Gossamer Ghost Page 7

  “It is if you’re Count Dracula,” agreed Babcock. He pulled out his phone and started fiddling with it.

  “And I think it’s fun that some of the audience even came in costume.” Sitting around them were other women wearing exotic dresses with capes and cloaks and high-laced boots. There were even a few men sporting Victorian-looking topcoats.

  “I just hope they’re all going to a Halloween party afterwards,” Babcock muttered. “Not just playing dressup.”

  “Don’t be an old poop,” Carmela whispered as the lights began to dim. “Everybody’s playing dressup this week. And by the way . . .”

  “I’m just turning it off,” he said.

  Carmela smiled. “Good. I thought you might be calling for help.”

  * * *

  The first act of Frankenstein was a mash-up of moving scenery that included Gothic castles, a charming cottage, a graveyard, and a scary-looking laboratory. Music was heavy, ominous, and theatrical, dipping to barely audible levels, then soaring to a crescendo as stage lightning flashed and cymbals clashed. The character of Victor Frankenstein came across as wild-eyed and driven, while the Creature, played by a shirtless and fairly hunky-looking actor, was surprisingly sympathetic.

  “Wow,” said Carmela, as the curtain dropped dramatically for intermission. “That was great.” She glanced at Babcock, who was scanning his phone again. “Excuse me?”

  He gave her an apologetic smile and snapped the Off button. “Sorry. Just playing catch-up.” He gripped her hand and rubbed his thumb across it gently, communicating both his ardor and his apology. “Want to run out to the lobby and beat the rush? Grab a glass of wine or something?”

  “You’re on,” she said as they threaded their way out of the theatre and into the lobby where a small bar had been set up.

  “So, you’re really enjoying the play?” Babcock asked her.

  “That and your hand on my knee.”

  “Mnn,” he said as they pushed up to the bar. “Two glasses of red wine, please,” he told the bartender, and then turned with a questioning glance at Carmela. “That okay with you?”

  Carmela nodded and went back to studying the amazing lobby décor. The walls had been rubbed with some sort of gilt paint that lent a warm glow, and a crystal chandelier dangled overhead, making the place sparkle like a small jewel box. A number of Baroque mirrors had also been hung, the better to give the impression of an opulent European theatre.

  As Carmela gazed into one of those mirrors, her eyes bouncing across a sea of smiling, inquisitive faces—including her own—she realized with a jolt that she recognized the woman who was walking directly toward her. Then she spun around to find the Countess Saint-Marche, dimpling prettily and smiling a big pussycat grin.

  “Carmela, darling!” squealed the countess, making a big to-do. “Is that really you?” The countess was wearing a long, black crepe dress with a buckle closure that managed to look both demure and provocative. And expensive-looking, too, Carmela thought. Maybe a piece from one of last year’s Chanel collections? The Paris-Édimbourg collection?

  “We meet again,” said Carmela, just as Babcock handed her a glass of wine. And then, because it was the polite thing to do, Carmela made quick introductions.

  “I had no idea your boyfriend would be so handsome,” the countess gushed to Carmela. She said it in a way that implied she’d expected Carmela to be hanging on the arm of a troll.

  “I take it you’re a fan of live theatre?” Babcock asked the countess, if only to be polite.

  “Not only do I adore the theatre,” said the countess, “but I’m a huge supporter. You probably don’t know this—well, of course you don’t—but my husband and I provided some much-needed funding to this divine little theatre group. And we gave direct financial support for tonight’s production as well.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Carmela murmured. She knew that a lot of well-meaning theatre patrons had also made donations. Including herself, Baby, and their friend Jekyl Hardy.

  The countess tossed her head, the better to make her diamond earrings sparkle, and droned on. “If you look on the back page of your program you’ll find our names listed under Platinum Donors.”

  “Kind of you,” Carmela said with fading enthusiasm.

  “Oh my,” said the countess, fanning her arms wildly, almost clobbering a young artsy-looking man in a red beret. “Here comes my husband now. I can’t wait for you to meet François.”

  An elderly gentleman with slicked-back white hair, a hawk nose, and piercing eyes handed a flute of champagne to the countess. Then he smiled absently and said, “Hello.”

  After the countess made elaborate introductions, the count lifted Carmela’s hand to his lips and gave a dry kiss. “Enchanté,” he said.

  “Nice to meet you, too,” said Carmela, being purposefully casual. Who were these people anyway? Next thing she knew they’d be trying to worm their way into New Orleans society or onto one of the Mardi Gras krewes. Well good luck with that.

  “What is it you do?” François asked Babcock as he rocked back on his heels, exuding a superior attitude.

  “Law enforcement,” said Babcock. He said it in a deliberately low-key manner, as if he were just a humble meter reader.

  “Wonderful!” François proclaimed.

  “And you, sir, are engaged in what line of business?” asked Babcock. He hadn’t earned a gold shield for nothing. When his antenna perked up and began to blip red, he started asking questions.

  “Ah,” said François, looking thoughtful. “I find myself in the peculiar position of following in my wife’s rather elegant footsteps. That is, assisting her in getting her jewelry shop up and running.”

  “You realize,” the countess said to her husband, “Carmela is the owner of Memory Mine Scrapbook Shop right next door. She’s my brand-new neighbor.”

  “That’s wonderful,” declared François. “And I can see that you’re good friends already.”

  Carmela tried not to cringe.

  “We certainly are,” said the countess, studying Carmela over her glass of champagne.

  Not ten feet away from them, a red-suited usher rang the intermission bell. Which sent the countess into a spasm of joy.

  “Come along, François,” said the countess. “We don’t want to miss a single precious moment. Ta-ta.” She waggled her fingers at Carmela and Babcock as she propelled François toward the theatre entrance.

  “New neighbors,” said Carmela. “My life and welcome to it.”

  “They are a little . . . theatrical,” said Babcock.

  “That’s not the half of it,” said Carmela. “The countess, if she really is a countess, is already prodding poor Mavis to pack up the merchandise in Joubert’s shop so she can move right in. In fact, she’s already hired store planners and decorators.”

  “It’s going to be a jewelry shop?” Babcock was only half interested.

  “High-end gems and estate jewelry.”

  “Don’t we already have enough shops like that in New Orleans?” said Babcock.

  “Apparently not,” said Carmela, as they followed the slow-moving crowd.

  Babcock tugged on her arm. “Hang on a minute.”

  “What?”

  They waited at the door leading into the theatre, standing to the side while the audience filtered in.

  “Do you really want to see the second act?” asked Babcock.

  Carmela’s brows lifted slightly. “I take it you don’t.”

  He shrugged.

  “And here I got all prettied up,” she said, smiling at him but heaving a pro forma sigh of regret.

  “Believe me,” Babcock said in a low, sensual voice. “It hasn’t been wasted. You have a most appreciative audience.” And, as the lights dimmed, he leaned forward and kissed her.

  * * *

  A few minutes later, the
two of them strolled along Bourbon Street, enjoying the Old World ambience of the French Quarter with a dash of hustle-bustle thrown in. Horses pulling colorful jitneys clip-clopped along on cobblestone streets, sweet notes of music mixed with riotous laughter floated out of darkly lit clubs and saloons.

  In anticipation of all the French Quarter’s Halloween activities, this party-hearty neighborhood was already decorated to the nines. Life-sized witches bent over cauldrons steaming with dry ice. Orange twinkle lights, like golden fireflies, were wrapped around wrought-iron fences and lampposts. Ghosts suspended from rooftops fluttered in the breeze. Two vampires with malevolent green eyes peered down from a wrought-iron balcony.

  “Cheery,” observed Babcock.

  “You want to stop at Mumbo Gumbo for a drink?” Carmela asked.

  “Sure. Or we could pop into Antoine’s.” Antoine’s was much more high-end.

  “Don’t you need reservations on a Saturday night?”

  “It’s amazing how the word detective can make a maître d’ so very accommodating.”

  “It’s always worked on me,” said Carmela, snuggling closer.

  They stopped outside Perine’s Antiques and gazed in the window. There was a coromandel screen that Carmela had long coveted. She thought it would make an elegant statement in her bedroom. That’s if she could convince the dogs to let her move their overstuffed, overpriced dog beds to the opposite wall.

  “Back there at the theatre,” said Babcock, “when you were talking to your friend the countess, you didn’t seem very happy about her moving into the space next to you.”

  “She’s weird,” said Carmela. “There’s something off about her.”

  “Face it, somebody was bound to move in there sooner or later. She just happened to grab the space sooner. No landlord is going to let primo real estate like that sit vacant for very long. And it was fairly obvious that Joubert’s young assistant didn’t have the will or the wherewithal to keep that shop going.”

  “I hear you,” said Carmela. “It just strikes me that the countess is a little too eager to move into Joubert’s space.” She hesitated. “And a little too thrilled about his untimely death.”

  Babcock grinned. “In other words, you see the countess as a suspect in Joubert’s murder.”

  For some reason Carmela felt defensive. “Well, she could be.”

  “But probably not. The reality of the countess filleting him, fleeing the scene, and then trying to move in less than twenty-four hours later, is highly improbable.” He took her hand again and they continued walking down the street.

  “I don’t know,” said Carmela. She had a niggling feeling about the countess and intended to ride that horse until it dropped. “I still think you ought to put that phony countess on your list of suspects.”

  Babcock stopped and pulled her close. “Listen. I shouldn’t be telling you this, but I’m going to anyway because you’re so whipped up.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I already have a suspect in Joubert’s murder.”

  “What!” Carmela screeched. “Are you serious? Why on earth didn’t you say something sooner? You made me sit through the entire first act of Frankenstein on pins and needles?” Then, “Who is it?”

  Babcock cocked his head, as if considering something, then said, “Come on, better I should show you.”

  Two blocks away, in a less traveled part of the French Quarter, they stopped in front of Sparks Pawn Shop. Two enormous plate glass windows were brightly lit and surrounded by white chase lights. Stereo equipment, handguns, watches, and jewelry were all jumbled together on tacky red velvet in a semblance of a window display.

  “It’s a pawn shop,” said Carmela, frowning. She’d been by here before and never given it a second look. Or even a first look. “What’s the big deal?”

  “Actually, it’s a big deal because it’s one of several pawn shops that are owned and operated by Johnny Sparks.”

  “Sounds like some kind of circus act. Johnny Sparks and his flaming . . . pants.”

  “Nothing quite that amusing,” said Babcock. “Johnny Sparks is a scumbag and probably the most notorious fence in New Orleans.”

  “Maybe I have heard of him. He’s been written up in the Times-Picayune, I think.”

  “You probably saw his name in the ‘Arrest’ column. Unfortunately, NOPD has never been able to hang anything major on him. Not only does Sparks have a killer attorney, but he’s insulated. Seriously buffered, as the more notorious crime bosses like to say.”

  “What makes Johnny Sparks your prime suspect?” Carmela asked. She was intrigued.

  “Because, in the past, he’s fenced certain choice items for Marcus Joubert.”

  “Fenced? You mean as in handled actual stolen goods?”

  Carmela felt a chill run through her. While her neighbor Joubert had been extremely quirky, his business practices had always seemed fairly aboveboard. Now Babcock was telling her that the man was a thief? She suddenly felt both deceived and naïve. How could she not have known? So did this new information about Joubert mean that he probably had stolen the death mask? Was this an indictment of sorts?

  “Wait a minute,” Carmela said. “You know for a fact that Joubert and this Sparks guy, were, um, in collusion together?”

  “They’ve done deals in the past,” said Babcock. “So we’re thinking they might have been in on this little caper as well.” He hesitated. “The problem is, Robbery-Homicide Division’s tried to set up any number of undercover sting operations over the years, but something has always gone wrong.”

  “How so?”

  “Sparks is always tipped off,” said Babcock.

  Carmela let this percolate for a few moments. “So you’re saying that Sparks has somebody inside the police department? An informant who watches out for him?”

  “A skunk in the cellar,” said Babcock.

  “And this guy Sparks is a seriously bad guy?”

  “We know for a fact that he’s put several people in the hospital. And there are a couple of others who are unaccounted for.”

  Carmela’s heart thumped a little harder. “You think he murdered them?”

  “The possibility certainly exists that a couple of his enemies might have been deep-sixed in a bayou somewhere. On the other hand, lowlifes do have a penchant for skulking out of town.”

  Carmela looked up at Babcock as a blue light shone down on them. “Do you think this guy Sparks could fence something as important as Napoleon’s death mask?”

  “Are you serious?” said Babcock. “Given half a chance the man could probably fence the Brooklyn Bridge.”

  “Wow.” Murder, antiquities, and a real-life fencing operation. It felt like a lethal combination. Carmela’s mind was cranking with possibilities. Where to start? Who to talk to?

  “Carmela?”

  “Yes?”

  As if he could read the blip in her brain waves, Babcock put a hand on her shoulder and gently spun her toward him. “I know you’re particularly interested in this case.”

  She nodded. “I’m sure you can understand why.”

  “Yes, except I cannot impress upon you how dangerous it would be to get involved. This is a serious police matter.”

  “The thing is,” said Carmela, trying to make her interest sound a lot more casual and low key than it really was, “Mavis asked for my help.”

  “Then you have to tell her no,” Babcock said forcefully. “And do it very firmly. This is no time for amateur hour.”

  “Mmn,” said Carmela.

  “Carmela?”

  She looked at him with guileless eyes. “I hear you.”

  “Good,” said Babcock. “But I need you to more than just hear me. I need you to heed my warning.” He paused. “Okay, why don’t we just drop the subject and go grab ourselves an Abita beer and a tasty b
owl of crab soup?”

  “Sure.” Carmela looked thoughtful as they strolled along together. According to her reckoning, she was already in the soup.

  JUJU Voodoo was New Orleans’s premier voodoo shop. A mecca for tourists who were in the market for hard-to-find bat blood, saint candles, evil eye charms, love potions, Day of the Dead memorabilia, and, of course, genuine handmade voodoo dolls complete with red stick pins.

  The welcoming exterior featured a high-gloss, lipstick red door with the words Juju Voodoo spelled out in bubbly black letters. There was also a glowing blue neon sign in the window that was in the shape of an open palm. Over the front door, the roofline dipped and curved, the rough wooden shingles giving the appearance of a thatched Hansel and Gretel cottage.

  Inside, the atmosphere was cool and dark, with flickering candles and the scent of sandalwood wafting through the air. The store was jam-packed this Sunday afternoon, filled with folks who were eager to grab a few amusing Halloween items and maybe get a genuine tarot card reading to boot. Walpurgisnacht, Mendelssohn’s spooky, heavy-handed opus to witches and Druids, played softly over the speaker system.

  With busloads of tourists roving through town, gaping at cemeteries and haunted hotels, then trooping into Juju Voodoo, Carmela was more than happy to help Ava out. Only problem was, she couldn’t quite understand what this one particular customer was asking her in his heavily accented voice.

  “Saint candle?” said Carmela, groping for an answer.

  “Nix nacht,” said the man, waving a hand. He had a long, black beard and was dressed in a long overcoat, the kind Uncle Fester of the Addams Family seemed to favor.

  Carmela grabbed a little white voodoo doll with a downturned expression and danced it in front of him. “How about this little guy? Kind of cute, huh? Make a fun present for the kiddies?”

  The man only frowned and shook his head.

  Carmela turned toward Ava, who had just rung up a full-sized plastic skeleton for a customer and was trying to figure out how to gift wrap the little darling. “Maybe Madame Blavatsky can do a psychic reading on this guy and tell me what he wants,” she muttered under her breath.