Mumbo Gumbo Murder Read online

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  * * *

  Much to Carmela’s dismay, Boo and Poobah went batshit when Shamus walked through the front door. They barked, spun around like crazed circus acrobats, jumped up and knocked him over, and then practically licked him to death.

  “That’s some lovin’,” Carmela observed dryly from her post in the kitchen.

  “They know their daddy misses them,” Shamus said, climbing to his feet, hands still grabbing for both dogs as he tussled with them. “And that he really, really loves them.”

  “Uh-huh.” Carmela was sipping a glass of Sauvignon Blanc that was as dry as her response.

  “Got one of those for me?” Shamus asked. His tongue was hanging out as much as the dogs.

  “I suppose.” Carmela poured a glass of wine for Shamus and handed it to him. She watched as he took a healthy gulp. Still lean and boyish-looking, Shamus was handsome in a casual rich-boy way. Tonight he wore an expensive black leather jacket over gray slacks and had not a single hair out of place. He was the scion to the Meechum family’s banking fortune and was as tightfisted as Scrooge McDuck. Hammering out a divorce settlement with him had been a nightmare. Like walking across hot coals.

  “Whoa!” Shamus cried when he came up for a breather from his wine and finally noticed Mimi. “Where did that little cutie come from?”

  “That’s Mimi, Devon Dowling’s dog.”

  “Oh yeah?” Shamus made a wry grimace. “Poor thing.” He reached out a hand for Mimi to sniff. “You gonna keep her?”

  “I don’t know.” Carmela paused. “Mimi’s staying with me for now because she’s kind of a witness.”

  Shamus set down his wine and picked up Mimi. Much to Carmela’s surprise, the small dog cuddled right up to him. “You’re telling me this little girl can ID Dowling’s killer?”

  “She was right there when it happened. And she’s awfully smart.”

  “I suppose if dogs can sniff out drugs and all sorts of contraband, why not a killer?” Still holding Mimi, Shamus grabbed his wineglass, walked into the living room, and plopped himself down on the leather chaise lounge as if he owned the place. “So. Your upcoming nuptials. Am I invited?”

  Carmela gazed at him with hooded eyes. “Would you really want to come?”

  “Yes,” Shamus said. “Well . . . no. Probably not. It might be bad luck or something.” He set Mimi down and frowned. “Or maybe that’s only if the groom sees the bride in her wedding dress under a full moon on an odd-numbered day.”

  “Or something,” Carmela said as a knock sounded at her front door.

  Carmela hurried to answer it, thinking, Please, please, please don’t let this be Babcock!

  It wasn’t.

  “Am I interrupting?” Ava asked.

  “No. In fact, I’m glad you dropped by.” Carmela rolled her eyes. “Shamus is here.”

  “Oh?” Ava threw her a questioning glance.

  “He came to see the dogs, not me.”

  “In that case,” Ava said, stepping inside, “I’ll come in and give him a few body punches.”

  “Ho ho, are you playing Sherlock Holmes, too?” Shamus boomed when he caught sight of Ava.

  “No, I’m the amazingly cute, incredibly brilliant sidekick,” Ava said.

  “Watley,” Shamus said.

  “Watson,” Carmela corrected.

  “Ah. So Devon Dowling was murdered . . . why?” Shamus asked. “He always seemed like a pleasant enough guy. Really knew his stuff, probably didn’t have any enemies.”

  “It turns out there was also a robbery at his shop,” Carmela said.

  “What!” Shamus cried.

  “When?” Ava asked.

  “We just discovered it this afternoon,” Carmela said. “I dropped by to talk to T.J.—that’s Devon’s assistant,” she said to Shamus. “And we decided to open the back room safe and—boom. It was empty!”

  “Did you call the police?” Ava asked.

  Carmela made a face. “T.J. did.”

  “I can’t imagine that Devon had all that much of value,” Shamus said.

  “It turns out, there might have been one thing in particular,” Carmela said.

  “The coat,” Ava murmured.

  “A fur coat?” Shamus asked.

  “Hang on to your suspension of disbelief,” Carmela told Shamus, “because Devon Dowling reputedly owned a piece of Abraham Lincoln’s coat.”

  “The one Lincoln was assassinated in,” Ava added helpfully.

  Shamus scrunched up his face. “You gals are pulling my leg.”

  “It’s the honest truth,” Carmela said.

  “Who’d want to own something like that?” Shamus asked. “I mean, would it be worth anything?”

  “To the right collector, absolutely,” Carmela said.

  Shamus stood up so fast his knees sounded like someone was cracking a pair of walnuts. “Every time I come over here there’s something weird or spooky going on.” Boo, Poobah, and even Mimi were suddenly forgotten.

  “Tell the truth,” Ava said, giving him a smile that contained very little warmth. “You love it, don’t you? You wish you could join our little cabal.” Ava liked to needle Shamus as penance for bugging out on Carmela.

  “No, I don’t,” Shamus said, heading for the door. “You girls are plum crazy. You’re always poking your noses where they don’t belong. Getting involved in a séance or a creepy murder or some spooky-ass business like a dead president’s coat.”

  “Always nice to see you,” Carmela called after his departing form. “Don’t let the door hit you in the . . .”

  WHAP!

  “Backside,” Ava snickered, as the door closed behind Shamus. She stared at Carmela with mischief in her eyes. “Well, that was an amusing little interlude.”

  “I’m glad someone sees the humor in it,” Carmela said.

  “What I really came over for was to ask if you wanted to wander down the block and have a drinky-poo at Pedro Wang’s.”

  “Why not?” Carmela said. “I’ve been chastised by my future husband, scorned by my ex-husband. Maybe I’ll get lucky and be insulted by a perfect stranger.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Pedro Wang’s was jammed for a Tuesday night. Then again, bars in New Orleans were always jammed. It was a freewheeling, hard-drinkin’ city.

  Carmela and Ava elbowed their way through the crowd, headed for the bar. To their right were tables and booths, and through a door was an open-air courtyard where two guys twanged away on guitars, singing about hard times and workin’ on the river.

  “Those are college kids from Tulane,” Ava said. “They got rich daddies and never worked on the river a day in their lives.”

  “I suppose it’s the spirit that counts,” Carmela said. “And it helps that they’re in tune.”

  They found two seats at the bar and settled in. Ava ordered a jalapeño margarita while Carmela opted for shoo-fly punch, which was basically bourbon and ginger beer with orange slices.

  “This is nice,” Ava said. She slipped her jean jacket off and wiggled her bare shoulders. “Lots of nice men here. A girl could have herself quite a fun time.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Carmela said.

  “I always do, cher. Oh, hello!” Ava leaned back as a silver-haired man in a string tie leaned in and smiled at her.

  “Buy you a drink?” the man asked.

  “Maybe later,” Ava said, batting her lashes.

  “You know what? Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” Carmela said. “I make a lousy wingman. And what about all your fancy talk about meeting a real gentleman instead of hooking up with some random dude?”

  “I gotta have a little fun,” Ava said. “Besides, you can’t up and leave me so soon. At least stay and finish your drink.”

  CLINK! SMASH!

 
A glass shattered behind them, somebody yelped sharply, and ice cubes spun wildly across the barroom floor.

  “Nope,” Carmela said. “I gotta go.” She’d had enough of smashed and bashed glass to last her a lifetime.

  “Watch it there, buddy!” an angry voice shouted.

  Someone staggered up to the bar, half spilling their drink and mumbling, “Sorry. Sorry.”

  When Carmela saw who it was, she did a double take. “T.J.?” she said. “Is that you?”

  T.J.—Trevor Jackson—stared back at her with rheumy, glazed eyes.

  “You,” T.J. said as if he half recognized her.

  “Carmela,” she said. “Remember me from this afternoon?”

  “Ayup.” T.J. gave an answer that was halfway between a yes and a burp.

  Carmela pointed to Ava. “And Ava?”

  T.J. sipped his drink, rocked back on his heels so far it looked like he was about to fall over, then finally managed to straighten himself up. “Gee, it’s nice to see a familiar face,” he slurred. Face came out faysh. “Can I . . .” He reached in his shirt pocket, fished out a soggy twenty-dollar bill, and studied it. “Can I buy you ladies a drink?”

  “No, thanks,” Carmela said.

  “We’re all set,” Ava said. “In fact, we were just about to join some friends out on the patio.” She flashed Carmela a let’s-get-out-of-here look.

  But Carmela, kindhearted Carmela, had concern on her face. “Are you okay?” she asked T.J., because he clearly wasn’t in great shape.

  T.J. just nodded and waved a hand at her, as if to wish her well.

  “You’ve had a rough couple of days. Maybe you ought to go home and take it easy,” Carmela said. “Remember, Devon’s funeral is tomorrow.”

  “You’re gonna come?” T.J. asked.

  “We’ll be there,” Carmela said. She planned to bring Ava and Mimi.

  T.J. favored her with a lopsided grin. “You are show shweet,” he told her. “But I’m fine. Really, I am.” He dropped his head forward and stared resolutely into his glass.

  Carmela didn’t think T.J. was fine at all. In fact, she wondered if he was drinking hard because he was shattered over Devon’s murder, or drinking himself into oblivion because he had a guilty conscience. She didn’t know what his problem was, but either way, this strange, drunken performance tonight was something Babcock definitely needed to know about.

  Chapter 10

  AVA opened the passenger door of Carmela’s Mercedes, stuck one foot in, caught her heel, and nearly fell on her face. Clunk!

  “You okay?” Carmela asked as she loaded Mimi into the back seat.

  “It’s these shoes,” Ava said, righting herself and pushing back masses of curly dark hair. “They make it supremely difficult to get into a car. Or go up steps. Or walk. If they weren’t so devilishly sexy, I’d donate them to the Bridge House Thrift Store.” Ava slid into her seat gingerly and lifted one delicate foot so she could admire her patent leather stilettos. “See how long and lean my legs look in these four-inch heels? Don’t you think they’re especially perfect with my black satin shorts?”

  Carmela lifted an eyebrow at Ava’s wardrobe choice for a funeral. It was a little out-there. Then again, Ava was a little out-there. Of course, everything was loosey-goosey in the Big Easy, where ladies’ underpants were routinely tossed from Mardi Gras floats. So . . . to each his own.

  “Just shut your door so Mimi doesn’t jump up and try to make a break for it,” Carmela said.

  Ava pulled the door closed and glanced over her shoulder where Mimi was ensconced on a furry sheepskin rug. “You’re sure it’s a good idea to bring Devon’s dog along to his funeral?”

  Carmela cranked on the ignition, double-clutched into second, and felt a surge of adrenaline as the engine roared and she peeled away from the curb. “I think it’s a genius idea. You know how Babcock always ghosts into the funerals of his murder victims? Why do you suppose he does that?”

  “I think you once told me that he wants to see if anyone suspicious turns up—i.e., the killer.”

  “Bingo,” Carmela said as she turned down Royal Street. “And Mimi here is a star witness to Devon’s murder. So she’s our best chance of identifying the killer, if he decides to show his face at the funeral this morning.”

  “Okay,” Ava said as she glanced out the car window. “Oh, this is so sad. We’re driving right by Dulcimer Antiques. The place still has plywood over the windows and . . .”

  “What!” Carmela suddenly yelped. She swerved around a bright yellow horse-drawn carriage and stomped hard on her brakes. Ava rocked forward, her head almost smacking the windshield. Mimi tumbled sideways on her soft bed.

  “Whoa!” Ava cried. “What’s wrong? We hit somebody?”

  Carmela pointed. “Look at that sign!”

  Directly above the boarded-up window of Dulcimer Antiques, two workmen were hoisting an enormous red and white sign to hang on the building’s façade.

  COMING SOON! LUXURY CONDOS!

  A phone number filled the lower left-hand corner of the sign; a web address was on the lower right.

  A horn blasted directly behind them, making Ava shriek, so Carmela hastily pulled to the curb.

  “When I talked to Roy Sultan, the landlord, he praised Devon Dowling to high heaven. Said he was a model tenant. Now Devon’s not even properly buried and Sultan can’t wait to convert the building to condos? How is that possible?” Carmela asked.

  “I’m impressed they even have a web address,” Ava said. “You don’t get one of those things overnight. But cher, this didn’t just happen. This had to be a long-term plan.”

  “Well, it’s a terrible plan. I mean . . . come on!”

  “It’s, like, disrespectful,” Ava said.

  “It’s more than that,” Carmela said. Her mind was turning somersaults, going in a new direction that was dark and ominous. What if Sultan had wanted to move Devon out? What if Devon had been gently prodded to leave the building but had a long-term lease that protected him?

  But there’s not much protection from an ice pick, Carmela thought. Imagine that it’s full-on dark, there’s a noisy crowd outside, and the landlord has a passkey . . . Good-bye, Devon.

  Carmela slid her car forward until she was parked directly in front of Lotus Floral. “Let’s pop in and talk to Betty. If anybody can give us the lowdown, it’s Betty Doucet.”

  “Should we bring Mimi?”

  “She’s okay. We’re only going to be in there for two minutes.”

  Betty was standing behind the counter, trimming dead leaves off a phalaenopsis when Carmel and Ava came in. When she saw who it was, she took off her glasses and smiled.

  “Carmela, Ava. Good morning, ladies,” Betty said.

  “Hey, Betty,” Carmela said as Ava grabbed a rose from a tall silver pot filled with red roses and stuck it behind her ear.

  “Carmela, when am I going to design the flowers for your wedding? Tell me, have you and your handsome detective set a date?” Betty asked.

  “We’re working on it,” Carmela said. “But I promise, as soon as I know, you’ll know.”

  “It’s important to plan ahead,” Betty said. “I get brides in here all the time who are scrambling to order bouquets, boutonnieres, flowers for the altar, centerpieces for their reception. They don’t realize that special orders take weeks. Sometimes months.”

  “Speaking of things that take time. How weird is it that the building across the street from you is suddenly going condo?” Carmela asked.

  Betty looked suddenly unhappy. “I know. And right on the heels of Devon’s murder.” She set down her clippers. “He was such a sweetheart. But I suppose now that he’s gone, the owner decided to jump on the condo fast track.” She shook her head. “Unfortunately, that’s been the fate of a lot of fine old buildings in the French Quarter.”

 
“It’s a dang shame,” Ava said.

  Betty nodded at the building across the street. “It seems like those condos went on the market just minutes ago. Pre-sale, I think they call it. Where you can look at the building as well as renderings of the units themselves. I understand the building owner was hoping to do that for a couple of years. Problem was, he had a holdout with a long-term lease.”

  “Devon Dowling,” Carmela said.

  Betty nodded. “I guess that’s right.”

  “Now Devon is dead and can no longer hold out or lodge a complaint. How convenient for Sultan,” Carmela said.

  “We’re on the way to Devon’s funeral right now,” Ava said. “Over at St. Roch.”

  “Oh my. Then you’d better let me put together a nice bouquet for you,” Betty said. She grabbed a half dozen stems of lilies, added a grouping of white roses and baby’s breath, and accented the bouquet with a few leafy greens.

  When Carmela tried to pay for it, Betty shook her head no. “The red rose is gratis, too,” she told Ava. “Just say a little prayer for Devon.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “You’ve got that sneaky-peaky look on your face,” Ava said as they climbed back into Carmela’s car. “Like something’s stuck in your craw.”

  Carmela glanced at Ava as she pulled out into traffic. “Do you think Roy Sultan could have murdered Devon just to get rid of him?”

  “I never met Roy Sultan, but I do know this. Space in the French Quarter is almost as valuable as Fabergé eggs. And every time a newly renovated building comes on the market it’s got more and more high-end amenities. Penthouses, balconies, gardens, underground parking, yoga studio, juice bar, you name it. Yeah, I think Sultan could have had dollar signs in his eyes. I also think this could be a red-hot lead for Babcock.”

  “Maybe it is. But let’s not tell him yet. First, I want Mimi to take a good long sniff of Roy Sultan. Then we’ll see.”

  “But before that, you have to find him,” Ava said.