Gossamer Ghost (12 page)

“I think he might have handled a few paintings and bronze statues, too.” Mavis shrugged. “But everybody in the French Quarter does that. Antiques, estate jewelry . . . it's basically our bread and butter.”

Carmela nodded. She had an inkling that there might be a connection there. “Go through your records, will you?” she urged. “See what you can come up with on the origin of the mask. And try to figure out if Marcus had any business dealings with Stanger.”

“Now you've got me wondering,” said Mavis. “So I'll for sure take a look.”

Carmela glanced around. “Just out of curiosity,” she said, “now that you've had a chance to look through the inventory—is there anything missing from the shop?”

Mavis threw her a nervous glance. “I wouldn't exactly call it inventory, Carmela. But there is one thing.”

“What's that?”

“I kind of hate to mention this, because I think it might be illegal.”

“Mavis, tell me,” said Carmela. “What else is missing?”

Mavis practically cringed. “A gun.”

“What!”

She waved her hands in a nervous arc. “Marcus always kept a gun here, a small revolver. Or maybe it was a pistol. I don't know the difference.” She shivered. “I don't really know anything about handguns at all.”

“Where did Marcus keep this gun?”

Mavis pointed at the rolltop desk. “In the bottom left drawer of his desk.”

“And now it's gone. You're sure it's gone?”

“Yes.”

“Did you tell Detective Babcock about this?”

“No, I just discovered it was missing. Like . . . twenty minutes ago. Just before you came in.”

“Well, call him, will you?”

Mavis shuffled a foot and looked reluctant.

“You have to call him,” said Carmela.

“Okay,” said Mavis. “Okay.”

“Do you want me to talk to him, too?”

“Would you?” said Mavis.

*   *   *

“How goes it over there?” asked Gabby, as Carmela sailed through the front door.

“Sad. Depressing.” Carmela had gone over to give a pep talk and had returned with the wind knocked out of her sails.

“Well, hang on to your hat,” said Gabby as she rang up a customer. “Because it's like old home week here. If you could maybe . . .” She nodded toward the back of the shop where four women were busily loading paper, rubber stamps, and ribbon into their shopping baskets.

“No problem.”

Carmela hustled over to her customers. “Help you?” she said, a friendly chirp that was meant for all four of them. “With anything?”

One of the customers, a woman with a bouncy brown ponytail, said, “Me. Please.” She wore a neat caramel-colored leather jacket with matching boots and blue jeans.

“What do you need?” Carmela asked.

“I have a ten-year-old son who's crazy over pirates,” said the woman. “And for Halloween, I wanted to make him something special. Like . . . a pirate scrapbook. Except I don't quite know what that is.”

“You have photos of him dressed as a pirate?” Carmela asked.

“About a dozen.” She tore open an envelope. “See?”

Carmela smiled at the photos. The boy wore a tricornered black hat, eye patch, quasi-military jacket, and black buckle boots. In some poses he brandished a saber, in others he held up a Jolly Roger flag. “Cute,” said Carmela. “So maybe . . .” She was already looking at her stack of albums, wondering which one would work best. “Okay, this one.” She pulled out an eight-by-ten-inch album that had a black embossed cover and about a dozen black pages inside.

“Cool,” said the woman. “But what do we do with it?”

“This cover already looks like it's been aged,” said Carmela. “So let's go with that theme and attach a ribbon and brass button to it . . . something that looks like it was stolen from the royal treasury.” She grabbed a plastic packet and showed it to the woman. “This button's got a nice crown motif.”

“I like it,” said the woman.

“Then we take the inside pages and kind of rough up the edges.”

“Make it look used.”

“That's right,” said Carmela. “Now over here where we have our rubber stamps . . .”

“You can stamp on black paper?” asked the woman.

“Sure, especially if you're using gold, silver, or even bronze-colored inks. Ah, here's a rubber stamp of an old sailing ship and here's one of an old-fashioned compass. And over here . . .” They moved over toward the floor-to-ceiling racks of paper.

“Map paper?” asked the woman.

“Exactly,” said Carmela. She pulled out a sheet of paper that depicted an old sepia-colored map. “And here's some paper with sailing ships—galleons, really—and another map. Oh, and sea monsters. We can't forget them.”

“This is all absolutely perfect,” said the woman.

“I've got a couple more items to suggest,” said Carmela. “How about a small Jolly Roger decal and a bronze treasure chest key.”

“Perfect. I would never have dreamt this up on my own,” said the woman. “How can I thank you?”

“Just have fun making your scrapbook,” said Carmela. “And come back and see us again real soon.”

“I will,” said the woman as she carried her loot up to the front desk.

Carmela helped another woman pick out some water-based metallic markers. Then she showed her how to apply the markers to a piece of glossy black cardstock, spritz on some distilled water, and then swirl the colors around to create a marbleized metallic effect.

When things finally settled down to a dull roar, when Carmela finally got a break, she went into her office, fully intending to do work on a commercial scrapbook for her friend Jade Germaine. Jade was starting her own tea party business called Tea Party in a Box, and she planned to cater tea parties for bridal showers, book clubs, and garden clubs in her customers' homes. She'd given Carmela several photos of three-tiered trays that displayed the most delicious-looking tea sandwiches, as well as photos of teacups, teapots, and elegant tea tables that she had decorated. Her album would be her calling card to show customers her work and convince them to hire her.

Carmela was thinking about doing a pink and green theme, and using a cream-colored album that would have ribbon ties in those same colors.

On the other hand . . .

Carmela spun around in her chair, barely noticing the swatches of paper, snips of ribbon, and scribbled page sketches she had tacked to her office walls.

There was the question of Johnny Sparks.

She'd vowed to do a little research on the man. And now was as good a time as any. In fact, time was probably of the essence. With a hasty glance over her shoulder, Carmela scrunched down in front of her computer and Googled Johnny Sparks.

What she found didn't really surprise her.

Sparks had been in trouble any number of times. He'd been accused of handling stolen merchandise, he was constantly in arrears on his property taxes, and had even been in trouble with the state of Louisiana for failing to pay proper withholding taxes on his employees. Nice guy.

It was also interesting that, even though Sparks had been arrested numerous times, nothing had ever really stuck.

Carmela decided that Sparks was either a tricky guy or a smart guy. Trouble seemed to slide off his back like he was Teflon-coated. Maybe he had excellent lawyers, maybe he was masterful at covering or obliterating his tracks, or maybe he was just plain lucky and always caught a break. Or perhaps, as Babcock had hinted, he had somebody on the inside, watching out for him. She'd have to quiz Babcock about this. If he deigned to share the teensiest bit of information with her, that is.

On a wild impulse, Carmela also ran a Google search on James Stanger. She didn't find much. Mostly his website, Facebook page, a few articles where he was mentioned, and a nice article about a charity event at the New Orleans Museum of Art where Stanger had donated an antique French clock to their silent auction. Just as she was about to quit her search, she stumbled upon some sort of document from an organization called the USITC.

The what?

The USITC turned out to be the United States International Trade Commission. What Carmela found was a wordy document, heavy with legalese and lots of heretofors and heretowiths. But the gist of it seemed to imply that James Stanger had purportedly violated a number of import-export laws. She continued to search through the document, but never did find anything specific. No glaring accusation that stated “James Stanger single-handedly ransacked a Ming tomb and stole eight thousand life-sized carved figures.”

So maybe his dealings had just caused a misunderstanding? Carmela knew that doing business with China could be fraught with problems. There were rules, regulations, taxes, and tariffs on both sides of the Pacific. There was the matter of
guanxi
, or tea money. Which was basically a bribe or tribute. Depending, of course, on whether you were the briber or the bribee.

Carmela chuckled to herself. What had Gabby said earlier? That business used to be more genteel? Perhaps it had, but not anymore, baby. This new leaner, scarier economy carried a whole new set of non-rules. It was the Wild West out there and you'd better watch out.

Reaching for her phone, Carmela dialed Babcock's cell number. She got him on the fourth ring, just before she was dumped to voice mail.

“What, Carmela?” Babcock said.

“And a deliciously good morning to you, too,” she replied.

“Sweetheart, I am so swamped,” said Babcock. He sounded swamped. And a little perplexed. “Please tell me this is super important.”

“It is,” said Carmela. “Did Mavis call you about the gun?”

There was stunned silence and then Babcock said, “Gun? What gun?”

C
ARMELA
hastened to explain. “Apparently, along with Napoleon's death mask, a gun was stolen from Oddities.”

“First I've heard,” said Babcock. Now he sounded ticked off. “Nice that your friend Mavis didn't bother to report that crucial fact.”

“I think she's in such a dither over Joubert's murder and the stolen death mask controversy that she didn't realize the gun was missing until just this morning.”

“You were over there?”

“I was,” said Carmela. “Just to peek in on Mavis and see how things were going. She's packing everything up
tout de suite
. Our Snidely Whiplash of a landlord handed her an eviction notice.”

Babcock made a sound like air moving through his front teeth. “That's tough.”

“No, it's heartbreaking,” said Carmela. “The poor girl has enough to deal with.”

“You've taken quite an interest in her,” said Babcock. “Or, should I say, you've taken her under your wing.”

“I didn't set out to, but Mavis doesn't seem to have anyone else.”

“My sweet Carmela. You're always the champion of stray cats and dogs, aren't you? And turtles that wander across the road.”

“Well . . . yes. Is there something wrong with that?” Of course she helped turtles. Who
wouldn't
rescue a turtle?

“Not a thing. It's just that you tend to get emotionally involved in these little mini-dramas.”

“Not dramas, more like real life.”

“Same thing,” said Babcock. “At least from a police perspective.”

“By the way,” said Carmela. “I think James Stanger might have had a meeting with Johnny Sparks last night.”

Babcock practically exploded. “What are you talking about?” Then, “Carmela, have you been investigating? When I specifically warned you
not
to?”

“No, it's nothing like that,” she lied. “I just happened to make an innocent observation. I was walking my dogs last night and saw Stanger sort of lingering in front of Johnny Sparks's place. You know, the one we walked past the other night.” She paused. “I'm thinking they might have had a meeting planned.”

“That's your take? Just from catching a glimpse of Stanger on the sidewalk in an area where he lives and works?”

“A meeting is not outside the realm of possibility,” said Carmela. She was a little stung by Babcock's dismissiveness. “I also just learned from Mavis that Joubert and Stanger didn't get along. That they pretty much hated each other.”

“A tiff between two antique dealers is hardly major news or a serious motive for murder. If that's where you're going with this.”

“Don't be so sure about that,” said Carmela. “I think Stanger could be up to no good. Or
was
up to no good. Could you run some sort of check on him?” She thought about the Chinese importation allegations she'd just read about. “Or put a tail on him?”

“We don't actually do things like that. That's only in cop movies. And only old movies starring Mel Gibson.”

“Okay, I'll just come right out and ask my question then. Is there any way that Sparks and Stanger could be in collusion?”

“I sincerely doubt it.”

“Why not?”

“Because that would be too nice and neat,” said Babcock. “In my line of work, nice and neat rarely happens. I'm used to nasty and messy.”

“Even if there's a lot of money involved? Jekyl seems to think a true Napoleon's death mask would be worth almost a million dollars.”

“Tell me about it. The mayor, two city council members, and a curator at the museum have all called to rag on me about this stolen death mask. Everybody's up in arms and wants a quick resolution.”

“Then we're all on the same page,” said Carmela.

“No, we're not. At least
you
aren't. Listen to me, Carmela. Whoever murdered Joubert and then snatched that death mask is a criminal of the worst kind.”

“Is there any other kind?”

“Be serious for a moment,” said Babcock. “Besides the obvious penalty for murder, the Justice Department's guidelines for a major art theft are rather harsh.”

“Oh?”

“It's a federal crime to, and I quote, ‘steal, receive, or dispose of any cultural object that's worth more than one hundred thousand dollars.'”

“What's the net-net on that penalty?” Carmela asked. “Like, life in some kind of federal penitentiary?”

“I'm not familiar with sentencing guidelines,” said Babcock. “But I can guarantee you it's a lot more than just a slap on the wrist.” He paused. “So stay out of this, okay?”

“Okay,” said Carmela. “I'll talk to you later.” She hung up, knowing that her tacit okay was not really an agreement to back off. Rather, it was just an
okay
okay. If that made any sense at all.

Feeling oddly unsettled, Carmela picked up a black marker and flipped open her sketch pad. She'd promised the countess that she'd work on a logo design for her new shop. Of course, she'd agreed to do the design work way before she knew what a crazy, uncharitable shrew the countess was. Now, just the
thought
of designing her logo felt like drudge work.

But a promise was a promise. And Carmela was a woman who kept her word. If she promised Jekyl she'd volunteer her time at the Children's Art Association, then doggone it, she'd be there. Or if a local charity needed a poster, she'd for sure design one. That's just who she was. A cross between a savvy entrepreneur and a do-gooder Girl Scout.

As Carmela doodled idly on her drawing pad, the creative juices started to flow and a few ideas popped into her head.

First Carmela sketched a logo that gave a quick nod to French heraldry. Her design, after a few hasty sketches, was a noble-looking lion set against a rampart of fleur-de-lis. With maybe a color combination of blue and gold?

On the other hand, the shop's name was Lucrezia. So maybe she should try to work something around that?

Let's see now, Lucrezia had been a femme fatale who lived in and around Rome during the Renaissance. That theme seemed ripe with symbols and metaphors. So what would work for an image of the Eternal City? The seven hills of Rome? Perhaps the Spanish Steps or some Roman architecture?

Carmela sketched a Roman column. It was interesting in a classical sort of way, but not all that compelling. In fact, she'd seen that sort of image many times before, especially on boxes of pasta. She needed something better, something that would tie in thematically.

Well . . . she knew that Lucrezia had been married several times and was reputedly a murderess and a Jezebel. And legend held that Lucrezia wore a hollow ring filled with poison that she would waft over someone's goblet if they fell out of favor with her. Carmela smiled to herself. Now
that
made for an interesting story as well as a provocative image.

Since this was a logo for a high-end jewelry store, wouldn't an ornate, medieval-looking ring be almost perfect?

Carmela continued to sketch, tightening up her designs, adding a few refinements. She grabbed a typeface book for inspiration, then sketched a ring, and scanned it into her computer.

She gazed at the image on her screen, made a few minor adjustments, then hit Print. When her page was spit out of the computer, she snatched it up and took it out to show Gabby.

“I like this,” Gabby said immediately. “It's edgy, but still right on the mark.”

Carmela smiled. From her years working in graphic design, designing labels for Bayou Bob products, she knew that first impressions were usually the best and most honest. You always went with your gut. Or, in this case, Gabby's well-toned gut.

“Yes,” Gabby said again. “A ring.” She tapped an index finger against the sketch. “It's elegant and jewel-encrusted, and feels very Renaissance.”

“That's exactly what I was going for,” said Carmela.

“I'd say you hit the nail right on the head.”

“I'm still going to work up a couple other ideas. Then, once we get an image that flies with the countess, it can be translated into signage, marketing materials, even business cards. Once that's all done, we can be done with
her
.”

“Not quite,” said Gabby. “Not if she's settling in as our next-door neighbor.”

“Let's hope the countess is the kind of neighbor who keeps to herself. Who doesn't want to get involved in block promotions or the exchange of customer lists. Or . . .” Carmela stopped abruptly. She looked over to see Boyd Bellamy fumbling at the front door. He fiddled with the doorknob, shook the glass until it rattled noisily, and then stomped his way in.

“Mr. Bellamy,” said Gabby, giving her best effort to present a friendly face to their notoriously cranky landlord. “How are you today?”

But Bellamy wasn't buying it. True to form, he was rude and ungracious to a fault. He ignored Gabby's friendly greeting and, instead, pointed a chubby finger directly at Carmela. “How many months have you got left on your lease?” he demanded.

Carmela rushed to confront him, waving an index finger back in Bellamy's face. “Not months,
years
. I have three years left on my current lease.” No way was she going to let herself be intimidated by this loudmouth boor.

“That's too bad,” Bellamy grunted. “Especially with space going for such a premium right now.” Bellamy was short and portly with watery blue eyes, vague wisps of reddish hair, and a nasty temper that was in perfect sync with his pugnacious-looking face. Carmela had always joked that Bellamy reminded her of a cross between a bulldog and a cottonmouth snake. Today, he was proving that it was a doable combination.

“You look upset,” Carmela needled him. “That can't be good for your blood pressure.” Bellamy was always complaining about his high blood pressure and all the pills he had to swallow to keep it in check. Small wonder when the man spent his days stalking the French Quarter, working himself into a frenzy as he terrorized tenants. Though for Bellamy, Carmela figured it was more sport than actual work.

Bellamy glanced around the interior of Memory Mine. “If I were to lease this space to an upscale boutique or wine bar, I could get top dollar. Maybe even three times what I'm currently charging you.”

Carmela crossed her arms in front of her. “Is that so.” One thing she had to admit about Bellamy, he always thought big. Big ideas, big money. And the man did have an uncanny knack for spotting trends.

“You wouldn't be interested in a sublease, would you?” Bellamy asked. “I could put you into a similar space, maybe even a little
more
space, over on Carondelet Street.”

“No,” said Carmela. “Absolutely not.”

“We're happy here,” said Gabby, finally finding the courage to speak up.

Bellamy sighed heavily as he stared out the front window. “Thank goodness I'm finally rid of that awful neighbor of yours,” he mumbled.

“You're referring to Marcus Joubert?” said Carmela.

Bellamy glanced back at her and nodded. “Biggest mistake of my life was leasing to that man. Terrible blight on the neighborhood.”

“Are you referring to Joubert's recent murder, or to his shop?” said Carmela.

Bellamy's faded eyes focused more tightly on her. “Both,” he snapped. “Good riddance to him, I say.”

Bellamy's nasty attitude toward Joubert raised Carmela's hackles even more. She wanted to walk up to him and give his chubby pink cheek a good smack with the back of her hand. Instead, fighting to hold her temper in check, she gritted her teeth and said, “It sounds like you're happy he's gone.”

“Not happy, overjoyed,” said Bellamy. He flashed a mirthless grin that revealed small, pointed teeth.

“That's not a very charitable attitude,” said Gabby.

“You're looking for charity?” barked Bellamy. “Go to church.” And with that last bit of venom dangling in the air, he dashed out the door. As fast as his chubby legs could carry him.

“That man is just horrible,” said Gabby. She shuddered and pulled her sweater around herself protectively, as if she could ward off the bad karma he spewed. “He's . . . he's not even Christian.”

“I think he's barely human,” said Carmela. This wasn't her first run-in with Boyd Bellamy and she knew it wouldn't be her last. Sooner or later he'd be back, trying to wheedle her with a sweet offer, or maybe threaten her with eviction. Whatever deal du jour struck him as opportune that day. On the plus side, that's why she kept a good, tough attorney on retainer. To keep the Big Bad Wolf away from the door.

But Gabby remained upset. “We're not going to move, are we? We're not going to be forced out?”

“Absolutely not,” said Carmela. “In fact, I'm going to call our attorney and have her eyeball our lease agreement, just in case Bellamy decides to try some kind of end run.”