Gilt Trip Read online

  A breeze riffled the green awning overhead, and the twinkling white lights in the potted palmettos looked positively welcoming as Carmela hurried through the door into Glisande’s Courtyard Restaurant.

  The maître d’ glanced up from his reservation book with a smile, but Carmela waved him off with a quick “I’m meeting someone.” Then she strode into the dining room and looked around. It was old world New Orleans glamour personified. Decorated in a French palette of pale blue, eggshell white, and yellow, it was both posh and plush. White linens graced the tables, diners sat on richly upholstered high-backed chairs. Windows were swagged with linen draperies, and bunches of dried lavender and white roses were arranged in enormous French crocks.

  Tonight there were a few early diners, but no Shamus.

  But he wouldn’t wait for me in here. He’s probably . . .

  Carmela strolled into the sleek, dark bar with its backlit Greek chorus of bottles filled with rum, brandy, whiskey, and every other spirit you could possibly conjure. And there he was, sprawled at the bar, looking happy and sassy as if he held the deed to the darned place in his hot little hand.

  Carmela watched Shamus for a minute, thinking of what might have been. Of promises . . . broken.

  Then Shamus turned and caught sight of her. An easy grin lit his face and he waved. Carmela remembered when that grin had set her heart to pounding. Not anymore. Now her heart was just . . . beating normally.

  “Carmela!” Shamus called. “Babe!”

  Carmela slid onto the bar stool next to him. “What’s going on?”

  Shamus frowned. “What kind of greeting is that for your ex-hubby?”

  “Sorry.” Carmela closed her eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath. When she opened her eyes again, she said, “Hi, Shamus. How are you?”

  “Oh yeah,” he said. “That’s so much better. Practically bordering on sincere.”

  The waiter set a vodka martini, two olives, straight up, in front of Shamus.

  “You want something?” Shamus asked her.

  “Just a Diet Coke.”

  The waiter nodded and disappeared.

  “So what have you been up to?” Carmela asked.

  “Ack, same old, same old. The only interesting things that’ve come across my desk lately are a loan app for the new casino in Bogalusa and an interim loan for an oil exploration company.” Shamus sipped on his martini, then reached out and dug his hand into a bowl of bar peanuts. He popped them into his mouth, chewed, and went back for a giant helping of popcorn.

  Carmela was basically appalled. But then again, she knew Shamus had the digestive system of a goat. When her Diet Coke finally arrived, she took a fortifying sip and said, “What’s this little meeting all about?”

  Shamus scooped up some maraschino cherries and popped one in his mouth. “So there’s this charity event Saturday night . . .”

  “Uh-hum.” Carmela took another hit of Diet Coke. Wait for it, she told herself.

  “The Cakewalk Ball,” he said, still chewing.

  “I’m aware of it,” said Carmela. “In fact, I’m going to it.”

  “Oh, hey,” said Shamus. “That makes it even easier.”

  “What makes what easier?”

  “Because of our status in the community, Crescent City Bank is obviously contributing a cake to the auction.” He eyed her carefully.

  “Ye-e-s-s,” Carmela said, drawing out the word.

  “And Glory is donating a really gorgeous diamond pendant to top off our cake. So I need someone—hopefully you—to create the decorations. You know, the frosting and all that shit.”

  “Sweet talk will get you everywhere,” said Carmela.

  “Anyway, when it comes to decorating and crafts and girly stuff like that, you’re the most creative person I know!” The wattage on Shamus’s smile almost blinded Carmela.

  “Shamus, I know next to nothing about decorating a cake!”

  “C’mon, babe, how hard can it be? You whip up some frosting and spackle it on.”

  “Plaster with sugar,” said Carmela.

  Shamus bobbed his head. “Sure.”

  “And I’m sure Glory would just love for me to be involved.”

  “She’s mellowed, Carmela, she really has. She doesn’t hate you nearly as much as she used to.”

  “You call that progress?”

  “Sure,” said Shamus. He reached over and squeezed Carmela’s hand. “Please, babe? As a favor to me?”

  “Oh . . . jeez.” She was wavering. Why was that? What was the hold Shamus still had on her? “I wouldn’t have to actually bake the cake, would I?”

  “No, no, Duvall’s Bakery will take care of that. In fact, I’ll have them deliver it right to your place. All you have to do is throw on some frosting and fondant and make it look absolutely stunning.” Shamus slipped off his bar stool and dug for something in his pocket.

  “Like I know how to do that,” said Carmela.

  “And incorporate this diamond necklace into the decor,” said Shamus. He opened his hand and a necklace suddenly tumbled out, a large diamond pendant on a thin gold chain. It dangled in midair, twirling and glinting and catching the light.

  “Wow.” Carmela could barely take her eyes off it.

  “Nice little bauble, don’t you think?”

  “It’s stunning. How many carats?”

  “I think about six, all told. A four-carat emerald-cut diamond set in a frame of pave diamonds. Pretty neat, huh?”

  “You trust me with this?” Carmela asked playfully. It was all she could do to restrain herself from hooking the gorgeous little thing around her neck!

  “I trust it will be the crowning jewel on your cake.”

  Carmela held out her hand. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

  Shamus dropped the necklace into her hand, where it made a delightful little puddle of diamonds and gold. “But be careful! Don’t lose it! Here, better put it in this.” He handed her a small black velvet bag.

  Carmela placed the necklace into the bag, then tucked the whole thing into her purse. “Okay.” She stood up to leave. “You coming?”

  “Naw.” Shamus’s eyes slid down the bar, where a couple of women were sitting. “I think I’ll hang around for a while. See what’s shakin’.”

  “You’re incorrigible, Shamus.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” His eyes focused on her. “You know this is my weekend to take the dogs. According to our somewhat laissez-faire custody agreement.”

  “I know that.”

  “Okay,” said Shamus. “I’m just sayin’.” His eyes slid back to the two women.

  “Bye, Shamus. Try to be good.” Carmela walked back through the dining room, which was filling up rapidly now, and headed for the front door. But before she could push it open, a gentleman inclined his head to her and said, “Please, allow me.”

  Carmela looked up into the bearded face of Buddy Pelletier.

  “Oh,” she said, startled. “It’s Mr. Pelletier, right?” She remembered him from Margo’s party.

  “That’s right,” he said as he pushed the door open for her. “And you’re Carmela Bertrand.” They walked out into the coolness of the late afternoon. “Margo Leland has told me quite a bit about you.”

  Buddy Pelletier was tall and strikingly handsome. He was midforties and wore an expensively hand-tailored suit that oozed class. He had the sharp blue eyes of a Samoyed, and they crinkled winningly at the corners.

  “My dear,” Pelletier continued, “you have my undying thanks. Margo tells me you’ve been a tremendous comfort to her during her time of need.”

  “I hope I have been,” said Carmela.

  “Margo also tells me she’s roped you into the investigation?”

  “Only because I was the one who found Jerry Earl.”

  “And a sad state of affairs that was.�
�� A sleek navy blue convertible slid to the curb and a valet jumped out.

  An Aston Martin, Carmela thought to herself. Hand tooled in England and the very same vehicle that 007 drove.

  “Your car is beautiful,” she told him. She couldn’t help herself. She was a sports car aficionado and knew this one was in a class by itself.

  “One of the best things about New Orleans’s climate,” said Pelletier, “is that you can enjoy tooling around in your convertible practically year-round.” Then Pelletier got serious again. “Your kindness to Margo is greatly appreciated. Jerry Earl was a dear friend of mine, and Margo is very special to me, too. If there’s anything I can do to help, please don’t hesitate to ask.” He reached into his jacket pocket and took out his wallet. He extracted a business card and handed it to Carmela. “I mean that. Anything at all.”

  “Thank you,” said Carmela, accepting the card. For some reason, the heartfelt sincerity of this very busy man touched her. And brought tears to her eyes.

  • • •

  THE MEMORY BOX TUCKED SAFELY INSIDE A cardboard box, Carmela strode up the walkway to Margo’s mansion. After her encounter with Pelletier, she’d returned to her shop and picked up her handiwork. Somehow, Pelletier’s worry over Margo’s well-being had telegraphed to her. Even Baby had remarked how much of a comfort the memory box would be. So here she was, bearing both sympathy and a gift.

  Carmela noticed that the grounds looked well kept today. The grass had been freshly cut and the camellias pruned. She inhaled the pleasant fragrance as she rang the bell. Then waited for someone to appear from behind the wrought-iron security door.

  A few moments later, Beetsie opened the door. She was wearing a dark dress that hung on her spare frame. Surprise registered on her face. “Carmela. Was Margo expecting you?” Then her manners got the better of her and she said, “Come in.”

  Carmela followed Beetsie inside. “Is Margo here?”

  “Of course, dear, I’ll get her. You can wait in the parlor.”

  Carmela stepped into the parlor, where, only a few days before, guests had danced and drank while a zydeco band cranked out foot-stompin’ tunes. Now it all looked subdued and unused. The heavy velvet chairs and sofas looked almost shabby, as if they, too, were in mourning. Carmela glanced at the enormous white marble fireplace and the portrait of Margo that hung above it. It was a very flattering oil painting, one that made Margo look years younger and pounds slimmer. She wondered who the artist had been. Certainly not Sullivan Finch, he of the strange and unusual death portraits.

  Soft footsteps caught Carmela’s attention. Margo descended a long stairway with Beetsie trailing behind.

  “Carmela, darling,” said Margo. “I’ve just been picking out clothes for the funeral tomorrow.” She looked hollow and worn out. “You’ll come, won’t you? It’s going to be held at St. Louis Cathedral.”

  “Yes, you mentioned that,” said Carmela.

  “Elaborate yet personal,” said Beetsie.

  Carmela searched her brain for a good excuse not to attend, but Margo clasped a pudgy hand to her chest and said, “Please, Carmela, you have to come! We’re counting on it!”

  Carmela gave in. “Then I’ll be there. And thank you for the tickets to the Cakewalk Ball. As it turns out, I’m going to be decorating a cake for Crescent City Bank.”

  “Aren’t you the clever one,” remarked Beetsie.

  “That’s just wonderful,” Margo chirped. Sad Margo was suddenly gone; happy Margo had just taken her place. Then a wolfish grin spread across her face. “Would you like to see the necklace that I’m donating?”

  “Certainly,” said Carmela.

  “Beetsie,” said Margo. She did everything but snap her fingers. “The necklace?”

  Beetsie hustled out of the room and returned not thirty seconds later bearing a purple velvet box.

  “Come take a peek,” said Margo.

  Carmela and Margo crowed closer to Beetsie as she raised the lid.

  An elaborate necklace studded with diamonds, emeralds, and rubies sparkled at them. In the center was a pendant in the shape of a Victorian crown. Carmela thought it looked like something Marie Antoinette might have worn. Or at least lost her head over.

  “Stunning,” said Carmela.

  Margo raised an appreciative eyebrow. “It is, isn’t it? It will no doubt be the highlight of the auction.”

  Carmela stood there for a couple of seconds, then said, “You know, I didn’t mean to interrupt your dinner hour.” She thrust her gift box toward Margo. “I just came by to give you this.”

  “What?” said Margo, accepting the box. “What is it?”

  “It’s the memory box we talked about,” said Carmela.

  “Haven’t you been the busy little bee,” said Beetsie.

  Margo carried the box over to a table, then carefully lifted the lid. “Oh,” she said as she lifted out Carmela’s creation. “Oh my.”

  “Hmm,” said Beetsie.

  “Car-mel-a,” said Margo. She was choked up and finding it difficult to speak. “I can’t . . . believe it.” Now she pulled out a hanky and wiped away tears. “It’s . . . it’s . . . I absolutely love it!”

  “Thank you,” said Carmela. “I was hoping you would.”

  “You’re so very . . . clever,” said Beetsie.

  But not half as clever as you, Carmela thought. If you really were carrying on with Jerry Earl.

  “Speaking of clever,” said Margo. “How is your investigation coming along?”

  “Slow,” said Carmela. “There’s not a whole lot to go on.”

  “There isn’t, is there?” said Beetsie, staring at her with eyes that were as cold as a silver penny.

  “You must keep digging!” Margo pleaded. “I know you can figure this out! I know you can help me!”

  Carmela stood there. This wasn’t the time or place to bring up the alleged Jerry Earl–Beetsie affair. Besides maybe it was only a rumor. Or maybe . . . Well, she and Ava planned to drive down to Venice tonight. Maybe they’d turn up something there.

  “If there’s anything you need from me,” Margo said.

  “Tell me more about Conrad Falcon,” said Carmela.

  Margo’s face turned red and her brows pinched together. “That scoundrel! You know Conrad Falcon and Jerry Earl were archenemies as far back as I can remember.”

  “Because they both owned construction companies?” said Carmela. “And were fierce rivals?”

  Margo nodded. “Exactly. And that’s why we weren’t surprised when Falcon framed Jerry Earl and had him sent to prison.”

  Framed? But Jerry Earl really was found guilty. By a court of law. By an impartial jury of his peers.

  “When Jerry Earl went to prison,” said Carmela, “what happened to all the construction contracts that he had?”

  “Are you kidding?” said Margo, her voice rising in near hysteria. “They all went to Falcon. He went around to all of Jerry Earl’s clients and bad-mouthed him. Got them to hire him instead. It was awful!”

  “What was Jerry Earl planning to do about this?” asked Carmela. “When he got out?”

  Margo stared at Carmela. “Why, get even with Falcon, of course.”

  “And how was he going to do that?”

  Margo’s smile was almost a snarl. “Jerry Earl was going to ruin him!”

  Chapter 13

  AGAINST Carmela’s better judgment, she and Ava were cruising down Highway 23, headed for Venice. She knew she probably shouldn’t, since an impromptu little trip like this probably wasn’t going to reveal any deep, dark secrets. And Babcock would surely freak out if he found out. But she needed to make this trip anyway, if for no other reason than thoroughness.

  Leave no stone unturned.

  She glanced at Ava in the passenger seat, who was scrunched up and scrolling her phone for tunes. When she f
inally found something she liked, she smiled and plugged her phone into the car stereo. When she pressed play, Rihanna’s voice filled the car.

  Ava warbled happily along, but Carmela gripped the steering wheel a little tighter.

  Suddenly sensing her friend’s unease, Ava stopped her combination serenade and seat dance and said, “What?”

  Carmela kept her eyes on the road ahead. “Something inside me is telling me to turn around right now and head back home.”

  “You mean like some kind of creepy warning? That something really bad is going to happen? Like an accident or a carjacking?”

  “No, more like this is going to be a huge waste of time.”

  Ava turned the music down a little. “You know what, cher? I don’t think so. You’ve got good instincts. Heck, you’ve got great instincts, honed like a doggone jungle predator! And if they tell you to check out these guys in Venice, then that’s what you should do.”

  Carmela wasn’t convinced. “I have no idea how we’ll even find them.”

  Ava waved a hand airily. “That’s no big deal. When we get there, we’ll just pop into the first beer and gumbo joint that we see and start asking questions.”

  “Sounds a little dangerous to me.”

  “Then I’ll do the asking,” said Ava. She inhaled deeply and fluffed her hair. “I don’t know if you realize this or not, but men often find me highly irresistible. They just looooove to help.”

  “Like that guy, Mickey, who’s always helping you with deliveries and stuff?” Carmela chuckled.

  “He’s a man with a van,” said Ava, practically striking a pose.

  “And how about poor Stanley?” said Carmela. Stanley was an aging trust fund baby from the Garden District who trekked after Ava like a lovesick puppy.

  “If Stanley likes to take me out for three-hundred-dollar dinners at Galatoire’s, who am I to complain?”

  “You like to game the system, don’t you?” said Carmela.