Tragic Magic Page 9

  “Carmela,” said Gabby. “Will you help him?”

  Carmela shook her head, realizing she’d drifted off for a few moments.

  “Will you?” Garth asked again. “Please?”

  Carmela stared at him, still thinking.

  “The thing of it is,” said Garth, “you’ve agreed to continue decorating Medusa Manor. So you’re already in the thick of things.”

  “He’s right,” said Gabby, as the bell over the front door dinged and two customers pushed their way in. “So what have you got to lose?” She stood, gave Carmela a pleading look, then headed for the front counter.

  Carmela drummed her fingers on the battered wooden table. “I’m not sure where I’d start,” she told Garth.

  He gazed back at her with a hopeful, encouraging smile.

  “Okay,” said Carmela, gesturing with her fingers. “Talk to me. Tell me what Melody had been up to lately.”

  “Mostly Medusa Manor,” said Garth.

  “Any problems with that business?”

  “None that I know of,” said Garth.

  “Let’s start from the beginning, then,” said Carmela. “Melody was the one who located the property?”

  “Oh sure,” said Garth. “The place had been in foreclosure. When Melody heard about it and took a quick tour, she thought it’d work perfectly for her haunted-house concept.”

  “And then Melody talked Olivia Wainwright into putting up the money?”

  “Something like that,” said Garth. “I know there were a couple of other groups interested in the building, but in the end it came down to sealed bids. Melody and Olivia emerged as high bidders.”

  “Do you know who the other bidders were?” asked Carmela.

  Garth started to shake his head, then said, “Wait a minute. Melody did mention something about Sawyer Barnes trying to get his hands on the property.”

  “And he is . . . ?” asked Carmela. The name sounded familiar, but she couldn’t attach it to anything concrete.

  “Sawyer Barnes is a developer,” said Garth. “A guy that Melody was pretty scornful of. Apparently he buys historic old homes, cuts them up, and turns them into overpriced, overdesigned condos.”

  “Just what New Orleans needs right now,” said Carmela. “Another real estate developer bent on eradicating history.”

  “I hear you,” said Garth.

  “Do you think there might have been bad blood between Melody and this Sawyer Barnes?”

  Garth’s front teeth nibbled his bottom lip. “Don’t know. But from what I hear, he’s a carpetbagger type. From not here.” From not here was how folks in New Orleans described people who hadn’t been born and bred in the area.

  “Just a minute,” said Carmela. She slipped into her office, grabbed a spiral notebook and a squishy black pen, then returned to the table. Flipping open to a fresh page, she jotted down the name Sawyer Barnes.

  “Are you going to check him out?” asked Garth.

  “Maybe,” said Carmela. “We’ll see.” She tapped her pen against the notebook. “How close was Melody to Sidney St. Cyr?”

  Garth peered at her sharply. “Why do you ask?”

  “Just wondering,” said Carmela. “My friend and I ran into him last night outside Medusa Manor.”

  “Well,” said Garth, “they were friends, certainly.”

  “Melody never mentioned any professional rivalry between the two of them?”

  Garth shook his head. “Not that I can recall. Why? You think Sidney had something to do with her death?” He looked fairly stunned.

  “Doubtful,” said Carmela. “I’m just trying to look at all the angles.”

  Garth put a hand over his heart. “You scared me there.” “Sorry,” said Carmela.

  “No,” said Garth, “now I see what Jekyl was talking about. And Gabby, too. You have a real knack for this stuff.”

  “I haven’t done anything yet,” said Carmela. She tapped her pen again. “Do you have a claim on Medusa Manor? Are you part owner now?”

  “Not really,” said Garth. “Olivia was bankrolling it, so she’s the real owner. Melody did quite a bit of antiques scouting, so reimbursements will have to be made. But I doubt it’ll amount to all that much.”

  “How much did Melody buy?” asked Carmela, even though she pretty much knew the answer to that question.

  Garth cocked his head, thinking. “I know she picked up a pine highboy to house the sound system, some gigantic brass candlesticks from a church, and a metal slab from a funeral home.” He shook his head. “Sounds a little crazy, doesn’t it?”

  “What else?” asked Carmela. She was well aware of the hearse and the huge pile of stuff in the basement.

  “I know Melody poked through the scratch-and-dent rooms of quite a few Royal Street antiques shops,” said Garth.

  “Do you know which ones?”

  “Mmm . . . probably Dulcimer’s Antiques, Metcalf and Meador, and maybe Peacock Alley. There were probably more, but those are the only ones I remember her mentioning.” Garth looked puzzled. “You think there’s a connection there?”

  Carmela didn’t think so, but she dutifully wrote down the names anyway. “The designer who quit,” said Carmela. “Know anything about him?” Carmela didn’t know his name.

  Garth squeezed his eyes shut, thinking. Then they popped open suddenly and he said, “Henry Tynes.”

  “That’s his name?” asked Carmela. She thought it sounded like the name of a prep school. Or an English shoe manufacturer. “Any idea why Tynes quit?”

  Garth shrugged. “Melody said it was because he had other commitments.”

  Carmela knew that could be code for a better job, a desire to jet off for a spring vacation, or just loss of interest.

  “Actually,” said Garth, “the police asked quite a few questions about him.”

  “What, specifically, did they want to know?”

  “How long Tynes had worked for Melody, what he was tasked with, why he quit. Basic stuff.”

  “But they didn’t give any indication that this Henry Tynes was a suspect?”

  “I figure if they asked about him, he was on their short list,” said Garth.

  “Good point,” said Carmela. “How about the fellow who set up some of the special effects?”

  “Tate Mackie,” said Garth.

  “What do you know about him?” Carmela asked.

  “He’s a good guy. Runs that shop, Byte Head, a couple of blocks from here. He called me yesterday to offer his condolences. I think he and Melody got along pretty well.”

  “Okay,” said Carmela. She was scribbling in her notebook, but it didn’t feel like any of her notes were worth much. Just filling pages. “Tell me about Melody’s extracurricular activities.”

  Garth looked puzzled. “Huh?”

  “The Hellfire League and the Restless Spirit Society.”

  “Oh,” said Garth, thinking now. “The Hellfire League, not so much. She kind of lost interest in that a year or so ago. Her folks were big society hoo-has, but Melody was bored by that stuff.”

  “But Melody was into the other one?” asked Carmela. “The Restless Spirit Society?”

  “She was,” said Garth, “although she never talked much about it. Melody would toddle off to her creepy-crawl, then come back late at night, all dusty and dirty and babbling about cold spots and glowing orbs.” He looked at Carmela with bright eyes. “Who knows, maybe they really did detect the occasional ghostly presence.”

  “Sure,” said Carmela. “Maybe.” Although she’d heard countless tales about the ghosts of New Orleans—in Pirate’s Alley, at Le Petit Theatre du Vieux Carré, at Le Pavilion Hotel, and many other French Quarter places—she’d never had the privilege of coming face to face with an actual card-carrying member of the spirit world. And seeing was believing, right? “Anything else?” Carmela asked Garth.

  His face sagged. “Just one more thing. Melody’s memorial service will be tomorrow. Eleven o’clock at Lafayette Cemetery.”

&nbs
p; “Oh my,” said Carmela, feeling a deep sadness well up within her.

  Tearing up suddenly, Garth said, “You will come, won’t you? To help us memorialize Melody and keep a watchful eye. Just in case . . . well, you know.”

  Carmela nodded. She didn’t think Melody’s killer would have the audacity to show up at the cemetery. Then again, you never know.

  Once Garth departed Memory Mine, Carmela flew into high gear. She called a local glazier and arranged to have the glass repaired in Medusa Manor’s garage and upstairs windows, then put in a call to a locksmith to deal with that sticky front door lock.

  Finally, Carmela joined the living. She helped Cindy, one of her regular customers, select a series of floral and tea-themed rubber stamps so she could create personal, distinctive invitations for a tea party she was hosting.

  Another customer wanted to create a special scrapbook page for her daughter, who’d starred in a high school production of Verdi’s La Traviata. Because one of the photos of the daughter singing on stage was so striking, Carmela suggested she mount the photo on foam core, then cut out the costumed figure of her daughter. Carmela then advised the woman on how to create a background using a page of sheet music from La Traviata, glue a sheet of bronze-colored tissue paper on top of it, then add peach, pink, and gold translucent paint highlights using a sponge and colored ink pads. When the background assumed the look of a sun-dappled Tuscan wall, the foam core figure would be mounted and the edges of the sheet music finished off with strips of embossed metallic paper.

  When there was finally a break in the action, Carmela sat down at her iMac and Googled the Restless Spirit Society.

  Amazingly, the group had a fairly decent Web site. The splash page was a collage of gritty black-and-white photos, all taken from unusual angles. There were photos of low, rounded tunnels with dark openings; crazy angles of Gothic-inspired buildings; a grainy shot of the interior of an old shoe factory. All very eerie and Hitchcock looking. The accompanying text was purposely coy about the group’s activities and what buildings they’d specifically explored. Carmela decided this was par for the course when it came to urban explorers and ghost hunters. Some groups, she’d heard, roamed abandoned industrial sites and trekked through tunnels, churches, old hotels, and cemeteries. Most of the time they entered with great stealth under cover of darkness. And entered illegally, too.

  As Carmela clicked through the various pages, she stumbled upon a small Events section. And, lo and behold, one of their forays was scheduled for tonight. At, of all bizarre places, something called the abandoned Mendelssohn Insane Asylum.

  Should I? Carmela wondered. Her right hand twitched on her computer mouse, and then she clicked the e-mail button. Fully realizing this was a shot in the dark, she quickly typed a message—My friend and I would like to join your group tonight—then hit Send.

  Hopefully, she’d get an answer back in time. Hopefully, the Restless Spirit Society had an open-door policy regarding new members.

  Since she was still on the Internet, Carmela ran a quick Google search on Sawyer Barnes. There were dozens of hits, mostly short newspaper blurbs about his efforts to buy run-down properties and rehab them. One blurb had a photo of Barnes. He was curly-haired, square-faced, an attractive forty-something.

  Looks the part of a real estate developer, she decided.

  Then, because Carmela still felt a little jazzed about the Restless Spirit Society, she grabbed her phone and hit speed dial. She had to talk to Ava at Juju Voodoo right away.

  When a busy signal buzzed in her ear, Carmela decided to slip out the back door and run down the alley to pitch Ava on the idea of another night of impromptu exploring.

  “Ava?” Carmela called out as she pushed her way through the red wooden door of Juju Voodoo. Overhead, a dancing skeleton clicked and clacked his bony welcome, while a display of flickering red votive candles greeted her in the dark interior that smelled mildly of sandalwood and patchouli oil. All around were counters stacked with voodoo dolls, tarot cards, saint candles, incense, shrunken heads, life-sized hanging skeletons, and necklaces hung with carved teeth and bones.

  “That you, cher?” Ava’s head suddenly popped up between two colorful Haitian masks, and then a smile spread across her lovely face. “If it isn’t Little Orphan Annie,” she exclaimed. “What’re you doin’ here?”

  “Came to invite you on a snipe hunt,” said Carmela.

  “Mmm . . .” Ava rolled her eyes expressively and pushed back a mass of dark curly hair. “I haven’t been on a snipe hunt since I was fifteen years old and went to Bible camp. And then it wasn’t exactly snipe I was after, if you catch my drift.” She grinned a wicked grin and flicked a bloodred nail against a hunk of white frizzy goat hair that stuck out from the sides of one of the masks.

  “Okay, how’s this,” said Carmela. “What would you think about exploring an old insane asylum tonight?”

  Ava put a hand to the side of her face as though she were pondering mightily. “Now there’s something to consider. So far, my plans include staying home, parking my butt in front of the TV, and watching a bunch of desperate women who are from either the OC, Wisteria Lane, or New York City. Which I suppose makes me look slightly desperate. Or I suppose I could toddle off with you on what sounds like another, dare I say it, hair-raising adventure.”

  “I knew you’d say yes,” said Carmela.

  “I didn’t say yes!”

  “I know you,” said Carmela. “You can’t resist this stuff.” She gazed around Juju Voodoo, taking in the array of very strange merchandise. Was that really a goat head over there in the corner?

  Ava grabbed a curved plastic dagger whose handle was decorated with colorful feathers and pretended to plunge it into her heart. “You’ve got me there, cher. I’m a pushover for the macabre.”

  “Of course you are.”

  Ava held up an index finger. “One question.”

  “Ask away.”

  “Why would we do this?”

  So Carmela told Ava about Garth’s visit, his fears that the police had him squarely in their sights, how she’d promised to help him (sort of), and how Melody had been very involved in the Restless Spirit Society.

  “Now you’ve really been pulled into the soup,” said Ava, grabbing a deck of tarot cards off the counter. “Helping Garth, having pillow talk with the chief investigator, and making deals with Olivia Wainwright.”

  “Not really,” said Carmela. “Not so much.”

  “Oh, come on,” insisted Ava. “You’re mired. And this isn’t the good kind of soup, like shrimp gumbo. It’s crummy old cream of mushroom.”

  “I so love how your mind works,” said Carmela.

  “Me, too,” said Ava, giving her best pussycat grin as she shuffled her tarot cards from one hand to the other. Cards flashed by. The Knight, the Empress, the Lovers.

  “So you’ll come along?” Carmela asked. “If I get a response from them, that is?”

  “Why not?” said Ava. Then she crooked her little finger and guided Carmela back toward her office. She paused in front of the closed door, then flung it open wide. “Ta-da!” she announced with great fanfare.

  Jammed on rolling racks, suspended from wires in the ceiling, were dozens of pink, white, mint-green, eggshell-blue, and mauve prom dresses. Some were long, others short and perky, still others a demure tea length. Many sported scooped necks and capped sleeves and were decorated with floral appliqués and bows. A few were slightly over the top with bustles, riots of ruffles, and streaming ribbons.

  “Holy cats!” exclaimed Carmela, “it looks like a fabric mill exploded in here.”

  “Aren’t they cute?” asked Ava, fingering the sash of one.

  “I’m not sure they’re exactly our style,” said Carmela. “But if you’re a high school girl dying to go to your spring prom and can’t afford a dress, they’ll probably do just fine. Better than fine.”

  “Yeah,” said Ava. “What I’m gonna do is go through ’em and weed out the bummers. T
hen have ’em delivered to the Hay School auditorium.” She flopped down in the large purple swivel chair that was parked behind her cluttered desk and sat cross-legged. Then she idly flipped a few of the tarot cards onto her desk, facedown.

  “What are those things telling you?” Carmela asked. She wasn’t a believer in tarot, I Ching, numerology, or anything else that purported to predict the future. On the other hand, it didn’t hurt to take a peek. For amusement purposes only, as they say in the fine print.

  Ava flipped one of the cards over. It was a wizened old man wearing a dark purple cloak. The Magician.

  “What’s that one supposed to mean?” Carmela asked.

  A frown insinuated itself between Ava’s perfectly waxed brows, and she shook her head slowly. “I’m no expert at reading these things,” she said, “but I’d guess it means somebody lurking in the background.”

  “Doing what?” asked Carmela.

  Ava gazed up at her. “Pulling the strings?”

  Chapter 11

  GLISANDE’S Courtyard Restaurant, directly across Governor Nicholls Street from Carmela’s scrapbooking shop, was one of Carmela’s favorite bistros. The dining room was decorated in an elegant French palette of eggshell, pale blue, and yellow. White linen tablecloths graced the tables, and diners sat on plushly upholstered high-backed chairs. Windows were swagged with linen draperies, and fresh sunflowers were artfully arranged in old French crocks. Very Old World.

  The courtyard garden out back, where Carmela sat waiting at a table, was equally elegant. Bougainvilleas tumbled from Romanesque-looking pots as a three-tiered fountain pattered away. Antique bird houses and wrought-iron carriage lights hung from a loosely latticed ceiling woven with tendrils of curling ivy that allowed just the right amount of sunlight to filter through.

  Carmela normally adored sitting back here for a leisurely lunch, but today she was on pins and needles. Today she was meeting Shamus for lunch. The ex. Or rather, her soon-to-be-ex. So she fidgeted, twitched, ordered a glass of Chardonnay, changed her order to iced tea, then switched it back to wine again.