Gossamer Ghost (16 page)

“Okay,” said Mavis. “I see where you're going with this. I'll go through everything again.”

“Good girl,” said Carmela. She saw that the reality of her words had caused Mavis to go a little numb. She hated to push Mavis any harder, but knew it was necessary. “The other thing I wanted to ask about—did you find any sort of connection between Joubert and Johnny Sparks?”

Mavis's eyes slid away and Carmela realized she'd hit a nerve.

“What?” said Carmela. “What did you find?”

“There was a necklace.”

“What kind of necklace? What about it?”

Now Mavis seemed reticent. “Apparently, Marcus bought some kind of diamond necklace at auction and then had Joubert sell it for him. On commission, I think.”

“Do you know the value of the necklace?”

Mavis hunched her shoulders. “I found a note that said three thousand dollars less nine hundred dollars' commission.”

Carmela made a quick calculation. Sparks had helped himself to a 30 percent commission. “So you're telling me that Joubert had Johnny Sparks sell a necklace for him?”
Or fence it.

“I guess so,” said Mavis.

“Why would he do that?”

“I don't know. Maybe Sparks had better connections?”

“This is all getting a little strange,” said Carmela. “Don't you agree?”

Mavis furrowed her brow. “It's all I think about,” she moaned. “How is this connected, how is that connected? Why was Marcus doing business with Johnny Sparks?”

Carmela was just as confused. There were too many strings all balled up into one unhappy package. Only problem was, if you pulled one string a couple of others seemed to unravel, too. And then there was the problem with the mask . . . or masks.

“Mavis,” said Carmela, “I'm still wondering how that death mask was stolen from your cabinet. It seemed like it had been fairly well hidden. Are you sure nobody else knew about it except you and Joubert?”

Mavis stared at her. “Actually . . .”

“Actually what?” said Carmela, pouncing on her words.

“Now that I've had time to think about it, I guess maybe I did show it to one person.”

“You're kidding.”

“Last Tuesday, I think it was. A week ago.”

“Who was it?” Carmela felt excitement fizzing up inside of her. If somebody else had seen the mask and suddenly gotten greedy, this could crack the case. If someone else knew about it,
they
could be the thief and killer! “Who was it you showed the mask to, Mavis? A potential buyer?”

“No, not a buyer.” Mavis made an unhappy face. “It was actually the landlord. Boyd Bellamy.”

C
ARMELA
did a double take that would have been comical if she hadn't been so stunned. “You showed Boyd Bellamy the death mask?” she sputtered out. “Why on earth would you do something like that?”

“Because I was trying to get him off our case,” said Mavis. She was suddenly defensive, her voice growing a little strident.

Carmela grabbed Mavis's sleeve and pulled her outside onto the sidewalk. “Go on. Keep talking.” A woman with a small collie dog walked by and they both hesitated.

When the woman and dog had passed, Mavis said, “You have to understand. We were way behind in our rent and Bellamy was literally breathing down our necks, threatening us with eviction. Marcus and I were planning a wedding and I saw our life just . . . well, evaporating. Anyway, I figured if I could convince Bellamy that the mask was going to sell for a lot of money, then maybe he'd back off and give us some leeway.”

Carmela was listening intently. “So . . . did he? I mean, was Bellamy impressed enough with the mask that he was willing to give you more time on the rent? Did he understand the mask's historical significance or . . . uh, monetary value?”

“He just sort of looked at it and nodded,” said Mavis. “Like he didn't really care.” Her eyes swam with tears and she brushed at them with her fingers. “You don't think Bellamy was the one who broke in, do you? That he came back and killed Marcus?”

“I don't know what to believe anymore,” said Carmela. “I supposed he could have, though it doesn't feel quite right.” Bellamy struck her as more of a cash-up-front type of guy.

Mavis hung her head. “You must think I'm really stupid. A stupid, trusting cow.”

“Not at all,” said Carmela, feeling a tinge of regret at giving Mavis's feelings a glancing ding. “I think you're a sweet, caring girl who's found herself smack-dab in the middle of a nasty situation she can't figure out.”

“The thing is, can
you
figure it out?” asked Mavis.

Carmela shook her head. “I don't know, honey, but I'm sure going to try.”

*   *   *

Carmela left Mavis on the street, looking sad and troubled, and hurried back inside Memory Mine. When she checked her crafters, it was Baby's turn to be swaddled in plaster bandages while Tandy squirted water at her. Their peals of raucous laughter were a welcome sound after Mavis's strange revelations and quiet pleadings.

Slipping behind the front counter, Carmela let her thoughts flash back to Boyd Bellamy. Had he seen the mask and, quick as a wink, made up his mind to swipe it? Had he come back, gotten into a nasty confrontation with Marcus Joubert, and then murdered him during an ensuing struggle? Or had it been someone else entirely? Someone who knew about the mask or had stumbled upon it. Like the uber-wealthy Titus Duval? Or the strange Countess Saint-Marche? Or the scheming Johnny Sparks?

Carmela's meditation on murder was interrupted by the ringing of the phone.

She snatched it up, trying to shift into chipper mode. “Memory Mine.”

“
Cher
, we're still going to the Witches' Run tonight, right?” It was Ava. And just hearing her upbeat voice caused Carmela to grin and her shoulders to unknot.

“Don't you ever just want to stay home? Crawl into your jammies and watch something on Netflix?”

“Nuts,” said Ava. “I can rest when I'm dead and stuck away in some spooky mausoleum that's hopefully kitty-corner from Commander's Palace so I can order in when I feel like it. But for right now, I want to party my brains out.”

“Ava . . .”

“Please, please, please, Carm. I'll even buy you dinner at Mumbo Gumbo.”

“Hmm . . . bribery will get you everywhere,” said Carmela. She knew Mumbo Gumbo would be jumping tonight and they did dish up some wicked gumbo and jambalaya.

“Hah,” said Ava. “I thought so. And
cher
 . . . ?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Wear something fun tonight, something a little kinky. Enough with that conservative Republican beige. Maybe try . . . a rubber dress?”

“You're incorrigible.”

“Yes, and I'm very corruptible, too.”

*   *   *

As soon at the masks were decorated—Tandy's with red zigzags that were almost tribal, and Baby's image with gold leaf—Carmela hastily straightened up the back table. There were lots of snips and snippets scattered around, what she like to call craftermath.

“Are you coming back to the French Quarter tonight?” Gabby called to her. “For the 5K and the parade?” Baby, Tandy, and Julie had just tumbled out the front door, giggling and waving their good-byes.

“I think so. You?”

Gabby shook her head. “No, Stewart's receiving some kind of award tonight from the local Rotary Club. For being a model citizen and selling, like, eight million Toyotas.”

“Eight million. Very impressive.”

“Well, maybe not
that
many.” She paused, a piece of peach-colored rice paper in her hands. “I feel sorry for Mavis. She seems like one of those poor misguided souls who never really finds their way in life.”

“You may be right.”

“So . . . perhaps we should help her?”

“I think,” said Carmela, “that we already are.”

*   *   *

Carmela was the last one out that night. As she turned her key in the lock, always mindful to latch the door carefully, she realized that she still felt haunted by the specter of murder next door. She walked a few steps down the sidewalk to Oddities and peered in the window. Where jade statues, antique weapons, and taxidermy animals had been displayed just days ago, now there were just dust balls. It felt like an entire year had passed since she'd peered in the window and noticed a faint light. Had heard that awful telltale thump.

Oh my, kind of like Poe's “Tell-Tale Heart”!

But it had been only four days.

Babcock was working his fingers to the bone, trying to solve Joubert's murder, but he didn't seem to be getting any closer. She'd been snooping around herself. And while she'd sniffed out a few rotten eggs—suspects, really—she hadn't drilled down to the heart of the matter. Who was the killer? Someone who freely walked the French Quarter? Someone who all the unsuspecting players were rubbing shoulders with?

The thought made her shiver.

So what to do? Go home, flake out for a while, and then go out with Ava again tonight? Well . . . she had promised her friend. And Babcock, that squirrel, was still complaining about how busy he was.

Which he really was, but that didn't mean she wasn't craving a little snuggle-bunny time with him.

Carmela looked through the darkened window again and sighed. Then she spun on her heels and fought to get her head clear. It was a lovely, late-October afternoon, crisp and cool, just a faint residual shimmer of sun off to the west in the darkening pinkish-purple sky. She strolled along slowly, thinking about Joubert's untimely death, thinking about possible suspects. Flickering gaslights were coming on in their old-fashioned wrought-iron stanchions, musicians were tuning up in nearby jazz clubs, neon lights were starting to buzz and blaze.

As an idea slowly took root in Carmela's brain, she picked up her pace and marched down the block to the Gilded Pheasant.

Unlike the desolation that hung over Oddities, James Stanger's front window glowed warmly and was chock-full of choice merchandise. Carmela gazed at an ornate French mantel clock, a painted Limoges vase, and a string of pistachio-colored Baroque pearls. There was a landscape oil painting, too, probably Northern European, that had to date to the seventeenth century. Everything looked very tasteful and elegant. And expensive.

When did Stanger start carrying such upscale pieces?
Carmela wondered. She'd had always thought of him as more of a second-tier art and antique dealer, but it looked like he'd seriously upgraded his merchandise of late.

Acting on impulse, Carmela climbed the two steps to his shop and pushed open the door. The lights were low and music played over the speakers, a light, frothy piece, harpsichord only. Several large, ornate library tables held a wide mix of pieces. There were bronze sculptures of horses and dogs, a stone Buddha, snuff bottles, gilded French candelabras, and what looked like a piece of Tiffany glass. The dark red walls were hung with original oil paintings, crowded so close together they looked like a mosaic.

Her hand outstretched, Carmela walked a few more steps and touched a cloisonné vase. The enamel, done in colors of rose and green, felt cool and pure and looked expensive. She checked the price tag. It was expensive. $1,200.

Crooking her head to the side, Carmela looked around for Stanger and saw that he was sitting in his small office. He was behind his desk, talking urgently to a customer who was seated directly opposite him. The two were speaking in low, hushed tones, as if their discussion was very much in earnest. A negotiation of some sort? Maybe.

Her curiosity piqued, Carmela moved a little closer, trying to keep her body language nonchalant, but, at the same time, angling to see who Stanger's customer might be.

No dice.

Carmela gave up and busied herself with a collection of snuff bottles on a rosewood stand. They were cunning little bottles carved from jade and some other highly polished, bronze-colored stone. Then she heard the back door click open and felt a whoosh of cool air. Stanger's mysterious customer had left by the back alley. Interesting.

Two seconds later, James Stanger rushed out to greet her.

“Carmela,” said Stanger, “I had no idea you were going to drop by.” He was cordial but cool at the same time, his brittle manner reinforced by his staid black suit.

“I had no idea, either,” said Carmela. “This is just . . . impromptu.”

They smiled at each other. Not much of a joke but there it was, hanging in the air between them.

“I didn't meant to interrupt your meeting,” said Carmela, glancing back at his office. She was still wondering about the visitor who'd beat a hasty retreat into the alley, wondering if Stanger would offer an explanation. He did not.

“Not a problem.” Stanger clapped his hands together then spread his arms out wide. “What can I show you? What lovely treasure can I tempt you with today?”

Carmela, who was really on a fact-finding mission, decided to play along with his largesse.

“I'm on the hunt—actually I've been looking for a while—for something to punch up my living room. A piece that's Old World and a little special.”

“Do you live around here? I mean, I assume you do, since your shop is right here, too.”

“Yes, I'm fairly close.” Something inside Carmela told her not to reveal her exact location. She pointed to a pair of Chinese ceramic dogs. They were fierce-looking creatures with bulging eyes and oversized muzzles. “Those are gorgeous creatures. Just the kind of thing I was looking for.”

Stanger immediately launched into dealer mode. “Those are foo dogs, sometimes called lion dogs, dating from the Qing Dynasty. Done in blue and white porcelain as you can see.”

“So they're old, they've got some age on them.”

“Absolutely. More than three hundred years.”

“Isn't it difficult to get pieces like that out of China?” Carmela glanced around, suddenly noticing dozens of different Chinese art objects. The snuff bottles, various jades, Chinese porcelain plates on rosewood stands.

Stanger basically ignored her question and continued on with his sales patois.

“I don't know if you realize this, Carmela, but Chinese foo dogs are quite significant. These regal beasts were the traditional guardians of temples and palaces. And they always come in pairs—a yin and yang.” He paused. “Quite lovely, wouldn't you say?”

“They're beautiful. What is the price?”

“Those particular dogs are priced at twenty-two hundred for the pair.” He eyed her cautiously, as if knowing the price might be a stretch for her. “I really don't want to split them up.”

Carmela smiled. “I think the dogs would be upset if you did.”

“I know it's a pretty penny,” said Stanger. “But think about it. The dogs are not only unique, they're an amazing investment as well.”

“I will think about it.”

Stanger offered up a smile with very little warmth. “I understand you've been doing some investigating into Marcus Joubert's murder.”

She remained impassive. “Why would you think that?”

“Because that's what you do. At least, that's what I've
heard
you do.”

“No, not really.”

Stanger upped the wattage in his smile. “Come on, Carmela, you can level with me.” He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial tone. “The Countess Saint-Marche seems to think you're the second coming of Nancy Drew.”

“In that case,” said Carmela, “maybe you won't mind me asking you a couple of questions.”