Gossamer Ghost (4 page)

“Really, it can,” Mavis moaned. She was bent forward now, her head in her hands, trying to pull herself together, struggling to get her words out.

Carmela knelt down beside her. “This mask that's gone missing,” she pressed, “just what kind of mask was it?”

Mavis let her hands fall away from her face. Then she lifted her head and gazed sorrowfully at Carmela. Her eye makeup had melted and run together and now she looked like a sad raccoon. “It was a piece that had been handed down through three centuries. It was priceless.”

“You mean like a fancy
carnevale
mask from Venice?” said Ava.

“No,” Mavis sobbed. “It was . . . Napoleon's death mask!”

T
IME
seemed to stand still for Carmela. She felt like she'd suddenly been teleported to some weird art history mystery from the eighteenth century. Or back to the dark days of World War II, when all the art galleries, museums, and private collections of Europe had been outrageously plundered. “Wait a minute,” she said to Mavis. “Could you repeat that please? Did you really say
death
mask?”

“Napoleon's death mask?” said Babcock. He straightened up and frowned. Rubbed the back of his hand against his cheek. “I've never heard of such a thing.” He turned and gazed at Carmela. “
Is
there such a thing?”

Carmela shrugged. “I suppose. Or at least there was, once upon a time.”

“No,” Mavis said with firmness in her voice. “It's an acknowledged fact. There are four known Napoleon death masks in existence.”

“Seriously?” said Ava. Then, “Come on, this is a joke, right?”

Mavis threw up her hands and stomped her foot like a petulant child. “No joke! At the time of Napoleon's death it was customary to cast a death mask of all great leaders. Special artisans would press a mold of wax against the dead man's face and then make copies cast in bronze.”

“Where on earth would Joubert get such a mask?” Babcock asked. “I mean, it's not exactly your ordinary run-of-the-mill object.”

“I don't know!” Mavis wailed.

“But you work here,” said Babcock. “So you must know something about it.”

“But I don't,” said Mavis. “I only know that Marcus purchased it very recently and kept it in that small Tibetan cabinet under lock and key.”

“So this isn't just a murder,” Carmela said. “It's also a robbery.”

“Homicide plus robbery,” Babcock corrected as he ushered the ladies toward the front door. “Now . . . everybody needs to clear out. I have to get to work.”

“I bet we could help,” said Ava. She was clearly intrigued by the story about the death mask.

Babcock flashed her a stern look. “The only way you can help is by leaving me in peace.”

Carmela raise her hand to her ear with her pinky and thumb extended in the universally recognized gesture for
Call me.

Babcock gave Carmela a tight nod and then focused his attention on Mavis. “Miss Sweet, it's likely I'll be in touch with a few follow-up questions.”

Mavis sniffled and managed to squeak out an, “All right.”

Babcock closed the door to Oddities behind them and Officer Wallace hastily fastened a string of yellow crime-scene tape across the doorway.

Out on the sidewalk, Mavis pressed her fist to her mouth and stifled a sob. All around them, darkness had settled upon the French Quarter like a cashmere blanket. Lights twinkled from old-fashioned brass lamps, palms swayed in the cool October breeze, tourists brushed past, talking excitedly and carrying geaux cups filled with daiquiris and hurricanes.

Carmela put her arm around Mavis's shoulders and walked her a few feet away from the store as Ava trailed behind them.

Mavis gulped, as if she was trying to form a sentence, then she reached down and grabbed Carmela's wrist tightly. “Please help me,” she pleaded.

“Really,” said Carmela. “There's not much I can do at this point. Or should do, now that you've got one of New Orleans's best detectives working the case.”

Mavis aimed a plaintive gaze at Carmela. “I hope you know that Marcus thought the world of you.”

This surprised Carmela. “He did?” She figured Joubert tolerated her only because they were neighboring shopkeepers.

“Absolutely he did,” said Mavis. “Marcus was always telling me how smart you were. Not just about business strategies and coming up with smart marketing ideas, but that you were able to figure things out. Things like . . . mysteries and murders.” Mavis delivered this last line with a pitiful, hopeful look on her face. “Like the one you figured out a couple of months ago . . . that fat-cat businessman who got killed in his Garden District home?”

Carmela and Ava exchanged quick glances. Ava raised a single brow, a dubious expression on her face.

Sensing their skepticism and hesitation, Mavis said, “This was kind of a secret, but did you know that Marcus and I were engaged to be married?”

“Seriously?” said Ava. She sounded just this side of disbelieving.

“Yes,” said Mavis with a pained expression. “The minute Marcus and I locked eyes it was love at first sight.”

“Okay, whatever,” said Ava. Behind Mavis's back she made a face that clearly conveyed her distaste.

But Mavis seemed to sense the need to prove their love, because she suddenly shoved a pudgy hand right under Carmela's nose. “See?” she said, flashing a gold ring decorated with interlocked skulls and a Sanskrit inscription. “We hadn't announced our engagement yet.” She paused to catch her breath, then her voice quavered as she added, “But we were going to be
married
.”

Carmela rubbed Mavis's back as the girl broke down and sobbed. “There, there,” she said, as her heart slowly warmed to Mavis. Carmela was a believer in love, a champion of love. After all, didn't everyone deserve to be happy? Of course they did.

“Could you
please
help me?” Mavis asked. “Help figure out who committed this terrible crime against my poor dear Marcus?”

“I think Detective Babcock is quite capable of doing that,” said Carmela. “But I could probably do a little checking as well. Ask a few discreet questions.”

“You would? You will? How can I
ever
thank you?” said Mavis. She seemed genuinely overcome with emotion.

“You don't have to,” said Carmela. “But right now I want you to go home and take care of yourself.”

“Fix yourself a good stiff drink,” Ava suggested. “Or watch some trash TV.”

“Just try to relax,” said Carmela. “I know you're in terrible pain right now, but I promise you, your fiancé's killer will be found and brought to justice.” She nodded, almost to herself, and added quietly, “Somehow he will. I'll see to it.”

“Thank you,” Mavis breathed.

*   *   *

“Ho ho,” said Ava, as Mavis slowly slumped away. “What's this?” A white van with a gray satellite dish on its roof was inching its way down Governor Nicholls Street.

“Holy crap,” said Carmela. “It's KBEZ-TV. Good thing Mavis took off when she did. They'd probably have tried to interview her.”

The passenger door was suddenly flung open and Zoe Carmichael, a young reporter for KBEZ-TV, popped out. Zoe was petite and cute as a button, with a pale complexion and a heap of reddish-blond hair. As she recognized Carmela and Ava, she let loose an enthusiastic wave and called out, “Hey there, ladies!”

Before Carmela could reply, Zoe's eagle eyes landed on the yellow crime-scene tape that was strung across the doorway of Oddities.

“What's going on?” Zoe asked, motioning for the driver to hop out of the van and join them.

Raleigh, the driver, was also Raleigh the cameraman, a middle-aged man dressed in khakis and a T-shirt. He pulled his camera out of the back, hoisted it onto his shoulder, and lumbered over to join them. He already had a battery pack strapped around his waist and was plugging in wires like crazy.

Ava frowned at Raleigh. “You okay there, big guy?”

Raleigh seemed to have a perpetual hunch from hauling camera gear around, and watching him negotiate a backbend was like watching Quasimodo perform in Cirque du Soleil.

Raleigh angled the camera lens toward them and smiled. “Just a little stiffness, comes with the territory. We've been out cruising the French Quarter, looking for a story.”

“I think we just found one,” said Zoe. “What's with the crime-scene tape? What have we got? Robbery? Assault?”

Zoe seemed so anxious that Carmela was surprised she hadn't shoved a microphone in her face yet.

“Worse,” said Ava.

Zoe looked suddenly eager. So did Raleigh.

“Murder,” Ava said, drawing out the word in a breathy voice.

“I'm gonna need some details,” Zoe burbled happily.

So Carmela and Ava brought Zoe and Raleigh up to speed on the gruesome murder of Marcus Joubert. The news team listened intently, nodding and frowning and gasping in all the appropriate places.

“Too bad we didn't get here sooner!” said Zoe. “To film the cops speeding to the scene and maybe talk to . . . what was her name again?”

“Mavis,” said Ava. “Mavis Sweet.”

Zoe turned to Raleigh. “We gotta talk to her.”

“Of course,” said Raleigh.

“And the body's still inside?” asked Zoe.

“Well . . . yes,” said Carmela. Maybe she'd spilled the beans a little too much?

“This is a great story,” Zoe chortled. “We'll hang out and catch the crime-scene guys wheeling the body out.”

“Nothing like your dead-body shot,” said Ava. “Film at eleven.”

“This shop,” said Zoe, gesturing toward Oddities, “also has a nice creep factor going.”

Raleigh nodded. “Timing's good, too, since Halloween's only a week away.”

“I can see this being almost episodic!” said Zoe. “We could do updates as the story unfolds.”

“If it unfolds,” said Carmela.

“Or unravels,” added Ava.

*   *   *

“Does murder make you hungry?” Carmela asked Ava as they made their way across the courtyard that separated Carmela's garden apartment from Ava's small studio apartment above her Juju Voodoo shop. Water pattered in the fountain, a live oak tree swayed in the breeze, pots of pink bougainvilleas overflowed their terra-cotta containers.

“I'm not just hungry,” said Ava. “I'm ravenous.”

“Then come on in,” said Carmela as she slipped her key into the lock.

No sooner had she cracked open her door than Boo and Poobah, her two dogs, flung themselves at her feet. Then Ava came inside, too, and the pandemonium increased.

Carmela grabbed Boo, her fawn-colored Shar-Pei, and stroked her triangle ears. “Did you miss me, Boo Boo?”

Boo's back end wiggled so enthusiastically it looked like she was dancing the cha-cha.

“And this little mongrel,” said Ava, planting kisses on the top of Poobah's head. “If I didn't have my kitty, Isis, I'd probably dognap this sweetheart.” Then she giggled and said, “Ooh, that tickles!” Poobah had discovered Ava's open-toed boots and was studiously licking her toes.

“First things first,” said Carmela. She stepped over to her small galley kitchen and pulled open one of the cupboards. “We need a cocktail, right?” She surveyed her small collection of liquor bottles. “To take the edge off?”

Ava extricated herself from the muddle of swirling dogs and flopped down on the leather chaise.
Kersplat.
“Absolutely, I need a drink. I'm so edgy I could claw the wallpaper off your walls.”

Carmela grabbed vodka, lemon juice, and sugar, added crushed ice, and mixed up two lemon drop cocktails in a silver shaker. Then she poured them into martini glasses. She took a quick sip, and pulled a casserole dish from the refrigerator.

“I have leftover chicken corn casserole, if anybody's interested,” she called out.

“I'm interested,” said Ava.

Carmela popped the dish into the oven, set the timer for thirty minutes, and carried the cocktails into her adjacent living room. Posh and elegant from dozens of forays through the scratch-and-dent rooms of Royal Street's finest antique shops, the place was furnished with a brocade fainting couch, marble coffee table, and the squishy leather sofa and matching ottoman that Ava now occupied. An ornate gilded mirror hung on one wall, lengths of handmade wrought iron that had once graced an antebellum mansion hung on the opposite redbrick wall. The wrought iron served as a perfect shelf for Carmela's collection of bronze dog statues and antique children's books.

Ava accepted her drink with a smile, tasted it, and said, “Ahhh. Doesn't that just tickle the old thirsty spot.” She'd kicked off her shoes and Poobah had climbed up next to her and snuggled in tight. He seemed to be staring thoughtfully at Ava's feet.

“Poobah,” Carmela said with a warning tone. Poobah sheepishly slipped off the leather sofa. The sofa was supposed to be off-limits.

Ava took another sip of her lemon drop and made a satisfied, puckered expression. “Tonight was awful, wasn't it?”

Carmela sighed heavily. “We sure don't need a murder right next door.”

“Kind of rocks your world,” Ava murmured.

“I know whose world it's really going to rock,” said Carmela, reaching for her cell phone.

“Hmm?”

“Gabby.”

“Oh,” said Ava. “Yeah, I suppose. She is kind of your genteel type. Unlike us wild and crazy gals.”

“I have to call her and let her know what happened. She can get awfully skittish about this stuff.”