Gilt Trip Read online

  “Yes,” Carmela said softly. The memory of all the nights they’d spent together at Shamus’s little camp house in the nearby Baritaria Bayou came flooding back to her. The rain pattering gently on the corrugated tin roof, a crackling fire, fresh grilled snapper. Those were good times, better times. “Thank you, Shamus,” she murmured.

  “Hey, did I get it right?”

  “This time, Shamus, I think you might have.”

  • • •

  CARMELA HUNG UP THE PHONE AND THOUGHT about that isolated little spit of land south of New Orleans. What would Venice, Louisiana, have to do with Jerry Earl’s murder? It was all bayous and bars and swamp rats. How on earth would the little down-on-its-heels town of Venice intersect with the gilded life of Jerry Earl and Margo Leland?

  Is this where the prison gang hailed from?

  If so, why would they be after Jerry Earl? Could things have gone terribly wrong in prison? Had Jerry Earl violated some sort of prison code?

  On the other hand, maybe she was coming at this the wrong way. What if, instead of looking at people, she viewed the murder from a completely different angle entirely? Such as . . . trying to find out more about the grisly murder weapon?

  The trocar.

  Even the name sounded alien to her. Spooky and threatening and old-fashioned. Still, Ava had called Charlie the crime-scene guy and that’s what he’d confided to her. Murder via trocar.

  How could she find out more about a trocar? Whom could she call? Who might know?

  Like the proverbial lightbulb popping on above her head, Carmela suddenly remembered Oddities, the little shop next door.

  Little Shop of Horrors is what Gabby calls it.

  Still, talking to Marcus Joubert, the owner of Oddities, might give her a smattering of insight.

  “I’m running next door for a second.” Carmela told Gabby as she breezed past her yet again.

  “Ugh.” Gabby made the appropriate face to accompany her remark.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be back in two shakes.”

  “I do worry,” Gabby called after her.

  But Carmela was already out the door. From there it was a quick ten steps to the front door of Oddities. She pushed her way in and was instantly struck by the extremely bizarre inventory. There were Victorian-era top hats, stuffed bats, leather riding crops, animal skulls, butterfly and beetle collections, tribal masks, a real-life sarcophagus, and so much more. The narrow brick walls and strange objects seemed to close in on her as she walked through the store.

  “Carmela!” Marcus Joubert looked up from a glass case and smiled his toothy grin. He was tall and slightly stooped with a bold lantern jaw. If he were a few years younger, he could have been mistaken for Lurch in the Addams Family. “What can I do for you?” he asked, wiggling bushy gray eyebrows at her.

  Carmela glanced around at the knickknacks in his shop. “Something’s different.”

  Joubert waved a thin, bony hand. “Aren’t you the observant one. Yes, I’ve changed up the merchandise somewhat. The stuffed monkeys and toads weren’t selling all that well. Now steam punk is the hot new thing!”

  “What’s steam punk?” Carmela asked. She’d heard the term, but wasn’t sure what it meant.

  “It’s a sci-fi or fantasy subgenre,” Joubert explained. “A sort of mash-up of nineteenth-century industrialized looks with Victorian flourishes.” He held up a black leather fitted top with multiple lacings and studs. “See?”

  “OMG,” said Carmela. “Do not show that to Ava!”

  Joubert peered expectantly at Carmela, one bushy eyebrow arched up, the other slanted downward. “Would she like it?”

  “Like it? She’s a pushover for Goth and Victorian. It’s got sexy vamp written all over it. Of course she’d love it.”

  “Bring her by!”

  Carmela groaned inwardly. The last thing she needed was Ava prancing around town looking like an extra in the movie Edward Scissorhands. No, she’d come here for information and she was going to get it. Even if she had to wiggle into that top herself.

  “This is going to sound a little strange,” Carmela said. She dropped her voice and leaned toward Joubert, as if pulling him into her confidence. “But do you know anything about trocars? I mean, some of your inventory here includes old medical instruments, correct?”

  “Ah, trocars,” said Joubert, his face lighting up. “The mortician’s trusty friend.”

  Carmela made her lemon face.

  “I might even have some photos here,” said Joubert. “Hold on.” He rummaged around behind a counter and pulled out a handful of dog-eared catalogs. After leafing through several, he smiled and spread the pages out for Carmela to see. “Here are some fairly good illustrations for a number of antique medical instruments. And this particular one . . .” He pointed a bony finger to a drawing of a long, serrated tube with a wooden handle. “This one is a turn-of-the century trocar.”

  Carmela swallowed hard. “Dare I ask what it was used for?”

  “Oh my,” said Joubert. “You really don’t know?”

  Carmela shook her head. Do I really want to know?

  “In the embalming process,” said Joubert, “it is quite necessary to remove most of the internal organs. The trocar merely facilities this.”

  “So it . . .” Carmela was grasping for words.

  “Macerates them for easy removal,” Joubert supplied helpfully. “Of course, that basic design is still in use today for laparoscopic surgeries. But now the modern ones come with an autolock mechanism and ergonomic grip.”

  Carmela raised a hand to stop Joubert. If she listened to any more grisly details, she’d probably want to forget the entire investigation.

  “Interesting, no?” said Joubert.

  No, thought Carmela. Because now she understood that someone had sliced into Jerry Earl as if he were undergoing open-heart surgery. Only he hadn’t had the benefit of anesthesia. Or a doctor for that matter.

  Carmela swallowed past a dry patch in her throat. “Have you ever had a trocar in your inventory?”

  “Actually, I had one several months ago,” said Joubert. “I picked up a set of old embalming tools at an auction in Shreveport.”

  “But the trocar’s no longer here?”

  “It’s been sold.”

  Carmela thought for a moment. She wondered who would buy something like that. A collector of weird items? A killer?

  “Do you remember who the lucky buyer was?”

  “Sadly, no.”

  Carmela met his gaze. “You know why I’m asking about this, don’t you?”

  Joubert nodded. His eyes were dark and intense. “Because of the murder.”

  “That’s right,” said Carmela. “I was at that party. I discovered Jerry Earl Leland’s body.”

  “I read all the details in the paper,” said Joubert. He glanced at the medical illustration again. “All except one, apparently.”

  Carmela followed his gaze. “That’s right,” she said. “Jerry Earl was stabbed with a trocar.”

  “How very odd,” said Joubert. “And grim.”

  • • •

  GABBY WAS DEEP IN CONVERSATION WHEN CARMELA returned to Memory Mine. She’d pulled out a couple of examples of wedding scrapbooks, and she and a fresh-faced young woman were eagerly paging through them.

  “I love this!” squealed the woman. “Look at that adorable wedding bell design. Ooh, and those are my exact colors, champagne and dusty pink!”

  Obviously a bride, Carmela decided. Here to get some ideas for invitations, place cards, and wedding scrapbooks. She found that more and more brides were creating their own invitations these days. Maybe it was a reaction to the tough economy; maybe it was because they wanted to make their invitations more personal. Whatever the reason, Memory Mine seemed to be doing a land office business with brides.

&nbs
p; Tossing her bag on her desk, Carmela snatched up the phone. And was lucky enough to catch Bobby Gallant just as he was leaving.

  “Carmela, I’m just out the door.” He sounded tired and crabby. “What do you want now?”

  “I have a couple of things for you to noodle over,” she told him.

  “This isn’t going to work,” said Gallant.

  “What’s not going to work?”

  “You running some sort of parallel investigation.”

  “It’s not really,” said Carmela, “so just hear me out. You know that shop next door to me? Oddities?”

  “Yes,” came Gallant’s bored answer.

  “Well, I was just over there, doing a little research into trocars.”

  “How did you know about the trocar?” Gallant thundered.

  “Never mind about that,” said Carmela. “Suffice it to say that I do know.”

  “Now you’re being perverse,” said Gallant. “Is there a point to all this?”

  “Yes, there is. I was talking to Marcus Joubert, the shop’s owner, and he mentioned that he’d recently sold an antique trocar.”

  “Okay, I’ll bite,” said Gallant. “Who bought it?”

  “That’s the unfortunate part. He doesn’t know.”

  “And you thought this was helpful how?”

  “Just a sort of an FYI thing,” said Carmela.

  “And that’s it? That’s what you wanted to tell me?”

  “There’s more,” said Carmela. “I may have figured out what End of the World means.”

  “Seriously?” Now there was wariness in his voice.

  “You said Jerry Earl had a gang tattoo, right? Well, is it possible the gang hails from somewhere around Venice, Louisiana?”

  The silence on the other end of the line told Carmela she’d just struck investigative gold.

  “Well?” she said. “What do you think?”

  “You put two and two together?” he asked. “Just like that?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why? How?”

  “Because I’m smart,” said Carmela. “And I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “There’s a remote possibility,” said Gallant. “I did some checking with the prison officials where Jerry Earl was incarcerated, and there was a gang that hailed from around Venice.”

  “Do you think Jerry Earl hung out with them?”

  “That’s still being investigated,” said Gallant.

  The notion of old Jerry Earl chumming with a bunch of redneck Cajun swamp rats somehow tickled Carmela. “Are those guys still in prison? Can you talk to them? Maybe Jerry Earl knew his life was in danger and that’s why he joined up with them.”

  “Most of them have already been released,” said Gallant.

  “At the same time as Jerry Earl?”

  “No, no, some maybe a month earlier. Some three or four months earlier. They weren’t there because of any major crimes. It was mostly junk stuff—poaching, bootlegging, that sort of thing.”

  “Do you think Jerry Earl might have done something to anger them? That they might be the killers?”

  “Anything’s possible,” said Gallant.

  “Well, are you going to talk to these guys?”

  “If and when we locate them, yes. Venice barely exists anymore, and most of these former prison guys live way off the grid.” He hesitated for a moment and then said, “But don’t you try and find them.”

  “I wouldn’t,” said Carmela. “I wouldn’t do that.” But all the while she was thinking, Maybe I should take a little trip down there.

  Chapter 10

  THE courtyard of the Trillium Hotel was paved with red brick cobblestones and surrounded by impressive stone masonry that included a mash-up of Greek columns and Roman statues. A grove of potted palm trees bobbed their shaggy heads next to a sparkling azure pool. At the outside bar, which was one umbrella short of a tiki bar, a couple was toasting each other, tipping their giant hurricane cocktails together with a resounding clink. A hotel worker in a black Chinese-style jacket mopped a spill nearby.

  Ava gripped Isis’s carrying cage as she and Carmela headed for the hotel’s ballroom. She was decked out to the nines in hot pink Capri pants, a clingy off-the-shoulder white blouse, and sky-high gold sandals. Carmela followed in jeans, a blazer, and more sensible shoes. She was trying to tell Ava about her conversation with Bobby Gallant, about how he’d pretty much tap-danced around everything she’d brought up. But it wasn’t working.

  “Oh, cher,” Ava complained as she lurched and wobbled for about the fiftieth time. “My heels keep getting stuck between these cobblestones.” She held out the carrier to Carmela. “Do you think you can take Isis?”

  Carmela grabbed the cat carrier as the hotel worker hurriedly dropped his mop and rushed over to assist. Predictably, his eyes roved over Ava and his tongue practically wagged out of his mouth.

  “Can I help you, miss?” asked the young fellow. He offered his arm to assist her. “I’d hate to see a pretty lady take a tumble.”

  Ava dimpled prettily. “Aren’t you just a perfectly darling Southern gentleman!” she squealed. Then she clutched his arm tightly and began a running commentary on how fabulous it was for him to offer such welcome assistance as she marched on ahead of Carmela.

  Carmela raised the carrier to eye level and gazed at Isis. “What am I,” she asked the cat, “chopped liver?”

  Isis meowed, her pink tongue flashing between sparkling white teeth.

  “I don’t actually have liver for you, my dear. I’m asking if . . . oh, never mind. But I must say, you look exceedingly lovely tonight. In fact, you’re almost as spiffed up as Ava.”

  • • •

  THE STAR OF THE SOUTH CAT SHOW WAS BIG. IN fact, as they entered the Millennium Ballroom, where the show was being held, Carmela saw that it was humongous. Basically Cat Central.

  There were fifteen rings with judging all going on at once. Categories ranged from bench judging to feline agility, as well as specialty contests for themed cat costumes and even cage decorating. And, oh my goodness, what an amazing array of cats and kittens! There were Persians, Maine Coons, Norwegian Forest Cats, Savannahs, Siamese, Oriental Shorthairs, Bengals, Ragdolls, and even tabby kittens. In one corner of the ballroom, Animal Rescue New Orleans had even set up a booth where cats and kittens were being offered for adoption.

  As Ava took Isis and hastened to the registration desk, Carmela wandered between the show rings, enjoying the scene. Pausing at one ring, where three elegant Siamese finalists were awaiting the judge’s final verdict, she spotted the face of her friend Jekyl Hardy bobbing through the crowd. He was pale, tall, rail-thin, and wore his dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. Dressed in his trademark black silk shirt, black slacks, and black high-gloss shoes, he was a dead ringer for Anne Rice’s Vampire Lestat. Although, to Carmela’s knowledge, Jekyl had never shown any aversion to the sun.

  Jekyl saw her and gave a wave. He was as excited as Carmela and Ava to watch Isis compete in her first show.

  “Car-mel-a!” Jekyl called as he approached. “Looking gorg as always. And where’s my other divine diva?”

  Carmela nodded toward the registration desk, where Ava seemed mired in paperwork.

  “Ava!” Jekyl called. “Hey, baby!” He waved madly at Ava, who winked and blew kisses back to him.

  “Let’s find a seat,” Carmela said.

  She and Jekyl pushed their way past cats, cat lovers, stacks of cat carriers, and various food vendors, heading for a stand of audience bleachers that had been set up. The smell of freshly shampooed cats, fried crab cakes, and spicy andouille sausage filled the air around them.

  Jekyl raised a sharp eyebrow at Carmela. “Can I tempt m’lady with a crab cake?”

  Carmela shook her head. “I think I’ve already exceeded my caloric allotment for tod
ay.” She’d for sure hit her quota at lunch, not to mention dinner.

  Jekyl snorted. “Poor dear, you are missing out.” He put up one slender finger and motioned to the crab cake vendor.

  After receiving his fried treat in its little red and white striped cardboard container, he dripped on enough aioli sauce to induce a medium-sized coronary. Then they climbed the bleachers and, from their vantage point, enjoyed a clear view of Ava holding her cat while she preened for the judges.

  “So,” said Carmela, “thanks to you, Margo Leland has pressured me to look into the circumstances surrounding Jerry Earl’s murder.”

  Jekyl gave her a sideways glance and then proceeded to stuff half a crab cake into his mouth.

  Carmela rolled her eyes. “Oh, I see you can’t talk about it now. But you certainly didn’t have any trouble yapping to Margo that good old Carmela happens to be a crackerjack amateur investigator.”

  Jekyl’s eyes danced with amusement as he continued to chew.

  “Anyway,” said Carmela, “I had a very interesting meeting with Margo and her friend Beetsie this morning.”

  “Tell me,” said Jekyl finally.

  So Carmela told him about Margo, weird old Beetsie, and weirder old Duncan Merriweather. Then, because her story sounded like a crazy, jumbled mess, she threw in the part about Eric Zane, too.

  “Don’t you love the gall of Garden District swells?” Jekyl chortled. “They think just because they have money, they can snap their fingers and make all their problems go away.”

  “Not in this case,” said Carmela. “There’s been no snapping of fingers or exchanging of money as far as I can see.”

  Instead of one of his usual sharp retorts, Jekyl proceeded to wipe his fingers with a paper napkin.

  “What?” said Carmela.

  “Nothing,” said Jekyl.

  “Something,” said Carmela. “You know something.”

  “Just a rumor that’s been flying around the ozone.”

  Carmela waggled her fingers. “Concerning . . .”

  “Beetsie Bischoff.”

  “Margo’s self-proclaimed BFF? What’s going on? You better tell me.”