Tragic Magic Page 2
Carmela watched in horror as the body tumbled downward, almost in slow motion. She let out her own cry of despair as Ava fell to her knees beside her and screamed, “Oh my Lord! Medusa Manor really is haunted!”
Chapter 2
BLUE and red strobes from police cruisers lit the old neighborhood. The bleat of an ambulance racked the air. Neighbors ventured tentatively out from their small, West Indies-style cottages, disrupted by the screams, the explosion, the cacophony of it all. But the damage had already been done.
A charred body, covered with a flimsy, fluttering blanket, lay sprawled on the cracked sidewalk. A sputtering gaslight overhead lent drama to the bizarre scene.
“It wasn’t a haunting,” Carmela told Ava as her friend sat huddled and sniffling on a cement step next to a wickedly pointed wrought-iron fence.
Carmela had spoken with the first responders immediately, attempting to give them a careful eyewitness account. Then she’d repeated her story, adding a few more remembered details when Detective Edgar Babcock arrived on the scene. His demeanor had been properly sympathetic even as he remained focused and businesslike. This was a crime scene, after all. He was in charge. The fact that Edgar Babcock enjoyed a personal relationship with Carmela wasn’t about to interfere with his work.
“What . . . ?” began Ava. Her eyes were rimmed with dark eye makeup that had mingled with tears, giving her the look of a sad raccoon.
“It was more like . . . murder,” Carmela whispered.
Ava’s face transformed from ashen to stark white. “Oh no. And they’re sure it’s . . . ?” She couldn’t bear to finish her sentence.
Carmela gave a grim nod. “I’m afraid so.” She tried to form more words, but her mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton. She licked her lips and cleared her throat. “They’re pretty sure, I’m pretty sure, it was Melody.”
Ava dropped her head in her hands. “Awful,” she murmured. “Simply awful.”
Carmela sat down beside Ava and lifted a hand to knead the back of her friend’s neck.
Ava relaxed slightly at Carmela’s touch, then raised her head and gazed mournfully at the blanket that covered the pathetically charred figure of Melody Mayfeldt.
“Who would do this?” she asked.
Carmela shook her head. “No idea.”
“A monster,” whispered Ava.
Carmela simply nodded. There seemed to be no shortage of monsters stalking the world these days. In New Orleans, the murder rate had skyrocketed to around two hundred fifty per year, making New Orleans the bloodiest city in the United States. Not so good. Especially if you called the Big Easy home.
“Your detective friend is here,” said Ava, finally noticing Babcock. “Taking charge, I guess.”
Carmela gazed over at Edgar Babcock. Tall and lanky, he moved slowly and languidly like a big cat with a reserve of coiled energy. As though he could pounce at any moment. His ginger-colored hair was cropped short, his blue eyes were pinpricks of intensity, he was clean-cut and square-jawed. Interestingly enough, Babcock was also a bit of a clothes-horse, always dressing extremely well. Tonight he wore a summer-weight wool tweed jacket, dark slacks, and elegant leather slip-on loafers that just might be from Prada.
Carmela lightly touched two fingers to her heart. “Thank goodness Babcock got the call out.”
“If anybody can find Melody’s killer, he can,” said Ava, her voice still shaking. “Babcock’s tenacious.”
“A pit bull,” agreed Carmela.
Carmela and Ava sat in silence watching Edgar Babcock in discussion with two African American men in navy-blue EMT uniforms. The EMTs listened to him, offered a few words back, then gave grim nods as they turned back to their rig to grab a gurney. Babcock stood there alone, letting his eyes slowly reconnoiter the crime scene, making sure his officers and the crime-scene unit were handling their assigned tasks. Then he put hands on narrow hips, bowed his head for a few moments, seemingly to compose himself, and walked slowly toward them.
Ava lifted a hand in greeting. “Hey,” she said, without much enthusiasm.
Babcock stooped down to be at their level, and Carmela heard his knee joints pop. Not so young anymore, she thought. Then again, who was? Even though she was barely pushing thirty, she had a failed marriage to contend with, a business that was just barely profitable, and two dogs to care for. And she was part of an intrepid band of News Orleans residents whose city was still experiencing fallout from Hurricane Katrina, some four years later.
Carmela no longer felt the careless abandon of youth. Now she carried some baggage with her.
“If it’s any consolation,” Babcock said, speaking to them quietly and in confidence, “your friend was probably dead before . . . well . . . before she was thrown from that third-floor tower window and landed on the street below.”
Carmela gave him a wary look. “You’re positive Melody didn’t burn to death?”
Edgar Babcock grimaced. “No, no, she didn’t,” he said, hastily. “From what I could determine, and from what the EMT guys are telling me, there appears to have been some type of gunshot or explosion—we’re not sure what exactly—that resulted in a traumatic and fatal head wound.”
Ava gazed at Carmela with saucer eyes. “Someone was inside Medusa Manor with us. I knew it!”
“Possibly,” said Babcock. “We can’t say for sure yet.”
“You’ve searched the house?” asked Carmela. “Set up a . . .” She struggled to find the right word. “Set up a perimeter?”
“Absolutely,” Babcock assured her.
“And you’re positive the killer’s not still in there?” asked Ava. She glanced back at the house, a little fearfully.
“Well,” said Babcock, “we’ve conducted a fairly thorough search, even though your Medusa Manor’s a very strange place. I mean, there are coffins and piles of junk everywhere, and video equipment hidden in the walls. There’s also an actual hearse parked in the underground garage. If the killer is still in there, he’s very well hidden.”
“Melody’s killer,” muttered Carmela. She let her mind wander back to happier times with her friend, enjoying a fleeting memory of Melody Mayfeldt sitting atop the Demilune float this past Mardi Gras. Wearing a blue-and-silver tunic, she’d tossed armloads of beads to crazed paradegoers who were thronged twenty deep. Melody had been ecstatically happy that wild and magical night. And now here she was. Dead.
Carmela glanced at the crowd that had gathered in earnest now. Lots of curious people. Some taking photos; a woman writing furiously in a notebook; another man, a tall, thin man, kicking at things on the ground with his foot. She frowned, wondering who all these gawkers were, suddenly depressed that they’d seemingly crawled out of the woodwork. Then she pulled herself back to reality as Babcock began asking questions.
“So you two were inside the house?” Babcock asked.
Carmela and Ava both gave silent nods.
“Did you see or hear anything strange?” he asked. “Aside from the . . . coffins and such.”
They both shook their heads no.
Babcock’s forehead wrinkled, and he held up a hand. “Don’t answer so quickly,” he told them. “Take some time, give this serious consideration. What you might recall as a small detail could be important in the long run. You might think something is incidental, but when we start putting all the clues together your input could be quite helpful.”
“The first thing that comes to mind,” said Carmela, “is that the door was open when we arrived.”
“Standing all the way open or cracked open a little bit?” Babcock asked.
Carmela held her thumb and forefinger up to show him. “An inch. Maybe two inches.”
“Okay,” said Babcock, nodding encouragement, “and when you went inside, what did you see?”
“Coffin,” said Ava. “Big bronze honker parked front and center.”
“Did you look inside?” asked Babcock. “Did you lift the lid?”
“No!” said Ava.
Carmela gave a start. “You think someone was in there? Hiding inside the coffin?”
“We don’t know,” said Babcock. “We have to collect the data before we can process it.”
“You make it sound like you’re some kind of computer analyst,” said Ava, sounding huffy. “Why don’t you just give us a straight answer?”
Babcock struggled a little to keep his cool. “Because we don’t have any answers yet. But we will. I promise you we will.” He glanced down at the spiral-bound notepad in his hand. “Did you know the victim’s husband?”
“You mean Melody’s husband?” said Ava.
“Of course we knew him,” said Carmela. “Garth owns Fire and Ice Jewelers in the French Quarter.” She paused. “Actually, Garth and Melody own it together. Owned it.”
Babcock jotted something in his notebook.
“What?” Carmela asked sharply. “You couldn’t possibly suspect Garth?”
Babcock shrugged. “He’s probably not a viable suspect, unless he’s unbelievably quick and was able to get back to his shop without being seen. But it appears that Garth Mayfeldt was at his shop when all this took place. Of course, we have to check him out anyway.”
“Does Garth know about . . . um . . . Melody yet?” Carmela asked.
Babcock cocked his head and stared back at her. “He does now. I sent one of my guys over there right away.”
“Have you talked to your guy yet?” asked Carmela. “How did Garth take it?”
“How do you think the husband took it?” asked Babcock in a slightly hoarse voice. “He completely freaked.”
“Oh dear,” murmured Carmela.
A squeal of brakes sounded in the street, and Babcock glanced over his shoulder. A frown passed across his face. “Jackals are here,” he muttered.
“Huh?” said Ava.
“Reporters,” said Babcock. He stood up and gave Carmela and Ava a cursory glance. “Don’t talk to them, okay?”
“Okay,” said Carmela as he stalked away.
“Hey,” said Ava, suddenly recognizing a familiar face. “There’s Toby LaChaise.” Toby was a reporter for the Times-Picayune and harbored a not-so-secret crush on Ava. She raised a hand. “Say hey, Toby!”
A grin split Toby’s face when he recognized her. “Ava!” he called, cutting through a crush of people and picking his way toward her.
“Don’t say too much, okay?” said Carmela. She patted Ava’s shoulder, stood up, and eased herself away. She pushed through the crowd of gawkers, letting her eyes search for Edgar Babcock. There was one thing she’d forgotten to ask him. The blinding flash of light she’d seen just before Melody’s body came hurtling down. What had it been? Some sort of explosion or incendiary device?
And, truth be told, there was something else on Carmela’s mind, too. Although she felt guilty about asking Babcock, she wondered if she’d be seeing him later tonight. If, when all this terrible business was wrapped up as best as possible, he’d come over and play snuggle partner with her. She was beginning to seriously crave the man.
If she could just get him alone for a couple of seconds . . .
A horrendously bright light suddenly shone directly in Carmela’s face. She blinked hard, threw up a hand, and instinctively recognized the intrusive red eye of a KBEZ-TV video camera. There was another flurry of activity and then a woman with an enormous blond bouffant hairdo and impossibly tight red suit stepped into the spotlight, posed prettily, and held a microphone to her collagen-enhanced lips.
“Kimber Breeze,” muttered Carmela. She’d had run-ins with this woman before, and they’d always ended badly. Someone, a rather wise man, had famously quoted, “never argue with people who buy ink by the gallon.” That same advice could just as easily be applied to dealing with TV reporters like Kimber or any other type of paparazzi. Talk to them, say a little too much, or give the wrong impression, and your name, face, and/or sound bite would be instantly captured and transmitted to the far corners of the world where it would probably remain floating in cyberspace until the end of time.
Carmela stepped into the shadows and watched as Kimber Breeze bulldozed her way through the crowd and right up to a woman who was wrapped in an expensive-looking white trench coat and sobbing into a hanky. Kimber flashed her megawatt smile at the woman, then thrust her microphone into the woman’s face. But the woman gave a terse shake of her head and turned away.
Not to be defeated, Kimber tried again. This time a uniformed police officer stepped in to intercede. Carmela could hear Kimber’s angry protests all the way over here and wondered who the woman was. Maybe Melody’s silent partner? The woman who’d put up all the money for Medusa Manor?
“Hey,” said Ava, at Carmela’s elbow now. “We should get out of here, yeah?”
Carmela agreed. “Now that the media’s on the scene, it’s really gonna get crazy.”
“And nasty,” said Ava. “That piece of blond trash is Kimber Breeze, isn’t it?”
“Afraid so,” said Carmela as she and Ava slipped down the sidewalk toward her car. Another TV van had just screeched to a halt, and now those people were jumping out like rabid paratroopers, shouldering lights and cameras, hoping to capture some grisly footage for the ten o’clock news.
“Turning into a circus,” noted Ava, as they climbed into Carmela’s car.
Carmela backed away gingerly from a white van that was tucked a little too close to her, nosed away from the curb, then negotiated a tight U-turn. As she was about to pull away, Carmela saw Edgar Babcock standing on the boulevard talking to one of the newly arrived TV reporters. Carmela noted that Babcock looked slightly harried in a tensed-up, in-the-middle-of-a-murder-investigation sort of way. He also looked as handsome as ever. Touching her brake, she eased over to the curb. “Hey,” she called to him.
Babcock looked over at her and raised his eyebrows in acknowledgment. He held up a single finger to the reporter, then strode over to talk with Carmela.
“I can’t stop by tonight,” were his first words.
“I understand,” said Carmela. She knew the job came first. Especially this job.
“Call you tomorrow,” he told her.
Carmela nodded. She was just starting to pull away when she called back to him. “Hey.”
Babcock stopped in his tracks.
“If Melody was already dead,” said Carmela, “why would her killer set her body on fire and toss it out the window?”
Babcock looked thoughtful for a few seconds. “Don’t know,” he replied. “Maybe . . .” He shrugged, searching for words. “To scare you?”
Chapter 3
“YOU don’t have to heat up that delicious andouille sausage gumbo just on my account,” Ava told her. “But I’m glad you are.” She lounged on one of the cane chairs that were bunched around the dining table in Carmela’s French Quarter apartment. The charming one-bedroom unit was situated directly across the courtyard from Juju Voodoo and Ava’s own apartment tucked directly above it.
“Cooking’s no problem,” said Carmela. “You look like you need a little fortification and I’m absolutely starving.” She glanced down at Boo and Poobah. The two dogs were milling about excitedly, trying to be enticingly cute. “You two have already eaten enormous dinners,” she told them. “You’re done for the night. Finished. Kaput.”
Boo, a red fawn Shar-Pei with an expressive, wrinkled face, stared up at Carmela with pleading eyes that said, Please! I’m so hungry, almost on the brink of starvation! Poobah, a shaggy black-and-white Heinz 57 dog with a ragged ear, lay down quietly, happy to let Boo carry on her hard lobbying for extra helpings.
“How about a mystery muffin?” Carmela asked. She dangled a plastic bag full of muffins for Ava to see. “They’re frozen, but I can pop ’em in the microwave.”
“Are they the ones made with mayonnaise?” asked Ava. “From your momma’s recipe?”
“Mm-hm,” said Carmela.
“Got any of your fabulous brown sugar butter to go with ’em?” asked Ava.
“Excellent idea,” said Ava, jumping up immediately to grab a pair of crystal wineglasses. “Help calm our nerves.”
“A digestif,” said Carmela, pouring the wine. “That was some awful scene tonight.” They clinked their glasses together, and each took a fortifying gulp.
“Never seen anything like it,” declared Ava.
“Melody was such a dear person,” Carmela murmured. “I can’t imagine she had an enemy in the world.”
Ava took another gulp of wine, let loose a tiny, genteel burp, then said, “Melody wasn’t exactly Miss Popularity with some of the men’s Mardi Gras krewes. Remember when she applied for the Demilune float to roll on Fat Tuesday? Lots of vigorous opposition.”
Carmela thought about Ava’s words for a moment. “But not enough to kill her for.” She sighed. “Too bad we still haven’t made it past all that male chauvinist shit.”
“It’s the South, honey,” said Ava. “Lots of stuff folks can’t get past.”
Carmela ladled her sausage gumbo into red Fiestaware bowls, then added extra scoops of steaming-hot red beans. She set the bowls on yellow plates and snugged her mystery muffins into a wicker basket lined with a white cloth napkin. She pulled knives, forks, and spoons from kitchen drawers, and then Ava helped her ferry everything to the mahogany dining room table that formed a sort of demarcation line between Carmela’s tidy kitchen and the slightly belle époque-style living room.
Since bidding sayonara to her soon-to-be-ex-husband Shamus Meechum, Carmela had made a concentrated effort to create an elegant, posh apartment for herself that was long on comfort. Countless forays through the scratch-and-dent rooms of Royal Street antique shops had yielded a brocade fainting couch, marble coffee table, squishy leather chair with ottoman, ornate gilded mirror, and a marble bust of Napoleon with a slightly chipped nose. Lengths of antique wrought iron that had once graced antebellum balconies now hung on her redbrick walls—perfect shelves for pottery, bronze dog statues, and her collection of antique children’s books.