Mumbo Gumbo Murder
Titles by Laura Childs
Tea Shop Mysteries
DEATH BY DARJEELING
GUNPOWDER GREEN
SHADES OF EARL GREY
THE ENGLISH BREAKFAST MURDER
THE JASMINE MOON MURDER
CHAMOMILE MOURNING
BLOOD ORANGE BREWING
DRAGONWELL DEAD
THE SILVER NEEDLE MURDER
OOLONG DEAD
THE TEABERRY STRANGLER
SCONES & BONES
AGONY OF THE LEAVES
SWEET TEA REVENGE
STEEPED IN EVIL
MING TEA MURDER
DEVONSHIRE SCREAM
PEKOE MOST POISON
PLUM TEA CRAZY
BROKEN BONE CHINA
New Orleans Scrapbooking Mysteries
KEEPSAKE CRIMES
PHOTO FINISHED
BOUND FOR MURDER
MOTIF FOR MURDER
FRILL KILL
DEATH SWATCH
TRAGIC MAGIC
FIBER & BRIMSTONE
SKELETON LETTERS
POSTCARDS FROM THE DEAD
GILT TRIP
GOSSAMER GHOST
PARCHMENT AND OLD LACE
CREPE FACTOR
GLITTER BOMB
MUMBO GUMBO MURDER
Cackleberry Club Mysteries
EGGS IN PURGATORY
EGGS BENEDICT ARNOLD
BEDEVILED EGGS
STAKE & EGGS
EGGS IN A CASKET
SCORCHED EGGS
EGG DROP DEAD
EGGS ON ICE
Anthologies
DEATH BY DESIGN
TEA FOR THREE
Afton Tangler Thrillers
writing as Gerry Schmitt
LITTLE GIRL GONE
SHADOW GIRL
BERKLEY PRIME CRIME
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
penguinrandomhouse.com
Copyright © 2019 by Gerry Schmitt
Excerpt from Lavender Blue Murder by Laura Childs copyright © 2019 by Gerry Schmitt & Associates, Inc.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Childs, Laura, author. | Moran, Terrie Farley, author.
Title: Mumbo gumbo murder / Laura Childs with Terrie Farley Moran.
Description: First edition. | New York: Berkley Prime Crime, 2019. | Series: A scrapbooking mystery; 16
Identifiers: LCCN 2019018613 | ISBN 9780451489579 (hardback) | ISBN 9780451489593 (ebook)
Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Women Sleuths. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3603.H56 M86 2019 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019018613
First Edition: October 2019
Cover art by Dan Craig
Cover design by Katie Anderson
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.
Version_1
Acknowledgments
A very special thank-you to my partner in crime, Terrie Farley Moran. I am in awe of your skill with words and completely adore your twisted sense of humor. Major thank-yous also to Sam, Tom, Grace, Tara, Jessica, M.J., Lori, Bob, Jennie, Dan, and all the amazing people at Berkley Prime Crime and Penguin Random House who handle editing, design, publicity, copywriting, social media, bookstore sales, gift sales, production, and shipping.
Heartfelt thanks as well to all the scrapbook lovers, scrapbook shop owners, book clubs, bookshop folks, librarians, reviewers, magazine editors and writers, websites, broadcasters, bloggers, and New Orleans friends who have enjoyed the New Orleans Scrapbooking Mysteries and helped spread the word. You make this possible!
And I am forever filled with gratitude for you, my dear readers, who have embraced Carmela, Ava, Babcock, Gabby, Tandy, Baby, Boo, Poobah, and the rest of the scrapbook shop gang as friends and family. Thank you so much, and I promise you many more New Orleans Scrapbooking Mysteries!
Contents
Titles by Laura Childs
Title Page
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Scrapbook, Stamping, and Craft Tips from Laura Childs
Favorite New Orleans Recipes
Excerpt from Lavender Blue Murder
About the Author
Chapter 1
MONSTERS were out tonight. As well as two girls who’d definitely come to party.
“Jeepers!” Ava cried. “That skull puppet is a spooky devil.”
Malevolent dark eyes peered from the hollow sockets of a bleached white skull. Shrouded in purple velvet, the creature’s jagged teeth protruded rudely while its spidery, skeletal fingers reached out to stroke the arms of unsuspecting visitors along the parade route.
“You’ve never been up close and personal with the Beastmaster Puppets before?” Carmela Bertrand asked her friend. They were standing on a crowded sidewalk in front of Zebarz Cocktail and Cordial House in the French Quarter of New Orleans, watching the kickoff parade for Jazz Fest.
“I’ve seen puppets at Mardi Gras, sure, but never like this.” Ava took a step back as a scabrous wolf head leaned in and tried to nuzzle her ear. “Keep wa
lking, big guy,” she muttered.
“Take a look at the skeleton puppet,” Carmela said as a brass band blared out raucous foot-stompin’ music, a gigantic float glided past, and a dozen Beastmaster Puppets mingled with the crowd to thrill and chill.
“The skeleton does kind of bother me,” Ava said.
“Interesting, since you have an entire retinue of skeletons dangling from the rafters of your voodoo shop,” Carmela said. She was the proprietor of Memory Mine Scrapbooking Shop over on Governor Nicholls Street; Ava Gruiex owned Juju Voodoo a few blocks away on Conti Street.
“But those skeletons are under my control.”
“The giant puppets remind me of the bulbous heads on some of the Mardi Gras floats,” Carmela said. As a New Orleans native and die-hard parade fanatic, she was loving this, taking it all in practically by osmosis. Fact is, you could toss a string of colored lights onto a goat cart, roll it down Bourbon Street, and Carmela would stand on the curb and cheer. She was that addicted to New Orleans mirth and merriment.
Ava Gruiex, on the other hand, was a different type of party girl. Slightly loose in her ways, she was a free spirit open to trying just about anything. And while Carmela was a jeans and T-shirt gal, Ava favored tight leather pants, skanky tops, and peekaboo lingerie. Of course, they both adored hot music and cold beer.
“The thing that amazes me most is that real people are working their buns off inside those puppet costumes,” Carmela said.
The Beastmaster Puppets were indeed manned by a myriad of people who were dressed head to toe in black ninja-style clothing with black gauze masking their faces. They were inside the large puppets, functioning as the beating heart of the puppets, and controlled the bobbing and weaving as well as the puppets’ arms. On the really jumbo-sized puppets, outlier puppeteers, also dressed in black, manipulated long sticks attached to the puppets’ limbs and faces—sticks that when worked carefully made the puppets look both ethereal and peculiarly animated.
“Check this one out,” Carmela said as a banshee puppet flitted past, its bug-eyed, witchy face poking forward as a trail of diaphanous garments fluttered behind it.
“Amazing,” Ava said.
Carmela was smiling at the puppets, grooving with the mood and the music. In the flickering light from the antique streetlamps, her face fairly glowed with excitement, her nearly flawless complexion enhanced by the high humidity that seemed to hold the Crescent City in a perpetual cocoon-like embrace. Carmela’s honey blond hair was a tousled, choppy mop and her eyes an inscrutable ice blue that often mirrored the flat shimmer of the Gulf of Mexico.
Ava shook back the dark, unruly mane that framed her exotic face. “Witches and banshees, those I can handle, no problem,” she said. “It’s when the puppets become this . . . active, when they take on human dimensions, that I get creeped out.”
“I guess that’s what makes these giant puppets so popular,” Carmela said. She took a quick sip of red wine from her geaux cup and said, “Uh-oh, take a look at what’s coming next.”
A hush fell over the crowd as the final parade unit appeared. It was a contingent of black-caped, chalk-faced vampires that seemed to crawl stealthily out of the darkness.
“The Vampire Society,” someone behind them said in quiet, almost reverent tones.
Four masked riders sat astride coal black horses, the horses’ coats glistening like an oil slick and reflecting the yellow and red neon signs from nearby bars.
The vampires marched behind the riders in precise formation. Most of the men (and women) were tall, thin, and appeared to glide almost effortlessly.
Ava wrinkled her nose. “With that funky white makeup, they look like a doomsday cult.”
Carmela studied the vampires, whose faces were painted a ghostly white. Their eyes were kohl-rimmed orbs, their mouths a glistening blood red that sported glowing white fangs. It was a look that definitely gave her pause.
Not so nice. Not that friendly.
“I guess it’s just playacting,” Carmela said finally, lifting her shoulders as if to shrug off any sort of malevolent vibe that might hover in the night air. “Perfectly harmless.” Then, “Come on, let’s follow along behind. We’ll head over to Royal Street and check out the food booths.”
Ava fluttered a hand. “You just uttered the magic words—food booths. You think they’ll have barbecued shrimp, andouille gumbo, and fried crawfish?”
“Gotta go find out.”
New Orleans was, of course, a foodie paradise. New restaurants, food halls, cocktail lounges, delis, and bakeries were opening at a dizzying rate. Here’s where those uninitiated into the dining delights of the Big Easy routinely lost their minds over gumbo, beignets, po-boys, jambalaya, red beans and rice, plump Gulf oysters, muffulettas, and tickle-your-sweet-tooth bread pudding. To say nothing of creamy, rich crawfish étouffée, which was practically a New Orleans obsession.
Linking arms, Carmela and Ava trailed along behind the Vampire Society.
They turned the corner at Dumaine Street, walked past the Praline Factory and Toups’s Italian Bakeshop, and then hung a right onto Royal Street.
“Will ya look at this!” Ava cried. “Royal Street’s been turned into a gigantic street fair.”
And she was right. All up and down Royal Street, for a good half dozen blocks, were food booths, food trucks, fortune-tellers, musicians, booths selling beads and T-shirts, and street artists. Revelers were cheek to jowl everywhere you looked—a mob of eating, drinking, dancing, good-time folks that formed a bobbling, jostling sea.
“This is what I need right here,” Ava said, diving toward a frozen daiquiri stand. “We need two in . . . What flavors do you have?” she asked the bartender as she scanned the rainbow-hued liquors lined up on the counter.
“Piña colada, amaretto, pineapple, blueberry, mudslide, and strawberry shortcake,” the bartender said, rubbing his hands on his red-and-white-striped apron.
“What’s a mudslide?” Ava asked.
The bartender shrugged. “Chocolaty rum?”
Ava turned to Carmela. “Cher?”
“Amaretto,” Carmela said.
“Two amaretto daiquiris, please,” Ava said.
The bartender nodded, tipped a bottle into a slurry of ice, and sent the mixture whirring through his daiquiri machine.
Once they’d grabbed their frozen concoctions, Carmela and Ava strolled along the sidewalk past several antique shops. Royal Street was where the absolute primo shops and galleries were located, where even the locals shopped for that perfect crackle-glazed oil painting, French mantel clock, or piece of antique silver to grace their dining table.
“What a perfect night,” Carmela said, as they allowed themselves to be swept along with the surging crowd. “Nice and warm . . .” She tilted her head back and smiled at the view over the Mississippi. “With a crescent moon dangling in an indigo blue sky.”
“A fitting salute to our Crescent City,” Ava said. “Plus, everything you want to eat and drink. It really is a fabulous . . .”
BANG! CRASH!
Like a clap of thunder, the noise rolled down Royal Street, crackling and booming out. Revelers paused, heads turned, a woman let loose a high-pitched scream.
There was a pregnant pause. And then it came again . . .
CRASH! SMASH!
. . . jolting everyone out of their musical-sugary-deep-fat-fried reverie.
“Somebody’s shopwindow just got stove in,” Ava said. “With this many people boogying, something crazy’s bound to happen.” She sounded a little shaken, a little philosophical at the same time.
But Carmela was instantly on alert. “That wasn’t just any window.” She raised up on tiptoes and gazed down the street, not unlike a prairie dog who’d just sensed impending danger. “I think it was the front window at Dulcimer Antiques! Devon Dowling’s shop!” She peered down the street again, deepl
y concerned for her dear friend. “Yes, that’s where the crowd’s starting to gather. Come on!”
Together, Carmela and Ava weaved and dodged their way along the crowded sidewalk, angling toward Dulcimer Antiques. “S’cuse me, s’cuse me,” Carmela said breathlessly as she flew along, stepping on toes and causing several revelers to spill their drinks as she towed Ava behind her.
When they finally got to Dulcimer Antiques, the street in front was a madhouse. A horde of people milled about, screaming and pointing at the large plate glass window that had been shattered. Dangerous shards of glass lay everywhere, and there was an ominous hole right under the letters that said DULCIMER ANTIQUES. BUY SELL TRADE.
“Was it terrorists?” one woman shrieked.
Another woman with blood trickling down the side of her face was starting to weep. She’d obviously been hit by a shard of flying glass.
“Something got tossed hard against Devon’s shopwindow,” Carmela said, making a hurried assessment. She glanced around. “Maybe from the inside?” The gigantic hole in the center of the window was outlined with jagged pieces of glass, as sharp and dangerous as a shark’s teeth.
“This is terrible!” Ava cried. “People are hurt!”
“Where’s Devon?” Carmela wondered out loud. Worry engulfed her as she shoved her way to the front door. She put a hand on the brass knob, twisted it forcefully, and . . . got nowhere.
“Locked,” Carmela said. She knew Devon had to be inside, because she could hear his pug, Mimi, barking frantically.
“Devon!” Ava cried out. Now she was edging toward frightened.
More gawkers gathered as Carmela pushed her way back to the broken window. She peered through broken glass into the dark interior of Devon’s shop, trying to fathom what had gone wrong in there. She could see sterling silver teapots, priceless Chinese vases, and antique clocks smashed to bits on the floor. Lamps had been toppled, furniture upended. But it was difficult to make anything out . . . way back in the shadows.
“Devon?” Carmela called out in a strangled voice. Was he in there? Could he hear her? She looked about frantically, saw a man wearing a giant foam baseball mitt that covered half his arm, and snatched it off him.