Gilt Trip (23 page)

“S
HAMUS!”
said Carmela, suddenly startled. She'd been elbowing her way through the elegant crowd, trying to hunt down Ava. And instead, she'd run into the two people she really had no interest in talking to—Shamus and Glory Meechum.

“Glory wants to see her cake,” said Shamus. He was dressed to kill in a black Armani tuxedo with a tartan plaid cummerbund. Glory, his older sister, had mean, wary eyes sunken into her doughy face, a lacquered helmet of gray hair, and wore her version of a sensible evening gown. In other words, it was brown, long, and shapeless.

Carmela peeked down at Glory's shoes. Her feet looked like two gunboats encased in brown leather. Good heavens, even Beetsie could give this woman pointers!

“Well?” said Glory. She was mean as a puff adder and rich as Croesus. She'd never liked Carmela and liked her even less now that she'd been forced to relinquish the Garden District home in the divorce settlement. “I'd like to see my cake if it's not too much trouble, Carmela.”

“All the cakes are on display in the adjoining room,” Carmela told them in a neutral tone.
Keep calm and carry on
, she vowed to herself.

“Then lead the way, darlin',” said Shamus. “Let's take a gander.”

“How are the dogs?” Carmela asked.

“Just fine,” said Shamus. “The little darlings settled in just fine.”

“The cake?” demanded Glory.

Carmela trooped out into the hallway and into the next room with Shamus and Glory following in her wake like a couple of disapproving ducklings. Her gaze wandered across six long tables that each held an opulent arrangement of cakes and jewels—and then she finally spotted hers.

“Over there,” she pointed. “With the bird's nest.”

Shamus saw it and beamed. “It looks pretty good, huh, Glory? It turned out okay.”

Carmela rolled her eyes. Poor Shamus was always trying to please his older sister. Always kowtowing to her every whim. Then again, Glory controlled the purse strings that allowed him to live his indolent and often frivolous life.

Glory took a look, nodded, then lifted her glass and drained it.

Carmela, meanwhile, tried to share the thinking behind her creative endeavor. “I thought the bird's nest would really highlight the necklace,” she told them. “Give the impression of a rare jewel.” She looked around. “I know some of the other cakes incorporated jewelry into the actual frosting, but I felt that might be downplaying your pendant's beauty and importance.”

“It looks nice,” Glory said in a grudging tone. “It works.”

“Carmela's right,” said Shamus, trying to muster a little more enthusiasm for Carmela's work. “A lot of the cakes that were donated by individuals and corporations are all fancy and elaborate, but they don't show off the
real
reason for the auction—which is, of course, the jewelry.”

Glory looked around for a waiter. “Where are the servers when you need a drink?”

“Anyway,” said Carmela, picking up where Shamus had left off. “A lot of the other cakes are just bling-bling-a-go-go while your cake really features the diamond pendant.”

“Yup,” said Glory, barely stifling a belch. “Okeydoke.”

“I bet it'll be high bid at the auction tonight,” chortled Shamus.

Glory waggled her empty glass back and forth. “Shamus?”

Shamus clapped a hand on Carmela's shoulder. “Gotta go, babe. Have to freshen Glory's drink.”

Carmela watched them wind their way back through the tables of cakes, thanking her lucky stars that she was no longer part of the crazy, dysfunctional Meechum clan. That she was her own free person and had escaped unscathed. Well, reasonably unscathed.

Wandering amid the cakes, Carmela took a careful look at her competition. There were some lovely cakes here as well as some very spectacular jewelry!

Here was a cake with a Grecian-inspired theme that had a pair of gold Bulgari earrings on it. Really fantastic.

Another cake featured five teetering tiers and had a pearl necklace dangling from a fondant Eiffel Tower.

One cake had been done all in Tiffany blue and had a lovely diamond and gold tennis bracelet on it. Was the bracelet from Tiffany's? Had to be.

Oh, and here was Margo's cake, a buttercream confection with her Victorian crown jewel necklace proudly displayed among mounds of whipped frosting.

The cakes were all really quite amazing, Carmela decided. The auction should raise a pretty penny tonight, especially if . . .

A chocolate cake suddenly caught Carmela's eye.

What!

It was covered with whipped chocolate frosting mounded in little swirls with small fondant barrels of oil scattered across it. A gold mesh bracelet was wound around the center barrel of oil.

But the décor and jewelry weren't what drew Carmela's rapt attention. It was the lettering on the side of the cake—the lettering that spelled out Spangler Energy!

Spangler Energy? What on earth?

Could Spangler Energy be somehow related to Spangler Enterprises, the company that bought the land Jerry Earl had tried to lease?

It has to be!

Heart pounding, mouth suddenly gone dry, Carmela studied the cake more carefully. There were lots of little fondant barrels of oil, which seemed to point to a company that did oil drilling. Also, the words
Tuscaloosa-Marine Shale
were written across the bottom layer.

Carmela's brows puckered together. What on earth was Tuscaloosa-Marine Shale? And more important, who had donated this cake? She needed to find out! Immediately!

Dashing back into the ballroom, her heart skipping beats, her skirt flying, she glanced around frantically. She saw passing waiters, two security guards, a knot of good-looking men passing around unlit cigars, and . . . Conrad Falcon.

For once and for all, I'm going to get a straight answer out of that man!

Breathlessly, Carmela approached Falcon.

“Mr. Falcon, a word please.” Carmela's wished her nerves were as steely and controlled as her voice.

Conrad Falcon practically sneered when he saw her. “You,” he said.

“That's right,” said Carmela. “I was just looking at your cake in the other room and found it extremely interesting.”

He cocked an eye at her. “Oh really?”

“The Spangler Energy cake?” she spat out.

Falcon stared at her. “Excuse me?”

“What I want to know,” said Carmela, “is how Spangler Energy, or Spangler Enterprises, or whatever you want to call it, relates to your company?”

“It doesn't,” he said.

Carmela fought to keep from slapping him across the face. She knew he had to be lying, pure and simple. Of course he was. There was no way he was going to admit to any criminal activity now that Duncan Merriweather was under arrest!

She leveled her gaze at Falcon, though her anger was doing a slow burn. “I'm going to get the proof I need,” she told him. “And when I do, rest assured you're going to jail for a very long time. Probably for the rest of your life.”

Falcon's reply was a low hiss. “I think you should take whatever prescription you've run out of and get it renewed!” Then he turned and stalked off.

Carmela spun around and pushed her way through the growing throng of people. What to do? How to really resolve this? The noise level was rising in pitch as the jazz band pumped out music like crazy. She could barely make herself heard, let alone think clearly!

Maybe if she could find Ava. Ava could sometimes be the voice of reason. Or at least a catalyst for action!

Carmela looked around frantically. There were lots of women in gold floor-length gowns, but none of them was Ava. So where was she?

Carmela hastily inspected the crowd again and suddenly spotted Angela Boynton. Angela was one of the curators who'd helped honcho this event. She was also a good friend.

Carmela quickly hatched a plan as she ran up to greet her.

“Angela, I need your help!”

Angela turned toward her with a broad smile. But her smile faded when she saw the worry and distress etched on Carmela's face.

“Carmela, what?” Angela was a serious-looking woman in her midthirties, with shoulder-length light brown hair, green eyes, and a slight bump on her nose that made her look interesting and highly approachable. Tonight she wore a pale peach gown with a dramatic pair of Etruscan-looking earrings.

“I have to know who donated the Spangler Energy cake!” Carmela blurted out. “I have to know who's behind it!”

Angela stared at her. “I don't know offhand. I'd have to go back to my office and check the donor list.”

“Can you do that? Can we do that?”

“Carmela, what's wrong?” Angela was busy and a little harried, too. “Is it real important?”

“Yes, it is,” Carmela insisted. “Please.”

“I'm right in the middle of . . .” Angela hesitated, then removed a chain from around her wrist and quickly handed it to Carmela.

It took Carmela a split second to realize that the keys to Angela's office were attached to that chain. “Thank you!” Carmela breathed.

Angela clutched her arm. “Promise you'll tell me what this is all about when you get a chance?”

Carmela's head bobbed frantically. “I will. I promise!” Then she scurried off.

• • •

ALL THE LIGHTS WERE TURNED OFF, BUT
CARmela still managed to find the back hallway that led to the curators' offices. Though her shoes were biting into her feet something awful, she ran lightly down the dark corridor and stopped in front of a wooden door marked
Curatorial B
. Key ring jingling, she tried the first one in the lock. No go.

Okay, the second one.

No.

The third one?

There was a sharp click and then Carmela was inside the small office that Angela shared with one of the textile curators. She tiptoed over to Angela's desk and turned on the small tensor lamp. Posters, brochures, Japanese obis, and small Buddhist sculptures were suddenly lit up in the spill from the lamp. There was a wall of books and another wall where an elaborate brocade wedding kimono hung from a bamboo rod.

Carmela sank into Angela's desk chair and pawed through the stacks of paperwork that were spread across her desk. She found acquisition lists, minutes from a recent budget meeting, exhibition notes, and . . . yes! The donor list!

A sudden noise sounded from down the hallway.

Footsteps. Somebody coming?

Carmela froze as she strained to hear. It sounded as if someone was walking very cautiously and deliberately down the hallway. Then, much to her horror, they stopped right outside the office door!

Who is it? Who's out there?

All thoughts of the donor list were suddenly forgotten. Carmela stood up and looked around with wild eyes. How to escape? As panic rose in her chest, she spotted the door to a small adjacent storeroom. She switched off the lamp and then, with an ungainly lurch, dove into the storeroom and pulled the door shut behind her!

Standing in the dark, trying to control her breathing, Carmela wondered who had followed her!

Is it Conrad Falcon?

If it was, then Conrad Falcon must be guilty as sin! Her teeth began to chatter and she bit down hard to control it. Was he the killer? Was the man who killed Jerry Earl and Eric Zane after her, too? Dear Lord, he was a man who had pulled off murder right in the middle of two crowded events! And now she'd fallen prey to him, too!

What if he opens the door and finds me in here? I'm a sitting duck!

Even with her panic and racing thoughts, Carmela's eyes adjusted to the darkness in the storeroom. And now she could just make out a narrow crack of light at the opposite end of the small room.

There's another door? A way out? Looks like it!

Carmela slipped out of her shoes. Quietly, carefully, she climbed and fumbled her way over an enormous stack of boxes and then a pile of books, hoping to get to the other door. Just as she eased past something tall and metal—a file cabinet?—her toe brushed against something soft. A mouse? No, probably just some rolled-up fabric. She continued on stealthily, stepping over more boxes as she carried her shoes in one hand and beat the air in front of her with her other hand, trying to feel for the door. For her escape hatch! Another foot, another few more inches . . . and there it was!

Just as the door behind her flew open, she scrambled out the second door and shut it quietly behind her. And found herself standing . . . in a large dark sculpture gallery.

She could hear faint sounds of someone fumbling about and cursing inside the storage room that she'd just fled. There was a loud crash and she knew they'd stumbled and fallen down!

Good! Maybe they even broke their arm!

Slowly, stealthily, Carmela tiptoed across the floor, taking refuge behind a large winged metal sculpture, then dodging out and ducking behind a large marble statue.

She heard more sounds! Whoever it was behind her must have righted himself and was still trying to follow her!

Her breath caught in her throat and her nerves fizzed with fear. She willed herself to try to remain calm. She wouldn't go down without a fight.

How close was her pursuer? Were they out the door yet? Into this room?

Carmela took a daring risk and tried to sneak a peak from behind a metal statue of a rearing horse. But she didn't see anything. Her heart still thumping wildly, she backed up some more. This gallery emptied out into a wide hallway, which led directly to safety.

I'm so close. If I can just ease my way out of here . . .

She backed up a few more feet. Then, like a shadow in the moonlight, she slid behind a tall, zigzagging Japanese screen. She held her breath, hesitated, and listened. Heard nothing.

Time to make my move?