Gossamer Ghost Page 2

  Is Joubert dead? Is the man really dead?

  Carmela scrunched her face into a look of distaste. Of course, there was only one way to find out and it wasn’t very pleasant. Still, she supposed it had to be done. Slowly, methodically, Carmela took a few steps forward until she was all but hovering over Joubert’s body. He’d landed on the floor in a heap and looked fairly lifeless, like a rag doll that had been slung across the room. Grimacing, she saw that the front of his white shirt was shredded in some places and stained wet and dark with blood. Had he been stabbed? That seemed most likely.

  Stabbed, then stuck inside a cabinet? Why?

  Shuddering, hating that she was forced to do this, Carmela reached slowly down until the tips of her fingers brushed against the pulse point at Joubert’s throat. Correction, what had been his pulse point. Because now it felt utterly cold and devoid of life.

  That was enough for Carmela. She fled the death and darkness of Oddities, ran out onto the street, and then hastily retreated to the relative safety and security of her own shop.

  Slamming the door hard, Carmela quickly latched it, even as she tried to still her racing heart. Then she gazed, unbelieving, out her front window and tried not to let her imagination run wild. Tried not to go completely bonkers and let a movie version of what might happen next crank through her brain. Because in her personal horror show—and this was most definitely a real-deal horror show—Joubert’s stiff and blood-soaked body would come lurching after her.

  No, Carmela told herself. Get a grip. That isn’t going to happen.

  She was pretty sure—really, more than a little sure—that the man was dead. Therefore, she was going to handle this crisis with calm and dignity. Or as much shaky composure as her frayed, overwrought nerves would allow.

  Pawing frantically through her handbag, Carmela hastily located her cell phone.

  Definitely got to call for help.

  But instead of calmly dialing 911, Carmela’s shaking hands fumbled the phone. Feeling stupid and more than a little helpless, she watched it tumble to the floor and spin wildly on the wooden planks. As she lurched after it, her toe accidently struck the phone and sent it sailing beneath one of her display cases.

  Dang! Dropping to her hands and knees, Carmela wondered what else could go wrong.

  She fished around under the case until she finally managed to grab hold of her phone. Then she stood up and feverishly punched in a familiar number.

  The first person she called, of course, was her boyfriend, Detective Edgar Babcock. Luckily, her call was answered on the first ring, because her request immediately devolved into a disjointed ramble, delivered with staccato urgency and more than a few tears, pleading for Babcock to please come quickly because something really, really terrible had happened. The second call she fired off, once she’d pulled herself together in a vague sort of way, was to her best friend and neighbor, Ava Gruiex.

  That done, Carmela walked slowly to the back of her scrapbook shop, gazed at her floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with albums, paper, stencils, and shadow boxes, and wondered just what on earth could have happened next door. Oddities wasn’t exactly the kind of shop a thief was likely to break in to. Inventory ranged from the strange to the bizarre and, from Carmela’s recollection, nothing had ever seemed particularly valuable. In fact, if a thief was going to make a big score in the French Quarter, there were dozens of antique shops, estate jewelry shops, and upscale art galleries filled with extremely valuable merchandise.

  So what on earth had happened? Had it been a burglary? Was there anything in Oddities worth stealing? Or had it simply been cold-blooded murder committed by a couple of crazy stickup artists or hopped-up tweekers?

  * * *

  Predictably, Ava was the first one to arrive at Carmela’s shop. She flew in like a witch on a nuclear-powered broomstick, managing to look worried, gorgeous, and perfectly pulled together in a spangled purple sweater, tight black leather pants, and studded leather cage boots.

  “Cher!” Ava cried breathlessly. “What happened?” The shapely ex–beauty queen fluttered a hand to her chest as she gazed worriedly at Carmela. Her mass of raven-black hair was poufed out around her expressive, fine-boned face. “When you called you were babbling like a crazy lady. Something about your hair? So naturally I came a-running.”

  Carmela was fighting back a bad case of nervous hiccups and still stumbling over her words. “Not hair, I was trying to tell you about Joubert!” She made a hasty circular motion with her hands. “You know, the shop owner next door.”

  Ava eyed her carefully. “Something happened?” She paused, trying to assess the situation. “Something bad?”

  Carmela nodded excitedly. She was still having trouble stringing her words together, but was relieved that Ava was finally able to comprehend her terror.

  “Excuse me,” Ava continued. “Was this something that could be construed as . . . harassment?” Ava had never been particularly fond of Marcus Joubert. Had never really trusted him.

  Carmela continued to bob her head nervously. Then Ava’s words clicked with her and she said, “Um . . . what did you say?”

  Ava placed her hands on slim hips and narrowed her eyes into a catlike scrunch. “Please don’t tell me that lecherous old coot made a pass at you,” she said in a low growl. “I’ve always found something smarmy and unsettling about . . . Oh. And you’ve got blood on your sweater. Oh no. What happened?”

  “No, Ava,” Carmela choked out. “It’s not what you think.” She held a hand out. “The thing is . . .” Carmela forced herself to bite down hard to keep her teeth from chattering. “Joubert is . . . well, he’s dead!”

  Ava’s finely groomed brows rose in twin arcs as she stared at Carmela. “Dead,” she said in a flat tone. Then she seemed to finally comprehend what Carmela was saying. “Wait a minute, you’re talking dead dead? As in not among the living?”

  Carmela nodded frantically. “That’s it exactly. I heard these strange noises after I locked up. Coming from his shop. So I went inside to check on Joubert.” She gave a shudder. “I had a key . . .”

  “You went inside that creeped-out shop? All by yourself?”

  “Because I thought Joubert might be hurt. Because I heard . . . well, anyway, that’s when I found him . . .” Her voice trailed off as she recalled the bloody scene inside the shop.

  “Holy Coupe de Ville,” Ava whooped. “Did you see what happened?”

  Carmela shook her head vigorously.

  “Then what do you think happened?”

  “I’m pretty sure Joubert was stabbed,” said Carmela. “There was . . .” She wrinkled her nose, repulsed by the remembered image of his dead body catapulting out at her, an image that was now seared into her brain. “There was blood. So much blood. All over.” Suddenly remembering how she’d shoved the dead body away from her, she held up her hands, which were smeared with traces of dried blood. “You see?”

  “Did you call Babcock?” Ava demanded. “Is he on his way?” She’d finally jumped into hyperdrive, too. “The police are coming?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “Who else knows about this?”

  “Nobody,” said Carmela. “Just us. And the police.”

  Ava chewed at her bottom lip. “It sounds like you did okay, honey. You pretty much kept your head in spite of what happened over there. But for now, until the police arrive, let’s work on getting you cleaned up.” She put a hand out and pulled Carmela toward her. “Poor dear, you’re an awful mess.” She sat Carmela down on a rolling chair behind the front counter, grabbed a pack of wipes from her purse, and carefully swiped at the blood.

  Carmela sat numbly as Ava cleaned her off. Of course, when the damp wipe hit her bloodstained hands, the blood began to smear all over again, reminding her of a scene straight out of a horror movie . . . like a dead body being reanimated.

  “You don’t thin
k this blood is like a clue or anything, do you?” Carmela asked. “That it should be tested for DNA?”

  Ava continued to blot at Carmela’s hands. “If it’s Joubert’s blood like you say it is, then they’re bound to find splotches of it next door, too.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” said Carmela. She knew she wasn’t thinking straight and fought to clear her mind. There was something she was missing. Something she should probably . . .

  “Oh my gosh!” Carmela said, suddenly stiffening in her chair.

  “What now?” said Ava.

  “I should call Mavis.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Mavis Sweet, the assistant.”

  “You mean that mousy little girl in stretch pants who works for Joubert?” said Ava. “Why bring her into this?”

  “The thing is,” said Carmela, “Joubert always introduced Mavis Sweet as his assistant, but I think the two of them had something going on—a little romance on the side. Well, maybe more than a little romance.”

  “Those two?” said Ava. “I never would have guessed. Well, I suppose it’s only fair to give the poor girl a call.”

  “You mean do a notification?” The idea of telling Mavis that Joubert was dead terrified Carmela.

  “Notification nothing,” Ava advised. “Don’t tell Mavis anything specific. Just make up some crazy excuse to get her down here.”

  “Then what?” said Carmela.

  “Then,” said Ava, “you let the cops do the heavy lifting.”

  * * *

  While Carmela was on the phone with Mavis Sweet, asking her to please come down to Oddities without spelling out the exact reason why, Detective Edgar Babcock arrived.

  “He’s here,” Ava called out. “Babcock.” She was staring out Carmela’s front window. “He just jumped out of . . . holy bejeebers, is that a BMW I see out there? What an awesome set of wheels. Oh yeah, and it looks like he brought a posse of uniformed officers with him. Though those poor peons arrived in a far more traditional black-and-white vehicle.”

  Carmela hung up the phone, feeling like a coward. She’d told Mavis Sweet that there was a dire emergency at Oddities, but she hadn’t been at all truthful or specific. Still, the girl promised that she was on her way, so that was something.

  Ava was still peering out the front window. “Did you hear what I said? Your love bunny arrived in a BMW. Do you think some crook finally bought him off? A drug dealer or a smuggler?”

  “He bought it at a police auction,” said Carmela. “Besides, Babcock’s not like that. He’s basically . . . well, he’s straight.”

  “Well, hook me up at the next police auction, girlfriend,” said Ava. “Because I could use a hot new set of wheels like that.” She glanced out the window again. “Uh-oh, now he’s waving at us. I suppose he wants us to come out there. Hmm, and he’s got that serious tight-lipped look that means he’s upset.” She glanced back at Carmela. “Are you ready for this, sweetie?”

  “No,” said Carmela.

  * * *

  Duded up in a chalk-gray Zegna suit, Detective Edgar Babcock was tall, thin, and attractive in an officer-of-the-law kind of way. The glow from the streetlamps gave his ginger-colored hair a slightly darker cast and made his pale skin look almost ethereal. His normally handsome face, usually lit with a warm, crooked smile, looked rather serious tonight with just a touch of grouch thrown in.

  Still, to Carmela, Babcock looked wonderful. His pale blue shirt matched a tie of a slightly deeper tone that picked up the intensity and color of his eyes.

  An Armani tie? Carmela wondered, as her heart did a small flip-flop. Had to be. Only the best for Babcock, always the most stylish duds. She knew that, someday, GQ magazine was going to do a feature on the ten best-dressed detectives in the country and Babcock was probably going to top the list. Then she wondered—how on earth could she be turned on by Babcock and completely repulsed by Joubert’s murder at the same time? Those were two emotions that didn’t seem to coexist, yet there they were. All intertwined and smooshed together in her slightly addled, hyperactive brain. Go figure.

  “So,” said Babcock. He rocked back on his heels when he caught sight of Carmela and Ava on the front sidewalk. “We seem to have a rather large problem here.”

  “I’ll say,” said Ava, who loved to be in on the action. Any kind. Even police action.

  Babcock gestured toward the front door of Oddities. “Is it unlocked?”

  “Yes,” Carmela said in a small voice. “That’s how I left it.” Especially since I came flying out of there like a crazed banshee.

  Carmela wished that Babcock would look at her, really see her, instead of holding her at arm’s length, treating her like some sort of suspect or witness. On the other hand, that’s probably what she was.

  Babcock cocked a finger at one of the uniformed officers. “Lambert, you come inside with me. Wallace, stay by the door. Don’t let anybody else in.”

  “Crime-scene guys are here,” said Wallace, as a shiny black van pulled up tight to the curb.

  “Send them in,” said Babcock. “As soon as they unload their gear.” He sighed as he led his little group into Oddities, and then stopped short when he saw the body. He held up a hand, indicating for them all to wait. Then he stepped forward, took a cursory look at the very dead Marcus Joubert, and said, “Carmela, you’re going to have to walk us through this.”

  “WHAT happened was . . .” Carmela began. She was ready to let it all come bubbling out. The terror, her jangled nerves, her fear that Joubert’s dead body might come stumbling after her.

  But Babcock held up a finger. “Let’s wait a second for the crime-scene guys.” He glanced around. “Aren’t there any decent lights in this place? Where are the lights, anyway?”

  “It’s like a tomb in here,” said Ava, which caused Carmela to flinch.

  Officer Lambert scurried around, finally locating switches and flipping on several overhead lights.

  “Oh man,” said Ava, as Joubert’s dead body was revealed in the now harsh light. “That’s just . . . rude.”

  “You really shouldn’t be in here,” said Babcock. He shook his head. “Why is she in here?”

  Nobody offered an answer until Carmela finally said, “I need Ava for moral support.”

  “Right,” said Ava, giving a slow wink. “I gotta keep watch on her morals.”

  “Excuse me, excuse me,” a youthful voice called out. “Coming through.”

  It was the crime-scene team, a flying wedge of three men all wearing dark blue jumpsuits and carrying black leather cases along with a clanking gurney.

  “Charlie,” said Babcock, nodding at the young man at the head of the group. Charlie Preston was the crime-scene team’s young wunderkind. A smart, persistent technician who considered every case he handled a personal challenge.

  “Hey, Charlie,” said Ava. The two had met before and she was well aware of this young man’s interest in her.

  Charlie looked around, surprised, and then grinned impishly at her. “Ava. What are you doing here?”

  “Another day, another murder,” Ava quipped.

  “Can we please just get down to business?” said Babcock. He raised an eyebrow and focused on Carmela. “Carmela?”

  So Carmela led them hesitantly through her little adventure. As Charlie and his team snapped photos, bagged the hands, and poked at the body, she explained how she’d heard a couple of strange noises, had entered the shop, and then tripped and inadvertently opened the cabinet where Marcus Joubert’s body had been stashed.

  “Yowza,” said Ava, when she’d finally finished. “That’s quite a story.”

  “That’s exactly how it happened?” said Babcock. “You didn’t leave anything out?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Carmela. Just that I screamed my head off.

  “Sounds about right to
me, Chief,” said Charlie. “You look at how the body fell, where it landed and all. Her story pretty much tracks.”

  “Okay,” said Babcock. He seemed to be chewing on something.

  “There are spatter marks in the back of the shop,” said Charlie. “So that’s where the victim was stabbed. Then he was obviously dragged and stashed in that cabinet.”

  “Dead before they put him in there?” asked Babcock.

  “Oh yeah,” said Charlie. “This guy lost a lot of blood. It was all over pretty fast.”

  “But there’s no sign of a weapon,” said Babcock.

  “The killer must have brought his own knife,” said one of the crime-scene techs. “Then taken it with him.”

  “He would have been bloody after such a violent struggle,” said Babcock. “It would be hard to stroll through the French Quarter covered in blood.”

  “Maybe not,” said Ava. “Some guys party like rock stars down here.”

  “Maybe his car was parked in the back alley,” said Carmela. “Or maybe the killer didn’t have to walk far to duck out of sight and change.”

  Everyone was silent for a minute, and then Charlie said, “All right if we load him up now, Chief?”

  “Yes,” said Babcock. “But please don’t call me Chief.”

  Charlie snapped off a blue latex glove and grinned up at him. “Isn’t that where you’re headed? The chief’s office?”

  This was news to Carmela. “Are you?” she blurted.

  “Hardly,” said Babcock. But he seemed embarrassed.

  One of Charlie’s team spread a black plastic body bag on the floor, then the three of them muscled Joubert’s body into it and zipped it up. The bag was then rolled onto the gurney and the gurney was raised to waist height.

  There was another collective moment of silence and then Officer Lambert glanced toward the front door and said, “Uh-oh.”

  “What now?” said Babcock.

  But Carmela knew exactly what was going on. Mavis Sweet had just arrived at the front door and was struggling to push her way in. There was an exchange of heated words and then a high keening sound, like the screech of a dying hyena. And then Mavis cried, “Let me in! Let me in!” She seemed to be locked in a physical confrontation with Officer Wallace, who was pushing and grunting and trying to block her entrance to the shop.