Mumbo Gumbo Murder Read online

  “There is that,” Carmela agreed.

  Five minutes later, Carmela drove through the gates of St. Roch Cemetery past hundreds of aboveground crypts and vaults that were all tightly crowded together.

  Ava let loose a good long shudder. “I don’t know why so many people choose St. Roch Cemetery as a funeral and burial site. The chapel is beyond creepy what with all those crutches, prosthetic arms, and wooden legs hanging on the walls in the healing room. Not to mention glass eyes, dentures, and body braces.”

  “But those are like talismans,” Carmela said. “St. Roch helped heal plague victims eight hundred years ago, and people still come here to be healed. What you think of as creepy are signs of hope to all those people.”

  “Still . . .” Ava said.

  They drove into a small parking area and pulled into a space next to a banged-up red Mustang with an oxidized paint job.

  “Junker alert,” Ava said. “I wonder what loser’s driving that piece of crap.” Then she gave a surprised but knowing nod as T.J. emerged from the old car. His shoulders were hunched, his eyes looked bloodshot, and he hadn’t bothered to shave. He seemed morose and painfully hungover.

  Carmela stepped out of her car and regarded him. “You look exactly like what my momma used to call ‘the morning after the night before.’ How are you feeling, T.J.?”

  T.J. grimaced. “Like I need three aspirin and some hair of the dog. And, please, keep your voice down.”

  “Speaking of hair of the dog,” Ava whispered.

  Carmela reached into her back seat, grabbed Mimi, and gently deposited the little dog in a large fabric tote bag.

  “You’re bringing Mimi to the funeral?” T.J. asked.

  “Why not?” Carmela said. “She’s family, after all. And St. Roch is the patron saint of dogs and miraculous cures.”

  “Which is what I need right now,” T.J. said, limping away.

  Carmela and Ava crunched along the narrow gravel path and entered the small chapel.

  “I wonder how many people are going to show up?” Ava murmured as she dabbed two fingers in a bowl of holy water and crossed herself. Inside, the chapel was dimly lit and quiet as a tomb. In the front of the church, a few pews were already filled with mourners. An urn and two flickering candles sat on the marble altar. Above it was a statue of St. Roch himself, flanked by four painted wooden panels depicting his various good deeds.

  “I wonder if anybody is hanging out in the prayer room next door?” Carmela asked. She turned sideways to duck through the narrow doorway and suddenly found herself face-to-face with Roy Sultan. “Mr. Sultan,” she said, sounding surprised. “How interesting to see you here.”

  “Excuse me?” Sultan said.

  Carmela held Mimi up in front of her so the little dog could get a good sniff.

  Sultan went glassy-eyed. “You brought a dog? To a funeral?”

  “Devon’s dog. Want to pet her?”

  “Not really.”

  “Want to explain why your building has suddenly gone condo?”

  Sultan’s bushy brows knit together. “That’s really none of your business.”

  “It is if Devon was the one standing in the way of your red-hot real estate plan.”

  Sultan shook his head. “That condo plan was in the works for a long time. Devon was coming around to seeing the wisdom of it all. He also stood to gain a generous buyout.”

  Carmela pushed Mimi a little closer to Sultan, but the pug clearly had no interest in her former landlord. If Sultan was guilty, Mimi wasn’t going to be the one to point a finger. Or paw.

  Feeling as if her Mimi ploy might not be working all that well, Carmela made her way back into the chapel and joined Ava.

  “Anything?” Ava asked.

  “Mimi didn’t react to Sultan at all.”

  “Maybe he bought her off by feeding her a pound of hamburger while he was busy jamming an ice pick in Devon’s ear.”

  “What a horrible thought,” Carmela said.

  Ava nudged her. “Hot guy alert. Who’s the sex on a stick that’s walking toward us?”

  “Oh man, that’s Richard Drake.”

  “Intro please,” Ava whispered.

  But Drake’s dark eyes were focused solely on Carmela.

  “Miss Bertrand,” Drake purred. “Lovely to see you again even under these dreadful circumstances.”

  “Good day, Mr. Drake,” Carmela said.

  “Have you by chance learned anything more about the item Devon Dowling supposedly had in his possession?” Drake spoke in an old-fashioned, almost formal manner.

  “Not really,” Carmela said. She wondered if Drake had heard about Devon’s safe being robbed. Maybe not. And maybe she wouldn’t be the one to tell him. Better to see how this whole thing played out. She shifted Mimi in her arms so the dog was facing Drake, but Mimi didn’t react and neither did Drake. Ava, however, was on full alert.

  “Ahem.” Ava cleared her throat delicately.

  Carmela made hasty introductions.

  “So you’re the president of the Vampire Society,” Ava said with a seductive smile. “Dare I ask if you sleep in a coffin?”

  Drake seemed mildly amused. “I’m afraid I do not, Miss Gruiex. My interests regarding vampyr legend and lore are strictly historical and metaphysical.”

  “Would that be . . .” Ava began.

  But Drake bowed gracefully at both of them and turned away.

  “Do you see?” Ava fumed. “Do you see why I need a matchmaker? I’m losing my mojo. That man could care less about my pretty neck and décolleté.”

  “You don’t want him, he’s a player,” Carmela said.

  But Ava was still miffed. “I smiled at him, I used facial muscles.”

  “What worries me more is that we’re losing suspects right and left. I was so sure Mimi would spot Devon’s killer.”

  “I’m sorry it’s not working out, cher.”

  “I think I’ll put Mimi in the car where she’ll be more comfortable. The weather’s still cool, but I’ll crack the windows anyway and pour her some Fiji water.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Once another two dozen or so people had crowded into the chapel, the service began. Carmela and Ava sat in the back row, with Carmela craning her neck to see if Babcock would show up. Nope. She didn’t see him. She did, however, see her friend Jekyl Hardy. He was hard to miss in his black European tailored suit and dark hair pulled back in a neat ponytail.

  The minister gave an opening welcome, led them in a few prayers, and then introduced David Dowling, Devon’s brother.

  Dressed in a three-piece business suit, David stepped to the lectern, gripped it with both hands, and faced the crowd of mourners. With a clear, nonemotional voice, he thanked everyone for coming. Then he launched into a sort of bio on Devon.

  “He sounds like he’s giving a marketing pitch,” Ava whispered.

  “Or a PowerPoint presentation,” Carmela said.

  As David Dowling continued to outline his brother’s life and accomplishments, Peter Jarreau slid into the seat next to Carmela.

  “Did I miss anything?” Jarreau whispered to her.

  Carmela shook her head. “Not really.” The not-so-subtle scent of Paco Rabanne wafted around him like a miniature weather system.

  “Got stuck in traffic,” Jarreau said. “A semi jackknifed out by Avondale.” He nodded toward David Dowling. “Who’s that?”

  “David Dowling, Devon’s brother.” Carmela happened to notice that T.J., sitting in the front pew, seemed more interested in his cell phone than the service.

  “Ah,” Jarreau said, settling back.

  David Dowling droned on with his testimonial, getting chirpier as he went along. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he wrapped it up. The minister, looking greatly relieved as he stood up, asked
everyone to turn to page thirty-six in their hymnals and join together in song.

  After one false start, everyone managed to pull it together and sing a slightly off-key rendition of “Amazing Grace.”

  “Blessings to you all and thank you so much,” the minister intoned afterward. “And now, Mr. David Dowling has asked me to kindly invite all of you to join him for brunch at Brennan’s Restaurant.”

  “Hot dang,” Ava said.

  Now that the service was finally over, Carmela fairly flew out of her seat to see if Babcock had shown up. She found him outside, standing in a shaft of sunlight, watching the mourners exit the chapel.

  “You came,” she said.

  Babcock offered her a crooked smile. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

  “After last night . . .”

  He waved a hand. “We’re okay, right?”

  “I guess.” Carmela hesitated, then said, “After you left, Ava and I went out for a drink.” She decided to leave Shamus’s impromptu visit out of the equation. Babcock didn’t need to know about that.

  “Hmm, you really were upset with me.”

  “No. It was still early, and Ava and I just felt like hanging out,” Carmela said. “But the thing is, we ran into T.J.”

  Babcock lifted an eyebrow. “Ran into him where?”

  “At Pedro Wang’s.”

  “And . . .” He was suddenly focused on what Carmela was saying.

  “T.J. was loaded to the gills. Really smashed. You were right about him. He’s a heavy drinker and kind of an angry, irritable guy. I think, without much goading, he wouldn’t hesitate to mix it up with a few punches.”

  “Yeah,” Babcock said, though his expression betrayed nothing.

  “T.J. also doesn’t seem to be taking Devon’s death particularly hard. I think he was tippy-tapping his way through social media the whole time the service was going on. Do you think that he could have . . . ?” She let her voice trail off as Peter Jarreau stepped out of the chapel and joined them.

  “It’s early days, Carmela,” Babcock said. “We’ll keep riding T.J. See if he reveals anything . . . or cracks wide open.” He turned his gaze on Jarreau. “Where’s the car?”

  “Parked outside the gate,” Jarreau said. “Want me to go get it?”

  “Naw, I’ll walk out with you,” Babcock said. He smiled at Carmela. “Later, okay?”

  “Okay,” Carmela said.

  “Until we solve this murder,” Jarreau said, shaking his head, “I’m finding it awfully difficult to spin our investigation to the public. We need to keep everyone informed and updated—especially the media—but we don’t want to upset all our Jazz Fest visitors, either.”

  “Figure it out,” Babcock snapped. “That’s your job.”

  Chapter 11

  CARMELA rumbled down the alley behind Memory Mine and pulled up next to the loading dock. Grabbing Mimi, she said to Ava, “I’ll just be a sec.” Then she ran in the back door and deposited the pup in front of Gabby.

  “Ooh, hello, princess,” Gabby exclaimed when she saw Mimi. “Look what I bought you.” She spoke in the high-pitched, singsongy voice people generally reserved for adorable babies and equally adorable pets. “It’s your very own bed. Now you won’t have to curl up on that junky old chair cushion anymore.”

  Mimi flopped down on her brand-new red and green plaid bed, let loose a deep sigh, and immediately closed her eyes.

  “How was the funeral service?” Gabby asked. “Did you manage all right? You and Devon were such good friends, it must have been heartbreaking.”

  “The service was fairly well done, considering . . . well, you know the atmosphere at St. Roch’s,” Carmela said.

  “All those crutches,” Gabby murmured as she absently fingered the string of pearls around her neck.

  “I had hoped Mimi would sniff out Devon’s killer, but no such luck. If the killer was lurking among the mourners, Mimi didn’t see him. She didn’t react at all.”

  “That’s too bad,” Gabby said. “I know you were counting on her doggy instincts to make something happen.”

  “I’m still hoping I can sleuth out a few shreds of information at the funeral luncheon. Can you hold down the fort a little longer?”

  “No problem. Where’s the luncheon being held?”

  “Brennan’s.”

  “Oh, yum. Lucky you if they serve their fabulous crawfish and mushroom omelet.”

  “I’m praying for egg yolk carpaccio,” Carmela said over her shoulder as she flew out the door.

  When she climbed back in her car, Ava was fidgeting with her black satin jacket. “I was just flirting with the cute UPS driver who was parked next to us,” she said, looking happy and a trifle smug.

  “You were flirting with a strange man? In an alley? Hmm. Maybe you do need a matchmaker after all. Professional help, if you can call it that.”

  But Ava was impervious. “Do you think my jacket looks better when it’s open? Or should I close up the bottom two buttons so it stays tight around my waist?”

  “These are the things you worry about?” Carmela asked. “Not world peace or global warming?”

  Ava sat up straighter. “Well, I do want people to get a good look at my red satin bustier.”

  “By people, you mean men.”

  “Obviously.”

  Carmela cranked the ignition. “Are you sure you want to show that much cleavage at a funeral luncheon?”

  Ava gave a slow wink. “Honey, the funeral’s over and done with. A girl can’t run around in black mourning clothes forever.”

  “You don’t think there’s like a three- or four-hour time frame that calls for some sort of decency and decorum?” Carmela laughed as she drove down the alley.

  “Not if those hours include a party at Brennan’s with some fine-looking men. You were right about that vampire guy, cher. He’s luscious.”

  “Down, girl.”

  Carmela drove along Decatur Street and slid into a parking spot a few doors down from the pink brick façade (the color was technically called Tomato Cream Sauce) and wrought-iron balconies of Brennan’s Restaurant.

  The maître d’, whose handlebar mustache and pork chop sideburns complemented his tuxedo, greeted them effusively, glanced in his reservations book, and said, “Ah yes, the Dowling reception. Please follow me to the Audubon Room.”

  As he led the way, Ava popped open another button on her jacket and whispered, “I was hoping the event would be in the Courtyard. It’s such a pretty day to be outside.”

  The maître d’ opened the double doors to a large, elegant room with apricot-colored walls, sunlight streaming through the high, wide windows, a large group of people milling about, and the most enticing aromas.

  But before they could go facedown in the food, Carmela and Ava had to make their way through an abbreviated receiving line.

  Carmela put on a solemn face as she introduced herself to David Dowling.

  “Carmela Bertrand,” she said, offering a hand. “I was a good friend of your brother. And this is Ava.”

  Ava, who was busy putting on hot pink lip gloss, just smiled and said, “Howja do.”

  David Dowling lifted an eyebrow but remained cordial.

  “And this is Reverend Wright, who conducted the service,” David Dowling said, indicating the man on his right.

  The minister smiled at Carmela, took one look at Ava, and coughed loudly. Turning bright red, he took a hasty step back.

  No problem, Ava just waltzed right past him and waded into the crowd.

  Carmela, on the other hand, made a beeline for her friend Jekyl Hardy.

  “Darling, you made it,” Jekyl said, taking both of Carmela’s hands in his as they exchanged elaborate air-kisses. “I was beginning to wonder.”

  Lean and wiry, his dark hair pulled into a small, sleek ponytail, Jekyl
Hardy was dressed impeccably in his traditional black, which made him look somewhat ethereal and predatory, not unlike the infamous vampire Lestat who frequented New Orleans via Anne Rice’s novels. Jekyl was the head float designer for the Pluvius and Nepthys krewes but made his living as an art and antique consultant. As he’d once confided to Carmela, “The float building’s for sport, the art and antique consulting is for actual money.”

  “What did you think of the service?” Carmela asked him.

  Jekyl’s shoulders lifted a notch. “Adequate. I myself would prefer something a bit more Gothic and grand.”

  “Of course you would.” Carmela glanced around the room. “I was hoping I’d run into Colonel Barnett Otis at the funeral, but no such luck.”

  “He’s right over there,” Jekyl said.

  “Where?” Then, “Oh, you mean the guy with the bushy white mustache that makes him look suspiciously like a walrus? That’s him?” Carmela smiled as she patted Jekyl on the shoulder. “Excellent. I’ll be right back.”

  Colonel Otis had just picked up a plate and was about to go through the buffet line when Carmela waylaid him.

  “Excuse me,” Carmela said. “Could we talk for a moment?”

  Colonel Otis turned and looked at her. “Hmm?” he said. He looked supremely disappointed that the beef bourguignonne would have to wait.

  Carmela didn’t believe in beating around the bush.

  “I understand that Devon Dowling was the one who discovered that a painting you acquired was stolen?”

  Colonel Otis puffed out his cheeks and peered at her. “Who are you, please?” Carmela thought he looked like a British officer in an old World War II movie. All he needed was a uniform and a bunch of medals on his chest.

  “Oh, sorry. I suppose I’m getting ahead of myself. I’m Carmela Bertrand, I was a good friend of Devon Dowling’s.”

  “Ah,” he said politely, as if that explained everything. “And you were asking about . . . ?”

  “Your painting,” Carmela said. “Devon was the one who discovered that your painting had been stolen?”

  Colonel Otis stepped out of line and nodded at Carmela. “Yes, it was a new acquisition, and I wanted Mr. Dowling to appraise it for insurance purposes. When I found out it was stolen, I was absolutely devastated. Obviously, once the police complete their investigation, the painting will have to go back to the museum it was stolen from.”