Mumbo Gumbo Murder

by Laura Childs

  “A quiet table, if you’ve got one,” Carmela said.

  “Certainly.” He led them to a discreet corner table, pulled out two bentwood mahogany chairs, and seated them.

  “This table would be perfect if you were a private eye on some kind of stakeout,” Ava said. “You can see the whole room from here.”

  “But it’s also fairly inconspicuous,” Carmela said as she slid the bag holding Mimi under the table.

  Ava scanned the menu, then picked up the wine list. “Water isn’t going to do it for me today.”

  The waiter was immediately at their table. “An aperitif?” he asked.

  “More like wine,” Ava said. “Mmn, what have you got in a light rosé?”

  “May I recommend a glass of our Côtes de Provence Rosé?”

  “Perfect,” Ava said. “Carmela?”

  “Ditto,” Carmela said.

  “Very good,” said the waiter.

  “It better be,” Ava said.

  Carmela studied the menu. “No gumbo today.”

  “No gumbo for a while,” Ava decreed. “I had to lay flat on my bed this morning to button these jeans.”

  “So just a salad?”

  “Maybe . . . although everything here is so nice and tasty.”

  The waiter brought their wine and took their orders. Carmela opted for the eggs Sardou, a house specialty, while Ava hemmed and hawed, but finally ordered the rather lavish crab cakes with Creole horseradish sauce.

  When the waiter brought their luncheon entrées, Ava waited until he’d left and then said, “That was some crazy shit that went down last night, huh?”

  “I had nightmares,” Carmela said. Her dreams had been filled with images of flashing knife blades, driving through fog her headlights couldn’t pierce, and the terrible screech of metal against concrete.

  “I dreamed I bought a new jumpsuit but it didn’t fit,” Ava said.

  Carmela took a delicate bite of egg and artichoke. “I’m still puzzling over who chased us last night. Clearly, it had to be one of our suspects.”

  “Or somebody who was at the party?”

  “Somehow I don’t think Colonel Otis left his guests so he could get his jollies by terrorizing us.”

  “Then who?” Ava asked.

  “T.J.?”

  “We’ll be seeing him in a little while. Maybe he’ll look guilty as sin and it’ll be case closed.”

  “Roy Sultan’s still in play,” Carmela said. “Or it could be . . .”

  “Please don’t say Richard Drake. Honestly, cher, could a vicious killer look that handsome?”

  “I see your point, I really do. But it could be him.”

  “If I got to know him better, I could do a little espionage for you.” Ava batted her lashes.

  “Don’t you dare. I can’t afford to lose my BFF.”

  Ava scraped up a bit of sauce with her fork. “On another note, is Babcock still steamed at you?”

  “I haven’t talked to him today, but you make an excellent point.” Carmela pulled out her phone and speed-dialed his number. “Let’s find out.”

  He answered on the first ring. “Babcock.”

  “You sound tense,” Carmela said. “I may have a cure for that.”

  “Just as long as it doesn’t involve a high-speed chase,” Babcock said.

  “Say, thanks bunches for getting my tire fixed.”

  “It’s just one of the complimentary concierge services available from the NOPD.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course not. We’d rather just bash you over the head with a rifle butt and haul you into jail.”

  “I heard that,” Ava said. “Tell him I heard that.”

  “What are you up to today?” Babcock asked. “Staying out of trouble, I hope.”

  “Ava and I are having brunch, then she’s going to help me dive into a pile of old paper and stamps. I’m on the hunt for some ephemera.” Carmela didn’t mention the fact that the old paper was at Devon Dowling’s antique shop. “What are you doing?”

  “Right now, I’m pacing up and down the corridor outside the mayor’s office. I’ve been here for more than an hour with no end in sight.”

  “Impressive. You two must be best buds,” Carmela said. “You got him to hold off on that press conference yesterday, so he must really trust you.”

  “You’re kidding, right? All I got was a stay of execution. The mayor still plans to hold a press conference tonight to announce that Dowling’s killer has been apprehended. He thinks residents as well as tourists will relax when he tells them the ‘French Quarter crisis’ is over.”

  “I don’t get it. Shouldn’t he be announcing that Sonny Boy Holmes was found dead?”

  “He’s kind of glossing over that part.”

  “How do you gloss over a dead body?” Carmela asked.

  “Chalk it up to myopic politics?” Babcock said.

  Ava aimed a fork at Carmela. “Tell him I heard that, too.”

  Carmela couldn’t hide her confusion. “But do you think Sonny Holmes was Devon’s killer?”

  “To be honest, I don’t know what to think right now. All I know is that I have to convince the mayor to hold off on his press conference for a little while longer until I get this thing figured out.”

  “Are you? Will you?” Carmela asked.

  “That remains to be seen. On a related note, we got the results back from the lab on that fabric snippet.”

  “You mean the piece from Abraham Lincoln’s coat?”

  “More like Joe Lincoln’s coat.”

  “You mean it’s a fake?” Carmela asked.

  “Turns out the fabric’s not old enough. The lab techs found traces of synthetic fibers.”

  “So everybody’s there working away?”

  “Not quite. It being Saturday, most people are at home enjoying their weekend,” Babcock said.

  “Poor sweetie. So you’re the only one walking around on pins and needles?”

  “Right now, yeah. But I’ll eventually call Bobby Gallant and my PR guy in. Bobby can help me brainstorm while Jarreau tries to whip up a more convincing story for the media.”

  “Okay, call me if . . .” But Carmela’s phone had suddenly gone completely dead.

  “Crap!”

  “What’s wrong?” Ava asked.

  “My battery’s dead. What with all the excitement, I forgot to recharge last night. Babcock’s gonna think I hung up on him.”

  “No, he won’t, sweetie. That man worships the eggshells you walk on.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Forty minutes later, luncheons devoured, bill paid, tip left, and Mimi still snuggled in Carmela’s tote bag, they stood up and walked leisurely toward the front entrance.

  “Next time I think I might order the petite filet,” Ava said. “I think the red wine sauce and mushrooms are . . .”

  She stopped dead in her tracks as Richard Drake burst through the doorway of the Hermes bar. As if propelled by hurricane force winds, he planted himself firmly in front of them, quivering with rage and indignity.

  “You two are the worst, the absolute worst troublemakers I’ve ever met!” Drake shouted.

  “Us?” Ava managed to squeak out.

  “Accusing me of murder! How dare you!”

  “Slow down,” Carmela said, raising both hands in a calming gesture. “What are you talking about? What happened?”

  “A certain detective named Babcock came gunning for me, that’s what happened,” he spat out. “I’m sure you’re well acquainted with him.”

  Carmela cringed inwardly. Of course she’d pointed Babcock in Drake’s direction. On the other hand, Babcock had pointed Babcock in Drake’s direction.

  Drake clenched his teeth so hard it looked like his jaw would pop out of its socket.
“Someone threw an accusation of guilt directly at me. And I’m guessing it was the two of you!”

  Carmela started to deny it, then stopped. Why bother?

  “You have no idea what I’ve been through,” Drake railed. “Hours of questioning by incompetent detectives. Every one of them trying to trip me up, catch me in a lie.”

  “Look,” Carmela said, “we’re all upset by what happened to Devon Dowling. And people are naturally suspicious.”

  “Upset? Suspicious? That doesn’t begin to cut it!” Drake screamed.

  Carmela gazed past Drake’s left shoulder and saw a bartender staring at them intently. He was clearly upset by the noisy disruption.

  “Maybe we should take this outside,” Carmela suggested.

  “No!” Drake cried. “The police searched my house, searched my car, and completely infringed on my rights.” He stopped abruptly, looking as if he had something more to add. Then he snapped his mouth shut, turned, and walked away. Stormed right out of the restaurant.

  Ava watched him go, then whipped her head back toward Carmela. “Do you think this hurts my chance of having a meaningful relationship with him?”

  “You don’t want to date that guy,” Carmela said. She put an index finger to her head and twirled it. “He’s too crazy and hotheaded.”

  “I’m hot-blooded,” Ava said.

  “I think . . . I think I need to call Babcock back. Let me borrow your phone for a minute.”

  “Sorry, I left it in the car.”

  “Then can you take Mimi outside while I run back and find a pay phone? There has to be one somewhere.”

  “Got it,” Ava said as she grabbed Carmela’s tote.

  Carmela walked back through the dining room and turned down a long hallway carpeted in green and hung with photos of past Mardi Gras parades and fancy balls. This restaurant was so old, so brimming with nostalgia, that they must have an old-fashioned phone booth here somewhere. Didn’t they?

  Carmela spotted an alcove but was disappointed to find only a silver wine cooler stuck in it. Farther down the hallway she found a half-open door. The sign on it said MANAGER’S OFFICE. Maybe she could borrow his phone?

  Carmela knocked, then pushed the door farther ajar. She called out, but no one answered. She stuck her head inside to find a desk strewn with papers. And a telephone sitting next to a closed laptop.

  Perfect.

  She decided to take a chance and tiptoed inside, grabbed the phone, and called Babcock.

  When he answered this time, he sounded tired.

  “It’s me again,” Carmela said. “I just had a nasty run-in with Richard Drake.”

  “You what?”

  “Did you get some kind of tip on Drake?”

  “Yeah, we did. Yesterday afternoon. I found a note stuck on my windshield. A typed note.”

  “You mean as opposed to handwritten?” Carmela asked.

  “I mean actually typed on an old-fashioned typewriter.”

  Carmela wondered who would still have a typewriter. Maybe someone . . . older and more traditional? Like Roy Sultan or Colonel Otis? She filed that bit of information away in her brain. Babcock might not consider it a relevant clue, but she did.

  “So it was typed,” Carmela said.

  “Same as the last one. You didn’t put it there, did you? To goad me into looking at Richard Drake again?”

  “No! Of course not! I’d never trick you like that.”

  “Well, once we got the note, we had to take it seriously. And now we’ve probably wasted another ten or twenty man-hours chasing after the wrong guy.”

  “So you think Drake is the wrong guy? That he’s innocent?”

  “He couldn’t have a better alibi. As it turns out, he was with three dozen of his vampire friends all day long and into the evening.”

  “They vouched for him? He was definitely in someone’s sight the whole time?” Carmela asked.

  “Hell, yes. After the parade they all went to Buddy Preston’s Smokehouse Grill. I guess it was some kind of vampire club party. Probably all sat around drinking beer and eating ribs.”

  “Wouldn’t vampires prefer kabobs?”

  “You mean steak on a metal skewer?” Babcock laughed. “Carmela, you are too much. You gotta give your brain a rest.”

  As Carmela hung up, she could hear someone walking down the hallway. It could be the manager—or someone else. Either way, she was caught red-handed. Bummer. In her mind she hastily concocted a heartfelt apology for entering the office without permission . . .

  Until the door was suddenly pulled shut!

  What? Who did that?

  Carmela lunged for the doorknob, grabbed it, and tried to turn it. And found it was stuck tight.

  Why is this doorknob not moving? Because someone is standing on the other side grasping the doorknob and hanging on to it?

  Bending forward, Carmela put her ear against the door and listened. She could hear faint, shallow breathing. Someone was definitely standing on the other side!

  Who would do that? Was Richard Drake so wacked-out that he’d ducked back inside to settle a score with her? That didn’t quite make sense.

  Still grasping the doorknob with one hand, Carmela banged hard against the door with her other hand. WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!

  “Let me out!” Carmela yelled.

  Not a sound came from the other side of the door.

  Carmela felt the first blip of panic. If she grabbed the phone again and called for help, she’d have to release her hold on the door. But what if the person on the other side—who clearly wasn’t particularly friendly—came barreling in? And then what would happen? Would he shoot her? Stab her?

  Carmela shivered, suddenly remembering the missing knife in Colonel Otis’s collection. What to do? What to do?

  Fighting down her panic, she heard a faint voice. And another set of footsteps approaching. Someone else was coming down the hall.

  “¿Qué estás haciendo?” a voice called out.

  Instantly, the doorknob loosened in Carmela’s hand and she heard footsteps hurrying away.

  Carmela drew a deep, fortifying breath and pulled open the door. A sous chef carrying a tray piled with soft-shell crabs was standing there, looking at her with a curious look on his face.

  But there was nobody else.

  Whoever had been holding the doorknob had disappeared.

  Chapter 28

  “WHO do you think it was, cher?” Ava asked. “Someone playing a joke on you?”

  “Whatever it was, it was a pretty rotten joke,” Carmela said as she knocked on the front door of Dulcimer Antiques.

  “You don’t think Richard Drake came back after his little hissy fit, do you?”

  “I don’t know, Ava. But it certainly would have been convenient for him.” She knocked a second time. “Nobody home? T.J. was expecting us. At least I hope he remembered that he invited us over.”

  “He’s probably hungover.” Ava banged on the door so hard the glass panes rattled in their frame. BAM. BAM. BAM.

  From deep inside the shop, T.J. yelled, “We’re closed. Go away.”

  That only caused Ava to bang harder.

  Finally, T.J. jerked open the front door and yelled, “Didn’t you hear me? I said we’re . . .” His anger and frustration diffused abruptly when he saw who it was. “Oh, it’s you guys. Man, you’re noisy.” T.J.’s eyes looked swollen and puffy, and he wore the same shirt he’d had on last night.

  “Rough night?” Ava asked in a snarky tone.

  T.J. put a hand to his head and smoothed back a shock of unruly hair. “Yeah, kind of.”

  “Do you remember inviting us to look through Devon’s collection of old paper?” Carmela asked. She hoped they weren’t wasting their time here.

  “I guess.” T.J. opened the door wider so they could step inside. />
  ARF! ARF!

  T.J. gave Ava a funny look. “Did you say something?”

  Mimi’s head popped up suddenly as she peered over the side of Carmela’s tote bag. Her eyes were bright and shiny, and she seemed to be giving everything a curious look.

  “Oh, the dog,” T.J. said.

  “She knows she’s back home,” Ava said. She gave the dog a commiserating look and then added, “It’s kind of sad, isn’t it?”

  But Mimi was eager to get out and explore familiar territory. So Carmela lifted her out of the tote bag and set her on the floor. Mimi wasted no time in rushing around the shop to sniff at everything.

  “Cute,” T.J. said, but in a disinterested way.

  Carmela glanced about the shop. The front window was still boarded over, and cardboard boxes were piled everywhere. It looked as though T.J. really had been busy and that half the antiques had already been packed. She also noted that a white residue—fingerprint powder?—still clung to the doorframes and the front of a large oak secretary with a pull-down front. Fragments of yellow crime scene tape still hung from the window.

  T.J. rubbed his forehead and yawned. “I’m gonna need about a gallon of coffee to get me started today.”

  “But it looks like you’ve made some forward progress,” Carmela said. “I mean with the packing.”

  “Yeah, but it’s a complete pain,” T.J. said. “I gotta put that plastic bubbley stuff around all the fragile pieces and then pack them in boxes filled with plastic peanuts.”

  “Life’s tough,” Ava said.

  “Thank goodness this is the last of it,” T.J. said. “After I get done, hopefully this weekend, I’m out of here.”

  “We just had lunch at Antoine’s,” Carmela said to T.J. She figured that if he’d been the doorknob holder, something might register on his face.

  Nothing did. T.J. just stared at her, looking sleepy eyed. “That’s a nice place. Real fancy.”

  “This one time a really rich older guy took me there on a date,” Ava said. “And he ordered snails for both of us, but I couldn’t eat them. I know they’re French and gourmet and everything, but to bite into such a creepy-crawly thing . . .”