Gossamer Ghost (14 page)

“When is that anyway?”

“Thursday night. Hey, you wanna come along?” She reached over and plucked excitedly at Carmela's sleeve, causing her to swerve dangerously toward the sidewalk and Big Bubba's Rib Joint, almost knocking over a homemade sign that said,
Ribs Come and Git Em. Grits too.
“You have to come with me,
cher
, it's going to be quite the spectacle. I've got a group of almost twenty people who've signed up, and I just hired a professional werewolf to pop out and terrify everyone!”

“How could I possibly resist a werewolf?”

“A big hairy guy with flashing eyes and gnashing teeth. What's not to love?”

Carmela glanced in her rearview mirror. “Are those dresses still okay?”

“Hanging in there.”

“There sure is an awful lot going on this week,” said Carmela. “I mean, the Pumpkins and Bumpkins Ball is the same night as your cemetery tour.”

Ava nodded. “It is. But you've got your tickets, right? And Babcock's coming, too?”

“That's the plan,” said Carmela, knowing he would try to back out of it. “For now anyway.”

*   *   *

Dragging the dresses behind her, Carmela burst into her apartment just as the phone started to ring. Vaulting over a leather ottoman, she fended off Boo's and Poobah's excited advances and plucked up the receiver just as her caller was about to be kicked over to voice mail.

“Hello?” She hoped it was her hottie patottie boyfriend.

It was.

“Hey,” he said.

Carmela, who was still in a playful, upbeat mood, said, “Is this a booty call or do you have something really important to tell me?”

“Carmela, please. Don't we mean more to each other than that?”

“I don't know,” said Carmela. “You roar up in your big shiny car, don't come in to meet the folks . . . you tell me what your motives really are.”

“The only time I'm in a hurry is when I'm in a squad car, lights and siren.”

“Is that so?”

“All kidding aside,” said Babcock, “I did stumble across an interesting little nugget of information today. Your buddy Stanger . . .”

“Hold it right there,” said Carmela. “Stanger is not my buddy.”

“Well, good, because it would appear that James Stanger has been in some deep doo-doo with the Commies. You know, the guys in the little blue Mao suits with the red books?”

“You're referring to the Chinese government? The People's Republic of China?”

“Oh, you want to be politically correct?” said Babcock. “Yes, with the PRC.”

“Let me guess . . . does this have to do with the importation of Chinese antiquities?”

“What?” Babcock sounded surprised. “How did you know about that?”

“I ran into that phony countess again last night,” said Carmela. “And, like, five seconds into our meeting she started railing about Stanger. About how he was some kind of smuggler.” She paused and thought about all the Chinese artwork in Stanger's shop. “So tell me about this importation law.”

“I'm no expert,” said Babcock, “but it turns out the Chinese passed a law several years ago that prohibits exportation of any Chinese antiques after 1972. In other words, no more art treasures are supposed to leave their country.”

“But the art still is. Leaving, I mean.” Carmela knew that, besides French and English antiques, the French Quarter was stuffed to the rafters with Chinese art. There were probably more crates full of it in dozens of dealers' back rooms, too.

“Like everything else,” said Babcock, “there are a few sneaky ways to skirt that law.”

“Such as?”

“If your merchandise comes from a government-approved dealer and carries an official government export stamp you're apparently in the clear.”

“That's interesting,” said Carmela, “because I see Chinese antiques all over the place. Carved screens, blue and white vases, jade statues, you name it. And I've yet to hear anything about an official export stamp.”

“Well, there you go,” said Babcock. “I guess there are scofflaws in China, too. Lord knows, we have enough of them in New Orleans.”

“So what exactly are you saying?” said Carmela. “That Stanger has no scruples in dealing with stolen artwork?”

“I'm guessing he doesn't have any scruples about anything.”

“Which means he's sitting squarely on your hit list?”

“He's on my
possibles
list.”

“Your list is getting longer and longer,” said Carmela.

“Only because you keep making suggestions,” said Babcock. “
You're
the one who keeps adding to it.”

“Face it, you need my help.”

“No, I really don't.”

“Then why exactly did you call?”

“To try to get out of going to that stupid Halloween ball?”

“No way,” said Carmela. “You promised to take me to the Pumpkins and Bumpkins Ball and I'm holding you to it.” She hadn't been all that excited about going, but now it somehow seemed important to her. “You're going and that's the end of it.”

“Even if I have official business?”

“Sweetie,” said Carmela, “this
is
official business.”

H
ALLOWEEN
in New Orleans was not relegated to one saccharine night of miniature Kit Kats and Snickers dominated by pint-sized superheroes and tiny princesses. In fact, this Tuesday morning at Memory Mine, Carmela and Gabby were proving that the grown-ups could party with the best of them.

“Reach for the sky, Bonnie Parker. This town ain't big enough for the both of us,” Gabby joked. She pulled a silver six-gun from the holster that was slung around her gingham cowgirl dress and aimed it at Carmela.

Carmela, dressed in a camel-colored beret, canary sweater, and black pencil skirt, played along. “With the size of this crowd, I'm thinking this
store
isn't big enough.”

Gabby reached for a packet of silver beads, then did a pirouette and grabbed a roll of silk ribbon. Even though it was midmorning, Memory Mine was crowded and nearly filled to its designated fire-code limit. Customers jostled for albums, colored markers, paper, ink, and cardstock while Carmela and Gabby worked hard to accommodate them.

As Gabby rang up a stack of embossed paper, she turned to Carmela and said, “Is Babcock going to play the handsome Clyde Barrow to your Bonnie?”

Carmela looked thoughtful. “Maybe, maybe not. He claims he's beaucoup busy and is already trying to beg his way out of the Pumpkins and Bumpkins Ball.”

“He's out there fighting the good fight,” said Gabby. “So I'd kind of have to agree with him.”

“I know, but . . .” Carmela sighed.

Gabby dropped her voice. “Are there any breaks in the investigation? Any new clues?”

Carmela debated her words for about one second. “Our friend down the street . . .”

Gabby shook her head, not quite understanding.

“You know,” said Carmela. Then, under her breath, she said,
“Antiques? Stanger?”

Gabby bobbed her head, catching on. “Oh,
him
.”

“Turns out he's broken a few laws on the importation of Asian antiquities.”

Gabby's brows lifted in surprise. “So Babcock's looking into that?”

“Says he is.”

“But Stanger could never have . . . well, you know.” She was referring to the murder of Joubert.

“That's right,” said Carmela. “I don't know. But I intend to find out.” She hustled over to a paper bin where three women seemed to be in an argument over the last few sheets of orange foil paper.

“Can I offer any help?” Carmela asked.

While all three women jabbered at once, Carmela reached into a storage bin and pulled out fat stacks of paper that featured skull motifs, bats, and witches' hats. Problem settled via inventory.

“Everything okay?” Gabby asked, as Carmela scooted back to the front counter.

“It is now.”

“So how goes the hunt for your vintage wedding gowns?”

“Oh, I meant to tell you,” said Carmela. “We found them. Last night. Horrible gowns, really, but they're going to be perfect once we distress them and turn them into ghost costumes.”

Gabby practically giggled. “How on earth are you going to manage that? Wave your magic wand?”

“For one thing, we already dragged the gowns behind my car.”

“That must have been quite a sight.”

“Yeah,” said Carmela. “As you might expect, Ava was in her element, laughing and screaming and hanging out the window, waving to folks like she was grand marshal of the Bacchus Parade. She could have filled up her entire social calendar, what with all the men hollering back at her.”

“You two,” said Gabby.

“I'm still not sure what was so interesting about a couple of gals dragging ugly wedding gowns down the street, but men were practically hanging in the trees to get a look.”

“I think it was the ripped angle,” said Gabby. “A torn dress bodice to men is like blood in the water to sharks. They can smell it for miles.”

“You seem to have a real feel for this.” Carmela chuckled. “Maybe I should be making a ghost dress for you, too.”

“Pass,” said Gabby.

More customers came bounding into the shop. One was a woman named Samantha who was one of their regulars. She pushed her way directly to the counter and said, “Carmela, I am in
desperate
need of your help.”

“Of course,” said Carmela. She stepped smartly around the counter. “What can I show you?”

“It's more your creative ideas that I need,” said Samantha. “I'm having a Halloween party and I want to serve vampire wine.”

“Okay,” said Carmela. It wasn't the strangest request she'd ever heard.

“Let me rephrase that,” said Samantha. “I want
labels
that say
Vampire Wine
.”

“Gotcha. I'm guessing this is red wine in standard wine bottles?”

“Sure.”

“Here's what I'm thinking,” said Carmela. “Let's grab a couple of rubber stamps . . .” Her fingers danced along the shelves. “This one of a spooky castle and this one depicting a caped vampire.”

“Ooh, I like it already.”

Carmela snatched up a sheet of purple cardstock and a sheet of Gothic transfer letters. “First we'll spell out
Vampire Wine
on the cardstock, then use our rubber stamps to make a vampire montage. And maybe shade it judiciously with a red pen. Then you just cut your label to size and have it color copied. You need, what? Maybe ten labels?”

“Six would do it,” said Samantha.

“In that case, just sit right down at the back table. And once you have your label figured out, I'll scan it into my computer and print out your six colored sheets.”

“Just like that?”

Carmela smiled. “I could make it trickier if you want.”

“No,” said Samantha. “This sounds just fine.”

*   *   *

Carmela decided to take advantage of a small lull to retreat to her office and work a bit more on designs for the countess's logo. As she sat down at her desk, she felt a little shudder run through her. There was something about the countess that made her uneasy. She wasn't sure if it was the woman's pretentiousness or if she sensed real danger, but the sooner she was done with this project the better.

She doodled a few ideas, playing with the notion of using the yellow and red colors of the Borgia family crest. The colors worked beautifully together and a crest motif was always classy and upscale. She sketched dutifully for ten minutes until she had a design she liked.

Okay. So I've got the earlier ring logo and now the crest logo. What else?

Carmela set to drawing again, this time sketching a Roman skyline with the word
Lucrezia
written in sinister-looking calligraphy. With the name wrapping around the dome of St. Peter's Basilica, it looked as if the entire expanse of Rome was Lucrezia's property. And maybe, a long time ago, in Renaissance times, that wasn't so far from the truth.

Carmela worked up the two designs, printed out wine labels for Samantha, and managed to wolf down a chicken salad sandwich that Gabby set on her desk. Finally, just after noon, Carmela ducked out of Memory Mine with a quick reconnaissance mission in mind.

*   *   *

Carmela had never visited a pawn shop before and she was finding it fairly fascinating. Sparks Pawn Shop had a scuffed hardwood floor, buzzing fluorescent lights, and rows of heavy-duty metal shelves running down the length of the rectangular room. Each shelf was piled high with a mishmash of stuff: lawn mowers, shiny purple electric guitars, chain saws, battery starters, golf clubs, and musical instruments. On the floor in back was a stack of ocean-going kayaks. Another two rows of shelving were dominated by enormous towers of stereo equipment—speakers, receivers, and equalizers, everything piled to the ceiling.

Probably, she decided, when iPods and iPhones and MP3 players came into existence, these massive black stereo components were rendered virtually useless.

So who would buy them now? Maybe a garage band? Although didn't today's music-obsessed youth know how to record and even edit music tracks right on their computers? Or even on their mobile phones? Sure they did.

A woman with a beehive hairdo glanced up from the glossy pages of
Star Whacker
magazine. “Help you?” she asked. She was wearing gold glitter eye shadow and fake eyelashes that made her look like she had tarantulas perched about her eyes. At first glance, Carmela thought the woman might be in costume. But no, this was how she normally looked. Well, not
really
normal, but there you have it.

“I'm just looking around,” Carmela told her.

“Suit yourself.” Tarantula Lady stuck her nose back in her gossip magazine.

Carmela wandered around some more and found herself gazing at a stack of oil paintings, a few lamps, and some candelabras.

So Johnny Sparks does carry some quasi art and antiques.

The next aisle over was sporting goods. Piles of water skis, baseball bats, fishing rods, and croquet sets were stacked on shelves next to . . .

What is this?

Carmela reached to the back of the shelf and shoved a mound of bicycle helmets out of the way. And smiled when she found a long blue and white fiberglass board with a large shark fin. A paddleboard.

Carmela had seen people using them on Cane River Lake up in Natchitoches. It looked like fun and was supposed to be terrific exercise, especially for your core muscles. And the trim ladies in their skimpy bikinis always looked so tan and athletic as they glided along on their paddleboards. At least they did on TV.

Then again, where would she actually go paddleboarding? Lake Pontchartrain was filled with hotdoggers in speedboats and if she ventured out onto the Mississippi, she'd probably get mowed down by a barge.

So . . . paddleboarding in the bayou? Somehow, the idea of a big old alligator swimming silently up behind her was enough to make her rethink the merits of a nice safe hot-yoga class. She pushed the board back and moved on.

As she perused a pile of camera gear, Carmela caught a glimpse of a thin, round-shouldered man emerging from the back of the shop. Was this Johnny Sparks? She tried to steal a few nonchalant glances at him. She vaguely remembered his face from a grainy picture she'd found on the Internet.

Yes, it had to be him. He was the epitome of an unsavory character—bad teeth, bad skin, bad comb-over. His narrow face was pulled into a twisted grimace that made him look like he'd just discarded a hunk of Limburger cheese.

Carmela moved over to a glass case filled with surprisingly upscale jewelry and watches, figuring this might attract his attention. She set her phone down on the counter, bent her head, and studied a glittering tray of watches.

Sparks came charging at her like a lunker after a piece of bait. A crocodile smile crept across his face as he said, “See something you like?”

“That silver Cartier is awfully nice.”

His smile widened, though it wasn't the least bit warm or endearing.

“Excellent choice,” said Sparks. He slid open a panel behind the case, reached in, and brought out the watch. His fingernails were spotlessly clean, but the nail on his little finger was at least an inch longer than the others and ended in a sharp point.

Setting the watch down on a black velvet display pad, Sparks launched into his sales pitch. “This watch is actually white gold, which has a far richer glow than sterling silver.”

“It's nice,” said Carmela, slipping the tank watch onto her wrist.

“Now, if you like analog, I've also got a ladies Rolex.” Sparks removed a glittering Rolex from the display case and dangled it enticingly. “Very gently used. This beauty is a mix of eighteen karat gold and stainless steel with a pavé diamond bezel. Far superior to the Cartier.”

“It's beautiful,” Carmela said, because it was. She handed him back the Cartier.

“If you're in the market for a top-of-the-line timepiece,” said Sparks, “nothing's gonna beat a Rolex. Holds its value like nothing else.”

“How much is it?”

Sparks frowned. “Ohhh . . . I could probably let you have it for around six. Thousand.”

Dollars? Is this guy crazy?

“It's a gorgeous watch,” said Carmela.

“If it's not exactly what you have in mind,” said Sparks, “just tell me what model you're interested in. I've got lots of connections and can put my hands on pretty much anything you want.”

I'll bet you can.

“What about artwork? Or antiques?” said Carmela. She tried to keep her voice low key. “You ever handle things like that?”

“Art, huh? I could tell you were a high-class broad just by looking at you,” Sparks said. “Yeah, you never know, I get some of this, some of that. What exactly are you in the market for? That way I can kinda keep an eye out.”

“I collect antique dog statues, mostly bronze,” said Carmela.

Sparks was nodding. “Yeah, I come across those once in a while.”