Gilt Trip Page 17

  It was early evening as she climbed into her car, the sky a darkening blue behind a parade of just-lit streetlamps that stretched, block after block, like a glowing rosary.

  Carmela started her engine and slowly cruised around her old neighborhood, gazing at the enormous homes and enjoying her mingled feelings of awe and relief. Selling the home meant marking a decisive end to one very strange chapter of her life!

  One door closes, another door opens, she reminded herself. That’s the way it usually works.

  She drove slowly past her friend Baby’s huge Italianate home. Everything looked quiet there tonight. Baby was probably enjoying a leisurely dinner with her husband, Del. Or maybe she was off on a play date with the grandkids.

  Turning the corner onto Prytania, Carmela came up on Margo Leland’s home. With both outside and inside lights ablaze, Margo’s home was lit up like party central.

  I wonder what Margo’s up to right now?

  Was she still in hysterics? Or lying in bed all conked out on bourbon and Xanax? Or was she crazy like a fox and had really wanted Jerry Earl dead and buried? And Eric Zane, too? Was a second murder just way too much of a stretch? Or was it icing on the cake?

  Carmela decided that Margo could probably manage one murder. But two seemed to be pushing it. Somehow she just didn’t see Margo luring Zane into the ladies’ room for a whispered conference, then jamming a shish-kebob skewer into his ear.

  That kind of cold-blooded murder required . . . what? A cold-blooded killer, she supposed. But also a certain steely nerve and decisiveness. It was one thing to grab a gun and pop somebody from a distance. But to get up close, look them in the eye, and watch them die . . . that was indicative of a dangerous psychopath.

  So who?

  Who indeed.

  Carmela drove down the block and hooked a right turn. A large, black Range Rover had just pulled into a driveway, and Carmela was amazed when she saw Conrad Falcon scramble out of the vehicle.

  Falcon! He lives across the back alley from Margo?

  Why hadn’t Margo ever told her about this?

  Carmela thought for a moment, then realized that Margo had mentioned to her that Falcon lived in the neighborhood. She just hadn’t said how close he was!

  Carmela pulled to a stop across the street and killed her headlights. She watched as Falcon stalked up to a side door and disappeared inside his house. Two minutes later, the light in his front room snapped on.

  So he was probably home by himself . . .

  Carmela waited a few minutes, then slipped out of her car. She glanced up and down the street, feeling guilty and pulsing with nervousness. No cars were coming; no pedestrians or dog walkers were in sight. Okay, good, she thought as she crossed hurriedly.

  Carmela chided herself about feeling guilty. After all, she was only trying to get a closer look at his property, right?

  Gosh, I love a good rationalization, she told herself as she dashed past Falcon’s car and slid around the side of his house.

  The backyard was a veritable jungle of magnolias, oleander, and gardenias with a few pecan and sweet olive trees tossed in for good measure. She had just waded through a spongy flowerbed and was tiptoeing across the lawn when a yard light flashed on. She heard the back door snick open. Then her breath caught in the back of her throat as she heard a disgruntled mumble followed by the loud bark of a dog!

  Nerves fizzing, Carmela flattened herself against a tree.

  What would she tell Falcon if he stormed out and caught her? If he accused her of trespassing and called the police?

  She heard grunts and sniffles and knew the dog was heading right for her.

  Oh no!

  Carmela peeked around the tree, ready to confront a hulking Doberman or German shepherd and saw . . . a fluffy little bichon! Who trotted right up to her and happily wagged its tail.

  Carmela bent down and let the little cutie sniff her hand.

  “Are you going to give me away?” she whispered.

  The dog rubbed his head against her hand as she stroked him between the ears. He chuffed and sniffed and his hind end shook happily.

  Carmela stood up and whispered to him, “Now you be good and stay here.” She stepped quietly down the garden walk toward a wooden gate that had an arch overhead. She pressed her hand to the gate, grimacing as it creaked loudly, then pushed it open.

  The gate led out to a narrow cobblestone alley bordered by a tall hedge of prickly junipers. Carmela stepped forward, rose up on her tiptoes, and peeked through the hedge.

  And found herself looking directly into Jerry Earl’s office!

  Wow. So close. And so easy to access, especially if you know the neighborhood.

  Carmela wondered if Conrad Falcon had stolen across the alley on the evening of Jerry Earl’s big party. Had he stood in the shadows waiting and watching with murder in his heart? Then snuck into Jerry Earl’s office and stabbed him? And stuffed his body into the clothes dryer?

  Maybe. It could have happened that way.

  Carmela ducked back across the alley into Falcon’s backyard. She looked around for the little bichon, but it had disappeared and the yard light had gone off.

  Good. Lucky.

  But as she rounded the corner of the house, poised for a clean getaway, a light inside snapped on!

  As light from the window suddenly spilled out to illuminate part of the garden, Carmela flattened herself against the outside wall. She felt cool bricks press against her and heard a muffled voice.

  It was Falcon’s voice. Talking low but with great intensity.

  Taking a chance, Carmela leaned in and peered through the window. She could see the back of Falcon’s head as he sat at his desk in a wood-paneled office. A Siamese cat was curled languidly in his lap. Probably the prize-winning cat from two nights ago.

  Suddenly, he spoke loud enough for Carmela to hear.

  “That’s right,” Falcon said, his voice booming. “We can move our equipment in there first thing Monday.” There were a few moments of silence, then he added, “Yes, I’ll have all the paperwork signed and sent over.”

  Where were they moving equipment to? Carmela wondered. Another construction job that he’d stolen from Jerry Earl? Or something else entirely?

  Falcon hung up the phone and dumped the cat onto his desk. Then he stood up and stretched, arms above his head, neck lolling from side to side.

  Carmela ducked down hurriedly, deciding she couldn’t make a move until his office light went off.

  Several minutes passed, and she was starting to get a nasty cramp in her calves from crouching in the oleander.

  What on earth is he doing in there?

  As she waited, her paranoia began to get the best of her. Had Falcon seen her? Did he know she was hiding and was planning to . . .

  The light winked out, leaving Carmela in the relative safety of darkness. She stood up, unkinked herself, and thanking her lucky stars that she hadn’t been caught, quickly scurried away.

  • • •

  ONCE SHE GOT HOME, STILL THANKFUL SHE hadn’t been caught, Carmela scrounged around the kitchen for dinner. She wasn’t terribly hungry, but finally decided on some baked shrimp. It was a simple, one-pan dish with shrimp, butter, lemon juice, seasonings, and parsley. She usually served it over pasta or rice, but tonight she’d have to make do with toast.

  While her shrimp concoction bubbled and baked, Carmela poured a cup of kibbles into each of Boo’s and Poobah’s dishes. Five seconds later, their dinners inhaled, they were looking at her once again with pleading brown eyes.

  Carmela could just imagine what they were thinking: Please, give me another helping of food and I’ll never ask for anything ever again. And then, when she gave them another serving: Please, give me another helping of food and I’ll never ask for anything ever again.

  She tapped her foot while
she waited for her shrimp. And wondered—who had been hanging around Commander’s Palace today, waiting to pounce? There was Duncan Merriweather, of course. In her mind, he still wasn’t off the hook. And good old Beetsie. Had she been the one that Eric Zane was trying to blackmail? Because of her supposed relationship with Jerry Earl?

  And then there was Eddy Moon down there in Venice, probably drinking Abita beer and poaching alligators.

  Or was he?

  Moon had been powerfully angry about Jerry Earl owing him money. So could he have snuck into the funeral luncheon? There was always that possibility.

  But why would he do that?

  To kill Eric Zane? That seemed a little far-fetched. Unless there’d been bad blood between Zane and the Venice gang? She let that thought percolate for a few minutes.

  Could Zane have functioned as their go-between? Was his killing some sort of retaliation?

  The oven timer dinged so loudly, it made Carmela jump. Still thinking about the Venice-Zane connection, she quickly served herself a portion of baked shrimp. She ate half of it as her mind continued to wander, thinking about all the strange goings-on of the past five days. Feeling anxious and more than a little on edge, Carmela set down her fork, walked into the kitchen, and poured herself a half glass of Chablis.

  This should help calm me down. Unless . . .

  She hesitated for a moment, then poured the wine into the sink without taking a sip. And decided her restlessness wouldn’t be completely quelled until she took another trip down to Venice and had a serious, all-cards-on-the-table talk with Moony.

  “Boo? Poobah?” she called out. “You two want to feel the wind in your fur?”

  Chapter 18

  DRIVING down to Venice, Carmela had plenty of time to think. About Margo and Beetsie. Jerry Earl’s murder. Conrad Falcon. Eric Zane’s murder. And about Duncan Merriweather. Lots of egos and lives had intersected. Still, nothing seemed clear; it was like some tricky Chinese puzzle.

  As she zoomed along a stretch of bayou, the sky a spectacular pinky-purple backdrop, she considered the foolishness of going back to Venice yet again. After all, what did she really know about Eddy Moon? And what if she couldn’t locate him? What if he didn’t hang out at Sparky’s every night?

  What if I start asking too many questions and . . .

  Before she could ponder that thought to the fullest, she was bumping across the old one-lane bridge into town. She slowed down and drove through the business section again, passing Boudreau’s Rod and Gun Shop, Palermo Pizza, and the used car place, finally pulling into Sparky’s parking lot.

  Just like the other night, the parking lot was jammed. Carmela figured that Sparky’s, such as it was, must be the social center of town.

  She parked, pulled out her phone, and tried to call Ava. Nothing. Her call just went to voice mail. Okay, then she’d send her a quick text. The thought that she could disappear into the bayou with no one knowing where to search for her sent a chill up her spine.

  After sending the text, Carmela steeled herself and fought to dismiss any and all irrational fears. She was here to get a few answers and that was all. There would be no spooky disappearance in a bottomless swamp. No murky figure who . . .

  A vision of a shish-kebob suddenly wafted through her brain!

  Carmela grimaced and shook her head to dispel the image. No. There would be no blood, no trocar, no lethal skewers, or anything else that was threatening or grisly.

  “You guys stay here and hold down the fort,” she told Boo and Poobah. They were both wagging their tails like mad, ready to jump out and enjoy a romp down main street with the local mutts. “Be good. Try not to bark your furry little heads off.”

  Carmela slithered out of the front seat as paws and muzzles strove to wedge their way into her exit. She closed the car door carefully, crossed a dusty expanse, and pulled open the front door of Sparky’s.

  The place smelled like stale beer, burned cheeseburgers, and last month’s cooking oil. Music blared from a jukebox in the corner, and lights were dim except for a galaxy of neon beer signs. A crowd was ponied up to the bar, and most of the tables were occupied.

  Oh dear.

  Carmela headed directly for the bar. Maybe if she talked to a friendly bartender?

  The bartender saw her coming and gave a perfunctory swipe of his dirty rag at the expanse of bar in front of her. He was late fifties with a long, thin ponytail, a gold earring, and one wonky eye. He looked like one of Jean Lafitte’s pirates who had somehow managed to hang on through the last two centuries.

  “Help you, miss?” the bartender asked.

  Carmela pushed closer to the bar. “I’m looking for a guy by the name of Eddy Moon. Can you help me? Can you tell me if he’s here tonight?”

  The bartender looked suddenly bored. “Who are you?”

  She touched a finger to her chest. “Carmela. I was here last night? For the crawfish boil?”

  “You were?” said the bartender.

  Carmela nodded. “Sure. With my friend Ava.”

  A man on the bar stool next to her turned and smiled a gap-toothed grin. “Ava! I remember her. Seems to me we danced together.”

  “You probably did,” said Carmela. “She’s quite the dancer.”

  “Quite the looker, too,” said the man.

  The bartender interrupted. “If you want to talk to Moony, he’s in the back room. Got himself a card game going.”

  “High stakes?” said the guy at the bar, looking interested.

  “Penny-anty,” said the bartender.

  “In the back?” said Carmela. She gazed toward the rear of the smoke-filled bar. Two guys in leather vests were playing pool. Her nervousness suddenly returned.

  “That’s right.” The bartender hooked a thumb and gestured toward the back of the bar, where two curtains hung limply in a narrow doorway.

  Feeling self-conscious, Carmela walked the length of the room and paused when she got to the curtains. Then she stuck out a hand and parted them.

  Moony was there all right. He was seated at a dilapidated round table with three other men. They all held cards and had small stacks of poker chips in front of them. Nobody looked particularly happy . . . or flush.

  Carmela cleared her throat. “Um . . . Moony?”

  Moony tilted back in his chair and took his own sweet time in looking over at her. When he finally did, he said, “You again?”

  “That’s right,” said Carmela. “I wonder if we could have a word.”

  Moony made a rude sound that caused the other men to snigger. Then he said, “Go ahead and have your word.”

  “Look, do you mind if we step outside?”

  The player seated next to Moony, a man in a camo-printed trucker cap, said, “Some guys have all the luck.”

  Moony tossed his cards facedown onto the table. “Not me. I’m out.” He shuffled his feet and rose from his chair. “This better be good,” he told Carmela.

  They walked back through the bar together and out the front door. In the fading darkness, they faced each other under a yellow streetlamp. The minute Boo and Poobah spotted Carmela, they started barking and yipping with joy. They stuck their noses out of the top of the window that Carmela had cracked open and snorted happily.

  Moony saw their antics and managed a sardonic laugh. “Are those your dogs?”

  “How on earth did you ever guess?”

  “Can they hunt?”

  “They can dig through the pillows on my sofa for treats, yes.”

  “No,” said Moony. “I mean really hunt. Flush out game. You know, like partridge and wild boar.”

  Carmela chuckled. “Not hardly. Boo is basically a lapdog, and Poobah is . . . well, he’s a little lazy and prefers not to get his paws wet. But he’s very sweet.”

  “Now that we’ve established you’ve got dogs,” said Moony, �
��what exactly did you get me out here for?”

  “I’ve got a few more questions for you,” said Carmela.

  Moony’s lips formed a straight line and he grumbled, “Now what’s bugging you?”

  “Unfortunately, there’s been another death connected to Jerry Earl Leland.”

  Moony frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “Eric Zane, Jerry Earl’s assistant, was murdered today.”

  Moony looked surprised. “The prissy guy?”

  “You knew him?” Carmela asked. Now it was her turn to be surprised.

  Moony shrugged. “Met him a couple of times.”

  “Where?” Carmela asked.

  “At Leland’s house.”

  “Really,” said Carmela. So Moony’s been there. He knows exactly where Jerry Earl called home. Isn’t that interesting!

  Moony stared at her. “So what was your question?”

  “Hmm?” Carmela was still processing this new information.

  “You said you had a couple of questions for me. So . . . shoot. Time’s a-wastin’.”

  “Did you, um, deliver some of Jerry Earl’s messages to Eric Zane?” Carmela asked.

  Suddenly Moony seemed fascinated by his shoes. He scuffed up some dirt and studied the sole of his boot. After a moment, he said, “Maybe a couple, yeah.”

  “So where else were messages delivered?” Carmela asked.

  Moony stiffened. “I’m not sure. I don’t keep no notebooks or records or anything like that. And I already told you, I had some of my guys working on that stuff, too.”

  “Which guys?” Carmela asked. “Could I talk to them?”

  “Lady, you are way too cuckoo for words. What do you want, huh? You want me to take you to meet ’em?”

  “Well,” said Carmela. “I guess I do.” Her heart caught in her throat. What was she getting into?

  Moony took a step back and considered her words. “You really are crazy. But heck, if you want to take a ride . . .”

  Carmela looked at him expectantly.

  “What can I say?” said Moony. “I’ve always had a soft spot for the ladies. Come on, I’ll drive. You can leave your car here; it’ll be safe enough.” He sauntered toward a dusty red Jeep Wrangler that was parked haphazardly on the street. In fact, half of the Jeep rested on the curb.