Gossamer Ghost (10 page)

“I'll do that,” said Mavis. “I really will.”

“Good,” said Carmela. “Because if you really want to clear Marcus's name, we're going to have to figure out exactly
where
that doggone mask came from!”

T
ONIGHT
'
S
Zombie Crawl was the first of its kind in New Orleans. Whether it was inspired by the old horror classic
Night of the Living Dead
or the more recent
World War Z
, the Zombie Crawl was being touted as the largest gathering of zombies ever seen.

Carmela doubted that it was the largest congregation of zombies. Heck, just look at any political convention, there were all sorts of dead heads in attendance. But this Zombie Crawl, and all that went with it, was enticing enough to draw her and Ava back to the French Quarter to take in the spectacle.

First of all, there was the Quarantine Zone over near Jackson Square. It was a roped-off area filled with food stands and food trucks. Never mind that they'd both eaten earlier, the fried shrimp, black beans and rice, and gumbo still beckoned.

“I've got to get me a sack of those fried clams,” said Ava, pointing at a red-and-white-striped tent strung with white twinkle lights. With full-on dark now, the food booths glittered like beacons. It was a regular
fais do do
, a kind of Cajun party.

“And I've got my eye on a bowl of mudbugs,” said Carmela. “It's my reward for getting out of bed this morning.” There was nothing better than boiled crawfish. Just twist off their little heads and slurp the juicy goodness.

They bought sacks of kettle corn, too, and got geaux cups filled with strawberry daiquiris. The thing about New Orleans was, the city prided itself on the fact that you could drink on the street and shoot from your car.

“Mnn,” said Ava, as she crunched away. “The parade.” She held up a deep-fried prawn to underscore her point. “We can't miss the big parade.”

They hustled over to infamous Bourbon Street, where crowds had congregated outside the myriad bars and strip clubs. The countdown to Halloween had officially begun and the entire French Quarter looked as if it had been decorated by Bela Lugosi. Sunset had long retreated, while darkness crept in like a malevolent spirit. Victorian streetlights glowed and every nook and cranny seemed ready for a ghoul or goblin to take up residence.

Carmela and Ava jostled through the costumed crowd and found a spot practically right in front of Dr. Boogie's Music Bar.

“This is the life, huh?” said Ava. “Imagine if you lived in a one-horse town where bingo or bowling were the only big-time entertainment?”

“I'd for sure miss this brand of craziness,” Carmela admitted. “I really would.” She wished Babcock could be here with her, instead of out rubbing shoulders with lowlifes. Or chasing around with a magnifying glass and a Sherlock Holmes hat, or whatever he did when he was trying to solve a major crime. The whole spectacle tonight was over the top and fizzing with excitement. Typical fare for the Big Easy, where the livin' really was easy and nothing short of murder was considered a sin. Or if it was, confession and the ear of a forgiving priest were always a short hop away.

“Here come the bands and the funeral hearses!” cried Ava.

They could hear the high, tinny sound of a marching band tuning up. And pretty soon, the Crescent City High Steppers came into view. They clopped down the street in formation, playing a souped-up, swing version of Aaron Neville's “Tell It Like It Is.” The brass trumpets blared and the bass drum boomed so loudly Carmela could feel it reverberate in the pit of her stomach.

And then, driving in a slow, stately manner, two abreast, came the hearses. There were shiny black hearses, bronze hearses, and ivory hearses. Hearses decorated with black crepe and bunches of lilies. There was even an antique hearse with a casket in back. In that one, the lid opened and closed while a real person (in gory makeup, of course) peeped out and waved as parade watchers cheered and roared.

“And now the doomsday vehicles,” said Ava.

This was a whole different category. Some were Humvees that had been tricked out with fake guns and long protruding spikes, one was a VW bug that had been painted gunmetal gray, jacked up on enormous tires, and had plastic alligators glued all over it.

There was another snappy marching band, a couple of Halloween-themed floats from the Rex krewe, and then the long-awaited parade of zombies.

“This is what I've been waiting for,” said Ava. She cupped a hand to one ear. “Listen to that.”

A low moaning and groaning rose up to greet them as hundreds of zombies, all in full makeup and tattered regalia, trundled down the street. They limped, gimped, and lurched their way along, their moans getting louder and more plaintive. All wore garish gray and green makeup, tattered clothes, and gobs of red paint that had been haphazardly spattered on. Most of them had fake blood dripping out of their mouths. One enterprising zombie even had fake entrails strung around his neck, and another carried his pet rat and kept holding it up as if to take a chomp out of it.

“The animal rights folks are gonna be all over him,” said Ava.

“Do you recognize anyone?” Carmela asked. All the zombies were friends and locals that had been improbably raised from their fitful slumber.

“Miguel should be somewhere in this horde,” said Ava. “Jeez, it just occurred to me. I probably should have sponsored him.”

“You can sponsor a zombie?” said Carmela.

“Yeah. For fifty bucks you can hang a cardboard sign on your zombie's back. You know, to advertise your charity or business.”

“Good to know,” said Carmela. She was already wondering who she could cajole into wearing green makeup and super gross clothing next year. Babcock? No way. Gabby? Hardly.

“Maybe
we
should dress up as zombies next year,” Carmela said as they watched the parade hobble by. When you got past the moaning and groaning and fake bloody entrails, they did seem like a fairly congenial bunch.

“I don't know,” said Ava. “Some things are often better in theory. Case in point, joining a gym or doing actual physical activity.”

“I hear you there.”

When the zombie parade had pretty much petered out, Ava said, “You want to go watch the ‘Thriller' dance-off contest?”

“Why not?” said Carmela.

But the dance-off, held near the French Market, turned out to be just a couple dozen or so costumed zombies herking and jerking to Michael Jackson's “Thriller.”
And the dancers weren't even that good.

“Aw, they're not even as good as
Lord of the Dance
,” Ava observed.

They wandered back toward Jackson Square. Near the Pontalba Apartments they encountered a troupe of six zombies who were putting on a street performance. They tumbled and jumped, juggled, and one guy was even a fire-eater.

“If downing buckets of Cajun food doesn't give you heartburn,” said Ava, “then watching that guy swallow his flame burger surely will.”

Fascinated by the act, they moved closer.

“There's their sign,” said Carmela, squinting. “The Post-Mortem Street Performers.” There was also a brown felt hat, turned upside down in front of their sign. Naturally, Carmela and Ava both tossed in a couple of dollar bills.

“They're not bad,” said Ava. “In fact, that one guy, the fire-eater, is kind of cute.”

“If you don't mind a certain crispy aesthetic,” said Carmela.

“What I'm thinking,” said Ava, twirling of lock of hair, “is that we should go to the Zom Prom after all.” The Zom Prom was a late-night dance party being held in the ballroom at the Hotel Tremont. The Hotel Tremont was purported to be haunted and guests had been known to run screaming from their rooms in the middle of the night. Definitely Ava's kind of place.

“The Zom Prom's not exactly in my plans,” said Carmela. “After all, this is a school night. We both have to get up tomorrow and work and . . . oh crap.” She took a step sideways, as if she wanted to disappear. And then hesitated. Caught like a rat in a trap!

“What?” said Ava, seeing Carmela's distress.

Carmela sighed, knowing it was too late to duck into a bar or dash across the street.

“I can't believe this!” the countess trilled as she rushed up to greet her. “We meet again!” She wore a camel jacket with a black cashmere shawl thrown over it. The aroma that came off her was a mingle of Joy, once touted as the world's most expensive perfume, and good old bourbon.

“Hi,” said Carmela, showing a bare minimum of enthusiasm.

“Excuse me, did you really just say
countess
?” Ava's head spun in Carmela's direction. She seemed just this side of intrigued.

Carmela made hasty, albeit reluctant introductions. Then she turned to Ava and, enunciating carefully to send a clear message, said, “The countess is moving into the Oddities space next door to me.”

“Ohhh,” said Ava. Smart girl that she was, she'd immediately figured out Carmela's subtext. In other words, this lady standing in front of them was the cuckoo new neighbor. “And what sort of shop are you opening?” Ava asked, just to be polite.

“Gems and jewels,” gushed the countess. “A mix of premier pieces handcrafted by contemporary designers, as well as a nice selection of estate jewelry.” She pointed to the silver bat-wing earrings that dangled from Ava's ears. “You know, we'll be offering a tasty collection of Victorian funeral jewelry, too. If that happens to be your cup of tea.”

“I'll have to check it out,” Ava said. “Nothing like fine design that's been ripped from the crypt.”

“Maybe you could come to my grand opening,” purred the countess.

“Is your husband here tonight?” Carmela asked. She was curious as to why the countess was wandering the streets of the French Quarter all by her lonesome. After all, she was new in town and supposedly didn't know very many people. On the other hand, that's the reason why lots of people
did
wander the streets of the French Quarter. New in town and . . . well, you get the idea.

The countess waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, François is around here somewhere.” She peered intently at Carmela. “It was so interesting meeting your boyfriend last night. The dedicated and rather intense Detective Babcock.”

“The boy's a real charmer,” said Ava. “A cross between Kojak and George Clooney.”

“I was wondering,” continued the countess. “Has your handsome detective made any progress in solving the Joubert murder? Or the related case of that stolen death mask?”

“I haven't spoken with him today,” said Carmela. “But I'm confident Detective Babcock is working diligently on both investigations. He always does.” Why was she suddenly droning on like Jack Webb in
Dragnet
? And why was she getting that continued weird vibe from the countess? Was it just because the woman was incredibly obnoxious . . . or was something else going on?

“I have a small tip I'd like to offer your Detective Babcock,” said the countess. “And I'd appreciate your passing it on.”

“What's that?” said Carmela.

“That antique dealer that's located just down the block?” said the countess. She gazed at Carmela with wide eyes and swinging earrings. “I'm afraid that person is
highly
unethical in his business dealings.”

“You mean James Stanger?” Carmela was taken aback. She didn't really think Stanger had anything to hide. He might act all prim and proper, but deep down he was an Iowa farm boy who'd spent six months in England, and come back with a fake accent and a hoity-toity sales shtick. The important thing, however, was that Stanger had never struck her as being unethical.

The countess waggled a finger at Carmela. “I'll have you know James Stanger has skirted the law
multiple
times.”

Was this just a wild accusation, Carmela wondered, or did Countess Crazy really know something? There was only one way to find out, and that was to call her bluff. “Skirted the law. In what way?”

The countess brightened, obviously eager to spill the beans as well as a little pent-up vitriol. “Stanger has been accused multiple times of bringing in
illegal
antiquities. Why, you probably don't even know this, but your friend Stanger was involved in a
huge
flap with the Chinese government!”

“And how would you know that?” Carmela didn't put much stock in these blanket accusations. They amounted to nothing more than character assassination.

“Oh, my dear,” said the countess, practically chortling now. “I may have just moved here from Palm Beach, but I
do
keep up with all the latest news in the world of art and antiquities.”

“And you're saying that Stanger made news?” said Carmela.

“Absolutely, he did,” said the countess. “Which is why I wouldn't put it past him to murder your friend Joubert. Stanger is unethical and highly dangerous. And you realize he desperately wanted that little piece of real estate for himself.”

It was interesting, thought Carmela. The countess was furiously bad-mouthing Stanger, while just yesterday Stanger had pointed his finger at Joubert, accusing
him
of illegal and unsavory deals. What a round robin of wild accusations. Who should she believe? Everyone or no one?