Gilt Trip Read online

  Jekyl shrugged. “I shouldn’t really.”

  “How about I twist your arm and pinch your nose closed until you turn blue and can’t breathe?” Carmela knew it wouldn’t come to that. She knew Jekyl was positively dying to tell her.

  “Mind you,” said Jekyl, talking in a low, conspiratorial voice now, “I got this information secondhand.” He thought for a moment. “Well, maybe thirdhand. I talked to Devon Dowling, who heard it from Stefan Purdy at the Estate Gems and Jewels Gallery.”

  Carmela waggled her fingers again. “And?”

  “And what I heard,” said Jekyl, “was that Beetsie and Jerry Earl were involved.”

  Carmela frowned. “You mean . . . involved in a compromising situation?”

  “Bingo. Give that lady a plush pink panda.”

  Carmela let this information percolate for a few moments. Beetsie and Jerry Earl? How could Beetsie and Jerry Earl be having an affair and Margo not tumble to it?

  Then she remembered the death portrait. That little bit of mischief had been Beetsie’s brilliant idea. A chill zipped up Carmela’s spine. Had Beetsie wanted Jerry Earl dead? If so, why? He certainly wouldn’t be leaving his fortune to “the other woman”!

  “I’m just saying,” said Jekyl. “Mind you, this is just a rumor.”

  “Still,” said Carmela, “if there’s any truth behind it, then . . .” She hesitated. Then what? Then Beetsie was definitely a suspect? Or Margo was a suspect because she’d deprived Beetsie of her husband’s ardor? None of it felt right. And yet . . . there it was. Sitting there like a big fat meatball of information.

  “Well, I’ll be darned,” Jekyl chuckled.

  Carmela looked up and suddenly saw Ava hopping up and down like crazy. And wonder of wonders, the silver-haired judge was smiling brightly at her and handing her a white ribbon!

  “Oh my gosh!” Carmela exclaimed. “Isis won?”

  “Correction,” Jekyl said in a droll voice. “I’d say Ava won. Judging by the look on that judge’s face.”

  “Still,” said Carmela. “It counts, right?”

  “Why wouldn’t it?” Jekyl grabbed her arm. “C’mon, let’s go congratulate the winning team.”

  They clambered down the bleachers and shouldered their way through a crowd of people who all seemed to be cradling furry white cats.

  “What possessed me to wear black?” Jekyl mumbled out of the corner of his mouth. “I’m going to need three lint rollers to get all this—”

  “We won!” Ava shrilled as she ran to greet them. She thrust Isis into Jekyl’s arms, grabbed Carmela, and pulled her into a hippity-hop victory dance. “We did it!”

  “You did it,” said Carmela. “What is that ribbon anyway?”

  Ava dangled her white ribbon before Carmela’s eyes. “Third place!”

  “How many contestants?” asked Jekyl.

  “Four,” said Ava. “So we really did it—we won!”

  “Of course, you did,” said Carmela. “It’s a major award.”

  Ava suddenly stopped her little dance. “I need a drink. My face is numb from smiling at that judge and my throat is absolutely parched.”

  “Maybe a frozen daiquiri?” suggested Jekyl.

  “Fantastic!” said Ava. She glanced at Carmela. “You want one?”

  But Carmela had just spied someone in the crowd who looked vaguely familiar to her. Could it be . . . She shook her head as if to clear it, then held up a hand. “Pass. I think I’m just going to look around for a bit.”

  “Okay,” said Ava, skipping off with Jekyl. “See ya in a few minutes.”

  Carmela edged closer to the man she’d spotted in the crowd.

  That gray hair . . . and rigid, uptight posture. I feel like I know him. But . . . who is he?

  Carmela drew breath sharply. Oh, wait just a hard minute! Because now she really did recognize him. Now she could put a name to the face.

  It was Conrad Falcon! The overbearing jerk that she’d seen on TV two nights ago. The man who was Jerry Earl Leland’s business rival, neighbor, and overall foe.

  Falcon, obviously a successful breeder and cat fancier, was smiling magnanimously as he posed for a photo. In his arms he cradled a gorgeous Siamese cat that had an enormous purple rosette pinned to its collar.

  Carmela edged closer to him. The photographer, who had probably been hired by the producers of the Star of the South Cat Show, was shooting him from different angles. Taking two-shots of Falcon and his cat, then moving in closer to frame just the cat. And all the while, Conrad Falcon was keeping up a running patter with a man who stood just a little to his left. A man with a tough, flat face, brush-cut gray hair, and cheap navy blue suit. From the looks of things, they were having what must be a very serious conversation. But about . . . what?

  Curious now, Carmela moved in closer.

  The man in the bad suit was nodding vigorously, as yes-men often do.

  Am I rushing in where angels fear to tread? Carmela wondered. Yeah, maybe. Probably.

  But that didn’t stop her. She edged even closer, trying to hear what Falcon was saying. He was talking in a low monotone that was difficult to catch, so she heard only part of it . . .

  “. . . now that he’s not around anymore to make a stink,” snarled Falcon as his henchman nodded again.

  What on earth? Could they be talking about Jerry Earl? Is that what Falcon means by not around anymore?

  The photographer, done with snapping photos of the Siamese, abruptly straightened up and moved off. Which left Carmela standing there, staring directly at Falcon and his cat.

  Trying to make a fast recovery, Carmela said, “Congratulations on your win. Such a beautiful cat.”

  Falcon stared at her. “Thank you.”

  Keep him talking, Carmela told herself.

  “What’s your cat’s name?” Carmela asked.

  “Lady Devonshire of Chatsworth,” said Falcon.

  “That’s a pretty big name for such a dainty little cat,” Carmela replied.

  Falcon grunted and was about to turn away, when Carmela took a step closer.

  “If I’m not mistaken,” she said, “I saw you on the news the other night.”

  Falcon glanced up at her. Now she had his attention.

  “You were speaking about Jerry Earl Leland and his tragic demise,” Carmela continued.

  Falcon’s lips twisted and his brows bunched together. “I was on the news, yes.”

  “You made a few rather pointed remarks about Jerry Earl Leland because he was your neighbor and business rival.”

  Falcon squinted at Carmela. “Leland was my neighbor before he screwed up and landed himself in prison. And you, miss. Who may I ask are you?”

  “Carmela Bertrand.” She extended a hand.

  Falcon ignored her. He inclined his head toward his henchman. And the man, picking up on his cue, immediately held up a cage. Falcon turned and quickly deposited Lady Devonshire inside it.

  “I’m a friend of Margo’s,” Carmela said.

  Falcon stood rigidly, his back to Carmela. He took extreme and slow care to secure the hasp on the tiny gate of the cat’s carrier cage. After a moment, he turned to address Carmela.

  “Margo, yes. This string of unfortunate events must certainly be trying for her.”

  “She was pained by your words as well,” said Carmela.

  Falcon gazed at Carmela with the intensity of a cobra sizing up a mongoose. “Perhaps she’s better off without him.” Then he shrugged. “And if the justice system hadn’t been so rudely tampered with, Jerry Earl Leland might still be alive. He’d be behind bars, mind you, but I doubt he would’ve been murdered there.”

  “I understand you two were business rivals.”

  Falcon twisted his mouth into a harsh sneer. “When it comes to business, young lady, everyone is my rival.”
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br />   Carmela was about to let loose a sharp retort, but stopped herself short. After all, this was a man who ran a huge company and had an army of people at his command. When a man wielded that much power, she surely didn’t need to make an enemy of him!

  • • •

  AVA TAPPED CARMELA ON THE SHOULDER.

  “Who was that unhappy-looking man you were just yucking it up with?”

  “Remember the guy we say on TV the other night? Conrad Falcon?”

  Ava’s eyes grew large. “Whoa. That was Falcon? The whistle-blower? What’d he say? What’d you ask him?”

  “I tried to talk to him about Jerry Earl,” said Carmela. “But he clearly wasn’t having it.”

  “He was rude to you?”

  “More like hateful. It pretty much oozed out of every pore!”

  Ava clutched the white ribbon to her chest as if to protect herself from hatred contamination. “Ooh, that means he’s negative juju, cher. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Good idea,” said Carmela. “Where’s Isis?”

  “Jekyl’s got her. He’s showing her off to some of his friends. You’d think he entered her in the darned contest.”

  “Let’s get her and go,” said Carmela.

  They found Jekyl cooing over Isis and chatting with a bunch of fellow antique dealers. Once they pried Isis away from him, they cut a direct path through the crowded room, heading for the exit. As they passed the booth sponsored by Animal Rescue of New Orleans, a woman in tan pants and a pink blazer held a tiny tabby kitten out toward Carmela.

  “Are you interested in adopting a kitten, dear?” asked the woman.

  Carmela shook her head, but Ava nearly exploded.

  “Oooh! Look at the itty-bitty baby!” Ava reached a finger out to gently stroke the adorable little kitten. The kitten let out a sound that was somewhere between a purr and a pleading squeak. “He’s saying, pleeease love me! Now you have to adopt him!” Ava pleaded to Carmela.

  “No, no,” said Carmela. “Not with two dogs.”

  “They’d love a baby kitty to play with,” Ava said.

  Carmela laughed. “Somehow I can’t fathom that working out.”

  Ava took the kitten into her hands and pressed her cheek against the kitten’s fur. “But he’s so soft and cuddly!”

  “I know, now give him back.” Carmela took the kitten from Ava and handed him back to the Animal Rescue lady, who in turn raised an eyebrow.

  “Are you sure?” she asked.

  Carmela nodded. “Afraid so.” She made a note to herself to send a donation to the Animal Rescue people. They did fantastic work and she knew they could use all the help they could get. Of course, if the world were a perfect place, there wouldn’t be any hapless little creatures who needed homes.

  • • •

  CARMELA GUNNED HER ENGINE AS SHE TURNED from Decatur onto St. Louis, heading for home. The night was cool and the colorful neon lights from the nearby clubs and bars spattered prisms of red, blue, and green across her windshield—a French Quarter light show.

  “So what did Conrad Falcon say when you mentioned Jerry Earl?” Ava asked. She was holding Isis in her lap, looking happy and relaxed, beginning to come down a little from her triumphant win.

  “He said maybe Margo was happy to be rid of him.”

  “Yeah?” said Ava. “Do you think she is?”

  Carmela drove for another block, thinking. Then she said, “I’m not sure. She vacillates between being weepy and a kind of manic high.”

  “What do you think that means? That she should be popping Prozac? Or that she really should be considered a suspect?”

  “You know,” said Carmela, “in a case like this, the spouse is always a suspect.”

  “What would be her motive?”

  “Money, I suppose,” said Carmela.

  “And Conrad Falcon? What motive would he have?”

  “Pure hatred.”

  “Okay,” said Ava. “And suspect number three, Eric Zane. What’s in it for him?”

  “I don’t know,” said Carmela. “Freedom?”

  “Couldn’t Zane have just quit his job if he hated it so much?”

  “Easier said than done,” said Carmela. “Sometimes it’s trickier than just kicking the dust off your shoes and walking out the front door. Sometimes people are physically and emotionally stuck, so they’re unable to make any kind of move.”

  “Huh,” said Ava. “Like being Velcroed to the wall.” She wiggled her shoulders. “Awful.”

  “I found out something else, too,” said Carmela.

  “What’s that?”

  “Jerry Earl was carrying on with Beetsie Bishoff. At least that’s the latest scuttlebutt according to our good friend Jekyl.”

  “No!” said Ava. “That scrawny old bird and Jerry Earl?”

  Carmela nodded.

  “What a betrayal!” Ava dropped her head and planted a little kiss on the top of Isis’s furry head. “Do you think Margo knows? Or that she suspected?”

  “I don’t think Margo has a clue. She wouldn’t still be all buddy-buddy with Beetsie if she knew Beetsie had been canoodling with Jerry Earl. And I have no idea if the affair was carried on while he was in prison.”

  “How do you even have an affair with a guy who’s in prison?” Ava asked. She sounded interested.

  “You’re asking me?” Carmela said as she zigzagged around a slow-moving vehicle. “You’re the relationship expert. You’ve dated in just about every crazy situation—”

  Ava held up a hand. “Excuse me! I don’t do jailbirds or married men. A lady has to draw the line somewhere!”

  Carmela laughed. “You don’t think men in orange are cute?”

  “It’s not the orange that I object to, it’s the baggy jumpsuits,” Ava said, smiling wickedly.

  “Speaking of jailbirds and jumpsuits,” said Carmela. “Remember those tattoos I told you about? The ones the ME discovered on Jerry Earl’s body?”

  “Yeah,” said Ava. “So you found out more?”

  “Well, I talked to Bobby Gallant—it was like pulling teeth, but I finally got some inside information—and he told me about this crazy group of guys down in Venice who were in prison the same time Jerry Earl was.”

  “What are you saying?” asked Ava.

  “There’s a possibility they might be involved.”

  “That they murdered Jerry Earl?” said Ava.

  “Maybe.”

  “There are a lot of maybes in this case,” said Ava. “Too many.”

  Carmela shrugged. “I know.” She hesitated. “But one more maybe?”

  “What’s that?” said Ava.

  “Maybe we should drive down to Venice and check out those guys for ourselves.”

  “We could do a road trip!” squealed Ava. “Just like Thelma and Louise!”

  “As long as you don’t shoot anyone,” said Carmela.

  “And you don’t drive us off a cliff!” said Ava.

  Chapter 11

  CARMELA was scrutinizing her racks of paper this Wednesday morning, trying to figure out what might tickle the fancy of her crafters for her afternoon Paper Moon class. Maybe her Japanese rice papers with the kimono designs? She pulled a few sheets out. And how about the suede papers? Sure, why not. The suede paper was gorgeous. She also grabbed a few sheets of vellum and foil paper and was debating over the cork paper when the bell over the front door did its high-pitched da-ding.

  Carmela glanced up at the same time Gabby did. Gabby was standing at the front counter, creating a display with seals and rubber stamps, when a man in a blue uniform charged in.

  “Carmela?” he said, looking at her.

  “Gabby,” she said.

  “Got a delivery here for a Carmela,” the man said.

  “That’s me,” said Carmela. She set h
er stack of paper down and walked the few steps to the front. “Whatcha got?”

  The man shrugged, then handed her a long white envelope. “Don’t know, ma’am, I just make the deliveries.”

  “Thanks anyway,” said Carmela as he charged back out the door.

  “That looks awfully small to be the foam core I ordered,” said Gabby.

  “I don’t know what it is,” said Carmela. She hooked a fingernail under the envelope’s flap and flipped it open. “Oh. Tickets.” She glanced at Gabby. “For Saturday’s Cakewalk Ball. You know, from Margo.”

  “I thought you weren’t interested in going to things like that,” said Gabby. “After Shamus dragged you to every charity and society event in town.”

  “Eh,” said Carmela, “I kind of got pressured by Margo. She’s co-chair or something like that.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re going. Now I’ll have someone to hang out with.”

  Carmela raised a single eyebrow. “What about Stuart?” Stuart Mercer-Morris, Gabby’s husband, owned eight Toyota dealerships and was known as the Toyota King of New Orleans. He dressed like a preppy, voted conservative, was a bit of a control freak, and lived and dreamed car deals. He got particularly excited when it came to fleet leasing.

  “Stuart will be busy yucking it up with his friends as usual,” said Gabby. “And probably bragging about his cake.”

  “What’s he planning to donate? I hope he didn’t pinch something from your jewelry box.”

  “No,” said Gabby. “One of his managers has a wife who’s an amateur baker and cake decorator. She’s going to do a four-layer cake and incorporate a long strand of opera-length pearls and a diamond-studded key pendant.”

  “Classy.”

  Gabby wrinkled her nose. “You think?”

  “It is for a car dealer.”

  • • •

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER THEY WERE UP TO THEIR ears in customers. A trio of women came tripping in and started grabbing packs of beads, colored brads, and stickers.

  Another woman, a semi-regular named Amanda who’d just acquired a stash of antique paper dolls, cornered Carmela and inquired about the best way to display them.

  “Display them?” asked Carmela. “Or showcase them in an album?”