Gilt Trip (6 page)

R
UNNING
more than a little late this Tuesday morning, Carmela skipped across Decatur Street, dodged past a yellow and red horse-drawn jitney on Bourbon Street, and headed down Governor Nicholls Street. The sun was lasering down, bathing the brick storefronts with a creamy light, making all the little cottages that were painted Caribbean pink and blue and green look as if they'd been air-lifted in from Jamaica. So pretty—she could almost forget that a brutal murder had cast its pall over the city.

The first thing Carmela saw when she sailed through the door of Memory Mine was Gabby being her usual helpful self with a customer.

“Hey there,” Carmela called out as the bell
da-dinged
overhead.

Gabby gave a decorous nod and smiled.

Their lone customer, a young woman in a snappy silver-gray dress with knee-high black boots, grinned expectantly at Carmela. She was flipping through one of the sample scrapbooks Carmela had put together and was obviously impressed.

“I had no idea that scrapbooks could be so pretty,” the woman told her. “Each page is like its own individual work of art.”

Carmela gave a distracted smile and said, “Scrapbooking is all about preserving your memories in a personal way.” Was that what Margo had intended when she hired Sullivan Fisk to paint a death portrait of Jerry Earl? she wondered. Preserving a memory of his death?

There was nothing wrong with having a portrait of your dead husband, of course. The only catch, the big trip wire in all of this, was that Margo had hired Sullivan
before
Jerry Earl had died. Which seemed to make no sense at all. Or perfect sense if Margo Leland was the nasty, scheming sort of wife.

Part of Carmela dreaded going to her meeting with Margo Leland today. The other part craved answers. Would Margo really ask her to help snoop out Jerry Earl's killer if she was the one who was guilty? That didn't seem to make any sense at all. Therefore, there had to be a lot more to this story.

“Do you think you could help me get started?” the customer asked Carmela.

Carmela snapped back to attention and realized she had no idea what the woman had just said.

Luckily, Gabby stepped in. “Why don't you let me assist you? We'll select an album and look at some of the fun papers. Also, in case you're interested, we're having a Paper Moon class tomorrow afternoon. Perhaps you might like to join us?”

“I might like to!” the woman said.

Carmela left Gabby and the woman at the counter and hustled back to her office. There were orders to be placed, catalogs to be perused, and bills to be paid. It was paperwork, just not the creative hands-on kind that she really enjoyed. But Carmela worked doggedly at her tasks, and by midmorning, she was able to slip out the door for her meeting with Margo.

• • •

THE LAVISH GARDEN DISTRICT MANSION LOOKED
oddly sad and neglected to Carmela in the wake of Jerry Earl's death. The camellias drooped, the grass was uncut, even the windows seemed to reflect a lifelessness.

Nevertheless, Carmela trudged up the front walk and rang the doorbell. She waited, heard a deep metallic
bong
resonate from inside the house, then peered through the wrought-iron security door as the impressive wooden door slowly creaked open.

A woman peered out at her. Not Margo. This woman, whom Carmela was pretty sure she remembered from two nights ago, had black, cropped hair and a narrow, angular face that could only be described as severe. She wore slim black slacks and a black turtleneck.

“You're right on time,” said the woman. She extended a bony hand to Carmela. “I'm afraid we haven't been formally introduced. I'm Beetsie Bischof, Margo's dearest friend.”

Carmela shook her hand. “Carmela Bertrand.” She offered a faint smile. “You were the one comforting Margo Sunday night.” Actually, Beetsie had been wailing piteously right alongside Margo.

“That's right,” said Beetsie. She had the low, throaty voice of a lifelong smoker. And probably the metabolism of one, too, Carmela decided, since Beetsie appeared to be just skin and bones as she led her through the parlor and down a long hallway. Carmela noted that the home's interior was significantly more somber than it had been Sunday night.

Beetsie threw open the door to Jerry Earl's office and announced in a deadpan voice, “She's here.”

Margo was seated at Jerry Earl's desk. Next to her was Duncan Merriweather. Their heads were bent close together, nearly touching, as they sifted through a number of important-looking documents.

Startled by Beetsie's introduction, Margo looked up expectantly. Then a smile bloomed on her pink face. “Carmela! You came!” She sprang to her feet and lurched toward Carmela, grabbing her and embracing her so tightly that Carmela couldn't draw breath for a moment. “Thank goodness!”

Carmela gently disengaged herself from Margo, noting that this morning she was decked out in a flouncy pink skirt suit with a dozen gold bangles once again encircling her chubby wrists.

“Duncan?” said Margo, practically batting her eyes. “Could you make those calls now?”

“Of course,” said Duncan. He surreptitiously slipped the papers he and Margo had been discussing into a folder and quietly gathered it up. Nodded solemnly to Carmela as he exited the room. Held the folder protectively to his side.

“Obviously you've met Beetsie,” said Margo, shifting gears. “She happens to be my oldest and dearest friend. You might say I trust her implicitly.”

Carmela just smiled.

Margo flapped a hand, motioning for Carmela to sit in the chair that Merriweather had just vacated. “Sadly, we were just planning Jerry Earl's funeral. It's going to be Thursday at St. Louis Cathedral. Internment will be in our family tomb at Lafayette Cemetery Number 1.” She paused, her face downcast. “You'll come, won't you?”

Carmela nodded as she sat down next to Margo. “If you wish.” She thought about how Margo and Merriweather had been whispering so conspiratorially. How he'd carefully removed the folder.

What else could Margo and Merriweather have planned together? Possibly a murder?

“So,” said Carmela, eager to start things off, anxious to ask a few questions. “Have you put together that list for me?”

With an erratic change in mood, Margo cocked her head playfully. “What list?”

Carmela leveled her gaze at Margo. “The list of Jerry Earl's potential enemies.”

Margo shook her head. “Everybody loved Jerry Earl,” she said emphatically.

“Clearly not everyone,” said Carmela. After all, the man had been murdered.

Margo's hands flew to her face and she suddenly seemed distressed. “I never in my wildest dreams imagined that . . .” She paused and sucked in a great gulp of air.

Carmela decided that Margo was good at turning on her emotions at will. And stonewalling, too.

“Yes,” Margo said finally. “I suppose there were a few people—mostly workers—that Jerry Earl had cause to fire over the years.”

“Were any of them present Sunday night?” asked Carmela.

From across the room Beetsie gave a delicate snort.

“No workers were guests at our party,” said Margo. She said the word
workers
as if she were referring to manure.

“Okay,” said Carmela. “What about the people Jerry Earl did business with? Construction clients. Any of them present?”

Margo's nod was imperceptible. “Yes. A few.”

“Any strained relationships among those people?”

“None that I know of.”

Carmela tapped a finger against the top of the desk. This was like pulling teeth. “What about Conrad Falcon?” Aka The Whistle Blower.

Margo reared back as if she'd been struck in the face. “That thieving rat! Do you seriously think I'd have him in my home?”

“I'm guessing he's not one of your favorite people,” Carmela said mildly.

Margo was practically foaming at the mouth now. “Conrad Falcon
hated
Jerry Earl. Falcon was always jealous of Jerry Earl because he was smarter and more successful.”

“You're telling me they were fierce rivals,” said Carmela. “Because they both owned construction companies.”

“They were in rival Mardi Gras krewes, too,” put in Beetsie. “Jerry Earl was in the Rex krewe, while Falcon was in the Pluvius krewe.”

Conrad Falcon was in the same as Shamus, Carmela thought. Interesting.

“It seems to me,” said Carmela, “that you're pretty much pointing a finger at Falcon.”

Margo frowned. “Yes, I suppose I am highly suspicious of the man. Obviously I am.”

“And there's no way Falcon was at your party Sunday night?”

“Never!” said Margo.

“Absolutely not!” echoed Beetsie. “He may live in our neighborhood, but we always make it a point to snub him.”

“Tell me,” Carmela said to Margo, “did you share your suspicions about Conrad Falcon with Detective Gallant?”

“I might have mentioned it,” said Margo.

Carmela gazed at Margo, who was toying idly with a gold coin in a Lucite frame. “Why do you think Jerry Earl slipped away from the party?” Privately, Carmela figured the man had tucked into his office because he'd developed a burning desire for a few nips of a real drink, a man's drink like bourbon or whiskey.

“I don't know,” said Margo. “Perhaps he received a phone call?”

“How would Jerry Earl know that?” Carmela asked. “The musicians were playing, the crowd was noisy and exuberant, and your husband was being lauded by well-wishers and mingling with guests.”

“I suppose Eric would have told him,” said Margo.

Carmela stared at her. “Eric . . .”

“Eric Zane,” said Margo. “Jerry Earl's personal assistant.”

“Ah, yes, he was at the party,” said Carmela. Of course, he was. She remembered Zane as the brittle young man who'd been questioned at length by Gallant.

“But he wasn't an invited guest,” said Margo. “Zane is on our personal staff.”

“Is Zane here now?”

“He should be.”

“Then let's get him in here,” said Carmela.

Beetsie crossed the rug, her soft-sole no-nonsense shoes barely making a whisper. Carmela looked down at the carpet on which she'd just trod.

Where exactly had Jerry Earl been killed?

Surely the delicate carpet would still be a bloody mess if Jerry Earl had been stabbed in his own office—and it didn't appear as if the Rug Doctor had made a recent house call. Could the killer have lured Jerry Earl into the laundry room and done the deed there? That had a nice hard tile floor. Easy to spritz a little 409 and tidy up the blood once you were all done committing bloody blue murder.

And who had access to the laundry room? Well, she supposed pretty much anyone and everyone who wandered down that back hallway.

As Carmela mulled this over, Beetsie returned with an unhappy-looking Eric Zane. But Zane wasn't just here to answer questions; he'd been pressed into service as a sort of temporary butler. He carried a silver tray that held a teapot and matching bone china cups and saucers. Tea for three. But not for four.

Zane poured a cup of tea for Carmela and handed it to her with a slightly trembling hand. Then he did the same for Margo and Beetsie.

“Eric, please tell Carmela what you remember about Sunday night,” Margo instructed.

Zane's spine straightened as if Margo had prodded him with a hot poker. “Sunday night?” he said, his voice cracking.

Beetsie took a sip of tea and stared at Zane with hooded eyes. “Carmela is very clever. She's going to help us find Jerry Earl's killer.”

“Excuse me,” said Zane. He seemed to muster a bit of courage. “Are you asking what I remember about the party? Such as which guests were in attendance?” He frowned. “Because if you recall, I gave the detective our guest list—”

“It's not so much what you remember,” said Carmela, “but rather the chain of events. For instance, I was wondering if you knew why Jerry Earl left the party. The last time I saw him—probably the last time any of us saw him—he was sitting in an easy chair talking to Buddy Pelletier. But shortly after his body was discovered and the police arrived, you mentioned that you'd spoken to Jerry Earl not ten minutes earlier.”

Zane blinked at her.

“Can you explain that?” asked Carmela.

“Well,” Margo demanded. “Answer her question.”

Eric shook his head as if he'd drifted off for a moment. “Oh. I . . . was there a question?”

Carmela set her teacup down with a
clink.
“It seems you were the last person to see Jerry Earl alive. So I'm just wondering about your interaction with him.” She knew Zane had related his story to Detective Gallant; now she wanted to hear it.

“There
wasn't
an interaction,” Zane said crisply.

“You realize,” said Carmela, “we're not accusing you of anything.”

“This isn't a tribunal,” said Margo.

“All we're trying to figure out,” said Carmela, “is what you were doing around the same time Jerry Earl was killed.”

“If you must know,” said Zane, “I was in and out of the kitchen and butler's pantry looking for a bartender and waitress who'd skipped out on their posts.”

The couple in the bathroom?
Carmela wondered.

“You also mentioned that you were tending to the linens,” said Carmela.

“Yes, ma'am,” said Zane. “When there's a high-caliber event going on, you have to ride herd on everything. The catering and wait staff needs to be supervised, the bar towels have to be laundered, every detail has to be perfect.” He carefully enunciated his final words to Carmela as if he were talking to a very small child.

“But you were aware that Jerry Earl had retired to his office?” said Carmela. This time she was fishing a bit. She didn't know if he really had.