Gilt Trip (14 page)

Another thunderclap rumbled, this one closer than ever, and Carmela felt fine droplets starting to hit her head.

Good thing I didn't pop for an eighty-dollar blowout.

They all bowed their heads as the priest stepped up and gave his final blessing, his voice sounding hollow and stark in the old cemetery. Even he seemed to rush through the ritual before the thunderstorm threatened to let loose and soak them all.

When it was finally over, the crowd began to quickly disperse, but Carmela sought out Buddy Pelletier.

“You gave a really lovely eulogy,” she told him.

Pelletier tilted his head at her in appreciation. “Thank you, my dear.” He placed his hand over his heart and patted it. “It's a very sad day for all of us.”

Carmela nodded. “Indeed it is. Though Margo seemed to hold up fairly well.”

“Margo's a trooper,” said Pelletier. “She'll carry on no matter what. Of course . . .” He gazed at her pointedly. “She'll need a little help from her friends.”

“That goes without saying.”

“I wanted to tell you,” said Pelletier, “how much I admired the little shadow box you created. Very appropriate.”

“Thank you. It was really just stuff that Margo gave me. The coins and photo, a geode plus Jerry Earl's notebook.”

“Still, a lovely and meaningful piece of artwork,” said Pelletier. “Perhaps I could commission one myself someday. But something a little more feminine in nature, since it would be a gift for my dear wife.”

Just then Ava walked over to join them.

“Carmela could do it,” said Ava, always the promoter. “She's a real artist.”

Pelletier smiled. “I know she is.” He paused. “Are you ladies coming to the luncheon?”

“We wouldn't miss it for the world,” said Ava. She waggled her fingers. “Bye-bye. See you later.” Ava could generally charm the stitches off a baseball.

“Save it,” said Carmela when Pelletier was out of earshot. “He's married.”

“Why is it that the rich, good-looking ones always are?” she sighed.

“Come on,” said Carmela. “We should say something to Beetsie.”

“Why?” said Ava. She pulled a mirror out of her bag and made a big point of checking her hair. “Ooh, I'm getting soaked to the bone. Soaked to the
bone
, get it?”

“Be nice,” said Carmela. She forced a smile to her face and called out, “Beetsie.”

Beetsie turned toward her, dabbing at her eyes, and Carmela realized that she'd been crying.

“What a lovely funeral,” Carmela told her. “It was so kind of you and Duncan Merriweather to help with the planning.”

Beetsie nodded tiredly. “Yes, it was quite a fine send-off. But really, aside from ordering flowers and a few minor details, Duncan handled most of the details himself. He's a retired funeral director, you know.”

Carmela stiffened. “No. I had no idea.”

Beetsie nodded. “I don't think Mr. Merriweather did any actual embalming in the last few years of his career, but he ran a fine, dignified business. Perhaps you know it? Broussard's over on St. Charles?”

“I've heard of it,” said Carmela.

“Yes,” said Beetsie. “Broussard was his mother's maiden name.” She smiled brightly, showing amazingly long incisors. “Duncan Merriweather comes from a long line of undertakers!”

C
ARMELA
and Ava exchanged hasty, astonished looks. This was front-page news for both of them!

“But that's neither here nor there,” Beetsie prattled on. “Goodness, I do think it's really going to pour.” She hunched her shoulders and tried to shield her head with her clunky black purse. “I guess I'd better dash across the street to the luncheon reception.” And without even a polite good-bye, she turned and scuttled over to join Margo, who was still surrounded by a small group of mourners.

“Did you hear that?” said Carmela, her voice rising a couple of octaves. “Undertaker? That means Merriweather probably has a trocar. Just like the murder weapon!”

“It also means he probably knows how to use it,” said Ava.

“If Merriweather's an expert, and it sounds like he might be, he could probably kill someone in an instant.”

Ava snapped her fingers. “In a heartbeat. Why . . . he could probably stab someone at a party and no one would even know until it was too late!”

Carmela rubbed at the goose bumps on her arms. “Where's Bobby Gallant? Did you see him? I need to talk to him. I think I should tell him about this.”

“I know he was here,” said Ava. “I just saw him a couple of minutes ago.” She glanced at the sky and flinched. “But if he has any common sense at all, he's somewhere out of this weather. C'mon, we should go, too. Let's head over to Commander's Palace and find us a nice cozy table. Ponder this new information where it's nice and dry.”

Carmela glanced around. “You go grab a table. I'll be right behind you, I promise. I'm just going to take a quick look around, see if I can find Gallant.”

Ava wagged a finger at Carmela. “Okay. But be careful. Stay out of trouble!”

Like that's going to happen
, Carmela thought to herself. She was already in too deep and knew it. She probably shouldn't have agreed to help Margo in the first place. Now here she was. Checking out suspects, stumbling on a couple more. Madness, for sure.

Carmela dodged around several tombs and mausoleums, looking for Gallant. She really needed to find him! Making that connection between Merriweather and the trocar had given rise to a very bad feeling!

Could Duncan Merriweather be the murderer?

He was older, she reasoned. But he was big. And maybe still strong enough to wield a weapon like that. If Merriweather got it in his head that he wanted to be Margo's next husband—and inherit the wealth that way—that could be a powerful motivator. A powerful motive.

Voices rose from behind a nearby crypt. Carmela ignored them and was about to call out Bobby's name when she realized the voices had turned harsh and were rising rapidly in pitch.

An argument? Sure sounds like it.

Now she recognized one of the voices!

That's Eric Zane!

Creeping closer to the crypt, Carmela ducked down, hoping to listen in on the conversation.

“It's worth a lot of money!” Zane said angrily.

Carmela pressed herself against cold, damp marble.
What's worth a lot of
money?
she wondered. What was going on? Was Zane blackmailing someone? Trying to strong-arm someone?

But the person's response was a low, angry mumble.

Carmela tried harder to listen in on the conversation.

“I know you have the money,” Zane snarled.

Trying to ease her way around the crypt, Carmela wondered if she could sneak a peek without getting caught. She heard another irritated response, this time softer. And realized the conversation was fading out, like a bad radio signal. The two people were drifting away.

Maybe I can still catch a look!

She was about to steal a look when there was a soft crunch of gravel just behind her. Startled, she whirled around in a nervous panic and came face-to-face with a large, imposing figure. She blinked and tried to focus.
Please don't let it be Merriweather. That would be way too spooky.

It was Bobby Gallant, looking quizzical and a little amused.

“What are you doing over here?” he asked.

Carmela touched a hand to her heart. “You scared me half to death!”

“I didn't mean to,” he said. Then, “What are you up to?”

“I . . . I was looking for you,” said Carmela.

“Here I am.”

She wondered if she should just blurt it out and decided, yes, that was the best course of action.

“I just picked up some information that could be critical to your investigation!”

A look of skepticism crossed Gallant's face. “Oh really?”

Carmela ignored his Doubting Thomas demeanor and continued.

“Beetsie just told me that Duncan Merriweather is a retired funeral director!”

Gallant's expression never wavered. “And you think that's important . . . why?”

“Because of the nature of the murder weapon!” she shrilled. “The trocar. What if he . . .”

“Owned one?” said Gallant. “Knew exactly how to use one?”

“Yes! Exactly!”

“Your information is highly circumstantial,” said Gallant.

“Look,” said Carmela, “I can't connect all the dots; I'm the first one to admit that. But you've got to look into this!”

“We're looking into everything,” said Gallant. “Believe me. Even the mayor is exerting pressure on the department to solve this crime.”

“Then we really need to get cracking,” said Carmela. “We need to figure this out!”

Gallant gave her a wary look. “We?”

Carmela pursed her lips. “You, I meant you.”

“That's right.”

Carmela wondered if she should tell him about her visit to Venice last night. But the look on Gallant's face told her no.
Save it. Wait until he's in a more receptive mood. If that ever happens. Don't tick him off any more than you have to, or he'll really slam the lid shut on the investigation!

“Wait a minute.” Carmela stopped dead in her tracks. “Was Merriweather even at the party Sunday night?” Images of canapés of beluga caviar and champagne danced in her brain. And were immediately followed by the grisly memory of Jerry Earl tumbling lifeless and limp out of the clothes dryer.
Tumble dry. How ghastly.

“He was on the guest list,” said Gallant. “But nobody I interviewed remembers seeing him.”

“Well,” said Carmela. “What does Merriweather say? Was he there or not?”

Gallant stuffed his hands into his pockets. “That, my dear Carmela, is proprietary information. I can't tell you everything!”

Yes, you can
, she thought as he sauntered away.
Or at least you should!

• • •

COMMANDER'S PALACE WAS A NEW ORLEANS FIXTURE.
Established in eighteen eighty-three by Emile Commander, this turreted Victorian structure had been a bordello back in the twenties. Now the aqua and white building with the matching awnings served as one of New Orleans's premier restaurants.

Much to Carmela's delight, Ava had snagged a lovely little table near the window. She half stood in her chair and waved as Carmela entered the elegant dining room with its overhead crystal chandelier.

“
Cher!
Over here!”

Carmela hurriedly joined Ava at the table. “I talked to Gallant.”

Ava wrinkled her nose. “Do you think we might put the murder on hold for, oh, say about thirty minutes? While we enjoy a cocktail or two as well as the food from this gorgeous buffet that Jerry Earl's widow has popped serious money for?”

“Yes, of course,” said Carmela. “Sorry. I guess I am driving you nuts with all this stuff.”

“Just a teeny bit,” said Ava as they both slipped into the buffet line.

And once Carmela saw the food, and felt her stomach rumble, all thoughts of murder flew out of her head, too.

“Look at that,” said Ava. “Wild Louisiana white shrimp, tasso ham, and pickled okra.”

“Fantastic,” said Carmela. The luncheon was suddenly looking very good indeed.

“Ooh, and beef shish-kabobs. Let's not forget these,” said Ava as she piled two skewers on her plate and two on Carmela's.

Carmela eyed a pastry dome and scanned the place card in front. “Do we have room for oyster and absinthe dome?”

“I always have room for oysters,” said Ava, pushing aside some shrimp on her plate.

“We'll have to make a return trip for the bread pudding,” said Carmela as they sat down at their table.

They ate for a few minutes, relishing their food and chatting amiably. Finally, Carmela said, “So I ran into Gallant and told him about Duncan Merriweather.”

Ava nodded. “Of course you did.”

“Something else happened, too. I overheard Eric Zane talking to some guy. Well, actually, it sounded like Zane was trying to extort or blackmail them.”

“Did you see who it was?”

“Unfortunately no.”

Ava looked over at the buffet line, which was still snaking its way past dozens of steaming chafing dishes. “I just saw Zane a few minutes ago.”

“Was he with someone?” Carmela asked, pouncing on her words.

“Not that I noticed. But he did look kind of stressed.”

“He's probably working his buns off,” said Carmela. “Talking to the chef or harassing the kitchen staff to keep the chafing dishes filled. Trying to make things perfect for Margo.”

“So he's working for her,” said Ava.

“Sure. I guess. I mean, now that Jerry Earl is dead and buried, he's probably become Margo's personal assistant.”

“That's only if Zane decides to stay on.”

“He doesn't seem to be making any motion to leave,” said Carmela.

Ava pulled out her compact and studied her hair and makeup. “Eeh, I look like I'm wearing a fright wig.” She stared at Carmela. “I look awful, don't I? Be honest.”

Carmela lifted a hand. “It rained. You were caught without an umbrella.”

Ava stood up. “Come on, I need to do a major fix-up.” She cocked an eye at Carmela. “And, I'm sorry to say, your hair doesn't look all that lush and springy, either.”

“Thanks a lot,” said Carmela.

They pushed their way through the dining room and wandered down a narrow hallway hung with all sorts of awards, notations, and autographed photos. Commander's Palace had been honored by the James Beard Foundation,
Wine Spectator
,
Food & Wine
,
Southern Living
, and dozens of local groups and media organizations.

“Here we go,” said Ava. She put her hand on the aqua-colored door that said
Ladies
and gave a little shove.

Nothing happened.

“Huh?” said Ava. “Is this thing locked?”

“What's wrong?” asked Carmela. She'd been scanning an award given by Zagat to honor what they were calling “modern New Orleans cooking and haute Creole.” Very impressive.

“This dang door is stuck,” said Ava.

“Here, let me try.” Carmela pressed a hand against it, but it still didn't budge.

“See what I mean?” said Ava.

Carmela frowned. “Yeah.” She pushed harder on the door. When it still didn't move, she leaned a shoulder against it and put her whole body behind it. It grudgingly opened a few inches. “Well, this is stupid.”

“Something's blocking it,” said Ava. “See if, like, one of the vanity chairs tipped over or something.”

Carmela pushed the door open another couple of inches and eased her head through the narrow opening.

And immediately wished she hadn't.

There, sprawled on the carpet, legs and arms akimbo, was Eric Zane! He wasn't moving, breathing, or even twitching. And the carpet that had once been a plush silver-gray had been turned into a soggy, squishy mess.

“What?” said Ava, seeing the look on Carmela's face. “What's wrong? Let me see!”

Carmela withdrew her head. “You don't want to . . .” Carmela began.

But much like the cat, whom curiosity had killed, Ava had already stuck her head in to look.

Ava's bloodcurdling scream echoed through the whole of Commander's Palace. It bounced off the ceiling, rattled dishes in the dining room, and ricocheted back into the depths of the kitchen.

Carmela grabbed Ava's arms, held them to her side, and hugged her tight. “It's okay, honey. It's okay.”

“It's not!” Ava screamed again. “He's in there and he's dead!”

“I know he is,” Carmela soothed. She wondered how she could remain so calm. Had she actually become blasé about finding dead bodies?

But wait. Was Zane dead?

As nervous waiters and a quizzical maître d' immediately rushed to join them, everyone venturing a horrified look and yammering at once, Carmela fought to take another look.

Zane hadn't moved a muscle. Hadn't even twitched. Yup. He was definitely dead.

“We called 911,” said the maître d'. He looked pale and stricken and was wringing his hands compulsively.

Another man in a tall chef's hat poked his head in the door to survey the body. “We don't want a problem here,” he told Carmela.

“It's too late for that,” Carmela responded tiredly. “You've
already
got a problem.”