Mumbo Gumbo Murder Page 18

  “I know this sounds kind of strange, but I think somebody was manipulating him.”

  “You mean like mind control? So he would kill people?” Gabby looked terrified.

  “Not like a zombie or anything. And not necessarily for the purpose of killing. But maybe to steal artwork. Or steal . . . something.” She thought about the intruder in Devon’s apartment. “I don’t know. But I have a strong feeling that a dangerous character is still lurking in the background somewhere.”

  “You mean the killer.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you don’t know who it is.”

  “No,” Carmela said. “But I’m going to make it my mission in life to find out. For Devon’s sake. And for Mimi’s.”

  “Mimi,” Gabby murmured. “That poor little dog. I wish you would have brought her along today.”

  “Mimi’s fine. She’s happy staying home with Boo and Poobah.”

  “I suppose by now they’ve formed their very own little doggy posse.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Friday mornings were always hectic at Memory Mine, and Carmela was kept busy sorting through new papers—marbled paper, Shizen Pastel Paper, and banana fiber paper—and helping any number of customers.

  Two women came in looking for ideas on Bible journaling, and Carmela found them a lovely album, some rubber stamps depicting crosses, praying hands, doves, and even a die-cut of Noah’s Ark.

  Another customer wanted to decorate white Chinese takeout boxes for her daughter’s birthday party, so Carmela found some fabulous dragon stamps, blue and white Chinese beads, and gold tassels.

  Then Mrs. Delachaise, of the bridal shower invitations, came into the shop and looked around expectantly.

  “Mrs. Delachaise,” Carmela said. “Is everything okay? Your daughter liked the invitations?” Is there a problem here?

  “Oh yes,” Mrs. Delachaise said. “She loved the invitations.”

  “Well . . . whew.”

  “Now she wants to know if we can create matching place cards for all the guests.”

  Carmela’s brain was already spinning. “Let’s see now, the invitations were cream-colored cardstock with rose gold ink. So . . .” She slid open a flat file and pulled out a piece of heavy cardstock. “This should match up perfectly. And, as you can see, this sheet is already perforated for place setting cards. All you have to do is hand-letter the guests’ names or print them out on your computer.”

  “Hand lettering would probably look best,” Mrs. Delachaise said.

  “Then I’d suggest using one of our special pens. It lends a lovely calligraphy effect, but it’s really just as easy to use as a regular marking pen. And the pen comes in gold, copper, and rose gold.”

  “Rose gold, of course,” said Mrs. Delachaise.

  “And if I could suggest one more thing,” Carmela said. “We have some adorable little organza bags that you can fill with flower petals. To give away as favors.”

  “Real flower petals?”

  “More like silk petals.”

  “Do you stock those, too?”

  “We’ve got gold and silver organza bags as well as pink rose petals.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Just when Carmela was up to her ears sorting through rubber stamps, Quigg came charging through the front door. He smiled at Gabby and said, “I’ve gotta talk to Carmela!”

  “About the murder?” Gabby asked.

  “No, no. About last night’s paint and sip.” Quigg suddenly froze in his tracks, and a puzzled expression came across his face. “Wait, there was a murder?”

  Carmela pursed her lips. “Current events are not exactly Quigg’s forte,” she told Gabby.

  “Somebody got killed?” Quigg asked. Then, dismissively, “Well, never mind about that. I just wanted to thank you for lending your expertise last night. And for making opening night such a rousing success!”

  “I’m glad everything worked out,” Carmela said.

  “No, it was better than working out. It was phenomenal. That footage that KBEZ shot? The interview with you and me? It was featured prominently on the ten o’clock news!” Quigg puffed out his chest. “Just from that quick, forty-second sound bite, people are already calling Blush and Brush to book an evening. Entire clubs of women!” He chuckled and pretended to tilt an imaginary glass to his lips. “And you know how much wine those book club ladies drink!”

  “I’m happy for your success,” Carmela said.

  “You helped make it happen,” Quigg enthused. “Things couldn’t have worked out any better.”

  Clearly the latter part of your evening was far better than mine.

  “Hey, go take a look outside,” Quigg said.

  “And what would I be looking for?” Carmela asked. I hope he didn’t put my name in lights or something gaudy and horrible like that.

  “It’s just a little something to show how much I care about you.”

  Carmela held up a hand. “No. The thing is, Quigg, you don’t care. You can’t care.”

  “I just wanted to give you a little thank-you gift, a token to show my appreciation. I can do that, can’t I?”

  “Depends on what it is,” Carmela said. “A bottle of wine would be acceptable. A Tesla would probably be over the top.”

  “He put out ginormous pots of flowers,” Gabby called from the front desk. “I already looked.”

  “Aw, you spoiled the surprise,” Quigg said.

  “Sorry,” Gabby said.

  Carmela walked to the front door and peeped out. Sure enough, there were now two terra-cotta pots filled with flowers—bounteous, riotous flowers—flanking her front door.

  “Nice,” she said. “Thank you very much.”

  “Pink Ruffle azaleas and Louisiana peppermint camellias,” Quigg said. “My favorites.” He followed her back inside and then kept moving closer and closer to Carmela, looking as if he wanted to give her a hug. Which forced her to keep backing up. Another few feet and she’d end up in the alley.

  Up at the front counter, Gabby was looking out the window when her sharp eyes spotted a familiar someone bobbing along the sidewalk.

  “Uh-oh,” she said.

  Carmela caught the note of worry in Gabby’s voice. “What?”

  “Babcock alert.”

  Carmela’s blood ran cold. “What? Now?”

  Gabby’s voice rose in panic. “Babcock’s coming down the street, and I think he’s . . . yup, I’m pretty sure he’s headed this way.”

  “You’re like some kind of homing beacon,” Quigg said, grinning at her.

  “And you’re persona non grata in Babcock’s eyes. We’ve got to get you out of here. Fast!”

  “Back door!” Gabby shouted.

  “Right.” Carmela grabbed Quigg’s arm and tugged him toward the back door.

  “You’re giving me the bum’s rush?” He was suddenly irritated.

  “If the shoes fits, yes.”

  “Okay . . . but . . .”

  Carmela slid open the door to the dock, shoved Quigg out, and yelled, “Go! Begone with you!”

  She slammed the door shut just as Babcock stepped into the shop.

  “Thanks for the pickup,” Carmela called out. “Let me know when I can stop by and do a press check.” Then she turned around, flashed an enormous smile at Babcock, and said, “Well, hello there.”

  “Why do you look so guilty?” Babcock asked.

  “Guilty? Me? Nooo.”

  “We’ve been frantically busy all morning,” Gabby said, trying to deflect any kind of suspicion that might be fizzing in Babcock’s mind. “So many customers. I guess it’s because of the big influx of folks in town for Jazz Fest.”

  Babcock knew something was fishy, but he wasn’t sure what. He pointed a finger at Carmela and said, “We need to talk.�
�

  “About?”

  “You know what.”

  So they sat in Carmela’s office, Carmela trying to remain cool and blasé while Babcock ticked off about a million points that all dealt with the mistakes Carmela had made last night.

  “When are you going to learn not to run off to meet strangers in cemeteries?”

  “I don’t know,” Carmela said. It was an honest answer but one that didn’t sit well with Babcock.

  “This isn’t a laughing matter, you know. This isn’t some Nancy Drew mystery you’re out to solve. There’s no tolling bell, no twisted candles. This is reality.”

  “I’m aware of that. And I feel terrible that Sonny Boy was murdered. He really did want to give me some critical information regarding Devon Dowling’s killer.”

  “You still believe that?” Babcock asked.

  “Yes, I do. When Sonny Boy first called, he sounded scared. Frightened out of his mind, actually. And like I told you last night, he wanted to use me as a go-between. He wanted his information to get to you.”

  But Babcock wasn’t convinced. “I don’t know. It sounds awfully convoluted.”

  “Because it is. I agree.”

  Babcock stared at her, his eyes searching, his mood still dark. “I’m a little bit angry with you. First the wine party last night . . .”

  Carmela waved a hand. “That was nothing.”

  “No, it was something. I don’t like it, but I’m not stupid enough to forbid you from working with that sleazy Brevard fellow. That’s all the incentive you’d need to . . .” He hesitated.

  “To what?” Carmela asked.

  Babcock rubbed the back of his hand against his chin. “I don’t know.”

  Carmela reached over and took his hand. “Edgar, I love you. I’m not going to do anything to mess that up.”

  “Promise me?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Then why don’t you . . .”

  “Shop for a wedding gown?” Carmela said. “I’ve got an appointment at Amour Couture this afternoon.”

  Babcock’s face brightened instantly. “You do?”

  Not exactly. I just blurted that out to stall you. But I could. I could call Amour Couture and haul my body over there for a fitting.

  “That’s wonderful,” Babcock said. “That’s the kind of forward progress I’ve been hoping for.”

  Carmela just smiled.

  “And what’s this I heard about you being on TV?” he asked.

  Carmela stopped smiling. “Just a quick sound bite,” she said hurriedly. “Not even worth mentioning.”

  “Detective Babcock?” Gabby called out. “You have a visitor.”

  Seconds later, Peter Jarreau crowded into Carmela’s office, his pungent aftershave filling the air.

  “I’ve liaisoned with print media as well as broadcast concerning the events of last night, but I’m getting pushback,” Jarreau announced to Babcock. “They’re still demanding details. How much do you want me to release?”

  “Don’t tell them anything,” Babcock said.

  “That’s going to go over like a lead balloon,” Jarreau said.

  “Too bad. That’s how it has to be,” Babcock said.

  Jarreau made a quick note on his iPad. “Okay. Got it.” Then he switched his focus to Carmela. “I wanted to speak with you, too.”

  “With me? What about?” Carmela asked.

  “I wanted to make sure you weren’t talking to the press,” Jarreau said. “Giving any statements.”

  Carmela stared back at him. “Why would I do that?”

  Now Babcock had to stick his two cents in. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe for the same reason you’ve insinuated yourself in the middle of our murder investigation?”

  “Hey, I’m interested because my friend was killed!” Carmela cried. “And because I was there—almost there—when it happened.” Do they not understand this?

  “You have to leave the investigating to us,” Babcock said.

  “To the professionals,” Jarreau said, his reply a little too sharp for Carmela’s liking.

  “Sure. Okay. Got it,” Carmela said. In her mind she’d already blown off Peter Jarreau. “But I do have a quick question.”

  “What’s that?” Babcock asked.

  “Did you question Richard Drake again?”

  “Not necessary,” said Jarreau.

  “But he’s still a person of interest?” Carmela asked.

  Babcock shrugged. “Maybe.”

  Jarreau shifted back and forth, then said, “Okay boss, I’ve got to get going.”

  “Don’t call me boss,” Babcock said as Jarreau hurried out of the shop.

  “Aren’t you the boss?” Carmela asked.

  Babcock shrugged.

  “I’m positive they’re going to offer you that position as chief.”

  “They already did.”

  “Wow. What would that mean? More responsibility?”

  “More time on the job,” Babcock said.

  “More time away from us,” Carmela said.

  There was a loud crackle, then a squawking sound. Not Babcock’s cell phone but his radio.

  He grabbed it off his belt and keyed in. “Yeah?”

  The dispatcher rattled off a series of code numbers that Carmela didn’t understand, then finished with “. . . tip on a Colonel Barnett Otis.”

  “Uh-huh,” Babcock said. “Go on.”

  There was a string of loud crackling and then a garble of words that finished with “. . . possible owner of the knife that killed Sonny Boy Holmes.”

  Carmela leaned back in her chair. What?

  But Babcock was already on his feet. “I gotta move on this,” he said.

  “Call me!” Carmela cried as he dashed out the door.

  Chapter 22

  CARMELA was on pins and needles, waiting for Babcock to call back about Colonel Otis. This could be the big break they’d all been hoping for. Maybe, finally, Devon’s murder would be solved and justice would be served.

  After wolfing down a shrimp salad, Carmela waited on several customers, and now had time to put some finishing touches on the new menu she’d designed for the Praline Parlor café.

  Because the Praline Parlor was located in a rehabbed cottage over in the Bywater area, she’d given the menu a quasi-French-Caribbean look. The name Praline Parlor was at the top, surrounded by an oval wreath of herbs and flowers. To the left of the wreath were two fancy forks, to the right were a knife and spoon. The menu would change daily, so Carmela had basically created a template that the restaurateurs could use to feature their changing array of starters, salads, entrées, and desserts.

  Carmela added a floral motif at the bottom and then sat back to study her design. She decided it was looking pretty good.

  More and more, Carmela and Gabby had been expanding Memory Mine from a scrapbook shop into crafting and graphic design. And it was starting to pay off big-time. They’d already gotten design projects from Tea Party in a Box, Bozwell Antiques, and the French Rabbit Gift Shop.

  “That menu design looks great,” Gabby said from over her shoulder. “It’s got that perfect bistro look. A little French, a little New Orleans.”

  “Thank you. I just hope Liz and Jeffrey like it.” They were the owners of Praline Parlor. Two thirty-somethings who’d ditched their nine-to-five jobs, cashed in their 401(k)s, and taken the terrifying leap to become newly minted restaurateurs.

  “They’ll love it,” Gabby promised. “And what’s with all the little tins?” Carmela was surrounded by a small arsenal of empty Altoids tins, lip gloss tins, tea tins, and some small round metal tins that she’d ordered online.

  “I’m thinking of teaching a class on decorating tiny tins. So many people are into the solid perfume trend.”

  “They sure are,” G
abby said. “I even know a woman who makes solid perfumes right in her own kitchen. She does all kinds of natural scents like jasmine, rose, lily, honeysuckle, and mimosa.”

  “Sounds as if we should incorporate her know-how into our class.”

  “She’d probably be tickled.” Gabby picked up a small tin that Carmela had covered with Japanese washi paper. “How’d you do this?” The paper was pale green, made from banana fiber, and scattered with tiny chrysanthemums.

  “Nothing to it. First, I cut two small circles of washi paper, leaving a little bit extra to overlap. Then I sprayed glue on the top and bottom of the tin and placed the paper over each piece.”

  “Then you just pleated and folded the paper so it fit nicely,” said Gabby, studying the tin. “Very few wrinkles, too.”

  “Luckily that type of paper is very forgiving.”

  * * *

  * * *

  An hour later, Carmela finally got the phone call she’d been waiting for.

  “Well?” Carmela said to Babcock. “What happened? Did the tip pay off?”

  “Colonel Otis has a rather extensive knife collection. Spanish daggers, bowie knives, curved blade Japanese knives, Israeli knives, and even something called a jambiya knife from North Africa. You name it, he’s got it.”

  “But?” Carmela said. She was hanging on Babcock’s every word.

  “But they’re all in a large display case mounted on green velvet. And it doesn’t appear that any of the knives are missing or have even been moved recently.”

  “So the bottom line is?” Carmela asked.

  “That we couldn’t pin a single thing on Colonel Otis. His only contact with Devon Dowling seems to be the art appraisal.”

  “Did you ask Colonel Otis where he was last night? Did he have an alibi?”

  “Claims he was sitting at home, watching TV. The National Geographic Channel, something about coral reefs. His wife vouched for him.”

  “They could be in this together,” Carmela said.

  “I thought about that. I really did,” Babcock said. “After all, the man only lives a block or two away from St. Louis Cemetery.”