Gossamer Ghost Read online

  Ava, dressed in her best Goth dress, with a tight leather bustier and jeweled cross necklace that probably out-glittered the local bishop, turned her attention to the man. “How can I help you, sir?” she asked.

  He let go a rumble that sounded like “Acgh hit min tkt.”

  “Oh sure, honey,” said Ava. “Coming right up. One ticket for our cemetery walk.”

  “That’s what he wanted?” said Carmela, as Ava accepted his American Express card and swiped it efficiently.

  “Sure.” Ava handed the man his ticket. “See you Thursday night.” She gave a sultry wink. “Now don’t be late!”

  “Eik ein a meep,” the man replied with a broad smile.

  “What language was that?” Carmela asked.

  “Who cares?” Ava shrugged as she rubbed her thumb and index finger together. “The language of money. Remember, Halloween’s my biggest season, cher. It’s like back to school, Black Friday, and Christmas all rolled into one.”

  “And sales have been good?” asked Carmela. “Are good?”

  “Honey,” said Ava, “sales are through the roof right now and probably will continue to be.” She grabbed Carmela’s arm and gave a squeeze. “But I sure couldn’t do it without you. Thanks for giving up your Sunday afternoon to come in and help.”

  Ava’s two other employees, Miguel and Albert, were also there, scurrying back and forth, crawling up into the rafters to drag down furry bats and more dangling skeletons. It was, Carmela thought, a spectacle you’d see only in New Orleans.

  They worked at a frantic pace for another hour or so, shepherding visitors back to Madame Blavatsky’s reading room, selling more tickets to the cemetery walk, and giving fun explanations for Ava’s various love trinkets and potions. When there was a break in the action, Ava hustled into her office and returned with two steaming mugs of coffee. She handed one to Carmela and leaned forward on her counter.

  “So tell me more about this crazy death mask,” said Ava.

  “Twice stolen,” said Carmela. “How weird is that?”

  “But that’s the gospel according to Babcock,” said Ava.

  “Right, he believes the mask was originally stolen from the collector in Dallas, and then, two nights ago, stolen again out of Oddities.”

  “The implication being,” said Ava, “that Marcus Joubert stole the mask, and then it was stolen from him.”

  “Yes,” said Carmela. “But Mavis is positive that Joubert was in town the entire time. That there’s no way he could have traveled to Dallas and swiped that mask.”

  “And you’re saying Babcock doesn’t believe her?”

  “Of course he doesn’t,” said Carmela. “He’s always got that cop instinct working for him. Or maybe against him, in this case.”

  “Because you believe Mavis.”

  “I want to,” said Carmela. She reached over and straightened a display of ceramic evil eye charms on silver chains. “Mavis is a sweet girl and she swears that Joubert acquired it on his own, probably for a particular collector that he had in mind.”

  “So who’s the collector?”

  “That’s where it all falls apart. She doesn’t know. All Mavis keeps repeating is that the acquisition of the mask was a deep dark secret. Nobody knew that Joubert had it.”

  “Or where he got it from,” said Ava.

  “Mavis swears she doesn’t know the source,” said Carmela. “Though I’ve asked her to search through Joubert’s records to try to find out.”

  “What if there never was a customer?” said Ava.

  “I think there was. I think there pretty much had to be.”

  “So the plot thickens,” said Ava. She dipped a hand into a half-empty box of candy. “Just like my waistline if I keep snacking on these incredibly yummy pralines.”

  “Not as thick as this coffee,” said Carmela, wrinkling her nose. “What is this stuff, anyway?”

  “The best part of waking up is Baileys in your cup,” said Ava.

  “No!” said Carmela. “No, you didn’t!”

  “Naw. Thought about it. But it’s just plain old chicory coffee brewed nice and strong. Mostly to give you an extra kick after what was probably a late, late date last night.”

  “It’s strong anyway.”

  “What is?” Ava grinned. “The coffee or your date?”

  “Both.”

  “Yup, that’s how I brew my cup of joe,” said Ava, happily. “The same way I brew up trouble.” She paused. “And, girlfriend, I can’t believe you didn’t stay for the second act last night.”

  Carmela smiled. “Babcock had food and a few other things on his mind.”

  “I guess.”

  They got busy again as more customers found their way in. They sold plastic skulls, strings of ghost-shaped lights, colorful amulets, and decks of tarot cards. Carmela even found herself digging through Ava’s collection of books and selling a book titled Candle Magic to a self-proclaimed warlock.

  Midafternoon, Jekyl Hardy came striding in. An art consultant and antique appraiser by trade, Jekyl was also one of New Orleans’s premier Mardi Gras float designers. Whenever you spotted a fire-breathing dragon in the Rex krewe’s parade or a purple, eight-tentacled octopus in the Pluvius krewe’s parade, you knew it had been dreamed up by the perennially witty mind of Jekyl Hardy.

  “Car-mel-a!” Jekyl sang out upon seeing her at the cash register.

  Carmela looked up and smiled. Her dear friend Jekyl was a dead ringer for Anne Rice’s vampire Lestat. With his pale oval face, long dark hair pulled into a tight ponytail, and taste for dressing completely in black, Jekyl not only looked the part, he was a force to be reckoned with. Though he lived in a rehabbed warehouse near the low-key Bywater District, he hobnobbed with the city’s elite and often served as a plus-one for wealthy widows at Garden District dinner parties.

  Naturally, the first question out of Jekyl’s mouth was about the murder at Oddities.

  “How’d you find out about that?” asked Ava.

  “Are you for real?” said Jekyl. “I take it you two don’t watch TV news or haven’t seen the front page of today’s Times-Picayune?”

  Carmela and Ava exchanged startled glances.

  “Jekyl, what?” Carmela asked, suddenly getting a queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach—as if she’d eaten too many pickled peppers.

  “The murder of Marcus Joubert is hot, hot news in today’s paper,” crowed Jekyl. “Your name is even mentioned.”

  “Rats,” said Carmela. That wouldn’t go over big with Babcock.

  “But they probably don’t have anything in there about the stolen death mask,” said Ava. She jabbed Carmela with an elbow. “They probably don’t even know about that.”

  “Au contraire!” said Jekyl. “They know all about the mask stolen from Joubert’s shop and they’ve linked it to the one stolen three weeks ago from Wallace Pitney’s collection in Dallas.”

  “That’s not good,” said Carmela. She knew it would sting Mavis that the media had drawn that type of connection.

  Jekyl went on. “The newspaper even reported the fact that Pitney and his staff had tried to keep the theft on the down low because they figured they might get a phone call from the thief.”

  “Why would the thief call them?” asked Ava. “To taunt them and rub their noses in it?”

  “Not at all,” said Jekyl. “The Dallas collector thought perhaps the thief might call and demand a ransom.”

  “You mean Pitney would have to pay money to get it back?” Carmela asked.

  “Not exactly,” said Jekyl. “Most likely their insurance company would have been asked to pay. There’s a big business in ransoming art and antiquities back to insurance companies.”

  “I never heard of that,” said Ava. “That’s a big thing? Insurance ransom?”

  “Ransom and just plain old insu
rance fraud are getting to be popular schemes,” said Jekyl. “You know, like boat owners who overinflate the value of their boat, then sink their own tubs just to collect the insurance money.”

  “You learn something new every day,” said Ava.

  “I’ve heard of people doing that with racehorses, too,” said Carmela.

  Jekyl’s hands flew up and he waved them wildly. “Don’t even go there,” he begged. “It’s way too sad.”

  Ava looked puzzled. “What do they . . .? Oh.”

  “We’re not going there, remember?” said Carmela.

  Jekyl refocused his gaze on Carmela. “So what does the learned Detective Edgar Babcock think about this case?”

  “He’s of a mind that Joubert might have stolen the mask and then someone stole it from him,” said Carmela.

  “That sounds so convoluted,” said Ava.

  “I agree,” said Carmela. “That’s why I think there’s a chance he didn’t steal it.”

  “What are you saying?” said Jekyl. “That Joubert bought the mask at auction? Or from a private individual? And that he was just hanging on to the mask for safekeeping until he could resell it to some rich pigeon?” Jekyl let loose a derisive hoot. “A two-bit dealer like him? Never happen.”

  “He could have bought it on the up-and-up,” said Carmela. “You never know.”

  “It’s more likely that Joubert had coconspirators,” said Jekyl. “That he didn’t act alone.”

  “Maybe Joubert’s accomplice turned on him and killed him!” said Ava.

  “You watch too much TV,” said Carmela.

  Jekyl lifted an eyebrow. “Okay, how’s this for a theory? What if Joubert had help on the inside? That’s how art heists are often carried out these days. There’s an inside man who has a spare key, or looks the other way, or knows a glitch in the security system.”

  “I suppose,” said Carmela.

  “Sure,” said Jekyl. “Look at that big heist at the Gardner Museum in Boston, where they stole the Vermeer, a couple of Rembrandts, and a Manet right off the walls. The police still think there was an inside man, someone who gave the thieves the right kind of information.”

  “What’s so special about that mask?” asked Ava.

  Jekyl looked startled. “Are you serious? It’s a magnificent, historical piece. It’s Napoleon’s death mask! It was created by skilled artisans just hours after he died. If you look at a depiction or photo of one of those masks, you can see that Napoleon’s eyes are closed, his lips are parted, and his head is resting on a tasseled pillow. And that Gallic nose!” Jekyl thumped a hand excitedly against the counter. “All humped and bumped. Such a work of art.”

  “His nose?” said Ava.

  “Yes,” said Jekyl.

  “What would a mask like that sell for?” Carmela asked.

  Jekyl’s eyes grew large. “On the open market, at a prestigious auction house like Sotheby’s in New York, I think it could easily top one million dollars.”

  “Are you serious?” said Carmela. “For a death mask?”

  “Napoleon’s death mask,” said Jekyl. “An emperor who was one of the greatest military minds in the history of Western civilization. A man who not only conquered Europe, but employed military tactics that were decades ahead of his time.”

  Carmela took all this in and was trying to process it. “Let’s be serious here,” she said. “Was Marcus Joubert really stupid enough to steal a mask from a private collector and then try to sell it for a million dollars? I mean, once rumors swirled that the mask was stolen, could he even find a willing buyer? I mean, have you seen the man’s shop? He had bug collections, for gosh sakes. There are flea-bitten monkeys and weird medical devices on his shelves. I just don’t see Joubert picking up the phone and talking to a primo crop of high-end customers. Most of his customers in the past have been tourists and a few fringe Goth types.”

  “Watch it,” said Ava as she fingered her Goth-style necklace and skull earrings.

  “Perhaps Joubert was desperate for cash,” said Jekyl. “Or he had a buyer who tasked him with finding a death mask.”

  “There’s another plausible scenario,” said Ava. “Maybe his buyer set him up.”

  “How so?” asked Carmela. She was open to any theory at the moment. Anything that would hold water, that is.

  “If Joubert was trying to fill an order,” said Ava, “like Jekyl suggests, then maybe once he had the mask in his possession, the buyer killed him and stole the mask.”

  “I’m getting confused,” said Jekyl.

  “So am I,” said Carmela. “I think we need to huddle with Mavis Sweet and pick her brain. See if she’s remembered anything. Or else we’ll have to come up with a new theory.”

  “Good idea,” said Ava. “Let’s call Mavis.”

  “I have a proposition for you ladies,” said Jekyl, abruptly changing the subject.

  “What’s that?” said Ava.

  “How would you two lovelies like to transform yourselves into a pair of ghosts this coming Friday night?”

  “Why?” said Ava.

  “You mean for Halloween night?” said Carmela. “Jekyl, what is it you’re asking us?”

  “The thing is,” said Jekyl, trying to look self-important, “I’m in charge of theming, decorating, and staffing the Ghost Train.”

  Ava glanced at Carmela and said, “What’s a Ghost Train?”

  “Are you serious?” said Jekyl. “The Ghost Train is being touted as New Orleans’s premier Halloween event and has been promoted up the wazoo!”

  “I’m sure,” Carmela said mildly. “Now tell us more about it.”

  Jekyl drew breath and gestured expansively. “Picture this if you will. A classic old passenger train consisting of six or seven plush Pullman cars, all glammed up with Halloween décor, and running on the New Orleans Public Belt Railroad between Audubon Park and the French Quarter.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Ava. “You’re asking us to be ghosts? And, like, ride on the train?”

  “Yes, I am,” said Jekyl. “Because I think you’d both make magnificent ghosts.”

  Carmela turned toward Ava. “Sounds like a sell job to me.”

  Jekyl held his index finger and thumb together. “It would be a tiny favor for moi.”

  “I hate to admit it,” said Ava, “but it does sound kind of fun.”

  Jekyl fairly beamed. “I knew I could count on you two! Now, you’re going to need costumes of course.”

  “What?” squawked Carmela. It wasn’t enough just to show up?

  “And not just the old bedsheet over the head with two eye holes cut into it,” said Jekyl. “I’d love it if you ladies devised something really spectacular.”

  “You hear that, Carmela?” said Ava. “We’re going to be ghosts.”

  “On the premier Ghost Train,” said Carmela, playing along.

  “Which means we’re gonna need costumes that are really spooktacular!” said Ava.

  “That’s the spirit,” said Jekyl, as he eased his way out of the shop.

  “Honestly,” said Carmela, “he does have a way of twisting your arm.”

  “But it might be fun. And Baby’s party is Wednesday night, the Pumpkins and Bumpkins Ball is on Thursday, so we’re home free on Friday, right?”

  “That’s what it looks like.” Carmela dug in her bag and pulled out her cell phone. “I’m going to call Mavis. See if we can drop by her place before we head off for the Zombie Crawl tonight.”

  “Good idea,” said Ava. “This whole Napoleon’s mask thing has got my curiosity itching.”

  “You mean burning?”

  “Yeah, that, too.”

  Carmela punched in digits, then waited a few moments. Mavis picked up on the third ring.

  “Hello?” Mavis said in a shaky, tentative voice. It was obvious she’d been recei
ving calls from reporters, calls from police, and probably a few crank calls.

  “Mavis, it’s Carmela.”

  “Thank goodness,” said Mavis, sounding hugely relieved. “I thought it might be another reporter.”

  “I was wondering,” said Carmela, “if I could drop by and talk to you tonight? Maybe around seven?”

  “Just you?”

  “My friend Ava, too.”

  “This is about the investigation?” Mavis asked.

  Carmela thought for a few moments. Babcock had warned her to stay out of it, but she was feeling more and more intrigued. “You might say that,” she told Mavis.

  “You have some new thoughts on the murder?”

  Actually, Carmela had questions about the murder. But instead of blurting that out and scaring her off, she replied, “Yes, we do.”

  “WE’LL have a quick bite,” said Carmela, standing at her stove. “Then we’ll hustle over to Mavis’s place, ply her with a few questions, and head back down to the French Quarter so we can catch the Zombie Crawl.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” said Ava. She was lounging on the leather chaise, rubbing Boo’s little triangle-shaped ears. “And may I just say, whatever you’re whipping up in there, it smells absolutely divine.”

  “More like heating it up,” said Carmela, as she stirred her pan. She added another pat of butter to her sizzling shrimp, then dumped in the black beans. When everything was all savory and nice, she dished up steaming portions into yellow Fiesta ware bowls. “Come and get it.” She carried the bowls to her dining table and placed them on rattan place mats.

  Ava was at the table in mere moments.

  “Whoa,” said Carmela, “let me get you a . . .”

  “Spoon,” said Ava. She leapt for the sideboard like a crazed ninja warrior, grabbed two spoons, and was back before you could say “Dinner is served.”

  Carmela sat down across from Ava and smiled. “Well, isn’t this special. So elegant and formal. Too bad I let that British butler have the night off.” Ava was digging in, fanning her mouth because the shrimp were so hot, but not letting up in her eagerness to stuff herself. The dogs danced beneath their elbows, whining and begging for handouts.