Gilt Trip Page 8

  “Fun,” Carmela repeated.

  “You know . . . trendy,” said Margo. “A few weeks ago, Beetsie and I saw some of Sullivan Finch’s work at the Click! Gallery. And I thought . . . why not?”

  “You just decided it might be a wild and crazy thing to do?” said Carmela. She glanced at the cypress-paneled walls that were hung with dozens of staid-looking landscape paintings. And tried to imagine a death portrait hanging among them. Just the notion of the incongruity sent a shiver down her spine.

  Margo snuffled into her tissue. “Beetsie was all gung-ho cheerleadery about having a portrait done. She was the one who really pushed for it. So I just . . . well . . .” Tears streamed down her face. “Oh, Carmela,” she sobbed. “Do you think I brought it on?”

  Carmela shook her head. “Brought what on?”

  “Jerry Earl’s death. His . . . murder!” she said in a loud stage whisper.

  “You’re asking me if commissioning the portrait was some kind of talisman or bad magic?”

  “Yes!” Margo breathed.

  “No,” said Carmela. “I don’t think it works that way. I don’t believe in—what would you call something like that? A psychic inducement?”

  “So it wasn’t my fault?” Margo asked tearfully.

  No, Carmela thought. But why on earth had Beetsie goaded her into it? Why on earth would Beetsie be all rah-rah over a crappy death portrait? Was Beetsie not what she appeared to be?

  • • •

  MARGO, BEETSIE, AND MERRIWEATHER TOOK OFF then, leaving Carmela waving good-bye from the front door. They’d urged her to stay as long as she needed. To peruse the rest of the photos and objects in Jerry Earl’s office and select whichever ones she thought would work best.

  But now the house felt strange and deserted. Down the hallway a clock ticked loudly. Upstairs, Carmela could hear the whisper of footsteps. A maid perhaps? Or cleaning woman? And there was a far-off low rumble of something else, too. Carmela prayed it wasn’t the clothes dryer.

  They’d already selected a half dozen photos, and Carmela decided she’d better scoot back to Jerry Earl’s office and grab that small, sparkling pink geode, too. It would be a perfect addition to the memory box.

  But when she got to the office, Eric Zane was standing at the desk. And he seemed to be studying a sheaf of papers.

  “Hello,” said Carmela.

  Zane practically came out of his loafers. “You! I didn’t know you were still here!” He was startled and discombobulated, but not enough so that he wasn’t able to cover up the papers he’d been peering at.

  This is a house filled with secrets, Carmela thought to herself.

  Carmela approached the desk and saw what looked like some kind of geological map.

  Interesting.

  “I’m just tidying up some business,” Zane told her primly.

  “So you functioned as Jerry Earl’s personal assistant?” Carmela asked. She knew that he knew she’d glimpsed the map.

  “That’s right.”

  “What kinds of things did you do for him?”

  Zane held her gaze. “Whatever needed doing.”

  “I suppose you handled business matters as well as personal matters?”

  “You might say that,” said Zane.

  Carmela picked up the small geode. “It appears that your employer was quite the antiquities buff, what with all the fossils and maps and things.”

  “He was an antiquities freak,” said Zane. “Always trying to add more and more to his collection.” He indicated a bone mounted on a metal stand. “You see this? It’s the jawbone from a mastodon. Part of one that was dug up back in nineteen eighty-two in West Feliciana Parish, just northwest of here.”

  “So it’s not just fossils Jerry Earl was crazy about,” said Carmela. “It was dinosaurs, too.”

  “Technically, mastodons weren’t dinosaurs,” said Zane. He gave a self-satisfied smile. A know-it-all smile. “They went extinct at the end of the Pleistocene era, about ten thousand years ago. Dinosaurs preceded them by some one hundred and fifty million years.”

  “So no dinosaurs were ever discovered in Louisiana?”

  Zane shrugged. “It was always Jerry Earl’s hope to find one.”

  “And he liked gold,” said Carmela. “Judging from all the gold coins and nuggets and trinkets that he collected.”

  “That’s another thing,” said Zane. “Mr. Leland was a real gold bug.”

  “Precious metals,” said Carmela. “Always a tricky thing.”

  “Given this economy,” said Zane, “Mr. Leland thought it was the only thing.”

  • • •

  HER HEAD SPINNING WITH MORE QUESTIONS than answers, Carmela decided to make a quick detour to Ava’s voodoo shop.

  With its wooden shake roof, multipaned front window, and glossy red front door, Juju Voodoo always reminded Carmela of a quaint little Hansel and Gretel cottage. Of course, that’s where the fairy-tale image ended. Because when you looked closer in the window, you saw purple bottles filled with potions, Day of the Dead characters with snarky grins, and a bright blue neon sign in the shape of an outstretched palm—complete with head, heart, and life lines.

  Carmela pushed open the heavy front door and stepped into the dark, cool interior. Candles flickered; flute music wafted in the air. While she waited for her eyes to adjust, her nose was greeted by the mingled aromas of sandalwood oil, sweet patchouli, and burned coffee.

  “Ava?” she called out.

  Ava, dressed in a leopard print corset top with skintight leather pants and strappy high-heel sandals, came scurrying from the back reading room. Her mass of dark hair fanned out about her fine-boned face, and her heels clicked like castanets. She looked, Carmela thought, like a cross between a Vegas showgirl and a bondage queen.

  “Cher?” said Ava, clearly surprised. “I wasn’t expecting you!”

  “Some psychic you are,” Carmela quipped.

  Ava shrugged. “I’m just having a weird day. For some reason Tuesday morning feels like Monday morning.” She touched a hand to her forehead. “Also, I’m nursing a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup hangover.”

  “It’s that late-night snacking that does it every time,” said Carmela.

  “Miss Gruiex?” a voice called. Then a diminutive Japanese man emerged from the back reading room. He wore big round glasses, a brown sport coat, and tan slacks, and clutched a black messenger bag.

  Ava winked at Carmela. “Give me a minute.” She quickly rang up a saint candle (Saint Peter, patron saint of longevity), a small wax voodoo doll with a packet of red pins, and a shrunken head. “That all comes to thirty-nine fifty, darlin’.”

  The man seemed pathetically grateful as he cheerfully handed over his Visa card to Ava, and Carmela wondered if he was happy with his bizarre souvenirs or just thrilled to be waited on by a bombshell like Ava. All dolled up in leather to boot.

  “Don’t forget,” Ava told him, “that special on love potion runs until Saturday. And it comes with a thirty-day guarantee!”

  When her customer had finally put his tongue back in his mouth and departed, Ava turned her attention to Carmela. “So how’d it go with Margo?”

  “Eh, Margo seems to run hot and cold. One minute she’s sniffling about Jerry Earl, the next she’s giggling with her buddy Beetsie.”

  “You mean that dreary-looking skinny gal who talks without moving her jaw?”

  “That’s the one,” said Carmela. “In fact, Margo says Beetsie was the one who urged her to commission a death portrait. Said they did it on a lark.”

  “Do you believe her?”

  “I think so,” said Carmela. “I mean, what crazy woman would get all excited over a death portrait and then murder her husband?”

  “Crazy like a fox?” said Ava. “A rich woman who’d like to be even richer?”

  Car
mela shrugged. “Maybe.” She fingered one of the evil eye necklaces hanging on a rack on the counter. “The big news is that Detective Gallant called while I was there and freaked Margo out in a major way.”

  “How so?”

  “Apparently the ME discovered prison tattoos on Jerry Earl’s body.”

  Ava let loose a low whistle. “Tats on old Jerry Earl? Maybe underneath those stuffy Brooks Brothers suits, he was a biker boy at heart.”

  “More like somebody worked him over with a ballpoint pen,” said Carmela.

  “What were the tats? A skull and crossbones? Screaming eagle?” Ava smirked. “A cupid heart?”

  “No idea.”

  “Better call up Bobby Gallant and pump him for information, girlfriend. This could be a serious clue!”

  “Oh,” said Carmela. “And I ended up hustling some business for you, too. Margo’s all worked up about having a tarot reading.”

  “We can arrange that. I’m sure Madame Blavatsky will be happy to accommodate us.” Madame Blavatsky was really Ellie Black, a tarot and I Ching reader that Ava had found working the tourist crowds over in Jackson Square.

  “Great,” said Carmela as she turned to leave. “I’ll set it up.”

  “And be sure to call Gallant,” said Ava. “Get the scoop and tell me all about it tonight!”

  Carmela stopped in her tracks. “Tonight?”

  Ava stared at her. “Please don’t tell me you forgot!”

  “I didn’t,” said Carmela. Of course she’d forgotten.

  “You know darned well the Star of the South Cat Show is tonight!” cried Ava. “It’s Isis’s big opportunity to shine!” Isis was Ava’s elegant black Persian cat that she’d inherited a couple of years back after the death of a friend.

  “I’ve been looking forward to it,” Carmela lied.

  “Me, too!” said Ava, practically delirious with excitement. “In fact, Isis is at the groomer right now.”

  Carmela nodded, trying to rally a little inner excitement. “Getting all prettied up.”

  “Getting a pet-icure!” said Ava.

  Chapter 9

  AS soon as Carmela got back to Memory Mine, she made a beeline for her office.

  “Hello to you, too,” Gabby said as Carmela sailed past.

  “Hi. Hi. Sorry I’m in such a crazy rush. I gotta make a quick phone call to Bobby Gallant.”

  “What’s in the envelope?” Gabby asked as she snipped a length of lavender velvet ribbon for an invitation she was working on.

  “Shadow box project for Margo Leland,” Carmela called over her shoulder.

  Gabby nodded. “You’ll have to fill me in.”

  Carmela plunked herself down in her chair and spun around. Because, honestly, that was how she felt. As if her world was spinning out of control and she was able to glimpse only the briefest hints of truth. Then she took a deep breath, picked up the phone, and dialed Gallant. While she waited, she studied a book of paper swatches from Kingston Paper, one of her premier paper vendors. Though they offered several varieties of parchment and parchment look-alikes, there was nothing of the same high quality as was found in Jerry Earl’s little notebook.

  When Gallant came on the phone, the first thing he said was, “Babcock warned me this might happen.”

  “Nothing’s happening,” said Carmela. “I just want to confirm some information I got from Margo.”

  “She didn’t ask you to call me?”

  “Nope. I’m just a private citizen making a simple inquiry.”

  “Not so simple,” Gallant grumbled.

  “Sure it is,” said Carmela. “Just tell me about the tattoos.”

  “You know I can’t do that.”

  “Sure you can. Look I already know about them. It’s not like they’re a deep, dark secret.”

  “I’ll tell you one thing and one thing only,” said Gallant. “The tats were crude drawings of a sailboat, a tiny map, and a constellation of stars. Possibly done by a group of prisoners that belonged to something called the End of the World Gang.”

  “A gang?” said Carmela. “What do you make of that?”

  “Not a whole lot,” said Gallant. “There are gangs that call themselves the Hell Whompers, the Walking Zombies, the Bounty Hunters, the Killer Boyz, you name it.”

  “But End of the World,” said Carmela. “That sounds kind of . . . fatalistic.”

  “Yes it does. It sounds like crazies who’d drink strychnine-laced Kool-Aid or believe in doomsday predictions by Nostradamus.”

  “Your kind of customer,” said Carmela.

  Gallant sighed deeply. “Unfortunately, the New Orleans PD has way too many customers like that!”

  • • •

  “WHAT?” SAID GABBY, ONCE CARMELA WAS OFF the phone. She’d managed to hang in the doorway and listen in on part of the conversation. “What’s going on? What’s this about a gang? Please don’t tell me Ava’s hanging out with those motorcycle guys again!”

  “It’s nothing like that,” said Carmela. “But here’s the thing—the medical examiner found prison tattoos on Jerry Earl’s body. And they were apparently done by some group called the End of the World Gang.”

  “That sounds awfully creepy,” said Gabby.

  “Gallant thought so, too,” said Carmela.

  “Do you think it means, like, the real end of the world? Like the Rapture or something?”

  “Somehow I’m guessing these guys aren’t exactly into religion.” She’d been turning that particular phrase over and over when, suddenly, in the back of her mind, something blipped quietly on her radar.

  “What do you think End of the World Gang means?” asked Gabby, just as the front door opened and two customers rushed in.

  “Not sure,” said Carmela. “Until I check on something.”

  • • •

  WHILE GABBY WAITED ON THEIR CUSTOMERS, Carmela sat at her desk mulling things over. And came to a number of conclusions: Margo was crazy as a hoot owl, Beetsie had a nasty, sinister side, and Eric Zane was either a dedicated employee or a scheming traitor. She spun around in her chair again and gazed at some of the scrapbook ideas she had pinned to her wall. A torn tissue paper heart, some recycled fabric, and some vintage photos with buttons sewn around the border.

  But all the while, she was thinking, I gotta call Shamus. I gotta ask him about this.

  It was just after three, so she figured he’d probably still be at the bank. Unless he’d ducked over to Galatoire’s for an afternoon bump at the bar. Shamus, so tall and good-looking, with his languid smile and casual arrogance, could undoubtedly pick up a sexy blonde in about two seconds flat.

  Carmela hit her speed dial, figuring she’d probably get Shamus’s voice mail. Instead, she got the real deal Shamus.

  He came on the line all hearty and upbeat. “Babe! I was just thinking about you.”

  “Favorably, I hope.”

  “Always good times, babe.”

  Carmela snorted. “Except for our marriage.”

  “We had our moments,” said Shamus, trying hard to sound philosophical. “But look at the bright side—we’re in a good place now.”

  “That’s right, we’re divorced.”

  “I’m just happy we’re still in each other’s lives.”

  Carmela smiled to herself. Such a sweet thought. And just when her heart seemed to thaw a tiny bit, Shamus asked, “What’s going on with my Garden District house?”

  Which helped Carmela remember why she’d divorced the rat fink in the first place. “It’s my house now, remember? I got it as part of the settlement.”

  “Settlement? I’d call it highway robbery.”

  “No, I wangled it fair and square,” said Carmela. Or at least my smart-as-a-whip lawyer did. “Besides, if you and Glory had gotten your way, I would have ended up with fifty bucks and a
used Ping-Pong table.” Glory was Shamus’s older sister, a parsimonious crab who’d always despised Carmela. She’d made no bones about the fact that Carmela was too blue collar to be part of their family.

  “I hear you put the house on the market for two point three million,” said Shamus. He may have been an indolent, do-nothing member of the Meechum banking family, but he somehow managed to get his facts and figures straight.

  “Something like that,” said Carmela.

  “Big number.”

  “I didn’t price it, Shamus, my realtor did. Anyway, I wasn’t calling for real estate advice. I wanted to ask you a question.”

  “Is it about that little incident at Pappy’s Brewhouse last weekend?” said Shamus. “Because the manager dropped the charges and I already paid to replace the ceiling fan.”

  “No,” said Carmela. “It’s not about that because I don’t even know about that.”

  “Then what?” said Shamus.

  “I wanted to know what end of the world means to you?”

  Shamus was instantly on alert. “Is this a trick question?”

  “No, it’s just a standard Q and A question.”

  “Because if this is some kind of stupid pet trick, don’t think I’ll be amused.”

  “You’re rarely amused, Shamus. Now, please, just answer the question. In fact, just give me the first thing that pops into your head.”

  “End of the world . . . end of the world,” said Shamus. “Okay, let me get this straight. If I’m not mistaken, it’s how the people in Venice refer to their unincorporated town.” Venice, Louisiana, was the last stop on the Great River Road and located in Plaquemines Parish right on the edge of the Baptiste Collette Bayou. It had been almost completely destroyed by Hurricane Katrina in 2005 and hadn’t fared well with Hurricane Isaac in 2012.

  “You’re sure about that?” said Carmela.

  “Sure I’m sure. They call it that because it’s kind of the last bit of civilization. Yeah,” Shamus rhapsodized, “I had me some excellent fishing trips down that way. Good game fish: wahoo, marlin, snapper, you name it. I don’t think there’s a prettier place on earth.”