by Laura Childs
“Proximity is important,” Carmela said.
“It is except for the fact that we received an anonymous tip about his knife collection. A typed letter that was stuck on the windshield of Bobby Gallant’s car. And I rarely put much stock in anonymous tips.”
“Do you think the note was a deliberate misdirection?” Carmela asked.
“I think that’s exactly what it was.”
“So now what? You’re saying that talking to Colonel Otis was just a wild-goose chase. That somebody set you up?”
“Maybe they set me up and maybe they tried to set up Colonel Otis. I don’t know, but this kind of thing makes me a little crazy,” Babcock said.
“It’s serving to intensify the search,” Carmela said. “So that’s good.”
“No, things are too intense as it is. I just received a call from the mayor, and he wants to hold a press conference to announce that we apprehended Dowling’s killer last night.”
“Technically, you didn’t apprehend him,” Carmela said. “All you found—or, rather, I found—was another dead guy. Who may or may not be connected in a tertiary way.”
“This whole case has become very tricky. Everybody wants to spin the story a different way.” Babcock paused. “Including the mayor.”
“That doesn’t sound good. Can you convince the mayor to hold off on his press conference?” Carmela asked.
“Maybe. Hopefully. I’m going to try my darnedest.”
“Do the police have anything? Anything at all?” Carmela asked.
Babcock hesitated. “No. It’s all smoke and mirrors and PR right now.”
“And wishful thinking.”
Silence spun out for a few moments, then Babcock said, “I thought you had an appointment to look at wedding gowns today.”
“I do. In fact, I’m leaving in a few minutes,” Carmela lied.
“Have fun, sweetheart. I’m sure you’ll look beautiful in all of the dresses.”
Feeling a tinge of guilt, Carmela hung up the phone and immediately called Ava.
“What are you doing right now?” she asked when Ava answered.
“Um. Unpacking my new line of organic voodoo dolls?”
“Is Miguel working today?” Miguel was Ava’s assistant.
“He’s here.”
“Can you bug out early?”
“What is this, twenty questions?”
“Here’s the deal. I kind of told Babcock I was going wedding gown shopping today.”
Ava screamed so loudly that Carmela was forced to hold the phone away from her ear.
“Wedding gown shopping?” Ava screeched again at the top of her lungs, sounding like an injured banshee.
“It brings you that much joy? Or was that a cry of pain? Another single lady bites the dust?”
“No, I’m totally thrilled!” Ava said. “Be still my heart. This is big . . . no, this is huge! I’m in. Where are we headed, cher?”
“I thought maybe Amour Couture over on Dumaine Street. Do you think you can peel yourself away from your voodoo dolls and meet me there in twenty minutes?”
“You got it, chickadee!”
Gabby was staring at Carmela when she hung up the phone. Her eyes sparkled, her nose fairly quivered.
“You’re really going to shop for a wedding gown?” Gabby asked. “Really?”
“That seems to be the consensus. Should we close early so you can come along? You know I’d love your opinion, even if you are the calm, rational one.”
“Yes, I want to go!” Gabby cried. Then she threw up both hands and waved them in the air. “Wait, no! I shouldn’t. I can’t.” She pursed her lips and made a lemon face. “You know what, Carmela? The truth is, I’d rather wait and be surprised. I want to hold out until the big day arrives. Then I can gasp at the full cinematic effect when you finally walk down the aisle.”
“That’s very sweet of you. But what if there’s not a traditional aisle to walk down? What if Babcock and I don’t get married in a church? What if it’s—oh, I don’t know—a riverboat?”
“Please don’t do that,” Gabby cried. “Please think about the dead fish and the disruptive tugboat toots.”
“Okay, no boat. I promise.”
“But the walking-down-the-aisle thing, that’s no problem, Carmela. I’m sure you’ll find the perfect venue. And I’m totally overjoyed that you’re finally taking this wedding seriously.”
“You’re sure you don’t want to come along?”
Gabby shook her head. “I’m seriously into delayed gratification. But if you want help picking out earrings or veils or even a venue, you know I’m happy to lend a hand!”
* * *
* * *
Amour Couture was a small, elegant jewel box of a shop. Lot of shiny black accents against white carpets, white walls, and (obviously!) white dresses. Even the sales lady, who welcomed them and introduced herself as Greta Mignon, was wearing a sleek, size two, black skirt suit. With her blond hair scraped back into a tight chignon accented with a black bow, Greta appeared practically ageless, anywhere from forty to sixty.
“Congratulations,” Greta said to Carmela. “Welcome. It’s always an honor to help a new bride select her bridal gown.” She sat Carmela and Ava down in white club chairs, gave them each a glass of champagne, and said, “What type of ceremony do you have planned?”
“That’s still up in the air,” Carmela said.
Clearly, Greta was familiar with this type of on-the-fence answer from a would-be bride, because she segued skillfully into her second question: “Then what kind of bride are you, my dear?”
“Nervous?” Carmela said.
Greta laughed merrily. “Of course you are. You’re taking a huge step. What I meant was, do you picture yourself as a barefoot, on-the-beach, bohemian bride? Or perhaps a classic church-and- country-club bride? Or is your style more romantic or sexy or even trendy?”
“Sexy,” Ava said. “Definitely sexy.”
“Romantic?” Carmela said. She wasn’t sure what that meant, but it sounded nice. Like something Babcock would approve of.
“Spoilsport,” Ava muttered.
Greta beamed at Carmela. “And what style of dress do you want to try on? Are you looking for a ball gown, a fit and flare, perhaps a mermaid style, or . . . ?”
“Ball gown,” Ava said. “But extremely low-cut.”
“Mmn, something simple and elegant,” Carmela said.
“She means boring and conservative,” Ava said. “Carmela’s not exactly an edgy leather and lace chick. But since I’m gonna be her maid of honor, you can count on me to add a dash of cheekiness to the ceremony.”
“I’m sure that will be lovely,” Greta said.
Carmela went into the dressing room and tried on a poufy ball gown–style dress. When she saw her image in the mirror, she laughed out loud and said, “This is way too over-the-top. I look like I should be climbing into a pumpkin coach at midnight.”
“It reminds me of that creepy Marie Antoinette puppet,” Ava said.
“Then get me out of this thing!” Carmela cried as Greta rushed to help.
“I never thought I’d say this, cher, but you do gotta go a lot simpler,” Ava said.
But the cream-colored A-line dress Carmela tried on was too simple, and a blush-colored fit and flare was just too weird.
“This is starting to feel like ‘Goldilocks and the Three Bears,’” Carmela said to Ava when Greta dashed off in search of more dresses. “One’s too hard, one’s too soft. Hopefully, there’ll be one that’s just right.”
“You’ll find the perfect dress,” Ava said. “I know you will. But while we’re at it, I did a little digging of my own.” She hastily produced a purple floor-length gown festooned with tiers of cheetah print ruffles. “What about this for my maid of honor dress?”
“It’s great if you don
’t mind being mistaken for Miss Kitty at the Long Branch Saloon,” Carmela said. “Ava, honey, if you’re going to be my maid of honor—or even my maid of dishonor—you’ve got to look halfway weddingish.”
Ava gave a thumbs-up. “Gotcha. I guess we need to kind of meld our styles.”
“Something like that, yes.”
Ava pulled out a red halter dress with a beaded waist. “Now this one’s totally gorgeous. Very Grecian.”
“Which is wonderful if we’re going to dance to bouzouki music and smash plates. But we’re not.”
“Still too much?”
Carmela nodded her head in the affirmative.
“Are we having any luck?” Greta asked from the doorway of the fitting room.
Both Carmela and Ava shook their heads.
“Why don’t you try this?” Greta said, handing a gown to Carmela. “It’s very romantic in its styling. Very popular with brides today.”
But when Carmela put it on, Ava laughed out loud at the puffy sleeves and high lace neck.
“Cher, you look like one of those spooky old-fashioned dolls. You know the ones that come alive and try to strangle you?”
“Thanks a lot,” Carmela said.
It was a good thing Greta stepped in to save the day.
“I don’t know if this is exactly your style,” Greta said, “but I’ve got a wedding gown that’s . . . shall we say, rather special?”
“More special than this one?” Carmela asked. Even she had to laugh at the lace insets and flowing sash.
“Let’s see whatcha got,” said Ava.
Greta’s choice turned out to be a backless halter dress with a touch of lace on the bodice and a free-flowing skirt.
“I like it,” Carmela said once she had it on.
“It’s a little bit Marilyn,” Ava said. “Plus, it’s always nice to show a hint of skin.”
“This is more than a hint,” Greta said.
Carmela positioned herself in the three-way mirror. “It’s glam, but not revealing in a bad way.”
“Do you think you’d want to wear a long veil?” Greta asked.
Carmela shook her head.
“How about adding a bustle,” Ava suggested. “Give Carmela a touch more booty.”
“No, thanks,” Carmela said.
“I think maybe . . . a blusher veil?” Greta said as she slipped a small ivory headpiece onto Carmela’s head. “It’s literally called a tulle birdcage veil. And, as you can see, this one’s sprinkled with small crystals.”
Carmela stared at herself in the mirror. The dress looked absolutely gorgeous, and the tulle veil, which barely covered her eyes and nose, lent the perfect accent.
“Ooh!” Ava squealed. “I love how that veil adds a special hint of mystery!”
Mystery? Me? Carmela thought.
“You look very beautiful,” Greta said to Carmela.
“You do,” Ava said. “It’s perfection.”
Carmela glanced at herself in the mirror, checking every angle. Then she nodded her head slowly as a beatific smile spread slowly across her face. “You’re right, it’s perfect.”
Chapter 23
CARMELA watched as Ava poked and prodded her way through an assortment of paints, powders, eye shadows, and lipsticks that she’d dumped out on top of her dining room table.
“Where’s that scintillating lipstick I bought at my friend Tinsley’s makeup party last week?” Ava asked as her fingertips danced across a dozen golden tubes. “The one called Infrared?”
“You sure we have to get all glammed up?” Carmela asked. “Can’t we just dab on a little bit of mascara? Or skip it and go au naturel?”
“Au naturel means boring and bland, cupcake. Don’t you want to convey a sense of fabulosity when you judge the gumbo cook-off tonight?”
“You really think a bunch of gumbo foodies are going to care what I look like?” Carmela asked. “Won’t they be too busy stuffing their faces and demanding more okra?”
“And then there’s the Most Eligible Bachelor Auction afterward,” Ava reminded her in no uncertain terms.
Carmela winced. She’d forgotten about that. Tried to forget anyway.
“The Bachelor Auction. Crap. I suppose I should try to look a little better than whatever poor, unsuspecting woman is the high bidder for Shamus.”
“Frankly, I don’t know who’d even want to bid on Shamus. It’s not like he’s a prize catch or anything,” Ava said.
“It’s all about the money,” Carmela said. “Shamus has that air of eau de bankroll wafting about him.”
“Yeah, that can be a potent draw. But, seriously, is Shamus even technically a bachelor?”
“He is for charitable purposes. He’s going to be someone’s tax deduction.”
“Maybe Shamus’s bad boy reputation will precede him and nobody will bid on him,” Ava said. “Or you can turn the tables and bid on him.” She gave a wicked cackle.
“Been there, done that,” Carmela said.
“But if you won, you could force Shamus to do all sorts of odious chores. You know, like defrost the freezer or clean the vegetable drawer. Pick up dog poop.”
“Let’s get back to the makeup,” Carmela said.
“Gotcha.”
Ava smoothed foundation over Carmela’s face, then applied a light dusting of powder.
“I’m giving you a slightly darker look,” she said. “To make you look a trifle exotic.”
“Just don’t use that baby blue eye shadow on me, okay? Last time you made me up I looked like some kind of weird cross between a Stepford wife and a Dresden doll.”
Ava gently smoothed eye shadow onto Carmela’s lids with a finger.
“I’m using a color called Serpentine Green,” Ava said.
“Sounds weird.”
“No, it’s gorgeous and very blendable. Now hold perfectly still while I apply a touch of mascara.”
Carmela held still. She felt the mascara go on and then something like spiders touching her lashes. Was it a second coat of mascara?
“What is that?” she asked.
“Big surprise,” Ava said.
“I’m not really in the mood for surprises.” Carmela reached for a hand mirror, held it up, and gasped. “Ava! What did you do?”
“Like it?”
“My eyes look like tarantulas!”
“No, no, sweetie, they look magnetic. Because they are magnetic.”
“What?”
“They’re the newest, hottest beauty trend. Magnetic eyelashes. You see? There are two sets of lashes, each with tiny magnets in them. You just snap them on over your own scraggly lashes and, voilà! Instant sexy bedroom eyes.”
“And these will stay on?”
Carmela was studying her eyelashes in the mirror and (strangely) starting to get used to them. They did make her eyes look huge and exotic. Maybe that was a good thing?
“They’ll stay on just fine,” Ava said. “But because they’re magnetic, maybe you shouldn’t get too close to a metal doorframe. Or a power line. Or hold a fork near your eye. Just in case. You know what I mean?”
“Ava!”
“Kidding. I’m kidding. See, I’m wearing them myself and they look fabulous.” Ava batted her lashes at about fifty flits a second. “Okay, let’s move on to your wardrobe.”
“Camel sweater and beige slacks?” Carmela said.
Ava stuck out her tongue and made a gagging sound. “Good thing I brought along a wardrobe bag stuffed full of goodies.”
“But nothing too outrageous.” Ava had once convinced Carmela to wear a sequined zebra-striped dress. It had taken months to live that fashion disaster down.
“I’m thinking va-va-voom combined with a bit of down home.”
“I don’t know what that means,” Carmela said.
�
��A gold sequined jacket paired with blue jeans,” Ava said.
“Really?” Carmela wasn’t exactly blown away. In fact, it sounded like a weird combo.
But Ava was insistent. “Try it. For me.”
So Carmela did. She dug out a pair of soft, faded, light blue denim jeans, added a black tank top, and then put on the sequined jacket. The pairing looked . . . amazing.
“Wow,” Carmela said as she stared at herself in her smoky mirror and saw a very fashion-forward girl looking back at her.
“You see how cute you look?” Ava said. “Very high-low. All the celebs are doing it. I’m forever seeing photos in Star Whacker magazine. Blue jeans with a Dior jacket. A plain white T-shirt with silk pants and Manolo heels.”
“Are you going to do this high-low thing, too?” Carmela asked. Right now, Ava was wearing skintight white silk slacks with a low-cut black top.
“I’m going to do high-high,” Ava said. She reached into her bag and pulled out a red leather jacket. When she put it on and snapped two buttons closed, the jacket snugged her like a kid glove.
“You’re not going to be able to snarf down all the different gumbos if you’re wearing that outfit,” Carmela said. “It doesn’t look like you can even breathe.”
Ava shrugged. “How many entries can there be?”
* * *
* * *
That question was answered the moment they entered the Enchantment Ballroom at the Marquis Hotel. The mingled aroma of shrimp, crab, okra, sausage, Cajun spices, bay leaves, thyme, and filé gumbo powder hovered in a roiling cloud of foodie perfume. Gigantic pots of gumbo steamed like slumbering volcanoes as samples were doled out by proud chefs wearing crisp white jackets and toques.
“Good gravy,” Ava cried. “Looks like the gang’s all here.”
At first glance they saw that Bayou Betty’s, Bing Bang’s Gumbo, Black Bottom Gumbo, and McTooth’s Café were all represented. And there were lots more restaurant booths scattered throughout the room.
“I wonder if Quigg is here, too?” Carmela said. Quigg’s chefs served up some mean gumbos at all three of his restaurants.
“He’s a serious player so he has to be here,” Ava said. “And take a look at this crowd. Lots of pretty people all jammed elbow to armpit.”