Mumbo Gumbo Murder

by Laura Childs

  Carmela tiptoed closer to the door and put her ear against the crack.

  A low, hoarse voice was spewing anger. “No, you freaking idiot! Your delivery boy screwed up royally. Yes, it was the wrong address. I had to send a guy in to grab it, but he decided to get creative and made a mess of things. I had to clean things up myself!”

  The voice grew louder and more venomous, and Carmela had no doubt that the speaker, whoever he was, was surely Devon’s killer. As her mind fought to process this notion, she suddenly froze with fear as she heard footsteps heading in her direction. Whoever was spewing anger on the phone was also about to open the door and step into this room!

  Biting back her panic, Carmela rushed for the open window and dived out headfirst just as the door opened . . .

  CLICK!

  . . . and she landed in Ava’s waiting arms.

  As they both tumbled to the ground, Carmela slapped a hand across Ava’s mouth to stifle her screams.

  They huddled together, quiet as a pair of mice, as someone moved about in the grubby office. Finally, Carmela removed her hand from Ava’s mouth and shook her head. Don’t talk, she mouthed.

  “What?” Ava whispered. “What’s going on?”

  Carmela touched an index finger to her lips. Hush.

  “But I want to see.”

  Carmela nodded. She got it. She wanted to know what was happening, too.

  Stealthily, carefully, they both stood up and peered cautiously in the window.

  And there, stomping around the room like a caged animal, was Peter Jarreau!

  Ava’s lips silently formed the words holy crap.

  Carmela nodded as Jarreau’s obnoxious aftershave drifted out at them. Then she quickly pulled Ava to a safe distance away from the window where they could talk in low voices.

  Ava was rocked to the core by their discovery. “That’s the officious little jerkwad who works for NOPD, right?”

  “Peter Jarreau,” Carmela said, her lip curling. She was thunderstruck at the realization that Jarreau was the dope dealer they’d been looking for. Worse, he was also a traitor to the police department. He could have put Edgar, Bobby Gallant, and the whole force in terrible danger. “He’s around all the time. Right under Edgar’s nose. Close to all the inside information.”

  “So he’s a dope dealer? He’s the one who was supposed to take delivery of the cocaine?”

  “Worse than that, he’s probably Devon Dowling’s killer,” Carmela said in a low voice. “And the one who probably sliced Sonny Boy’s throat to keep him from talking.”

  Ava’s brows puckered. “Who woulda thunk it? Peter Jarreau.”

  Carmela pulled her mouth into a twisted grin and dropped her voice to a harsh whisper. “Gotcha.”

  Chapter 31

  BUT if Carmela thought she’d cornered Peter Jarreau like a rat in a trap, she was sorely mistaken. Jarreau continued to jabber away, cursing up a storm, as he rummaged through a drawer.

  “Listen to that guy swear,” Ava said. “What a potty mouth. And I thought I was bad.”

  “Maybe he’s stoned out of his gourd.”

  “You know what they say,” Ava said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t get high on your own supply.”

  “Let’s see what he’s going to do next.” Carmela’s nerves were tingling from excitement and outrage as they crept back to the window.

  Jarreau was standing there as if in a trance. Then, suddenly, his phone rang.

  “What!” he yelled, then listened for a moment. “You’re kidding. Now? Awright, yeah, whatever.”

  They watched as Jarreau clicked off his phone, then rummaged through a second drawer.

  “Too many foul-ups,” he muttered to himself.

  Finally, Jarreau pulled out a black snub-nosed pistol, studied it for a moment, then stuffed it in his jacket pocket. He gave a final look around and left the room.

  Holding hands, Carmela and Ava rushed for their car. But before they could jump in, Jarreau came storming out of the camp house.

  “Oh jeez,” Ava whispered. They collapsed behind a magnolia tree and held their breath. Would he spot them in the shadows?

  But Jarreau didn’t glance left, he didn’t look right, he just jumped in his SUV and took off like a scalded jackrabbit.

  “We have to follow him!” Carmela yelped. She was up and running, reaching out to yank her car door open.

  Ava, following closely on her heels, jumped in and grabbed for her seat belt. “Where do you think he’s going? To meet his dealer? Do a sneaky deal somewhere?”

  “I don’t know, but I doubt he’s up to anything good.” Carmela glanced over her right shoulder. “Hang on again, Mimi!”

  She cranked her engine and fishtailed down the road after Jarreau.

  * * *

  * * *

  Carmela had been following Jarreau for a good five minutes, driving without her headlights on, when he suddenly juked right.

  “Wait, we didn’t come that way,” Ava said.

  “He’s taking a different road out of here,” Carmela said as she followed him.

  “I didn’t know there was one.”

  They trailed Jarreau along a twisty-turny dirt road and over a couple of rickety bridges. They bumped to a sudden halt when they reached a stop sign and their tires hit blacktop.

  “Which way did he go?” Carmela wondered.

  “Left, I’m positive he turned left,” Ava said. “He’s gotta be heading toward U.S. 90.”

  “Going to New Orleans?”

  “Maybe. Probably.”

  “That’s not good,” Carmela said.

  They made the turn onto the wider road and, as they drove along, slowly began to pick up traffic. Thank goodness, Carmela could finally put her headlights on.

  “We’re definitely headed for U.S. 90,” Carmela said.

  “Be sure to keep a car or two in between us,” Ava said. “It’s a chase technique I picked up watching Private Eyes.”

  “Watching what?”

  “TV show with that dreamy Jason Priestley. He used to play hockey and . . .”

  Carmela slowed down to allow a banged-up maroon truck to pull onto the road in front of her.

  “There. Happy now?” Carmela asked.

  “Mostly I’m just scared. And hungry.”

  “Grab your cell phone and see if you can scare up Babcock. I gotta let him know what’s going on.”

  “Won’t he be mad?” Ava asked as she pulled out her phone and dialed.

  Carmela sighed. “Probably.”

  “He’s not answering. It just goes to voice mail.”

  “Okay, we’ll try again in a few minutes.”

  They bumped along, the maroon truck puttering away in front of them, Jarreau’s SUV a distant speck on the road ahead.

  “Maybe I should try to get around this truck,” Carmela said, just as the truck’s brake lights flared. “Oh, wait, he’s turning.”

  The truck turned into a lane marked AGGIE’S FARM. But now the road in front of them looked surprisingly empty.

  “Where’d he go?” Carmela asked. She was breathless and her nerves were on edge. “Ava, I thought you were keeping an eye on him.”

  “I was. But it’s like he disappeared into thin air.” She peered ahead into the gloom. “Wait, that might be him, that little dot on the horizon.”

  Carmela saw a distant flicker of light, like a firefly, on the road ahead.

  “He’s really moving,” Carmela said as she hit the gas.

  They accelerated like a bat out of hell, picking up speed. The trees and bayous flew past their window like crazed images from some kind of herky-jerky, old-time movie. As the speedometer continued to climb upward, Carmela flipped on her brights.

  And Ava suddenly screamed!

 
“Watch out, there’s a log in the road!” Ava lifted her legs and planted her feet against the dashboard, bracing for the oncoming collision. Her hands flew up to cover her eyes.

  Carmela saw the obstruction on the road and slammed on her brakes at the very last moment. Her tires squealed in protest as she slewed across the road and spun around in a dizzying half circle. Mimi started barking and didn’t stop until they came to a jouncing halt on the road’s gravel berm.

  “Whew.” Ava uncovered her eyes, reached back to grab Mimi, and cuddled the frightened dog in her lap. “That was some kind of crazy, huh? Some truck must have dropped . . .”

  “That was no log,” Carmela said.

  “Then what was it?” Ava pushed open the door and stepped out, Mimi still in her arms.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  Ava stopped and spun around. “Huh?”

  “Just bring the dog back.”

  Ava deposited Mimi back in the car, as Carmela crawled out to join her.

  “You see that?” Carmela said. She pointed to an enormous brown and green animal whose body practically filled the road. It sat just inches from her car’s front bumper.

  “What on earth is that awful thing?” Ava asked. “It looks like it crawled out of Jurassic Park.”

  “It’s a turtle.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, that’s a gator. It has an alligator head and tail.”

  “Yeah, but look at that humpy-bumpy bony shell. It’s an alligator snapping turtle. I saw one once at Shamus’s camp house.”

  “He looks more like a turtle that swallowed an alligator,” Ava said. “Honk at it, get it to slither off the road.”

  The turtle blinked as if listening to their conversation.

  “Or maybe we could just give him the old heave-ho,” Ava said.

  “That guy probably weighs two hundred pounds. With jaws that can snap your wrist in half. If he ever got hold of Mimi, he’d consider her a tasty appetizer.”

  Ava stared at the turtle. “Well, he’s an ugly mother, I’ll say that.”

  The turtle let out a loud hiss.

  “Uh-oh, I think I offended him.”

  “Maybe I can hurry him along,” Carmela said. She opened her trunk and pulled out a tire iron. She walked to the rear of the turtle and clanged the tire iron hard against the blacktop. The sharp, metallic sound rang out. CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.

  The turtle whipped around and opened its mouth.

  Carmela hastily retreated.

  “Plan B?” Ava said.

  But the turtle had had enough. Slowly, creeping along and taking its own sweet time, the alligator turtle waddled off the road and disappeared down the embankment into a murky pond.

  * * *

  * * *

  When they finally got going again, there was no sign of Peter Jarreau, and Carmela was feeling desperate and out of sorts.

  “Jarreau is miles ahead of us now, so we definitely need to get hold of Babcock.”

  “I’ll try him again,” Ava said. She punched in his number, then held the phone out so Carmela could hear it going to voice mail again.

  “Where is he?” Carmela wondered.

  “Busy doing cop stuff, I guess.”

  When they finally hit U.S. 90, Carmela pulled into the far left lane and accelerated to seventy miles per hour.

  “We’ll make good time now, cher,” Ava said. “And we probably won’t have to contend with any more insanely huge turtles.”

  But Carmela was still fretting. “Maybe . . . call Bobby Gallant.”

  Ava nodded. “I can do that.”

  She punched in the number Carmela gave her, and two rings later, Gallant picked up.

  “Bobby, you sweet thang,” Ava purred.

  “Who is this?” Gallant asked.

  Carmela snapped her fingers and gestured for Ava to hand over the phone. Ava obliged.

  “Bobby?” Carmela said.

  “Carmela?”

  “Yes, it’s me.” Carmela was thrilled that Bobby had picked up. Now she could say her piece. “Something really wild just happened and I need you to help us deal with it. It’s a really . . . huge problem.”

  “Sorry, Carmela, no can do. I’m rushing out the door right now. On my way to the big press conference.”

  Carmela realized that’s where Babcock must be as well. Oh no!

  “Dear Lord, the press conference is happening now? With the mayor?”

  “In twenty, maybe thirty minutes, yeah. It was delayed so everything’s in a total panic, so I gotta go. Sorry.”

  “Listen, you have to tell . . .”

  But Bobby had already hung up and Carmela was talking to dead air.

  “He hung up,” Carmela said, handing the phone back to Ava. She felt both hollow and defeated.

  Ava was incredulous. “How rude.”

  “We have to get to New Orleans and tell Babcock about Jarreau. We have to somehow interrupt that press conference.”

  Ava gave Carmela a strange look. “But isn’t Jarreau their media liaison? Won’t he be part of that press conference?”

  Panic rose inside Carmela.

  “You’re right!”

  Of course, that’s exactly where Jarreau was headed. And with a loaded pistol at that.

  All Carmela could do was whisper a prayer and focus on the road ahead.

  And worry about the danger that lay ahead, too.

  Chapter 32

  FASTER, faster, faster was Carmela’s mantra as she spun off U.S. 90 and roared down Poydras Street. From there it was a matter of twenty minutes before she turned onto Loyola, cruised past the Superdome, and reached the edge of the French Quarter.

  And slammed to a dead stop.

  Directly ahead of her, the street was closed. Black-and-white wooden barriers had been set up. And just in case you didn’t get the full message, two police cruisers were parked in front of them, nose to nose.

  “What’s going on?” Ava asked. “Do you think it’s a second line march? Or maybe a jazz funeral?”

  “I don’t know.” Carmela backed up her car, skirted around another block, and came up against another barrier. This one had a uniformed police officer shaking his finger at drivers, warning them the road was definitely closed.

  “Now what?” Ava asked.

  “I don’t know. Looks like the whole French Quarter is blocked off. There must be another Jazz Fest parade. We’re going to have to find a place to park and then get out and walk.”

  Ava grimaced. “In these shoes? I couldn’t even push a car wearing them, let alone walk a half dozen blocks. I swear, this is the last time I buy Louboutin knockoffs!”

  “You want to wait here?” Carmela eased her car into a super tight space that she figured would have to do.

  “Not really, I might miss all the fun.”

  “Okay, then, put Mimi in her tote bag and let’s start hiking.”

  They managed to walk two crowded blocks when they suddenly encountered the parade. A high school marching band, with students in snappy navy and gold uniforms, was playing a syncopated rendition of “When the Saints Go Marching In.”

  “How are your feet holding up?” Carmela asked.

  “They’re not,” Ava said, as the band halted directly in front of them and continued to high-step in place.

  “We need to get across this street somehow,” Carmela said, eyeing a line of snare drummers.

  “Better we should squeeze through the clarinet section,” Ava said. “They seem to be the least lethal when it comes to musical instruments.”

  Dashing, dodging, and subjecting themselves to more than a few angry comments, Carmela and Ava scurried their way through the band.

  “This is like playing the old video game Frogger,” Ava called out.

  A second later, the band member
s executed a snappy turn and resumed their marching, trapping Carmela and Ava in the middle of the street as the band members streamed by them.

  When the band had finally passed by, the women turned to run and were immediately engulfed by the Beastmaster Puppets!

  Now they had to fight their way through a sea of oversized puppets and dozens of ninja-clad puppeteers who were manipulating the puppets. A ginormous, twenty-five-foot-tall bat puppet seemed intent on bearing down on them.

  Ava turned to Carmela with a look of panic on her face. “It’s like we’re being swept along in a tsunami of weirdness!”

  Carmela grabbed Ava’s arm and pulled her close. “Just stand still, stay in place, and they’ll swoop right by us.”

  Didn’t work that way.

  Five seconds later, they were confronted by a masked man wearing a tuxedo and sporting a top hat and cane.

  “Not you two again!” he cried. “Are you trying to drive me insane or just completely ruin Jazz Fest!”

  “Drake?” Carmela quavered. “Richard Drake?”

  “Yes, it’s me,” Drake thundered as he pulled up his mask. “I’m a member of this organization. What’s your excuse?”

  “We blundered in,” Carmela said. “We didn’t mean to, it’s just . . .”

  “It’s my shoes,” Ava chimed in. “I think I’m getting a blister.”

  “Actually, we’re trying to get to the mayor’s office,” Carmela stammered. Maybe it was better to tell the truth?

  Drake stared at Carmela, then at Ava. “You think the mayor gives a damn about your blister?”

  “Listen,” Carmela said, putting a hand on his arm. “We know you’re upset at us. But you have to believe us, we never pointed the police in your direction. But the thing is, we just . . . well, we stumbled upon something . . . and we’re desperate to get to City Hall.”

  “We know who killed Devon Dowling!” Ava blurted out.

  Drake stared at her. “What are you talking about?”

  “We found the person we think is responsible for Devon’s and Sonny Boy Holmes’s deaths,” Carmela said. “I know . . .” She drew a shaky breath. “I know this all sounds ridiculous and quite implausible, but we have to get in touch with the police. Like . . . immediately.”