Gossamer Ghost Read online

  Carmela had to chuckle. She hadn’t even had time to light a candle or put on music. Oh well, at least she’d made an effort in the kitchen. She hadn’t just squirted ketchup on top of noodles and called it sasgetti.

  When Ava finally came up for air, she said, “This is so delicious, cher.”

  “Wait till you see the dump cake I made for dessert,” said Carmela. “With blueberry and pineapple.”

  Ava giggled. “What a great name. But, seriously, I’m gonna have to bite the bullet one of these days and go on a strict diet.” She looked mournful as she patted her absolutely flat stomach. “At what point does a muffin top turn into a full-blown Bundt cake?”

  “I think you look just fine.”

  “Maybe I should just eat tuna and Melba toast. Or down that gunky liquid protein drink. Dran-O or Food-O, whatever it is.”

  “I was planning to start my summer diet first thing tomorrow,” said Carmela.

  Ava snorted. “Don’t make me laugh while I’m eating, cher. I could choke and die. Or shoot wine out my nose.”

  “Fat chance,” said Carmela, which made Ava snort again.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, dogs walked and dishes stacked in the sink, Carmela and Ava were out the door.

  “You think I’m too dressed up for a Zombie Crawl?” Ava asked as they drove down Decatur Street, past the Café du Monde and the open-air French Market. Ava had changed into a leopard-print top, tight black leggings, and thigh-high black boots. She looked like Catwoman out on the prowl. Or a character in an old comedy sketch from the Cher show.

  “In an outfit that prim and proper,” said Carmela, “you could easily be mistaken for an Upper East Side Bergdorf Goodman shopper.”

  “You think?”

  “Uh . . . no,” said Carmela. “Face it, sweetie, you’re dressed like your persona: fun, hip, and looking like you want to swan around the French Quarter and hit a few clubs.” She hooked a right on North Peters Street, and added, “You for sure didn’t want to dress like a zombie, did you?”

  Ava shook her head and her mass of dark hair looked almost purple as they drove under a string of streetlamps that stretched down the dark street like glowing rosary beads. “Nope. Zombies are way too scuzzy for my taste.” She shuddered. “All that hanging flesh, ripped clothes, and lank hair.”

  Carmela patted her own hair, which was due for a trim. “I know the feeling.”

  “But I like the idea of dressing up like a ghost for Jekyl’s Ghost Train.”

  “I’ve got a couple ideas on that,” said Carmela. “Costume-wise, I mean.”

  They cruised down Frenchmen Street and then into the heart of the Bywater District. It was an eclectic area, filled with longtime residents as well as a more recent influx of artists and musicians who’d been priced out of the French Quarter. Restaurants and pubs like Praline Patty’s and Sugar Blue had recently popped up, but the area still retained its quaint, laid-back, tumbledown charm.

  Mavis lived in a small, Caribbean-style cottage that had once been painted teal blue. Now, after wind, rain, humidity, and good old Louisiana heat had pounded away at it, the paint had been worn down to a fine patina and silvered wood shone through. In the small front yard, delineated by an ankle-high, white wire fence, a couple of scraggly palm trees and one orange tree made their brave stand.

  From the looks of the run-down cottage, Carmela guessed that Mavis was probably one of the people who’d grown up here, instead of being a recent transplant with high hopes for a fixer-upper.

  “Talk about dumpy,” said Ava as they walked to the front door.

  “I know,” said Carmela. “But just . . . play nice, okay? She’s really hurting.”

  Mavis answered the door on the third ring. It creaked open and she peered out tentatively, her complexion looking sallow and splotchy, eyes red-rimmed and sunken. Carmela couldn’t help but feel they’d interrupted a serious crying jag.

  “Hi,” said Mavis. She opened the door almost fearfully. “Come in.”

  The living room, decorated in faded browns and purples, practically mirrored the way Mavis was dressed. Drab was hardly the word for it and Carmela felt her heart go out to the woman. In one fell swoop, Mavis had lost her fiancé, her livelihood, and probably her self-confidence.

  Carmela and Ava plopped down on a sagging floral couch, while Mavis settled herself listlessly in a chair across from them.

  “How are you holding up?” asked Carmela. Her eyes searched the room. Not much in the way of décor.

  One of Mavis’s shoulders hitched up a notch.

  “Hang in there, honey,” said Ava, trying to lend an encouraging note.

  “I’m trying,” said Mavis. “But it’s been difficult.” She gazed pointedly at Carmela. “The police were here again today. Asking questions, always these complicated questions that I don’t have answers for.”

  “I’m so sorry about that,” said Carmela. “I know this whole ordeal has been brutal.”

  Mavis pulled a tissue from the pocket of her lumpy sweater and dabbed at her eyes. “You have no idea.”

  “No, I’m sure I don’t,” said Carmela. She wanted to ask Mavis a few tough questions, but decided the woman was in a fragile, highly emotional state. She’d have to lead up to them gradually.

  “It feels like . . .” Mavis began, then sniffled into a tissue.

  “What, Mavis?” Carmela asked. She tried to keep her tone low and sympathetic. She wanted to create an even greater level of trust.

  “It feels like the police don’t want to believe my story,” said Mavis.

  “Typical,” said Ava.

  “I think the detectives are just trying to collect as much information as possible,” said Carmela. “And then sort everything out.” She wanted to sit on the fence, 50 percent Mavis, 50 percent Babcock. If that was even possible.

  “I told them everything I know,” said Mavis. She hunched her shoulders forward and pulled herself into a tight knot.

  “I’m sure you did,” said Carmela.

  Mavis cleared her throat. “I sure do feel lucky having you on my side, though.”

  “That’s right,” said Carmela. “I am on your side. Ava is, too.”

  Ava nodded. “Believe it.”

  “You’re both so kind,” said Mavis.

  “Girl power,” said Ava, doing a quick fist pump. “We gotta stick together.”

  Carmela struggled to phrase her question delicately. “You’re quite sure that Joubert was here in town the night the death mask was stolen in Dallas?”

  “Oh yes,” said Mavis, nodding fiercely. “I know it for a fact. You can even correlate that with Mr. Duval. They had a meeting together. Over dinner, I think.”

  “I’m going to check that out,” said Carmela.

  Mavis bobbed her head. “I wish you would.”

  Ava poked Carmela in the ribs. “Can’t you talk to Babcock about this whole mess? Get him to ease off?”

  “Is he your boyfriend, Carmela?” Mavis played with the ring on her finger. The silver ring with the skulls and Sanskrit inscription.

  “Yes, he is,” said Carmela. She felt awful. Poor Mavis was wearing her wedding ring . . . well, the ring that would have been her wedding ring had her fiancé not been murdered.

  “So maybe you can reason with him,” said Mavis. “Convince him that Marcus wasn’t a thief.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m trying to do,” said Carmela. “I just need a little more . . . what would you call it? Evidence to the contrary.”

  Mavis oozed a few more tears.

  “It was fairly obvious the other night,” said Carmela, “that you knew all about the death mask. That you knew Marcus had the Napoleon death mask in his possession.”

  “Oh, absolutely,” said Mavis. “He’d shown it to me just a few days earlier.”

  “W
here did you think it came from?” Carmela asked.

  Mavis shook her head slowly. “I don’t know. Like I said before, I just assumed that he purchased it, like everything else in his inventory. Either at an auction or from a private dealer. You realize, Marcus had a very keen eye for unique pieces. And he knew there was always a huge market for the unusual.”

  “I’m sure there is,” said Carmela. “But now, after talking to the police, after seeing the article in today’s Times-Picayune, you must realize that the mask is being viewed as stolen property.”

  Mavis tensed up. “I know a mask was stolen. I don’t know that it’s the exact same mask.”

  “The thing is,” said Carmela, feeling awful, “there are three other known Napoleon death masks out there and none of the museums or collectors who own them have reported those masks stolen. Or even recently sold.”

  “Just that collector in Dallas?” Mavis asked in a small voice.

  “That’s right,” said Carmela. She remembered her conversation with the antique dealer James Stanger. He had told her that Marcus Joubert had been involved in several unsavory deals. Had this been one of them? For Mavis’s sake, she hoped not.

  Mavis’s bottom lip began to quiver and her eyes sparkled. She began to shake and tears spilled down her cheeks. “Oh!” she wailed. “How did I get mixed up in all of this? Marcus showed me the mask and I thought it was beautiful, a real coup for him that might help turn his business around. But then everything went sour. Marcus was murdered, the mask stolen, and . . . and . . . then the landlord sent an eviction notice.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Carmela. “I didn’t mean to . . .”

  “You know what the awful thing is?” Mavis continued. “There’s barely enough money in the Oddities checking account to even rent a storage locker. And . . .” Her voice was shaking now. “We owe three months’ back rent!”

  Poor thing, thought Carmela. Her life really is falling apart.

  “I’m so grateful, though,” said Mavis, “that the two of you are listening to my side of the story.”

  “We’ll do more than listen,” said Ava. “Won’t we, Carmela? We’ll do something about it.”

  “We’ll certainly try,” said Carmela.

  Mavis’s voice was a high-pitched squeak. “Thank you.”

  “I was wondering,” said Carmela, “when the mask first appeared at Oddities, did Marcus talk about it? Did he have a customer in mind?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Mavis. “At least he didn’t mention anyone by name.”

  “Maybe that guy Duval, that he had the meeting with?” said Ava.

  “I just don’t know,” said Mavis.

  Carmela decided to try another angle. “Mavis, do you have any idea what a genuine Napoleon’s death mask might be worth?”

  Mavis gazed at her and puckered her brows as if trying to dredge up a number. “No. Not really.”

  “The rumor,” said Carmela, “is that it could be valued at close to a million dollars.”

  Mavis’s face turned dead white. “That much?” She seemed utterly stunned. “Oh dear Lord, I had no idea. I thought it was more of a curiosity, like all the other items at Oddities.”

  “And you still have no idea where Joubert bought it?” said Carmela.

  “If I knew, I’d tell you,” said Mavis, blinking rapidly. “I really would. You have to believe me.”

  “We do, honey,” said Ava. Even her heart had gone out to Mavis.

  “I need you to dig through every scrap of paper you can find at the shop,” said Carmela. “Go through his files, his notes, even his emails. Can you do that for me?”

  “I’ll do that,” said Mavis. “I really will.”

  “Good,” said Carmela. “Because if you really want to clear Marcus’s name, we’re going to have to figure out exactly where that doggone mask came from!”

  TONIGHT’S Zombie Crawl was the first of its kind in New Orleans. Whether it was inspired by the old horror classic Night of the Living Dead or the more recent World War Z, the Zombie Crawl was being touted as the largest gathering of zombies ever seen.

  Carmela doubted that it was the largest congregation of zombies. Heck, just look at any political convention, there were all sorts of dead heads in attendance. But this Zombie Crawl, and all that went with it, was enticing enough to draw her and Ava back to the French Quarter to take in the spectacle.

  First of all, there was the Quarantine Zone over near Jackson Square. It was a roped-off area filled with food stands and food trucks. Never mind that they’d both eaten earlier, the fried shrimp, black beans and rice, and gumbo still beckoned.

  “I’ve got to get me a sack of those fried clams,” said Ava, pointing at a red-and-white-striped tent strung with white twinkle lights. With full-on dark now, the food booths glittered like beacons. It was a regular fais do do, a kind of Cajun party.

  “And I’ve got my eye on a bowl of mudbugs,” said Carmela. “It’s my reward for getting out of bed this morning.” There was nothing better than boiled crawfish. Just twist off their little heads and slurp the juicy goodness.

  They bought sacks of kettle corn, too, and got geaux cups filled with strawberry daiquiris. The thing about New Orleans was, the city prided itself on the fact that you could drink on the street and shoot from your car.

  “Mnn,” said Ava, as she crunched away. “The parade.” She held up a deep-fried prawn to underscore her point. “We can’t miss the big parade.”

  They hustled over to infamous Bourbon Street, where crowds had congregated outside the myriad bars and strip clubs. The countdown to Halloween had officially begun and the entire French Quarter looked as if it had been decorated by Bela Lugosi. Sunset had long retreated, while darkness crept in like a malevolent spirit. Victorian streetlights glowed and every nook and cranny seemed ready for a ghoul or goblin to take up residence.

  Carmela and Ava jostled through the costumed crowd and found a spot practically right in front of Dr. Boogie’s Music Bar.

  “This is the life, huh?” said Ava. “Imagine if you lived in a one-horse town where bingo or bowling were the only big-time entertainment?”

  “I’d for sure miss this brand of craziness,” Carmela admitted. “I really would.” She wished Babcock could be here with her, instead of out rubbing shoulders with lowlifes. Or chasing around with a magnifying glass and a Sherlock Holmes hat, or whatever he did when he was trying to solve a major crime. The whole spectacle tonight was over the top and fizzing with excitement. Typical fare for the Big Easy, where the livin’ really was easy and nothing short of murder was considered a sin. Or if it was, confession and the ear of a forgiving priest were always a short hop away.

  “Here come the bands and the funeral hearses!” cried Ava.

  They could hear the high, tinny sound of a marching band tuning up. And pretty soon, the Crescent City High Steppers came into view. They clopped down the street in formation, playing a souped-up, swing version of Aaron Neville’s “Tell It Like It Is.” The brass trumpets blared and the bass drum boomed so loudly Carmela could feel it reverberate in the pit of her stomach.

  And then, driving in a slow, stately manner, two abreast, came the hearses. There were shiny black hearses, bronze hearses, and ivory hearses. Hearses decorated with black crepe and bunches of lilies. There was even an antique hearse with a casket in back. In that one, the lid opened and closed while a real person (in gory makeup, of course) peeped out and waved as parade watchers cheered and roared.

  “And now the doomsday vehicles,” said Ava.

  This was a whole different category. Some were Humvees that had been tricked out with fake guns and long protruding spikes, one was a VW bug that had been painted gunmetal gray, jacked up on enormous tires, and had plastic alligators glued all over it.

  There was another snappy marching band, a couple of Halloween-themed floats from the
Rex krewe, and then the long-awaited parade of zombies.

  “This is what I’ve been waiting for,” said Ava. She cupped a hand to one ear. “Listen to that.”

  A low moaning and groaning rose up to greet them as hundreds of zombies, all in full makeup and tattered regalia, trundled down the street. They limped, gimped, and lurched their way along, their moans getting louder and more plaintive. All wore garish gray and green makeup, tattered clothes, and gobs of red paint that had been haphazardly spattered on. Most of them had fake blood dripping out of their mouths. One enterprising zombie even had fake entrails strung around his neck, and another carried his pet rat and kept holding it up as if to take a chomp out of it.

  “The animal rights folks are gonna be all over him,” said Ava.

  “Do you recognize anyone?” Carmela asked. All the zombies were friends and locals that had been improbably raised from their fitful slumber.

  “Miguel should be somewhere in this horde,” said Ava. “Jeez, it just occurred to me. I probably should have sponsored him.”

  “You can sponsor a zombie?” said Carmela.

  “Yeah. For fifty bucks you can hang a cardboard sign on your zombie’s back. You know, to advertise your charity or business.”

  “Good to know,” said Carmela. She was already wondering who she could cajole into wearing green makeup and super gross clothing next year. Babcock? No way. Gabby? Hardly.

  “Maybe we should dress up as zombies next year,” Carmela said as they watched the parade hobble by. When you got past the moaning and groaning and fake bloody entrails, they did seem like a fairly congenial bunch.

  “I don’t know,” said Ava. “Some things are often better in theory. Case in point, joining a gym or doing actual physical activity.”

  “I hear you there.”

  When the zombie parade had pretty much petered out, Ava said, “You want to go watch the ‘Thriller’ dance-off contest?”

  “Why not?” said Carmela.

  But the dance-off, held near the French Market, turned out to be just a couple dozen or so costumed zombies herking and jerking to Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.” And the dancers weren’t even that good.