Gossamer Ghost (8 page)

For some reason Carmela felt defensive. “Well, she
could
be.”

“But probably not. The reality of the countess filleting him, fleeing the scene, and then trying to move in less than twenty-four hours later, is highly improbable.” He took her hand again and they continued walking down the street.

“I don't know,” said Carmela. She had a niggling feeling about the countess and intended to ride that horse until it dropped. “I still think you ought to put that phony countess on your list of suspects.”

Babcock stopped and pulled her close. “Listen. I shouldn't be telling you this, but I'm going to anyway because you're so whipped up.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I already have a suspect in Joubert's murder.”

“What!” Carmela screeched. “Are you serious? Why on earth didn't you say something sooner? You made me sit through the entire first act of
Frankenstein
on pins and needles?” Then, “Who is it?”

Babcock cocked his head, as if considering something, then said, “Come on, better I should show you.”

Two blocks away, in a less traveled part of the French Quarter, they stopped in front of Sparks Pawn Shop. Two enormous plate glass windows were brightly lit and surrounded by white chase lights. Stereo equipment, handguns, watches, and jewelry were all jumbled together on tacky red velvet in a semblance of a window display.

“It's a pawn shop,” said Carmela, frowning. She'd been by here before and never given it a second look. Or even a first look. “What's the big deal?”

“Actually, it's a big deal because it's one of several pawn shops that are owned and operated by Johnny Sparks.”

“Sounds like some kind of circus act. Johnny Sparks and his flaming . . . pants.”

“Nothing quite that amusing,” said Babcock. “Johnny Sparks is a scumbag and probably the most notorious fence in New Orleans.”

“Maybe I have heard of him. He's been written up in the
Times-Picayune,
I think.”

“You probably saw his name in the ‘Arrest' column. Unfortunately, NOPD has never been able to hang anything major on him. Not only does Sparks have a killer attorney, but he's insulated. Seriously buffered, as the more notorious crime bosses like to say.”

“What makes Johnny Sparks your prime suspect?” Carmela asked. She was intrigued.

“Because, in the past, he's fenced certain choice items for Marcus Joubert.”

“Fenced? You mean as in handled actual stolen goods?”

Carmela felt a chill run through her. While her neighbor Joubert had been extremely quirky, his business practices had always seemed fairly aboveboard. Now Babcock was telling her that the man was a thief? She suddenly felt both deceived and naïve. How could she not have known? So did this new information about Joubert mean that he probably had stolen the death mask? Was this an indictment of sorts?

“Wait a minute,” Carmela said. “You know for a fact that Joubert and this Sparks guy, were, um, in collusion together?”

“They've done deals in the past,” said Babcock. “So we're thinking they might have been in on this little caper as well.” He hesitated. “The problem is, Robbery-Homicide Division's tried to set up any number of undercover sting operations over the years, but something has always gone wrong.”

“How so?”

“Sparks is always tipped off,” said Babcock.

Carmela let this percolate for a few moments. “So you're saying that Sparks has somebody inside the police department? An informant who watches out for him?”

“A skunk in the cellar,” said Babcock.

“And this guy Sparks is a seriously bad guy?”

“We know for a fact that he's put several people in the hospital. And there are a couple of others who are unaccounted for.”

Carmela's heart thumped a little harder. “You think he murdered them?”

“The possibility certainly exists that a couple of his enemies might have been deep-sixed in a bayou somewhere. On the other hand, lowlifes do have a penchant for skulking out of town.”

Carmela looked up at Babcock as a blue light shone down on them. “Do you think this guy Sparks could fence something as important as Napoleon's death mask?”

“Are you serious?” said Babcock. “Given half a chance the man could probably fence the Brooklyn Bridge.”

“Wow.” Murder, antiquities, and a real-life fencing operation. It felt like a lethal combination. Carmela's mind was cranking with possibilities. Where to start? Who to talk to?

“Carmela?”

“Yes?”

As if he could read the blip in her brain waves, Babcock put a hand on her shoulder and gently spun her toward him. “I know you're particularly interested in this case.”

She nodded. “I'm sure you can understand why.”

“Yes, except I cannot impress upon you how dangerous it would be to get involved. This is a serious police matter.”

“The thing is,” said Carmela, trying to make her interest sound a lot more casual and low key than it really was, “Mavis asked for my help.”

“Then you have to tell her no,” Babcock said forcefully. “And do it very firmly. This is no time for amateur hour.”

“Mmn,” said Carmela.

“Carmela?”

She looked at him with guileless eyes. “I hear you.”

“Good,” said Babcock. “But I need you to more than just hear me. I need you to heed my warning.” He paused. “Okay, why don't we just drop the subject and go grab ourselves an Abita beer and a tasty bowl of crab soup?”

“Sure.” Carmela looked thoughtful as they strolled along together. According to her reckoning, she was already
in
the soup.

J
UJU
Voodoo was New Orleans's premier voodoo shop. A mecca for tourists who were in the market for hard-to-find bat blood, saint candles, evil eye charms, love potions, Day of the Dead memorabilia, and, of course, genuine handmade voodoo dolls complete with red stick pins.

The welcoming exterior featured a high-gloss, lipstick red door with the words
Juju Voodoo
spelled out in bubbly black letters. There was also a glowing blue neon sign in the window that was in the shape of an open palm. Over the front door, the roofline dipped and curved, the rough wooden shingles giving the appearance of a thatched Hansel and Gretel cottage.

Inside, the atmosphere was cool and dark, with flickering candles and the scent of sandalwood wafting through the air. The store was jam-packed this Sunday afternoon, filled with folks who were eager to grab a few amusing Halloween items and maybe get a genuine tarot card reading to boot.
Walpurgisnacht
, Mendelssohn's spooky, heavy-handed opus to witches and Druids, played softly over the speaker system.

With busloads of tourists roving through town, gaping at cemeteries and haunted hotels, then trooping into Juju Voodoo, Carmela was more than happy to help Ava out. Only problem was, she couldn't quite understand what this one particular customer was asking her in his heavily accented voice.

“Saint candle?” said Carmela, groping for an answer.

“Nix nacht,”
said the man, waving a hand. He had a long, black beard and was dressed in a long overcoat, the kind Uncle Fester of the Addams Family seemed to favor.

Carmela grabbed a little white voodoo doll with a downturned expression and danced it in front of him. “How about this little guy? Kind of cute, huh? Make a fun present for the kiddies?”

The man only frowned and shook his head.

Carmela turned toward Ava, who had just rung up a full-sized plastic skeleton for a customer and was trying to figure out how to gift wrap the little darling. “Maybe Madame Blavatsky can do a psychic reading on this guy and tell me what he wants,” she muttered under her breath.

Ava, dressed in her best Goth dress, with a tight leather bustier and jeweled cross necklace that probably out-glittered the local bishop, turned her attention to the man. “How can I help you, sir?” she asked.

He let go a rumble that sounded like “Acgh hit min tkt.”

“Oh sure, honey,” said Ava. “Coming right up. One ticket for our cemetery walk.”

“
That's
what he wanted?” said Carmela, as Ava accepted his American Express card and swiped it efficiently.

“Sure.” Ava handed the man his ticket. “See you Thursday night.” She gave a sultry wink. “Now don't be late!”

“Eik ein a meep,” the man replied with a broad smile.

“What language was that?” Carmela asked.

“Who cares?” Ava shrugged as she rubbed her thumb and index finger together. “The language of money. Remember, Halloween's my biggest season,
cher
. It's like back to school, Black Friday, and Christmas all rolled into one.”

“And sales have been good?” asked Carmela. “Are good?”

“Honey,” said Ava, “sales are through the roof right now and probably will continue to be.” She grabbed Carmela's arm and gave a squeeze. “But I sure couldn't do it without you. Thanks for giving up your Sunday afternoon to come in and help.”

Ava's two other employees, Miguel and Albert, were also there, scurrying back and forth, crawling up into the rafters to drag down furry bats and more dangling skeletons. It was, Carmela thought, a spectacle you'd see only in New Orleans.

They worked at a frantic pace for another hour or so, shepherding visitors back to Madame Blavatsky's reading room, selling more tickets to the cemetery walk, and giving fun explanations for Ava's various love trinkets and potions. When there was a break in the action, Ava hustled into her office and returned with two steaming mugs of coffee. She handed one to Carmela and leaned forward on her counter.

“So tell me more about this crazy death mask,” said Ava.

“Twice stolen,” said Carmela. “How weird is that?”

“But that's the gospel according to Babcock,” said Ava.

“Right, he believes the mask was originally stolen from the collector in Dallas, and then, two nights ago, stolen again out of Oddities.”

“The implication being,” said Ava, “that Marcus Joubert stole the mask, and then it was stolen from him.”

“Yes,” said Carmela. “But Mavis is positive that Joubert was in town the entire time. That there's no way he could have traveled to Dallas and swiped that mask.”

“And you're saying Babcock doesn't believe her?”

“Of course he doesn't,” said Carmela. “He's always got that cop instinct working for him. Or maybe against him, in this case.”

“Because you believe Mavis.”

“I want to,” said Carmela. She reached over and straightened a display of ceramic evil eye charms on silver chains. “Mavis is a sweet girl and she swears that Joubert acquired it on his own, probably for a particular collector that he had in mind.”

“So who's the collector?”

“That's where it all falls apart. She doesn't know. All Mavis keeps repeating is that the acquisition of the mask was a deep dark secret. Nobody knew that Joubert had it.”

“Or where he got it from,” said Ava.

“Mavis swears she doesn't know the source,” said Carmela. “Though I've asked her to search through Joubert's records to try to find out.”

“What if there never was a customer?” said Ava.

“I think there was. I think there pretty much had to be.”

“So the plot thickens,” said Ava. She dipped a hand into a half-empty box of candy. “Just like my waistline if I keep snacking on these incredibly yummy pralines.”

“Not as thick as this coffee,” said Carmela, wrinkling her nose. “What is this stuff, anyway?”

“The best part of waking up is Baileys in your cup,” said Ava.

“No!” said Carmela. “No, you didn't!”

“Naw. Thought about it. But it's just plain old chicory coffee brewed nice and strong. Mostly to give you an extra kick after what was probably a late, late date last night.”

“It's strong anyway.”

“What is?” Ava grinned. “The coffee or your date?”

“Both.”

“Yup, that's how I brew my cup of joe,” said Ava, happily. “The same way I brew up trouble.” She paused. “And, girlfriend, I can't believe you didn't stay for the second act last night.”

Carmela smiled. “Babcock had food and a few other things on his mind.”

“I guess.”

They got busy again as more customers found their way in. They sold plastic skulls, strings of ghost-shaped lights, colorful amulets, and decks of tarot cards. Carmela even found herself digging through Ava's collection of books and selling a book titled
Candle Magic
to a self-proclaimed warlock.

Midafternoon, Jekyl Hardy came striding in. An art consultant and antique appraiser by trade, Jekyl was also one of New Orleans's premier Mardi Gras float designers. Whenever you spotted a fire-breathing dragon in the Rex krewe's parade or a purple, eight-tentacled octopus in the Pluvius krewe's parade, you knew it had been dreamed up by the perennially witty mind of Jekyl Hardy.

“Car-
mel
-a!” Jekyl sang out upon seeing her at the cash register.

Carmela looked up and smiled. Her dear friend Jekyl was a dead ringer for Anne Rice's vampire Lestat. With his pale oval face, long dark hair pulled into a tight ponytail, and taste for dressing completely in black, Jekyl not only looked the part, he was a force to be reckoned with. Though he lived in a rehabbed warehouse near the low-key Bywater District, he hobnobbed with the city's elite and often served as a plus-one for wealthy widows at Garden District dinner parties.

Naturally, the first question out of Jekyl's mouth was about the murder at Oddities.

“How'd you find out about that?” asked Ava.

“Are you for real?” said Jekyl. “I take it you two don't watch TV news or haven't seen the front page of today's
Times-Picayune
?”

Carmela and Ava exchanged startled glances.

“Jekyl, what?” Carmela asked, suddenly getting a queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach—as if she'd eaten too many pickled peppers.

“The murder of Marcus Joubert is hot, hot news in today's paper,” crowed Jekyl. “Your name is even mentioned.”

“Rats,” said Carmela. That wouldn't go over big with Babcock.

“But they probably don't have anything in there about the stolen death mask,” said Ava. She jabbed Carmela with an elbow. “They probably don't even know about that.”

“Au contraire!”
said Jekyl. “They know all about the mask stolen from Joubert's shop and they've linked it to the one stolen three weeks ago from Wallace Pitney's collection in Dallas.”

“That's not good,” said Carmela. She knew it would sting Mavis that the media had drawn that type of connection.

Jekyl went on. “The newspaper even reported the fact that Pitney and his staff had tried to keep the theft on the down low because they figured they might get a phone call from the thief.”

“Why would the thief call them?” asked Ava. “To taunt them and rub their noses in it?”

“Not at all,” said Jekyl. “The Dallas collector thought perhaps the thief might call and demand a ransom.”

“You mean Pitney would have to pay money to get it back?” Carmela asked.

“Not exactly,” said Jekyl. “Most likely their
insurance
company would have been asked to pay. There's a big business in ransoming art and antiquities back to insurance companies.”

“I never heard of that,” said Ava. “That's a big thing? Insurance ransom?”

“Ransom and just plain old insurance fraud are getting to be popular schemes,” said Jekyl. “You know, like boat owners who overinflate the value of their boat, then sink their own tubs just to collect the insurance money.”

“You learn something new every day,” said Ava.

“I've heard of people doing that with racehorses, too,” said Carmela.

Jekyl's hands flew up and he waved them wildly. “Don't even go there,” he begged. “It's way too sad.”

Ava looked puzzled. “What do they . . .? Oh.”

“We're not going there, remember?” said Carmela.

Jekyl refocused his gaze on Carmela. “So what does the learned Detective Edgar Babcock think about this case?”

“He's of a mind that Joubert might have stolen the mask and then someone stole it from him,” said Carmela.

“That sounds so convoluted,” said Ava.

“I agree,” said Carmela. “That's why I think there's a chance he didn't steal it.”

“What are you saying?” said Jekyl. “That Joubert bought the mask at auction? Or from a private individual? And that he was just hanging on to the mask for safekeeping until he could resell it to some rich pigeon?” Jekyl let loose a derisive hoot. “A two-bit dealer like him? Never happen.”

“He could have bought it on the up-and-up,” said Carmela. “You never know.”

“It's more likely that Joubert had coconspirators,” said Jekyl. “That he didn't act alone.”

“Maybe Joubert's accomplice turned on him and killed him!” said Ava.

“You watch too much TV,” said Carmela.

Jekyl lifted an eyebrow. “Okay, how's this for a theory? What if Joubert had help on the inside? That's how art heists are often carried out these days. There's an inside man who has a spare key, or looks the other way, or knows a glitch in the security system.”

“I suppose,” said Carmela.

“Sure,” said Jekyl. “Look at that big heist at the Gardner Museum in Boston, where they stole the Vermeer, a couple of Rembrandts, and a Manet right off the walls. The police still think there was an inside man, someone who gave the thieves the right kind of information.”

“What's so special about that mask?” asked Ava.

Jekyl looked startled. “Are you serious? It's a magnificent, historical piece. It's Napoleon's death mask! It was created by skilled artisans just hours after he died. If you look at a depiction or photo of one of those masks, you can see that Napoleon's eyes are closed, his lips are parted, and his head is resting on a tasseled pillow. And that Gallic nose!” Jekyl thumped a hand excitedly against the counter. “All humped and bumped. Such a work of art.”

“His nose?” said Ava.

“Yes,” said Jekyl.

“What would a mask like that sell for?” Carmela asked.

Jekyl's eyes grew large. “On the open market, at a prestigious auction house like Sotheby's in New York, I think it could easily top one million dollars.”

“Are you serious?” said Carmela. “For a death mask?”

“
Napoleon's
death mask,” said Jekyl. “An emperor who was one of the greatest military minds in the history of Western civilization. A man who not only conquered Europe, but employed military tactics that were decades ahead of his time.”