Postcards from the Dead (18 page)

“Very good. That’s exactly what I mean.”

“So are you?” asked Carmela. “Investigating, I mean.”

“Sometimes it feels like that’s all I do,” said Babcock. “It never stops. Murder, robberies, arson, and dope dealing.”

“How about smoke bombs?” asked Carmela. “Anything on that?”

There was a long pause, then Babcock said, “A window was pried open, the thing was tossed in. That’s not a whole lot to go on.”

“Which means nothing’s going to happen,” said Carmela, suddenly feeling a little bereft. And Boo had practically died last night!

“I’ll try,” said Babcock, “but . . .”

“I get it,” said Carmela, sounding a little snappy. “I get it. Hey, gotta go. Talk to you later, okay?” She pushed the Off button, not waiting for his answer.

* * *

“THAT’S IT,” SAID JEKYL, AS DUNN HELD HIS HAND OVER
the viewfinder and clicked through the shots for them to see. “He’s got it.”

“Fabulous,” said Carmela. She touched Dunn’s arm. “Thank you so much.”

“Too bad you have to sell this old place,” said Dunn, a little wistfully. “It really is gorgeous.”

Carmela gazed at the home she’d moved into when she was first married. She’d had such high hopes and grandiose plans. Then she shook her head. “Can’t keep it,” she murmured. “Just too many bad memories.”

* * *

“ARE WE DONE HERE?” ASKED AVA. SHE’D BEEN SITTING
on a low brick wall that belonged to one of the neighbors, catching a few rays. Jekyl had just roared away in a cloud of exhaust fumes and burning oil, and Dunn and his assistant were almost packed.

“Yes,” said Carmela, “but I want to drive by Durrell’s house before we take off for good.”

“Sure,” said Ava. They climbed into Carmela’s car and crept down the block, Carmela keeping a watchful eye out. She
thought
she remembered which home it was.

They turned a corner and Carmela said, “I think that’s it.”

“The Greek revival with the octagonal turret?” said Ava. “And the peaked roof?”

Carmela nodded. “I guess so.”

“It kinds of looks like a cross between the
Addams Family
and the
Real Housewives of Beverly Hills
. In other words, spooky and big,” said Ava.

“Spooky, big, and expensive,” said Carmela.

“Durrell must be rich, huh?”

“Jekyl says he is. And he’s right around the corner from Baby’s place,” Carmela observed.

“Who knows?” said Ava. “Maybe she’ll invite him to her party. You know, as the new guy on the block. The new
single
guy.”

“Isn’t Durrell supposed to be in mourning?” asked Carmela. “Shouldn’t he be swaddled in black and beating his chest?”

“That’s only old women who do that,” said Ava. “Women who live in tiny villages in Greece or Sicily. Here, in New Orleans, when a man loses his wife or girlfriend, he’s out partying in the French Quarter the very next night. And the awful thing is, he’s considered a good catch just because he proved he was able to commit!”

“Maybe even commit a crime,” Carmela murmured, as she pulled away slowly.

Chapter 20

C
ARMELA
had to detour a few blocks to dodge minor Mardi Gras parades that were snaking their way throughout the city. But she finally made it back to the Dreamland Gift Shop in the French Quarter. And on this fine afternoon, with the sun shining down and revelers crowding the streets, the place was definitely open for business.

“Typical T-shirt shop,” Ava snorted as they cruised in. “Too
many
darned T-shirt shops in the French Quarter, if you ask me. Popping up like noxious mushrooms.”

The shop was a mash-up of T-shirts, Mardi Gras beads, colorful masks adorned with feathers, and boxes of pralines, as well as posters, pennants, foil balloons, and ashtrays. All emblazoned with Mardi Gras images or some sort of New Orleans logo.

Carmela grabbed the three cemetery postcards that were left in the spinner rack and carried them to the counter. She waited while the clerk rang up two young men who were buying multiple strands of oversized purple and gold beads. When the clerk had given the men their change, Carmela laid the postcards out flat on the counter and said, “Do you sell many of these?”

The clerk, a young woman with spiky black hair, eyes rimmed in kohl, and a pierced nose and eyebrow, nodded and said, “Oh yeah. Quite a few. Tourists seem to get a kick out of them.”

“These seem to be the last of the cemetery cards. Do you know, are they printed or distributed by a local company?”

“Jeez,” said the clerk, wrinkling her nose, “I don’t know. I just work here part-time.”

“Okay,” said Carmela, as another customer came up behind her. “I’m going to take these.”

“Three for two dollars,” said the clerk. She popped the cards into a brown paper bag and handed them to Carmela.

“What’d you find out?” asked Ava. She was prowling the shop, still grousing over the imported voodoo dolls.

“Zip,” said Carmela. “But maybe we can track down the printer or something. Maybe the postcards are done locally. Maybe there’ll be some clue.”

“Do you think I could send this company a cease-and-desist?” asked Ava. She tapped a finger against the voodoo doll kit she’d been in such a snit over last night. Still was.

“What do you mean?” said Carmela. “File suit against the Chinese manufacturer?”

Ava nodded.

“On what grounds?”

“Unfair business practices?” said Ava.

“Nice try, counselor,” said Carmela. “Except I think you might need a couple more episodes of
Judge Judy
under your belt before you venture into the realm of international law.”

“Whatever,” grumped Ava.

But as they were leaving, the clerk caught Carmela’s eye and called out to her. “You know,” said the girl, “if you want more of those postcards, you can buy them at our other shop.”

Carmela stopped in her tracks. “You have another shop?”

“Where’s that?” asked Ava

“Just a few blocks over,” said the clerk. “In the Faubourg Marigny.”

“Interesting,” said Carmela, as they left the shop.

“What’s up?” asked Ava.

“Maybe . . . let’s just go check out that other shop.”

They hopped in the car, and had to make yet another detour because of a marching band and a pod of food trucks selling everything from po’boys to fried alligator. But ten minutes later, they pulled up in front of Dreamland Two.

“So they have another shop,” said Ava. “So what?”

Carmela studied the street. “This shop’s in the same block as Davis Durrell’s office.”

“Yeah?” Ava was curious now.

“Yup. His office is three doors down from here, in the Gallier Building.”

“Which means Durrell could have ankled down here and bought himself a stack of those postcards,” said Ava.

“And then hand-delivered them to me,” said Carmela.

“But why would he do that?” asked Ava.

“I don’t know,” said Carmela. “To warn me off the investigation? To show how clever he is? Because he’s diabolical? Take your pick.”

“Is he?” asked Ava. “Diabolical, I mean?”

“I don’t know,” said Carmela. “But I’d sure like to find out.”

* * *

CARMELA HAD JUST PAID FOR HER PURCHASE, SIX
more cemetery postcards, two of which were different from the ones she already had, when her cell phone blipped. She looked at the Caller ID and pursed her lips. Shamus.

“What?” she said to him.

“Holy horse pucky!” Shamus exclaimed. “I just heard about the fire at your place! Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” said Carmela. “And it was a smoke bomb, not actual fire and flames.”

“What about the dogs?” asked Shamus. “How are my precious little babies?”

“They were a little shaken up,” Carmela admitted. She didn’t want to tell Shamus how bad the smoke had really been, or that Boo had passed out and needed to be revived. It would freak Shamus out too much. He’d probably get a court order that accused her of being an unfit pet mother.

“I gotta tell you,” said Shamus, “I went totally bonkers when I heard about the fire.”

Carmela didn’t say anything. Shamus went totally bonkers if they served him Johnnie Walker Red instead of Bushmills.

“Where are my little darlings now?” he asked.

“They’re with me. Staying at Ava’s.”

“Doesn’t she have a
cat
?” Shamus spit out the word like he was referring to a venomous reptile.

“Yes, she does, you know that. And Boo and Poobah get along famously with Isis. They all play together and love each other.”

“I’m not buying it,” said Shamus. “Boo is extremely sensitive to cat dander. If her allergies kick in, I’ll never forgive myself.”

“She’s fine,” said Carmela. “No sneezing or anything.”

“No,” said Shamus, “I think it would be better if I came over and got them. Yeah, that’s it. I want the dogs to stay with me. They need to be with their daddy after experiencing such a terrible trauma.”

“No way,” said Carmela. “You’re going to be partying your brains out over the next couple of days and won’t even be home.” She knew how crazy Shamus got during Mardi Gras. Drinking, carousing, doing whatever he did with women. “You’ll be at the Bacchus Parade tonight and then hanging out at your float den party until all hours.”

“So what,” said Shamus, sounding grumpy. “You’re running around trying to solve a murder.”

Touché
, thought Carmela. “Shamus, the dogs will be just fine at Ava’s. But once Mardi Gras is over, once Fat Tuesday has come and gone, then you can have them for a couple of days, okay? You do have . . . um . . . parental visitation rights.”

There was a slight hesitation and then Shamus said, “Okay. I guess.” More hesitation. “So you’re gonna be there later tonight? At the Pluvius den?”

“I’ve been invited, yes.”

“I suspected as much. So maybe I’ll see you there.”

“Maybe.”

“What was that all about?” asked Ava, as Carmela dumped her phone into her purse.

“Shamus is all wound up about the dogs,” said Carmela. “He wanted to come over and get them.”

“I hope you told him no way.”

“I did.”

“Good. Because we got some stuff to figure out,” said Ava. “Important stuff.”

“Like what?”

“What fabulous thing are you gonna cook for dinner tonight? And what are we gonna wear to the Pluvius den party to make everybody’s eyeballs fall out of their heads?”

“These are the things that matter,” said Carmela.

“Dang straight,” said Ava.

They jumped back into Carmela’s car and zipped up to Riley’s Market. It was a neighborhood fixture that carried a general array of groceries as well as luxe staples such as artisan cheese, Beluga caviar, and truffle oil. The front part was an open-air fruit market displaying mounds of oranges, apples, lemons, and limes, and, as Carmela grabbed a shopping cart, she also picked out a nice bunch of grapes.

Pushing the cart inside, being trailed by Ava, who looked slightly bewildered by all the groceries, she grabbed a package of chicken breasts, a carton of eggs, a box of crackers, and a jar of honey. She figured she could manage her honey crunch chicken tonight without too much effort in Ava’s bare-bones kitchenette. Halfway through their foray, Ava abandoned the shopping expedition and wandered down the candy aisle, where she picked up some GooGoo Clusters, a couple of pralines, and a package of marshmallow top hats.

When they returned to Ava’s apartment, Carmela was happy to see the fire and smoke restoration team across the way, working on her apartment. She dumped the grocery bags on the counter and ran downstairs to check how the cleanup was going.

“Hey,” she said, to a man in gray overalls who was holding a clipboard and scratching notes. “How’s it going? Any problems?”

The man turned his head and peered at her from beneath beetled brows. “You the homeowner?”

“Renter, yeah.”

“Piece of cake,” said the guy. He stuck out his hand. “Ralph. Ralph Bagley, proprietor of Bagley’s Restoration Services. Nice to make your acquaintance. Considering the circumstances, that is.”

“Carmela,” she said.

“Those smoke bombs are a heck of a thing,” said Bagley. “They look like Armageddon if you’re stuck in the middle of one, but they clear out pretty quick.”

Carmela pointed toward her apartment. “Does it still stink to high heaven in there?”

“Some,” said Ralph, “but we set up four ion machines, so any residual odor should dissipate in a couple of days. Then your place will be good as new.”

“Excellent,” said Carmela.

“The landlord came by before,” said Ralph. “I think he’s nervous you’re gonna sue or something.”

“Good,” said Carmela. “Thank you.”

* * *

AVA GHOSTED THROUGH THE KITCHEN FOR THE THIRD
time in twenty minutes. “Mmm,” she said, “that chicken smells dang good.”

“It’s just something I throw together,” said Carmela. “Very quick and easy to prep, seeing as how we’re going out again tonight.” They were planning to hit the Bacchus Parade and then mosey on over to the party at the Pluvius den.

But Ava was overjoyed at the prospect of chowing down on Carmela’s chicken. “Thanks so much for cooking a real dinner,” she chortled. “It’s like having Wolfgang Puck drop in for a visit.”

“I’m not sure Wolfgang would deign to bake his chicken in a crumpled pie tin,” said Carmela, “but it’s what you had and I’m happy to accept the compliment.”

Ava dipped a finger in the honey jar for a taste. “So good. I can hardly wait.”

She really didn’t have to wait. Just twenty minutes later, the oven timer dinged and the honey crunch chicken was done. Carmela plated the golden-brown chicken atop two small green salads, Ava popped the cork on her champagne, and they sat down at Ava’s rickety table to eat. Two dogs and a cat lined up to carefully observe.

“So, did you take another look at those postcards?” Ava asked between bites.

Carmela nodded. “They were printed by a company called Devoux Printing.”

“Local?”

“That’s what I’m guessing,” said Carmela.

“What are you hoping to find out if you do locate this printer?”

Carmela shrugged. “Not sure. Maybe distribution or quantities, that type of thing. Or did they do a print run for a specific group or organization? Maybe even a church?”

“That’s smart,” said Ava, pointing a fork at her. “You’re good at figuring this stuff out.”

“I wish,” said Carmela, as her cell phone tinkled from the counter. She got up, slid her chair back, and grabbed the phone. “Yeah?” She expected the caller to be Babcock or Shamus.

“Your apartment caught fire?” came Gabby’s agonized wail. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” said Carmela, “but how did you know?” Out of the side of her mouth she said, “Gabby” to Ava.

“It was on the news,” said Gabby.

“Let me guess,” said Carmela. “KBEZ-TV.”

“That’s right,” said Gabby. There was a pause. “Carmela, where are you now?”

“Eating chicken at Ava’s,” said Carmela. “Then we’re going to the Bacchus Parade and will probably hit the Pluvius float den.”

“You don’t sound very worried,” said Gabby, who did.

“You should have seen me last night,” said Carmela. “I was a basket case. But the cleanup guys were just here and it all seems to be shaking out okay.”

“Wow,” said Gabby. “You’re really fine? The dogs are okay?”

“Hanging in there,” said Carmela. “So for gosh sakes, stop worrying about us, okay?”

“I’ll try,” said Gabby, “but it’s difficult, after all the weird things that have happened.”

“Force yourself,” said Carmela. “And we’ll maybe even see you tonight.”

* * *

THE BACCHUS PARADE WAS OFTEN SINGLED OUT AS
the rowdiest of all the big Mardi Gras parades. Here was the thinking: Revelers had all day Sunday with not much to do but drink. Then the Bacchus Parade, appropriately named for the god of wine, rolled out Sunday evening and people suddenly went bonkers.

By the time Carmela and Ava took up a spot on the corner of Napoleon Avenue and St. Charles Street, it wasn’t completely crazy yet, but a current of electricity rippled through the air. Packed shoulder to shoulder, eager to catch a first glimpse of what was always a spectacular parade, the paradegoers looked like happy refugees from Party City. They sported gold Mardi Gras crowns, king cake earrings and pendants, glitter top hats, and crazy masks. Some even wore costumes. Many regulars who knew the drill had constructed elaborate viewing stands, stepladders with platforms that held two and even three people.

Carmela felt the first vibrations of a bass drum down in the pit of her stomach. Everyone around her quickly picked up on it. Cries of “They’re coming!” split the air, and the level of anticipation ratcheted even higher.

“I can hear the band!” exclaimed Ava.

Then, as if a light switch had suddenly been thrown, the first float, the Officer’s Float, glided out of the darkness. An enormous grinning Bacchus face, ringed with bright lights, suddenly appeared and the crowd cheered wildly. Then, all hell seemed to break loose. Marching bands streamed by along with traditional flambeaus, dancing and twirling their fire-lit torches. Men in gilded masks astride prancing horses clopped alongside enormous floats that sparkled and glowed like Christmas ornaments.