talk to him, kind of intercede for me, and get this police investigation off my back.”

  Carmela kept her voice neutral. “I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

  “But the police seem to think that I killed Mr. Dowling! When I didn’t!” T.J. cried.

  “They think your quick temper and penchant for getting into fights warrants a serious look.”

  And by the way, were you the devil last night? Were you the one watching us at the Hellfire Club?