Mumbo Gumbo Murder Read online

  Once Ava had filled out her questionnaire, Miss Penelope got down to brass tacks. She picked up a ballpoint pen and held it poised, ready to make notes on a long piece of lined paper decorated with a row of dancing purple hearts across the top.

  “I need to get an idea of how your mind works,” Miss Penelope said. “It will help me decide which one of my fabulous clients would make a good partner for you.”

  Ava leaned forward expectantly. “Okay.”

  “So tell me, honey, what are the top three attributes you’re looking for in a man?”

  Ava grinned. “That’s easy. Good looks never fail to jump-start my heart. And neither does money.”

  When she saw disapproval on Miss Penelope’s face, Ava waved a hand in front of herself as if to scrub away her answers. “No, just kidding. Really. I, um, I really love a guy with a great sense of humor.”

  “Humor,” Miss Penelope said as she jotted it down.

  “But not juvenile humor,” Ava said. “No pie-in-the-face, seltzer-down-your-pants humor.”

  “No pranks or stupid pet tricks,” Carmela put in. “Those would definitely be a no-no.”

  “Okay, humor is one attribute you like in a man. What else?” Miss Penelope asked.

  Ava screwed up her face as if in deep thought. “Um . . . ah . . . how many did I come up with so far?”

  “One.”

  “Okay,” Ava said, “how about ‘Likes cats’?”

  “Cats,” Miss Penelope said and wrote that down, too.

  “But not like a hoarder or anything,” Ava said. “Like those crazy people you see on TV that have infestations in their sofas and stuff.”

  Carmela, who’d been relatively quiet until now, spoke up. “How about kindness, a good work ethic, and fiscal responsibility?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Ava said. “Those are all good traits in a guy.” She tapped a bloodred fingernail on the desk and stared at Miss Penelope. “Be sure to write those down.”

  “She’s writing them,” Carmela said.

  “Whew, this dating stuff is a hell of a lot harder than it looks,” Ava said. “I thought maybe there’d be a bunch of photos stuck on the wall and I could just kind of mosey along and point to the guys that turned me on.”

  Miss Penelope made a noise in the back of her throat.

  “No?” Ava said.

  “But most of all you’re looking for romance, right?” Miss Penelope said.

  “Sure. And a man with a soft, sexy voice,” Ava said. “But nobody who’s into texting. My guy better be able to dial the phone rather than text, text, text all the time.”

  Miss Penelope looked confused. “That’s a first. Most women love the attention.”

  “She doesn’t like to text, but she’s okay on Snapchat,” Carmela said.

  “Oh,” Ava said, as if the thought had just occurred to her. “And I don’t want a man who grumbles about how long it takes me to get ready. Guys always want you to be all juicy and delicious at the drop of a hat. They don’t realize that all that Spackle, makeup, paint, and powder takes time to apply.” She curled both hands to indicate her face. “I mean, I wasn’t born this gorgeous.” She glanced at Miss Penelope. “Don’t write that down. It’ll be our little secret.”

  Miss Penelope nodded and tapped her pen, ready to get down to the important points.

  “Sweetheart, how many previous relationships have you had?”

  Ava scrunched up her face again, thinking hard. “I’d say about . . . a hundred?”

  Miss Penelope sat back in her chair, eyes popping, along with two more buttons. “No, that isn’t possible,” she said in a breathy, almost disturbed tone of voice. Miss Penelope herself probably hadn’t had that many actual clients.

  Carmela nodded vigorously. “Yes, it is.”

  “Why don’t we, um, approach your particular case from a different angle,” Miss Penelope said. “How many serious relationships have you had?”

  “Oh, then it would only be around forty or fifty,” Ava said.

  “Honey, I don’t mean a one-shot coffee date never to be seen again. Or a bump and tickle in a bar. I’m talking about relationships that blossomed into something with actual . . . potential.”

  “When I meet a yummy man, I always think the future is ripe with potential. But then . . . it’s not,” Ava said.

  Miss Penelope dropped her pen, letting it hit the desk with a hard CLUNK. “Tell you what, dear, I’m going to compile all your information and search my roster of current clients. Then I’ll get back to you with a list of prospective matches.”

  “That’d be great,” Ava said. She stood up. “Thank you so much. This is going to be fun.”

  “I hope so,” Miss Penelope said in a faint voice.

  “Why did that sound like a threat?” Carmela asked as they headed back down the steps.

  But Ava remained upbeat. “I think this matchmaking thing is going to work out great. I have complete confidence that Miss Penelope will find a man who’ll give me everything I want.”

  “Right now, I want a glass of wine,” Carmela said.

  “Ooh, twist my arm, cher.”

  “C’mon, we’ll head over to St. Peter Street. There’s supposed to be a good zydeco street party going on tonight.”

  * * *

  * * *

  They strolled along Chartres Street as moonlight dappled the cobblestones and bounced off wrought-iron grillwork on timeworn brick storefronts. Baskets of fanciful pink bougainvillea hung down from balconies and gas lamps glowed in the dark as Ava and Carmela walked past oyster bars, raucous cocktail lounges, a T-shirt shop, and an art gallery. At first the music that drifted toward them sounded faint, like an old-fashioned radio signal fading in and out. But as they finally rounded the corner and hit St. Peter Street, they were suddenly enveloped in an earsplitting, riotous cocoon of good old-fashioned zydeco music.

  Sittin’ here in La La

  Waitin’ for my Ya Ya

  Uh huh, uh huh

  “Love this!” Ava shrieked.

  On a brightly lit stage, dead center in the middle of the street, the Zydeco Boyz were playing their hearts out to hundreds of revelers. Dressed in purple and green T-shirts and faded jeans, the two fiddlers, accordion player, drummer, and guy with a rubboard on his chest played their tunes in a superfast tempo. People clapped, danced, and sang along. Dozens of street vendors trolled their way through the crowd hawking everything from Jazz Fest T-shirts to salted peanuts and colored beads.

  “It’s wine o’clock,” Carmela said as they waded through the crowd to a nearby wine bar. “Merlot?”

  “Why not?”

  Carmela got them two glasses of merlot in plastic geaux cups. She handed a cup to Ava, took a sip, and said, “This is what I love most about New Orleans. Look at this crowd, young and old, tourists and homies. Everybody happy and singing together like old friends.”

  “It’s a super mellow vibe,” Ava agreed.

  They listened to the music for a while, then eased their way down the block as a court jester on stilts walked by tossing out strands of colorful Mardi Gras beads. A handful landed on Ava’s shoulder.

  “Thank you so much, tall, dark, and . . . tall,” Ava called out.

  She draped a few strands of beads over Carmela’s head, then dropped the rest around her own neck.

  “Maybe we should grab something to eat?” Carmela said.

  They strolled to the end of the block where a half dozen food trucks were parked, perfuming the night air with the most delicious aromas. There were muffuletta and roast beef sandwiches, fried green tomatoes, bell peppers stuffed with shrimp and rice, andouille sausage, and onion rings.

  “Definitely the fried green tomatoes,” Ava said.

  “With remoulade sauce for dipping,” Carmela agreed.

  “Uh-oh, there’s my downfall ov
er there, a potato po-boy. French bread stuffed with French fries, gravy, and mayo.”

  “You’ll for sure boost your caloric intake if you eat that,” Carmela said. She was always amazed at the variety of po-boys out there. Beef, shrimp, crawfish, crab, oyster, sausage, catfish, pork, tofu, and (her tastes didn’t run that way, but a few people’s did) even sweetbread po-boys.

  Halfway through their jumbo basket of fried green tomatoes, the Zydeco Boyz wound up “Zydeco Boogaloo” with a flourish, reveling in the applause from the appreciative crowd.

  “It’s not over, is it?” Ava asked.

  “The band’s just taking a break,” Carmela said. “Not to worry, they’ll be back soon.”

  Ava bounced up and down on the balls of her feet. “But we need music!”

  Carmela held up a hand. “Listen.”

  Ava looked around. “Where from?”

  “You hear that, right?”

  Ava listened carefully. “Yeah. The faint strain of a jazz saxophone.” She bobbed her head. “I love a sax.”

  “The joy of sax,” Carmela said. “What’s not to like?”

  “Let’s go find . . . whoa!” Ava said. She was suddenly brought up short as two creepy-looking Beastmaster Puppets brushed past her. She whirled toward Carmela. “Did you see those guys? I’m not hallucinating, am I?”

  “Not on one glass of wine.”

  “That was a couple of honkin’ big Beastmaster Puppets that just whipped past us,” Ava said.

  “I would say so.”

  “Let’s follow them. I bet they’re on their way to some kind of private party.”

  Carmela, who tended to err on the side of caution (except when she was hot and heavy into an investigation), said, “You think?” But they both started to edge their way down the block in the direction the two giant puppets had gone.

  “I think they kind of ghosted their way into that old brick building that used to be a mask shop,” Ava said.

  They were a half block down Dauphine Street now, walking past a small grocery store, jewelry shop, and coin shop that were all closed up tight for the night.

  “Kind of dark down here,” Carmela said. “Not so many people.”

  “The action’s over on St. Peter Street,” Ava said. Then she squinted at the brick building with its purple door and small brass lamp flickering next to it and said, “Or maybe not.”

  “What is this place?” Carmela asked.

  “I don’t know, but it looks mysterious. And I’m pretty sure it’s where those two puppet guys disappeared into.”

  They walked up to the purple door, hesitated for a moment, then Carmela got up her courage and knocked.

  Like the proverbial drawbridge in Dracula’s castle, the door creaked open slowly to reveal a man in a shiny black cape with a chalk white face.

  “Jeepers,” Ava said, taking a step backward.

  Chapter 15

  THE keeper of the door may have been kitted out like a Transylvanian count, but his accent was pure Southern good old boy.

  “Hep ya?” he asked. His voice sounded slightly muddled because he had to talk around his fake incisors.

  “We’re here for the party,” Ava said. With the door open, music and the buzz of conversation seeped out, along with the clink of ice cubes in glasses. “Definitely party time in there,” Ava said as a quiet aside to Carmela.

  The vampire gave them a speculative look as he produced a clipboard and proceeded to scan it. “And you are . . . ?”

  Like a shadow emerging from a fogbank, Richard Drake loomed in the doorway before them.

  “Justin, these charming ladies are my guests,” Drake said in rounded mellow tones. He wore an old-fashioned dove gray morning suit complete with vest and long cape. The only thing his Edwardian outfit lacked was a silk top hat and a silver-tipped cane.

  “Well, thank you,” Ava drawled. She offered Drake her hand, and he obligingly bent forward and kissed it gently.

  “This is definitely the party place,” Carmela said. She noted that Drake was still gazing at Ava (who was mooning back at him) but hadn’t bothered to look at her.

  “This is a pop-up party,” Drake said finally. “An adult playroom for a close-knit group of like-minded revelers.”

  “Like the Beastmaster puppeteers?” Ava asked him. “Are you also a puppeteer?”

  Drake gave an ambiguous smile. “In a way, but of a different sort.”

  “Was that a yes?” Ava asked.

  “That was a maybe,” Drake said. “But where are my manners? Won’t you ladies come in and join the revelry?” He led them into an anteroom that was painted completely black and had an enormous silver-gray gargoyle hanging from the ceiling. There were red velvet couches and love seats scattered all around and tall flickering candles in the corners.

  As Carmela’s eyes grew accustomed to the dark, she could see people seated on the furniture, talking in low voices, and sipping drinks.

  “How interesting that we’ve crossed paths with you again,” Carmela said to Drake. “Twice in one day.”

  He smiled back at her but offered no reply.

  Carmela forged ahead. “I trust you suffered no ill effects from your earlier run-in with the somewhat unruly T.J.?”

  “That,” Drake said, “was most unfortunate. Rowdy behavior is never acceptable in polite company. I do apologize.”

  “Oh, we didn’t mind one little bit,” Ava said, fluffing her hair. “Fights are always kind of exciting. Like old-fashioned duels.”

  “Still, I hope you ladies don’t think less of me,” Drake said.

  “We don’t think much of anything,” Carmela said. “Because we don’t really know you.” Deep in her heart lurked the red-hot suspicion that Drake could very well be Devon Dowling’s killer.

  “Excuse me,” Ava said, “but I’ve been meaning to ask, how do you do that thing where you look like you’re gliding on air?”

  “Practice,” Drake said. He ducked his head down and nuzzled the side of her neck.

  “Mr. Drake!” Ava squealed, but she was pleased.

  Carmela could see that Ava was vibrating like a tuning fork.

  This is not good. I do not want Ava to get involved with this man.

  “Is there a place we can get a drink around here?” Carmela asked.

  “A cocktail,” Ava said. “I’d love a cocktail.”

  “Our very own Hellfire Club happens to be right downstairs,” Drake said.

  “Say what?” said Ava.

  “Our bar,” Drake said.

  “In that case,” Ava said.

  “You see the stairs over there?” Drake pointed across the room.

  “The ones under the glowing bat?” Carmela asked. Jeez, this place is trippy.

  “That’s right. Go ahead and follow them down,” Drake said.

  “You’re not going to join us?” Ava asked, obviously disappointed.

  “Perhaps . . . later,” Drake said.

  * * *

  * * *

  The Hellfire Club might have been a pop-up bar, but it looked like it had been there since the last century. Actually, the century before World War I. An old-fashioned wooden bar stretched across the basement room. Behind it were ornately carved shelves that held an array of glittering liquor bottles and, Carmela was fairly sure, a few bottles of absinthe.

  The ceiling was low, the floor was pieced together from shards of slate, and the walls were stacked boulders reinforced with wood pilings. Dim red lights and a few candles lent an eerie glow.

  “Creepers,” Ava said. “What is this place?”

  “I think it really is the Hellfire Club,” Carmela said. “I mean, look at this place. It’s like something out of a Victorian novel. Or a dungeon that some crazy French nobleman put together in the seventeenth century.”

  “And everybody is
wearing costumes,” Ava said. “Except us.”

  “I guess we didn’t get the memo.”

  “We could at least get a drink.”

  They stepped up to the bar and glanced around.

  “Hah, there’s even a drink menu,” Carmela said.

  “Yeah, but look at the names. Crapple Bomb, Goat’s Delight, Atomic Cat, Cement Mixer, Flaming Gorilla. I don’t know what these drinks are, and I get around!”

  “Help you, ladies?” A bartender was leaning forward on the bar and staring at them. He had a dark widow’s peak and bags under his eyes, and he wore his goatee long and braided. His hands and arms were tattooed all the way up to his waffle weave shirt. He could have been thirty or seventy.

  “Um, what’s good here?” Ava asked. “You got any recommendations?”

  “I make a mean Duracell Cocktail,” the bartender said. “And if you like to live dangerously, there’s always a shot of Fireball to warm your innards.”

  “I’ve heard about that,” Carmela said. “What is that, whisky?”

  The bartender nodded as he reached back and grabbed a bottle of Fireball.

  “Cinnamon whisky,” he said as he spun two shot glasses onto the bar and poured amber liquid into each of them. “Down the hatch, ladies, my compliments.”

  “That’s a challenge if I ever heard one,” said Ava.

  She picked up her glass and tossed back the whisky while Carmela took a judicious sip.

  “Wheee!” Ava cried out, slamming her glass down onto the bar. “That’s like drinking molten lava right from a volcano!”

  “Piquant but with a caustic nip,” the bartender said.

  “Hot and spicy,” Carmela said. “But I do like that cinnamon.”

  “Another round?” the bartender asked.

  “Maybe we should get a nice safe glass of wine,” Ava suggested. “Instead of going for another Fireball.”

  “Works for me,” Carmela said. Three tiny sips had been enough for her.