Postcards from the Dead (25 page)

Chapter 28

J
EKYL
Hardy lived in Napoleon Gardens, one of the premier residences in the French Quarter. Built of red brick and originally designed as a warehouse, the building dated back to the mid-1800s. Now it had been divided into gorgeous apartments that featured mahogany floors, fourteen-foot-high ceilings, and small wrought-iron balconies.

“I hear there’s a five-year waiting list to get into this building,” said Ava, as they crept up the stairs. It was eleven in the morning of Fat Tuesday, the big day, and already the French Quarter was cranked and rocking. Jekyl’s party had kicked off at nine a.m. sharp, and Ava was terrified they’d missed the best part.

“Take it easy,” said Carmela, as she lagged behind. “We’ve got the whole day ahead of us.”

“I don’t want to miss a single moment!” said Ava. She gave a little shudder. “Ooh, I feel so alive!”

“And I feel like leftover pizza,” said Carmela. “Cold, flat, tasteless.”

“But you look great,” said Ava. She’d coaxed Carmela into wearing a pair of black leather leggings with an oversized black pullover sweater. Carmela, sick over Babcock’s anger and not really caring what she put on, had complied.

“But this is so not my style,” said Carmela.

“It
is
your style,” insisted Ava. “Inside that conservative Republican veneer is a boundary-pushing slightly punky fashionista just itching to break out.”

Carmela wasn’t having it. “The only good thing about this outfit is it matches my mood. And the gloomy weather.”

“Come on,
cher
, don’t be bummed. This is the most exciting day of the year—better than Christmas!”

But Carmela was clearly miserable. “After last night’s fiasco, Babcock’s never going to speak to me again.”

“Ah, it’s not the speakin’ part that worrisome, it’s the hugging and kissing part.”

“That, too,” said Carmela. “Besides, Ava, I don’t feel like partying. It’s just too early!”

“Oh, put a cork in it,” said Ava, as she rapped sharply on the door of Jekyl’s apartment. “And remember, Babcock ain’t the only starfish in the sea. There are lots of other . . .” She waited a millisecond, then pushed the door open.

“Oh man,” moaned Carmela.

Forty people were crowded into Jekyl’s apartment, drinking, toasting, nibbling his trademark vampire wings, which were really chicken wings laced with Tabasco sauce, and Mardi Gras meatballs. Purple and green streamers hung from crystal chandeliers, while enormous purple and green feathers were stuck in large brass vases that flanked his pitted marble fireplace. Dark-blue shellacked walls looked both elegant and ominous, and the room boasted high-backed leather couches as well as overstuffed chairs covered in rich brocades.

Jekyl, dressed in a black sequined tuxedo, greeted them at the door.

“You’re late,” he told them, administering quick pecks to their cheeks as he managed to balance an enormous martini glass by its thin stem.

“Our Carmela’s a little under the weather,” said Ava.

“Romance problems?” asked Jekyl, lifting his brows.

“You could say that,” said Carmela.

“The only cure for the blues is to help yourself to a drink,” said Jekyl. “We’ve got Bloody Marys and dirty martinis. We’ve also imposed a six-drink minimum, and I can pretty much guarantee that by the second drink you won’t be feeling a lick of pain.”

“Sounds good to me,” said Ava.

“In fact, you won’t feel anything at all,” giggled Jekyl. “And by the by,” he added, cocking his head in a magpie gaze, “I do like that sweater-and-legging combo that Carmela is sporting.”

“Doesn’t she look adorable?” said Ava. “I’m seriously thinking I should launch a second career as a stylist.”

“I do believe you could,” said Jekyl.

Carmela, in no mood to engage in bright banter, pushed through the crowd and headed for the kitchen. Normally, she adored attending a party at Jekyl’s apartment. His décor, the antique smoked mirrors in gilded frames, the fringed lamps, the oil paintings and large brass sculptures of horses, dogs, and Roman statues, were all intriguing and welcoming. But after her conversation with Babcock last night . . .

Carmela just felt dejected.

And rejected.

What if he never wants to see me again? Then what? Then what do I do?

She was too tired, too bummed to contemplate her fate.

In Jekyl’s postage stamp–sized kitchen, Carmela grabbed an enormous pitcher of Bloody Marys and poured herself a drink.
Why not start drinking?
she asked herself.
Why not get a little bit tipsy?

She took a sip. Tasty. Peppery, too.

She took another sip even as she pulled out her phone. Maybe Babcock had called? Or maybe the cameras at Memory Mine had captured some rogue images of strange postcard deliveries?

But when she checked, there wasn’t a thing.

Carmela’s shoulders slumped and she was about to tuck her phone back in her pocket when her ringtone sounded. She picked up without looking.

Huh? Babcock?

And answered with a tentative, “Hello?”

“Carmela! You’re never going to believe what happened,” Shamus cried in a breathless rush.

Dang, it’s only Shamus.

“When it comes to your self-centered take on life, nothing surprises me anymore,” said Carmela. She leaned against an antique Japanese kitchen cabinet, suddenly happy she could vent her anger on Shamus.

But Carmela’s words inflicted barely a sting. “This will blow your mind!” Shamus continued. “I had to rush Glory to the emergency room last night!”

Carmela
was
surprised. “Are you serious? What was wrong with her besides, um, the screaming?” She figured Shamus had just driven Glory home last night so his crazy sister could unwind on her own.

“It was horrible!” said Shamus, now that he had Carmela’s undivided attention. “The ER doc thought Glory was experiencing some kind of drug overdose.”

Carmela relaxed. “That’s generally what happens when you mix pills and alcohol.” Glory had a nasty habit of enjoying a few drinks, then popping an Ambien or Xanax. In fact, she popped Xanax like they were M&Ms.

“But she didn’t do that,” said Shamus. Then he rethought his words and backpedaled slightly. “I mean, she does
some
times, but she didn’t
this
time. If that makes any sense.”

“Of course, it doesn’t, Shamus.”

“If you’d stop jumping down my throat,” said Shamus, sounding pouty, “I’ll explain the whole thing.”

“Please do.”

“The doc thinks somebody slipped Glory a roofie.”

“What’s a roofie?” asked Carmela. “Is that like Ecstasy or Zombie or whatever the au courant party drug is?”

“It’s the date-rape drug,” snarled Shamus.

Carmela stared at him. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Shamus said in a sour tone.

“Somebody wanted to, um, rape Glory?” said Carmela. She didn’t think anybody in their right mind would try something with Glory, the great stone-faced matriarch of the underworld. People were
afraid
of Glory. Glory made grown men tremble in their Thom McAns.

“Don’t be stupid, Carmela,” said Shamus. “I’m talking about somebody dropping a drug into her champagne glass.”

Carmela froze. “Um . . . they
what
? Wait a minute, what exactly happened? What did Glory
think
happened?”

“Just that she picked up a glass of champagne from that little glass table and drank it. But now we’re pretty sure some asshole went and slipped a drug into it!”

That was my champagne
, Carmela almost blurted out. But she didn’t. She didn’t want to tell Shamus that Glory had picked up her glass by mistake. That news would surely send him careering off the deep end.

“Is Glory okay now?” asked Carmela.

“Seems to be.”

“Good.” She paused. “Listen, Shamus, did you find out anything more about Whitney Geiger and Royale Real Estate?”

“Not really.” Now Shamus just sounded bored.

“We had a deal, Shamus.”

“Babe, today’s the big day! I’m having lunch with Sugar Joe and some of my other buds at Galatoire’s, and then there’s Zulu, Rex, and our Pluvius parade. Plus I’m supposed to hit six separate parties tonight!”

“So make a couple of calls, then go party your fool head off.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes, I’m serious. Shamus, this is important!”

“I’ll make the calls,” Shamus grumped, “but I’m not happy about it.”

“Look, I just need a little more information, okay?”

“I feel like a Judas,” Shamus muttered, “spying on Geiger. Like I’m selling out one of my krewe members.”

“Try to think of it as helping solve a murder, okay?” Carmela felt that Shamus was still hesitant, so she tossed out the final clincher. “And a way to get Sugar Joe off the hook.”

Shamus relented like she knew he would. “When you put it that way . . .”

“Shamus,” said Carmela, “just get the doggone information.”

Carmela hung up and stood there, feeling a little wooden, a lot scared. Who in the world had tried to drug her? Had it been Whit Geiger? Or Davis Durrell? Maybe the culprit was Sullivan Finch, who’d come and gone in a whirlwind. Maybe that was why he’d ducked out so fast.

Or could Billy Laforge have done it? Or Zoe the reporter?

Or is there someone who’s flying completely under my radar?

The thought chilled Carmela. So much so that she quickly checked her security cameras again, half-suspecting she might catch someone sneaking toward her shop.

But there was nothing going on. And no spooky postcard stuck to her door.

* * *

AT TWO O’CLOCK, CARMELA, AVA, JEKYL, AND ABOUT
twenty of the revelers trooped over to Mumbo Gumbo. Quigg Brevard met them with great gusto and Carmela could almost see dollar signs light up in his eyes. Three large tables were hastily pushed together to accommodate their group, which gave the whole event the feel of a Rotary Club dinner.

“We have a slightly limited menu today,” said Quigg, hastily passing out printed sheets, “but our tasty gumbos are still headlining.”

“And wine,” declared Jekyl, “we need wine.”

Quigg stood behind Carmela’s chair, one hand draped possessively on her shoulder. “I’m sending over a few complimentary bottles of my Bayou Sparkler champagne,” he announced to the group. His generosity elicited a spate of applause.

“You’re too kind,” gushed Ava.

“Think nothing of it,” said Quigg, as he squeezed Carmela’s shoulder. Then he bent down and whispered in her ear. “What’s wrong, darlin’? You look kind of down.”

“I’m fine,” said Carmela.

“Is that boyfriend of yours not treating you right?” Quigg asked.

“I’ll say,” put in Ava. “In fact he—”

“He’s great,” said Carmela. “Things couldn’t be better.”

“If you say so,” said Quigg, but his hand lingered on Carmela’s shoulder for a few more seconds.

Jekyl was up, then down, bouncing from table to table, greeting friends in the bar and at various booths. When he came back to their table he announced, somewhat breathlessly, “The Zulu parade is running way late, which means Rex will be backed up, too.”

“It happens every year,” said Ava.

Then Quigg was back with bottles of his new champagne, popping corks and pouring out the bubbling liquid with a masterful flourish.

“I’ve got some TV people coming in a little while,” Quigg whispered to Carmela, “but I’d love it if you stuck around, so we could enjoy a quiet drink in my private office.”

“Excuse me,” said Carmela. She slipped out of her chair and made a beeline for the ladies’ room.

Luckily, the anteroom to the ladies’ room had two pink velvet club chairs facing a large mirror. Carmela eased herself into a chair, grateful for the peace and quiet.

Her gut was still in turmoil over Babcock. She was seriously in like with the man, probably in love. But if she lost him for good, then what?

She stared in the mirror.
Then nothing. Then it would be over. Fini. Kaput.

No do-over?

Probably not.

Carmela pulled out a tube of Dior Rouge Blossom and applied it to her lips, noting the dark circles that seemed to have settled under her eyes.

I look like a raccoon.

Although Ava had told her that smoky eyes, what Carmela always thought of as ashtray eyes, were still very much in vogue, she wasn’t a fan.

Just not for me.

After she’d done her lips and cheeks, Carmela nervously checked her cell phone to see if Babcock had called. Nada.

Then, on a whim, knowing she probably wouldn’t see a darned thing, she checked her security cameras.

Nothing. But wait. There was a way to check back through the archived videotape. Tate Mackie had shown her how. She pushed a few buttons, then scrolled through the tape from the past hour. Because it was speeded up, it had the herky-jerky motion of an old-fashioned silent film. People walked by her front door, but nobody stopped. Then, just as Carmela was about to click off, something black loomed in the frame.

What?

Suddenly, bizarrely, there was a grainy image of Joubert, her neighbor from Oddities, skulking toward her front door. She slowed the motion down, just as Mackie had taught her. And watched as Joubert hesitated for a few seconds, then glanced surreptitiously around. When he seemed to be satisfied that nobody was watching, he pulled something out from beneath his cape and hastily stuck it on her front door!

Carmela shut her phone off and hurried to her table. Without any explanation, she quickly told Ava she had to leave and would call later. A few minutes later, Carmela stormed down Governor Nicholls Street with all the bluster of the second coming of Hurricane Katrina. Stopping outside Memory Mine, she paused long enough to grab the newly delivered postcard. Then she was flying though the front door of Oddities.

Joubert was busy with a customer but she didn’t much care.

“You!” Carmela called out in a thunderous voice.

Joubert glanced up. He’d been pointing out the fine points of a scarab ring to his customer. But when he saw the postcard clutched in Carmela’s hot little hand, his face went slack and assumed a sickly expression.