Mumbo Gumbo Murder

by Laura Childs

  T.J. touched two fingers to the side of his head as if trying to tamp back his disappointment. “It’s because I’ve been so upset these past few days. It’s how I deal with grief! I know I’m not the most mature individual in the world . . . I let my emotions run completely wild. But I feel horrible about Mr. Dowling being killed. You know that!”

  “Uh-huh,” Carmela said.

  “Please. You have to believe me.”

  The jury’s still out, pal.

  When Carmela didn’t answer, T.J. said, “If you won’t plead my case, who will?”

  “I’m afraid,” Carmela said, “that you’re going to have to gut this out on your own.”

  “Until the police find the real killer,” T.J. said. He sounded utterly despondent.

  Carmela stared at him intently. “Until they find the killer. Yes.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “I wish he hadn’t come in here,” Gabby said once T.J. had left. “You’ve told me so many awful things about him that now he kind of frightens me. I kept waiting for something horrible to happen. For him to start knocking over displays or something.”

  “T.J. can be pretty erratic,” Carmela said.

  “Didn’t Babcock tell you to keep the door locked? Well, maybe we should.”

  “Maybe.”

  “We could get one of those discreet doorbells and hang out a sign that says RING FOR SERVICE.”

  “You mean the kind of snooty little sign that intimidates customers and scares them away?” Carmela asked. But she was half teasing.

  “Oh, you. Forget I even mentioned it. Now what was I . . . oh, I know. Mrs. Delachaise called. You remember Mrs. Delachaise?”

  “The woman we designed the invitations for,” Carmela said. “For her daughter’s bridal shower.”

  Gabby nodded. “She wants to stop by and pick them up.”

  “We don’t have them yet.”

  Gabby tapped a foot nervously. “When do you think we will have them?”

  “How about just as soon as I run down to the printer and grab them?”

  “When would that be?”

  Carmela glanced at her watch. It was just after eleven. “Now?”

  “Thank you,” Gabby breathed.

  * * *

  * * *

  The sun was still shining and the weather was even warmer as Carmela walked down Esplanade Street, headed for Inkspot, one of her favorite printers. A street musician plucked away at a guitar, and a Lucky Dogs hot dog vendor and a mule-drawn cart that sold hand-pulled taffy were both parked at the corner. It was all Carmela could do not to grab a dog and a sticky treat. Even better, a gelato truck was parked farther down the block. Vesuvius Gelato was written on the side of the truck in fanciful script, and there was a drawing of Mt. Vesuvius topped with a gelato cone. But Mrs. Delachaise was waiting. And Gabby was on pins and needles.

  Carmela swung through the door into Inkspot, inhaling the pungent aroma of hot ink and paper. She had one hand raised, ready to bid hi and hello to Harvey, the owner, but before she could get a peep out of her mouth, she saw Roy Sultan standing at the front counter. He was wearing a three-piece cream-colored suit that made him look as if he was auditioning for the role of Colonel Sanders.

  “Carmela!” Harvey called out effusively when he saw her, and he raised a hand in greeting. Which caused Roy Sultan to turn around and stare at her.

  Oh boy. Two suspects in one day. To what do I owe this honor?

  “Hi, Harvey,” Carmela said. “Hello,” she said to Sultan. She couldn’t exactly ignore him, since he was standing right there at the counter.

  “Yes, hello.” Sultan was cool in returning her greeting.

  And then, because Carmela prided herself on being able to elicit bits and bytes of information from the most reluctant of subjects, she said, “Picking something up?”

  “Folders and sales sheets,” Sultan mumbled.

  “Here you go, Mr. Sultan,” Harvey said. He slid two large boxes across the counter.

  “Those must be for your big real estate project,” Carmela said. She kept her demeanor neutral, hoping he’d forgotten their somewhat nasty run-in yesterday at the funeral.

  “That’s right,” Sultan said. His ego was too big to contain, though, and he was suddenly eager to talk about his fancy-ass project. He opened one of the boxes and pulled out a glitzy folder emblazoned with SULTAN REAL ESTATE. There was a crest—maybe crossed swords and an eagle?—that hearkened back to the sad demise of the Romanoffs.

  Carmela didn’t know what the crest was supposed to represent, but she gave an encouraging nod as Sultan continued to show her his finished pieces. There were sales sheets for each of his three different condo models, the Manchester three-bedroom unit, the Marigny two-bedroom unit, and the Magnolia one-bedroom unit.

  “Very impressive,” Carmela said. “And to think you brought this project to fruition so rapidly.”

  “Oh no.” Sultan shook his head vigorously. “This building has been in the works for a long time. This is what I do, after all. Lease space to tenants, rehab buildings, buy investment properties. Yup, there’s good money in real estate.”

  “I’m sure there is,” Carmela said as Sultan gathered up his boxes and hustled out the door.

  “Here you go, Carmela,” said Harvey. “Your invitations. Rose gold embossing plus we used the hundred-and-twenty-pound cardstock, just as you requested.”

  “Wonderful, Harvey. Thank you so much.” Carmela paused. “Tell me something, will you? When did Roy Sultan put in his order for his folders and sales sheets?”

  Harvey’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “Are you kidding? It was a super rush job that we had to turn around in less than four days.” He wiped a hand on his ink-stained apron. “It’s as if the guy woke up one morning and said, ‘This is the day my building’s going condo.’”

  Chapter 17

  “YOU’RE back. And just in time for lunch,” Gabby said.

  Carmela set the box of invitations on the front counter and glanced at the wall clock. “I’m starving. What did you have in mind?”

  “I think I should run out and grab muffulettas from the Merci Beaucoup Bakery. The ones stuffed with capicola, salami, mortadella, and provolone.” She smiled at Carmela. “As you might have guessed, I have a craving.”

  “Okay then, go. But be sure to bring one back for me.”

  Carmela slid behind the front counter just as a customer came in.

  “Help you?” she said.

  The woman looked around the shop and smiled. “I hope so. I’m interested in making a collage, but I need some suggestions on how to get started.”

  “Did you have a theme in mind?”

  The woman pulled a sheaf of sheet music from her bag. “I have all this old sheet music from the ’30s. I thought maybe I could work it in somehow.”

  “That’s a wonderful idea,” Carmela said. She pulled out a piece of tagboard and handed it to the woman. “You glue a few artfully ripped pieces of sheet music onto this. Then . . .” Carmela walked over to her display of rubber stamps and pulled out a bird stamp. “You stamp the bird on the sheet music, color it in using colored pencils, add a few paper flowers.”

  “I love that,” said the woman.

  “Then go a little crazy. Glue a strip of black mesh or burlap at the bottom, crumple up some more paper and glue it on, then spatter on some paint.”

  “To create multiple layers,” said the woman.

  “You can never have too many layers. It’s like a good gumbo, you just keep adding ingredients to make it richer.”

  Carmela rang up the woman’s purchases and bid good-bye just as Gabby slipped back into the shop and dropped two white paper bags on the counter along with two large paper cups filled with sweet tea.

  Carmela eyed the bags. “I can just imagine the spicy olive salad so
aking into that soft muffuletta bread.”

  Gabby shoved a bag at her. “Then go eat. Don’t choke your sandwich down too fast, but hurry a little before we get busy again.”

  Carmela retreated to her office, sank into her chair, and unwrapped the thick sandwich. She took a bite. Mmn. Good and juicy. While she ate, she skimmed through her e-mails. One was a request for her to do a demo for a scrapbooking club in Shreveport. Yes, that might be a lot of fun.

  Carmela answered a few more e-mails, then worked on a schedule for upcoming classes. Between honchoing classes at Quigg’s wine bar and teaching her own classes, she’d have to noodle around a few more creative ideas. Maybe an eco scrapbook class on going green? Or artistic storytelling?

  She’d just clicked Send when Gabby popped her head in.

  “Mrs. Delachaise is here for her invitations,” Gabby said.

  “Great.”

  As soon as Mrs. Delachaise saw Carmela, the mother of the soon-to-be bride plopped her bright red Longchamp tote on the counter and said, “I’m so excited. I can hardly wait to see them.”

  Carmela lifted the top of the box and handed Mrs. Delachaise one of the invitations. She watched as her face changed from anticipation to sheer delight.

  “Oh my, these are stunning. Even better than you promised,” Mrs. Delachaise said.

  “The rose gold embossing worked beautifully on the heavy cream-colored stock,” Carmela said. “As you can see, I really pushed the printer to do an extra special job.”

  “And they did. Thank you.”

  Carmela placed the cover back on the box and handed it to Mrs. Delachaise. “Enjoy. Have fun sending them out. Let us know how it goes.”

  “This is why I love working here,” Gabby said, once Mrs. Delachaise was out the door. “We get to make someone blissfully happy every single day.”

  “And don’t tell anybody,” Carmela said, “but the whole creative process is fun for us, too!”

  Gabby bobbed her head. “Designing cards and invitations and posters is a total hoot.”

  * * *

  * * *

  At two o’clock on the dot, the bell over the front door ding-dinged and two of Memory Mine’s most steadfast crafters came bustling in. Tandy Bliss and Baby Fontaine.

  “We’re back,” Tandy boomed. “Did you miss us?”

  “It feels like ages,” Carmela said. “Even though we just saw you darlings two days ago.”

  Baby gave Carmela a double air-kiss and said, “And look what Miss Skinny Britches brought along for us to nosh on.”

  “Buttermilk jumbles,” Tandy said, dropping a round tin on the craft table. “And are they ever good.” She looked around, rubbed her hands together, and said, “I’m ready to dig into this project. After my trip to New York, I’ve been dying to figure out how to use all the doodads I schlepped home.”

  Her sentence was punctuated by another ding-ding as three more women piled into the shop. An older woman who introduced herself as Madge and two young women who wore matching green Tulane sweatshirts. Josie and Madison.

  Madison pointed a thumb over her shoulder indicating a small backpack. “We brought lots of souvenirs and stuff for class.”

  “Then let’s get started,” Carmela said.

  Everyone settled in as Gabby placed large glass cylinders in front of each one of them.

  “Today,” Carmela said, “we’re going to turn your vacation treasures into forever keepsakes.”

  “Wow,” Madison said.

  “Best of all, we’re going to show you a unique way to display them.”

  There was a spatter of applause, and Carmela held up the sample jar she’d made earlier.

  “As you can see, my vacation was at the beach. I started with a base of sand, along with a few shells and pebbles scattered in. Then I added the red flip-flop for color, and the sunglasses for fun, and a little paper parasol that reminds me I had a fabulous time.”

  Everyone laughed.

  Madge said, “If we didn’t vacation at the beach, what would we use as a base?”

  “Great question. Let’s say you visited Paris. You could take a French newspaper and crumple it up. Then add a miniature Eiffel Tower.”

  Madge still didn’t look sure.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Carmela said. “We’ve got plenty of florist’s putty, colored pebbles, hunks of driftwood, and gemstones that can anchor your display.”

  Tandy held up a hand. “What about for my New York trip?”

  “New York is fairly glittery,” Carmela said. “So let’s put in a few colored gems. Then you can add your rolled-up Playbill and . . . what else have you got?”

  “A miniature Empire State Building and Statue of Liberty,” Tandy said.

  “Perfect,” Carmela said. “What else?”

  “Some theater tickets and a yellow cab the size of a Matchbox car.”

  “You’re off and running,” Carmela said as she moved on to help Madison display a fan, miniature Kabuki mask, chopsticks, and brocade coin purse, all souvenirs from her trip to Japan.

  As everyone got busy, munched cookies, and exchanged ideas, Carmela sat down next to Baby, who was arranging mementos from her Hawaiian vacation.

  “How you doin’?” Carmela asked.

  “Good. Great,” Baby said. “This is a lot of fun.”

  “I was wondering,” Carmela said, “if you knew Colonel Barnett Otis? I understand he owns a home in the Garden District.”

  Baby turned to her with big blue eyes. “He’s been my neighbor forever. He and Del play golf together once in a while. Over at Belle Terre. Why the sudden curiosity?”

  “Not so sudden. He and Devon had an issue over a piece of art.”

  Baby put a hand to her mouth. “Oh my gosh, you don’t think that Colonel Otis could have . . .”

  “I don’t know. At least I don’t think so.”

  “But you’re curious. And worried. I can tell because when you’re fretting about something you develop a teeny-tiny line between your eyebrows.”

  “If this is a pitch for Botox, forget it,” Carmela laughed.

  “No, it’s just . . .” Baby waved a hand. “Never mind. What do you want to know?”

  Carmela shrugged. “Whatever you can tell me.”

  “Well, I know that Colonel Otis is a former stockbroker who collects art, drinks bourbon, and entertains on a fairly frequent basis.”

  “So he’s retired.” Carmela hadn’t collected art, drunk bourbon, or entertained formally in years. She was always too scattered, too busy.

  “And he’s older, probably in his early seventies, so I can’t imagine he would be able to get the jump on someone.” Baby saw the doubt on Carmela’s face and added, “But you never know.”

  “No, you never know,” Carmela said. “But thanks for the . . . information.”

  “Are you going to talk to him?” Baby asked. “Or, better yet, have Babcock question him?”

  “I think Babcock already has.” Carmela turned the idea of Colonel Otis over in her mind. He was still on her list. But running into Roy Sultan today had moved him up a couple notches as well. Somebody was guilty, but nobody was talking.

  As the women worked on their jars—with Gabby offering words of encouragement—Carmela grabbed the sample plate Quigg had given her. She decided she’d better paint it to use as an example tonight. But what to paint?

  She went into her office, grabbed one of her sketchbooks, and thumbed through it.

  There. The butterfly.

  She grabbed a set of paints and got to work, swirling on a light wash of blues, green, pinks, and oranges, but letting a little white space show through. Then she painted a swallowtail butterfly, outlining him (or her) in black, and then daubing in green and yellow dots on the wings.

  “That’s gorgeous!” Baby cried. She’d tiptoed in to se
e what Carmela was working on.

  “Thank you,” Carmela said. She stood up and peered out her doorway. “I didn’t mean to leave you guys high and dry.”

  “You didn’t,” Tandy said, glancing up. “We’ve been having a merry old time.”

  “We sure have,” Madison said as everyone else nodded along. “Will you be putting a schedule for more classes on your website?”

  “Count on it,” Carmela said. She watched as everyone smiled and began tidying their work space. They were getting ready to leave, anxious to carry home their prized vacation in a jar keepsake.

  “Carmela,” Gabby said. She was standing at the front counter, holding up a finger. “Telephone.”

  “Good-bye,” Carmela said, half walking Josie and Madison to the door. “Thanks for coming. Hope to see you real soon.” She hurried back to her office and grabbed the phone. “Carmela here.”

  “Guess what! I’ve got a date!”

  “Ava?”

  “Miss Penelope set me up with a really sweet guy.”

  “You already talked to him?”

  “He called a few minutes ago. And we’re going out tonight. Carmela, you gotta stop by and wish me luck!”

  “Today? Now?”

  “Yes!” Ava said. “You’re my mentor. My moral compass. My crazy BFF.”

  “But I’ve got . . .”

  “Please!” Ava squealed.

  Carmela glanced at her watch. If she ran fast, hit all the green walk lights, and didn’t twist an ankle in the process, she could probably squeeze this in.

  “Okay, hang tight. I’ll see you in little bit.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Carmela touched a finger to her plate. Good. It was drying. By the time her class rolled around at Blush and Brush, it’d be perfect.

  Now all she had to do was . . .

  “Carmela.”

  She whirled around to find Jekyl Hardy standing in her doorway.

  “Jekyl! What are you doing here?” Then she smiled and said, “Did you miss my class?” It was meant as a joke since Jekyl was one of the most talented and artistic people she knew. How he kept coming up with all those fabulous designs for Mardi Gras floats, year after year, she’d never know.