Mumbo Gumbo Murder

by Laura Childs

  Hurrying, feeling a blip of panic now, Carmela stumbled on a hunk of loose pavement. She flailed, struggling to right herself, and, in so doing, dropped Poobah’s leash.

  He immediately spun around and ran off. Started barking.

  “Poobah! Come on!” Carmela kept going, figuring the dog would hear her call and come running.

  Not Poobah.

  From out of the darkness Carmela heard a deep-seated growl, then the sound of jaws and teeth snapping together. Whoever had been on the receiving end of Poobah’s snap let out an angry “oof” and ran down the alley.

  “Poobah, come! Good dog!”

  By the time Carmela got to her apartment door, she was winded and scared out of her mind. Fearing that a hand would drop on her shoulder at any moment, she unlocked the door, hustled herself and the dogs inside, and slammed the door. The dead bolt was thrown and the chain put on for good measure!

  Chapter 19

  NOT thirty seconds after Carmela threw the lock and heaved a shaky sigh, there was heavy banging on the door. WHAM, WHAM, WHAM!

  Oh no!

  “Boo, Poobah, get your furry butts over here and try to look fierce!” Carmela rasped. “Poobah, do your snapping thing again.”

  The two dogs gazed at her, looking incredibly bored, not a whisker twitching. Obviously, Boo was no guard dog and Poobah had already shot his wad.

  “Mimi, can I at least count on you?”

  But Mimi was sprawled on a fuzzy rug, paws up, her little pink tongue lolling out the side of her mouth.

  Just my luck.

  And still the banging didn’t stop! And then, whoever was outside and wanted to get in grasped the doorknob and actually shook the door!

  “What to do, what to do?” Carmela muttered to herself.

  She crept up to the door, expecting it to be split open any minute by a crazed ax-wielding maniac.

  “Who is it?” Carmela shouted, not opening the door (no way!).

  “It’s me!”

  “Who’s me?” she called out in what she hoped was a sharp, authoritative voice.

  “It’s your nosy neighbor who just returned from her date from hell.”

  “Ava?” Really?

  Leaving the chain on, Carmela creaked open the door and pressed one eye to the narrow gap. And there, dear Lord, stood Ava. She was dressed in a frilly pink blouse and black leggings, perched on silver stilettos. She carried a matching silver purse that was roughly the size of a bread box.

  “Were you just in the alley before?” Carmela asked.

  “Before what?” Ava asked. She looked upset and a little bedraggled. One of her false eyelashes seemed to have come unglued. Actually, Ava looked a little unglued.

  “Never mind.” Carmela undid the chain and let Ava in. “Say, missy, why are you darkening my doorstep and scaring me half to death when you’re supposed to be out with . . . Wait one hot minute, did you just say date from hell?”

  Ava touched a hand to her forehead as if trying to figure out a response or stave off a migraine.

  “My date,” she said. “My date was beyond horrible. In fact, he broke new ground in the annals of horribleness.”

  “What are you talking about? Wait, would you like a drink?”

  “I’d like my own bottle.” Ava stepped over Mimi and followed Carmela into the kitchen.

  Carmela grabbed a bottle of wine and a corkscrew.

  “So what happened? What caused your evening to go off the rails so badly?”

  “First of all, the guy’s nickname was Tank. That alone should tell you something.”

  “He was an oil field roustabout? An automotive worker?”

  “No, I think he was on permanent sabbatical from any kind of meaningful employment. And he rode a motorcycle.”

  “That explains your windblown look.” Carmela popped the cork on a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, poured out two glasses of wine, and handed one to Ava.

  Ava took a long sip, then said, “You see my hair?”

  “It’s cute. Kind of a messy bun.”

  “It didn’t start out messy. But when you’re riding on the back of a 1200cc Harley, you’re at the mercy of the elements.”

  Carmela fought to stifle a grin. “So what else went wrong?”

  “Oh, she wants to hear more,” Ava said. “How about this? Tank’s knuckles practically dragged on the ground when he walked, and beneath his Day-Glo green shirt and puka shell necklace, I had the feeling his body was incredibly hairy.”

  “What about the concert?”

  “The concert was some broke-down rock band called the Four Wheezers. It was basically a bunch of swamp rats and a goat.”

  “A goat, really?”

  “The goat was metaphorical. But, cher, they were awful. Even Auto-Tune couldn’t have saved those guys.”

  “Huh, and you’d so hoped that your date—Tank?—was the cultured sort.”

  “I’m afraid the only culture in Tank’s life is a moldy carton of two-year-old banana-kiwi yogurt that’s undoubtedly stuck in the bottom drawer of his refrigerator.” Ava took another sip of wine. “And then we went out to eat.”

  “How was that?”

  “Ever been to Bonzo’s Diner?”

  Carmela shook her head. “Never. What’s it like?”

  “They oughta rename it the Road Kill Grill. From your grill to ours.”

  “I’m sorry your evening didn’t work out as you’d hoped.”

  But Ava was wound up and ready to vent.

  “Tank also criticized my choice of clothes. He said I wasn’t dressed up enough.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. That pink frilly blouse is straight out of, um, Frederick’s of Hollywood?”

  Ava tossed her head and gave an affirmative nod. “So I said to him, ‘Pardon me if I don’t look all spiffy like Kate Middleton going to Ascot.’”

  “Then what?” Carmela asked. Listening to Ava was fascinating. Almost as good as a really nasty political dustup on The View.

  “Just that I’m disappointed that Miss Penelope turned out to be such a fake and a fraud,” Ava spat out. “She got me to shell out twenty-nine ninety-five plus tax and I ended up with nada.”

  “That’s all she charged?”

  “It was still a rip-off!”

  “Come on into the living room and sit down,” Carmela urged. “Try to relax.”

  Ava plopped down on the leather chaise lounge. “I’m trying, believe me.”

  “Maybe a matchmaker isn’t the best way to go,” Carmela said.

  Ava bobbed her head. “That’s what I’m beginning to think. Shit happens when you put your trust in the wrong people.” She gave a wan smile. “I think that’s a direct quote by Kierkegaard. Or maybe it was one of the Kardashians. Anyway, I was thinking maybe I should try Spindr?”

  “Use a sketchy dating app?” Carmela was horrified. “You’ll end up with an ax murderer!”

  “Couldn’t be any worse than tonight’s date.”

  “Oh yes, it could.”

  “Well. Maybe.” Ava drew in a deep breath and let it out. Shook her head like Poobah when he came in from the rain. “There. I hope I’ve exorcized all the icky bad karma.”

  “Nothing like a good exorcism to set you straight again.”

  Ava settled back with her wine. “How’s your investigation coming? Anything new I should know about?”

  “Not really. T.J., Roy Sultan, and Richard Drake are still my main contenders, but I can’t seem to get a handle on any concrete evidence.”

  “It can’t be Drake,” Ava said.

  “Actually, it could be. You just don’t want it to be him. But what I’d really like to do is talk to Colonel Otis again. Really hold his feet to the fire.”

  “Pourquoi? Why?”

  “I get the feeling that Otis was more than a
little disgruntled with Devon. That he didn’t relish learning that an expensive painting he’d purchased was actually stolen merchandise. So . . . maybe there’s something there?”

  “Maybe,” Ava said as she pulled a Hostess Ding Dong out of her bag and started to unwrap it.

  “You’re going to eat that?”

  “When I’m nervous I snack.”

  “And wash all that sugar and fat down with a forty-dollar bottle of wine?” Carmela said as her phone rang. She grabbed her phone and said an offhand, “Hello?” She was fully expecting it to be Babcock.

  Instead, she got the surprise of her life.

  “I gotta talk to you,” a voice rasped. A voice she didn’t recognize, but one that carried an urgent, slightly nasal tone.

  “Who is this?” Carmela asked.

  “My name is Sonny Holmes.”

  “Sonny Boy Holmes?” Carmela yelped. Holy shit, it’s the art thief! she mouthed to Ava.

  “Hang up!” Ava cried in between bites.

  Carmela shook her head at Ava and said to Sonny Boy, “Why do you want to talk to me? Wait a minute, was that you in the alley before?” She wished she could somehow record this conversation so Babcock could hear it, too.

  “Alley?” Sonny Boy sounded confused.

  “Never mind,” Carmela said. “What do you want?”

  “Everything’s gotten completely out of hand,” Sonny Boy said. He sounded like he’d just run a four-minute mile with a bad head cold.

  “Excuse me, but I’m seriously not following you,” Carmela said. Her heart was blipping a million miles an hour. Was she right now talking to Devon’s killer? And what could she do about it? How could she somehow lure Sonny Boy in so Babcock could question him? Or maybe even apprehend him?

  “That safecracking thing . . . at Dulcimer Antiques?” Sonny Boy said. “That’s on me. Okay. That was a job I did. But murdering the poor antique guy? Definitely not my style. I’m a second-story guy, not a stone-cold killer!”

  “What are you . . . ?” Carmela began. Her mind was in a spin.

  “I can’t explain this over the phone.”

  “Wait. You’re telling me you didn’t murder Devon Dowling?”

  “I swear I didn’t touch a single hair on that man’s head.” Sonny Boy’s breath was coming in faster gulps now. “But I . . . I know who did.”

  “Then tell me!” Carmela cried.

  “I can’t. Not like this. You have to meet me somewhere.”

  “He wants to meet us,” Carmela whispered to Ava.

  Ava shook her head. No way.

  “Why me?” Carmela asked. “If you’re as innocent as you claim, why not go to the police? You could talk to . . .”

  “That won’t work,” Sonny Boy countered. “Ain’t no way I’m going to the police. I got a record that could land me back in Dixon Correctional. But I read about you in the paper and then I asked around. I know you’re real close with that Detective Babcock.”

  “Let me get this straight. You want to meet me and tell me who murdered Devon Dowling.” Carmela’s brain was racing, trying to figure out a next move. Sonny Boy sounded on the up-and-up. On the other hand, this could be a horrible, twisted trick. A trap. Come into my parlor said the spider to the fly.

  “The thing is, I ain’t gonna be anybody’s puppet anymore.”

  Carmela could almost feel her brain lighting up like a pinball machine as she immediately thought of Richard Drake. Was that who Sonny Boy was referring to when he said puppet? After all, Drake hung out with the Beastmaster Puppet people . . .

  “I don’t want to talk to your Detective Babcock face-to-face, but I need to get an important message to him,” Sonny Boy said. “There’s a whole lot he needs to know!”

  Carmela was scared, but she pulled it together and listened carefully as Sonny Boy gave her explicit instructions.

  “Well?” Ava said when Carmela got off the phone.

  “He wants to meet with us.”

  “Us?” Ava said.

  “Well, me,” Carmela said. “Tonight.”

  “I suppose he set up a meeting in a sleazy bar somewhere.”

  “He wants to meet in St. Louis Cemetery. Over in the Garden District.”

  Ava’s eyes got big. “No way.”

  “Listen to me, Ava. Sonny Boy Holmes wants to spill the beans about something.”

  Carmela could barely contain her excitement—or was it fear?

  “I think Sonny Boy Holmes knows exactly who killed Devon!”

  “It could be a trap,” Ava said.

  “That’s why I need you to come with me.”

  “Well jeez, Carmela.” Ava looked both nervous and undecided.

  Carmela picked up her car keys and jangled them. “If you’re not coming, I’ll go alone.”

  Ava groaned as she brushed a few crumbs off her blouse and stood up. “This goes against my better judgment. But this entire evening has been against my better judgment. So . . . what are we waiting for?”

  * * *

  * * *

  The wrought-iron gates of St. Louis Cemetery loomed like a sentinel in the darkness.

  “Spooky,” Ava said.

  “Cemeteries usually are,” Carmela said. Especially this one with its ancient mausoleums and cracked-oven tombs. It’s not a place I relish walking through at night.

  Ava stuck a hand out. “Hold my hand?”

  Carmela grabbed Ava’s hand as they walked through the gates and were immediately swallowed up in darkness.

  “There’s nothing to be afraid of,” Carmela said as they crunched along a gravel path with large tombs on either side of them. She knew she was whistling in the dark, and Ava knew it, too.

  “Only the fact that thousands of people are buried here, the place is absolutely haunted, and it’s supposed to be where the vampire Lestat is buried,” Ava said.

  There was a strange rustling sound and then a faint noise just above their heads. A soft who-woo.

  “What was that?” Ava asked. She wasn’t just jumpy, she was all atingle.

  “Probably an owl.”

  “Well, I don’t like it.”

  “Try thinking about something else,” Carmela said.

  “I am,” Ava said. “I’m remembering that this exact cemetery was featured on the Travel Channel’s America’s Most Haunted Places.”

  “Maybe not that kind of something else.”

  “Why are there so many clouds overhead?” Ava asked. “Why isn’t there moonlight shining down so we can see where we’re going?”

  “I don’t know.” Carmela looked up and saw only a roil of gray bubbles in the sky.

  They picked their way past an enormous mausoleum that featured stone pillars, elaborate wrought-iron bars, and two glass windows.

  “Is that set up so people can see in or to keep people out?” Ava asked.

  “Both,” Carmela said. It was true. Many of the old mausoleums had locked gates and glass windows. If you got up the nerve to brush away the dust and grime and then pressed your nose against those windows, you could peer in at decades-old moldering wooden coffins.

  “Where exactly are we supposed to meet this Sonny Boy?” Ava asked as they stumbled along.

  “He said to come in the main gate, walk straight ahead, and then turn when we got to the winged angel tomb.”

  “I think that’s the angel tomb up ahead.”

  “I think you’re right,” Carmela said. Her nerves were twanging like guitar strings now. She was scared but hopeful that something might come of this encounter.

  “Now what?” Ava was staring up at an angel with a bowed head and chipped wing.

  “Now we’re supposed to follow the circular path around to the obelisk tomb.”

  “That’s where we’re going to meet him?”

  “Supposedly,�
�� Carmela said.

  “Okay. But I sure hope this guy is a charmer.”

  “Ava, you can’t date him!”

  “Couldn’t be any worse than Tank,” Ava muttered.

  Clutching each other even tighter, Carmela and Ava tiptoed past tilting tombstones and gaping crypts. The wind had picked up, and the night air felt as though it were alive with spirits.

  “Over there?” Ava asked. They could just make out the obelisk straight ahead, its needlelike spire plunging skyward. “I don’t see anyone.”

  “Maybe we’re early,” Carmela whispered as they approached the tall tomb.

  “Maybe Sonny Boy’s not coming.”

  “Oh, he’ll be here.”

  They tiptoed toward the obelisk, scared out of their wits and moving oh-so-slowly.

  Just as they drew to within ten feet of the obelisk, the clouds slowly parted and a shaft of moonlight shone down like a key light on a darkened stage.

  “Do you see anything?” Ava asked as they stared at the obelisk that was now iced in moonlight.

  Carmela blinked. Were her eyes playing tricks on her? “I think he’s . . .”

  Sonny Boy was there all right. He was sitting on the grass, his back resting against the tomb and his legs sprawled out to either side of him.

  And even though Sonny Boy was staring straight ahead at them, it was quite obvious that his throat had been slit from ear to ear.

  Chapter 20

  HER teeth chattering so badly she could barely control her nervousness, Carmela immediately called Babcock’s cell. When it jumped to voice mail, she hung up.

  “Voice mail,” Carmela said.

  “Try another number!” Ava cried.

  She hurriedly punched the button. Thank goodness she had Babcock’s office phone on speed dial.

  The phone rang and rang, adding to her trepidation. Finally, when Carmela was about to give up, someone picked up and said, in a disinterested voice, “Officer Radcliffe.”

  Carmela fought to keep her words from becoming jumbled. “I’m trying to get hold of Detective Babcock, please. It’s an emergency!”