Mumbo Gumbo Murder

by Laura Childs

  Carmela gazed out over the enormous, jostling crowd. People shuffled from booth to booth, tasting gumbo, drinking beer, greeting friends, and having a generally raucous time. In one corner of the room, a zydeco group stood on a raised bandstand and pounded out traditional rhythms.

  “Helen told me this was a major Jazz Fest event,” Carmela said. “How is it we never hit this up before?”

  Ava shrugged. “Dunno. But we’re here now, so let’s dig in.”

  “Carmela! Oh, Carmela!”

  Carmela turned to find Helen McBride, the editor in chief of Glutton for Punishment, making a beeline for her. Her orangey-red hair was usually frizzy, but today the frizz was supersized due to the industrial-strength humidity hanging in the air. Helen’s mouth was turned down in a frown, she’d bitten off all her lipstick, and she was dressed in her usual go-to sports gear—a hoodie top and yoga pants.

  “Helen,” Carmela said.

  “There you are.” Helen touched a hand to her forehead in a theatrical gesture. “Thank goodness. I need to round up my judges and get this party started.”

  “You remember my friend Ava?” Carmela said.

  “Ava. Sure,” Helen said. “In fact, I got something for you.” She shoved a wristband into Ava’s hands. “Snap this on, honey, and then you won’t need to buy any tickets for the gumbo or beer tastings.”

  “Hot dang!” Ava said.

  “And you, my little kumquat,” Helen said, grabbing Carmela’s arm and pinching it hard. “You need to come with me.”

  Helen dragged Carmela through the crowd toward a judges’ table in the corner.

  “Nancy!” Helen called out.

  A blond woman in a black body-con dress turned and smiled.

  “Carmela, meet Nancy Eggers,” Helen said. “Nancy does restaurant reviews on KLEZ radio. Freelances with us sometimes as well.”

  “Hi,” Carmela said as she shook hands with Nancy. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Carmela here is a local entrepreneur and foodie. She’s a partner in that new wine bar with Quigg Brevard.”

  “Actually, I’m just helping him out,” Carmela said. “No strings attached.”

  “Lovely to meet you anyway,” Nancy said.

  “And where is . . . Oh, there you are,” Helen said. “Roy, get your behind over here, will you?”

  A silver-haired man turned to face them, and Carmela recognized his jowls instantly. It was Roy Sultan, the real estate developer.

  Carmela and Roy stared at each other for a few long moments, until Helen began barking orders.

  “Here are your badges, judging sheets, and clipboards,” Helen said, handing them a packet of materials. “And first things first, please stick on your shiny bright OFFICIAL JUDGE badges.”

  Everyone complied.

  “Now remember the golden rule of gumbo.” Helen held up an index finger. “It has to have the consistency of stew, not soup. If it’s soupy, it’s out!”

  The judges nodded and Roy Sultan made a move to start for the restaurant tables, but Helen reined him back.

  “Do not forget,” Helen said, “that gumbo is Louisiana’s state cuisine. So it’s imperative that we recognize only the very best of the best and do Louisiana proud!”

  There were mumbled okays from the three judges.

  Helen cocked a knowing eye at them. “Some of the gumbos represented here are Cajun gumbos and some are Creole gumbos. Do you people understand the major difference?”

  This time the mumbles were indistinct.

  “Tomatoes,” Helen said, enunciating carefully as if she were doing after-school remedial instruction to a class of dummies. “Creole gumbo includes tomato, Cajun does not. Got that?”

  Everyone understood.

  “One last thing,” Helen said. “I want you to cast your personal preferences aside for now. I don’t care if squirrel meat makes you puke, or crab or Gulf shrimp gives you a case of hives. You are here to judge the overall quality and flavor of each dish without any personal bias. Is that clear?”

  Carmela had the sudden urge to salute.

  “And remember our judging parameters. Hot, spicy, and zingy.” Helen clapped her hands together. “Now let’s get out there and do this!”

  * * *

  * * *

  Carmela started out at Bluefish Bob’s booth. Here the gumbo was piquant and spicy, a dark, flavorful roux filled with seafood and sausage. On a scale of one to ten, she rated it an eight.

  Moving on to La Belle Bistro, Carmela found herself tasting a wonderful duck and sausage gumbo. This gumbo was served with a side of rice. Probably a nine because she was so fond of duck, although she wasn’t supposed to let her personal preferences enter in. But how could she not?

  Carmela continued to methodically work her way from booth to booth, tasting every gumbo and marking her scores. It was warm, noisy, crowded, and getting even more crowded in the ballroom, so she was pleased to be wearing her JUDGE sticker. No pesky waiting in line!

  Ava came up and nudged Carmela while she was sampling a spoonful of Bayou Betty’s gumbo.

  “How you doin’?” Ava asked. She waved a hand in front of her mouth. “Need a Pepcid AC yet?”

  “I’m getting there,” Carmela said. She’d tasted something like fourteen gumbos and still had thirteen more to go.

  “Me, I’m cooling my gumbo afterburn with a few sloshes of Abita Beer.”

  “Lucky you,” Carmela said.

  “Have you tried Quigg’s gumbo yet?” Ava asked.

  Carmela shook her head. “No. Is he here?”

  Ava glanced to her left. “I don’t see . . . Wait. Yes, I do. He’s not only standing inside the Mumbo Gumbo booth, he’s waving at us to come over.”

  “You don’t need to taste all those other gumbos,” Quigg said to Carmela when she approached his booth. “Ours is hands-down, smack-yo-momma the best. One taste and you can’t help but give us the trophy.” He paused. “What’s wrong with your eyes?”

  “Nothing,” Carmela said. “Eye makeup, that’s all.”

  “It looks weird.”

  “Can we just taste the gumbo?” Ava asked.

  “Whatever,” Quigg said as he turned to his chef, a behemoth African American man named Bernie who’d been named a top chef several times by the food critic at the Times-Picayune. “Bernie, let’s give these ladies a bowl of gumbo, shall we? And let’s supersize ’em.”

  “I only need a taste,” Carmela said.

  “That’s all it takes,” Bernie said with a wink. “One taste and you’ll be hooked for good.”

  “You want me to hold your clipboard while you eat?” Quigg asked, trying to read what she’d written on her scorecard. “Here, hand that puppy over.”

  “No way,” Carmela said. “You’ll cheat.”

  Quigg gave her an injured look. “Me? Never.”

  “Yes, you would!” Carmela and Ava cried out together while Bernie just chuckled.

  * * *

  * * *

  Carmela finished making her rounds, winding up at Black Bottom Gumbo for her final tasting. She was sampling their sausage and okra gumbo just as Roy Sultan lurched up, bumped into her, and almost caused her to spill her bowl of gumbo.

  “You done yet?” Sultan asked her. “Made it to every booth?” He was red-faced and sweating, clearly struggling to get through the tastings.

  “All done,” Carmela said, trying to keep her voice even.

  “I got one more to go. This one.” Sultan accepted a bowl of gumbo, then set it down on the counter, untouched, as he mopped his brow with a hanky and rolled his eyes. “Hope it’s not too hot. All these spices and peppers give me dyspepsia. You know there’s actually a pepper called a Carolina Reaper? And one called a Trinidad Scorpion?”

  “Guess so,” Carmela said. She’d finished her tasting and was now marking scores o
n her sheet, trying to ignore him.

  “You don’t like me much, do you?” Sultan edged in closer, his voice tinged with disdain. “You don’t trust me.”

  “Why would I?” Carmela said. “After you tried to oust Devon.”

  Or maybe you were the one who killed him.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Carmela saw Ava sneaking up on them. Ava had an evil grin on her face as she reached out, grabbed a bottle of Bayou Blow Torch Hot Sauce, and squirted a giant helping into Sultan’s bowl of gumbo.

  “I’m a good judge of character, girly,” Sultan snarled. He turned back to his bowl, picked it up, and shoveled an enormous spoonful of gumbo into his mouth. “I suppose you think you’re a smart . . .”

  That was all Sultan managed to get out. The rest of his words turned into a cacophony of piteous gags and urps.

  Perspiration rolled off his forehead, his face took on a pinched, severely pained expression, and his voice rose three octaves to a high-pitched rasp. “Holy flaming balls of . . . aaagh!”

  Sultan clutched at his throat with both hands and staggered away as Carmela and Ava stood there and laughed themselves silly.

  Chapter 24

  “THAT was a good one, huh, cher?” Ava asked. She was still laughing as they headed for the judges’ table. “Roy Sultan looked like he was about to blow a gasket.”

  “He was acting like a real jerk, so the hot sauce was a timely move on your part,” Carmela agreed. “Thank you.”

  “That’s what friends are for.”

  Helen saw them coming and said to Carmela, “Did you visit every booth? Taste every single gumbo? Do you have your scores ready?”

  “Here you go,” Carmela said, handing over her score sheet. “And, cross my heart, I tasted every one of them.”

  Helen quickly scanned Carmela’s score sheet. “This is quite interesting,” she said. “Your marks pretty much jibe with what Nancy thought, too. I think we might end up having a clear winner.” She looked up, frowned, and said, “Where the hell is Roy Sultan? Why hasn’t he turned in his scores?”

  “I think he might be indisposed,” Ava said, which sent her into a fit of snorts and giggles.

  Helen set off in search of the elusive Mr. Sultan and returned five minutes later with his score sheet.

  “You weren’t kidding when you said he was indisposed,” Helen said. “Holy cow, I had to go and . . . well, never mind all that. I’ve got his scores now.” She grabbed a pencil, made a few marks, and did some quick addition. “Yup, good, it’s pretty much a consensus.”

  “So whose gumbo is the grand prize winner?” Ava asked.

  But Helen had already grabbed a large gold trophy and was marching purposefully toward the bandstand. She drew a hand across her neck in the universal “cut” sign, and the band immediately stopped playing. Helen jumped onstage and grabbed the microphone.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” her voice rang out. “On behalf of Glutton for Punishment, New Orleans’s favorite webzine for all things fabulous and foodie, I want to thank you all for coming here tonight to support our Roux the Night Gumbo Cook-Off.”

  The crowd, stuffed to the max with beer, gumbo, and bonhomie, cheered wildly. A few people whistled, and someone in the back of the room let loose a wild man howl.

  “I especially want to thank our intrepid judges who made it . . . well, most of them did anyway . . . to all twenty-seven of our outstanding gumbo booths.”

  Ava nudged Carmela’s arm. “Hah.”

  “And to all our restaurant participants, we are so thrilled to have you here to share your unique gumbo recipes with us. Now, without further ado,” Helen said, “I’m delighted to present our grand prize trophy to Bayou Betty’s, who received an overall perfect score of thirty points!”

  There was more loud cheering as Betty Martine, of Bayou Betty’s, hurried up to the bandstand to accept her trophy.

  “Now can you have a drink?” Ava asked Carmela. “Or is your tummy too full and urpy?”

  “I definitely need something cool to soothe my throat and innards,” Carmela said. She waved a hand in front of her mouth. “I do believe that was the most servings of gumbo I ever ate at one time.”

  “Say now,” said Ava. “I parlez-vous’d with a couple of sous chefs from Black Bottom Gumbo, and they were asking if we’d like to get together and have a drink with them later. Whadya think?”

  “Seriously?”

  “Hey, I’m just asking. I’m just the messenger.”

  “Black Bottom boys no, hit the bar yes,” Carmela said as they pushed their way through the throng, finally ending up at a busy three-sided bar.

  “How can I help you ladies?” asked one of the bartenders. He wore a white shirt, black vest, bolo tie, and a name tag that said FRANKIE.

  “Whatever’s cold and wet,” Carmela said.

  “Ditto,” Ava said.

  “We got Abita, NOLA Blonde, Crescent City Pilsner, and Turbodog,” Frankie said.

  “Gimme a Turbodog!” a voice called out.

  Carmela glanced sideways and immediately saw T.J. standing there. He was swaying slightly and looked like he’d been hammering back drinks all night long.

  “Three Turbodogs,” Carmela told Frankie. Then she turned and said, “T.J. How do.”

  “Ayup,” T.J. said, nodding at her, his eyes slightly glazed.

  “What brings you here, cupcake?” Ava asked as Frankie slid three bottles of beer across the counter to them. She tossed down a twenty and told him, “Keep the change.”

  “T.J.,” Carmela said as she passed out the beers. “You look a little down in the mouth.” Actually, T.J. looked incredibly despondent and depressed. But maybe that’s because he’d been drinking? He didn’t seem to have much capacity to hold his liquor.

  “You’d be feeling down, too, if you’d just been fired from your job,” T.J. said, his tone slightly aggressive.

  “You mean at Dulcimer Antiques?” Ava asked.

  “Mr. Dowling’s brother has decided to close the shop for good. I told him we could relocate and I could run it, that I had all the necessary skills, but he said no.”

  “Just no? Just like that?” Ava asked.

  “Well, it was ‘no, thanks,’ but a very indifferent ‘no, thanks,’ if you ask me,” T.J. said. “I don’t think he minded putting me clean out of a job. Maybe he even enjoyed it.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Carmela said.

  Am I really? Maybe yes, maybe no.

  “What’s going to happen to all of Devon’s beautiful merchandise?” Carmela asked.

  T.J. took a swig of beer and let his shoulders droop. “It’s all going to be transferred to a shop owned by one of Devon’s friends, Charles Chittendon of Victoriana Antiques.”

  “Oh, sure, I know Charles,” Carmela said. “Is there any chance you could get a job with him?”

  T.J. shook his head. “Nope, already tried. Interviewed with Mr. Chittendon and everything, but it’s a no-go.”

  “That’s a tough break,” Ava said.

  “Anyway,” T.J. continued, “Mr. Chittendon will be selling all of Mr. Dowling’s pieces on commission. These last couple of days, I’ve been working my fingers to the bone, sorting and packing objects like crazy. Trying to find any descriptions and paperwork that Mr. Dowling might have kept on the various objects.” He took another swig of beer and swayed slightly. “Mr. Dowling wasn’t the best record keeper.” T.J. squinted at Carmela. “And that guy who was helping with the judging tonight? Mr. Sultan, the landlord?”

  “What about him?” Carmela asked.

  “He’s been on my ass telling me to hurry up and clean up the place. You have no idea how much clutter there is. I mean, just the paper alone!” T.J. slapped a hand against his forehead. “Devon was a collector of . . . well, I guess a dedicated scrapbooker like yourself would probably call it ephemera.�
��

  Carmela’s ears perked up. “Is that so? Ephemera? Really?”

  “You can’t imagine all the paper and labels and old maps and foreign postage stamps and wrapping materials that Mr. Dowling had saved over the years he’d been there,” T.J. said. “I’m afraid he was a bit of a clutter bug. To my eyes, it’s all trash can worthy.”

  “You know, I’m teaching a Paper University class next week, and I’d love a chance to go through all of that paper stuff before you toss it in the Dumpster,” Carmela said.

  “Come over tomorrow afternoon then,” T.J. said as he wandered away. “You’re welcome to it. Oh.” He hoisted his beer. “Thanks for the beer.”

  “Holy macaroni,” Ava said. “That kid is really bummed.”

  “Maybe he’s got a guilty conscience.”

  Ava lifted an eyebrow. “You think?”

  “I don’t know. I wish I knew, but I don’t.”

  “You’ll figure it out, you always do,” Ava said. “In the meantime, we need to go spy on Shamus.”

  Carmela smiled. “That auction might be good for a laugh or two.”

  * * *

  * * *

  A tuxedo-clad man with shaggy gray hair and a walrus mustache greeted them at the door of the River Vista Room.

  “Good evening, ladies. And welcome to our Most Eligible Bachelor Auction,” the man said. “The bidding just started a few minutes ago, so there are still many fine gentlemen available.”

  “How many guys in total?” Ava asked.

  “A dozen of New Orleans’s finest young men,” the man said, giving them a wink. He handed them numbered voting paddles and programs with bachelor bios, and then said, “That’ll be twenty dollars. Each.”

  “You mean we have to pay?” Ava asked.

  “It’s a fund-raiser,” the man said.

  Carmela and Ava paid their entry fee and stepped into the room.

  “Holy crap,” Ava said under her breath as they gazed about. “This reminds me of a middle school dance.”