Postcards from the Dead (5 page)

“And a warm hello to you, too,” said Babcock.

“Oh, sorry,” said Carmela. “I thought maybe you were calling with news.” She eased herself into her purple leather chair and spun slowly from side to side.

“Even if I did have news,” said Babcock, “I wouldn’t be confiding in you.”

“You see,” said Carmela, “that’s so not right. Especially when I have some inside information for you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Here’s the thing,” said Carmela. “Last night Kimber had dinner with some guy. Probably not her regular boyfriend, from what I can tell. In fact, he was described as someone who’s a little rough around the edges. A guy possibly named Dusty or Duncan.”

Silence spun out for a few moments, and then Babcock said, sounding not at all pleased, “Please tell me how you know that.”

Chapter 5

C
ARMELA
took a deep gulp of air, then said, “Okay. The thing is, Ava and I had dinner at Mumbo Gumbo last night and found out about this from Quigg. You know, the owner?”

Babcock made a rude sound into the phone. He was well aware that Carmela had dated Quigg a couple of times.

“Anyway,” said Carmela, “Ava and I just happened to speak with Quigg as well as the waitress who served Kimber Breeze and her dinner companion.”

“Excuse me, you just
happened
to find this out?” said Babcock. He didn’t sound pleased. “It sounds more like you were investigating.”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“Of course you would,” said Babcock. “You realize, Carmela, just because someone is hanged, stabbed, or bludgeoned to death in New Orleans, it isn’t necessary for you to drop whatever you’re doing and try to solve the crime.”

“I don’t do that.”

“Maybe it just
feels
like you do,” said Babcock.” He made a blowing noise that sounded like the exhalation of a baby whale. “Okay, sorry. It’s just that I’m being yanked in a million different directions right now. Plus there’s a floater we just pulled from the Mississippi that’s possibly connected to a drug cartel. And now this Kimber Breeze thing has been dropped in my lap.”

“Kimber’s murder made serious headlines, huh?” said Carmela. “The
Times-Picayune
had it front page,
above
the fold.”

“National headlines, too,” said Babcock. “But why wouldn’t it go big? Her own TV station released part of the tape! It’s blurry and hard to tell what’s going on, but the idea that they’d do something like that is really quite . . . depressing.”

“You realize,” said Carmela, “for them it’s about her murder
and
the ratings.”

“Understood,” said Babcock. “But now the mayor has taken a personal interest in getting this case resolved as fast as possible. At least that’s what has been made very clear to me.”

“Because this is a high-profile case?”

“That and because Ed Banister, the station owner, is a major contributor to the mayor’s campaign.”

“Ouch,” said Carmela. “Politics rears its ugly head.”

“It usually does,” said Babcock. “And, by the way, how well do you know Joe Panola?”

“Sugar Joe?” said Carmela.

“That’s right. He was there last night, though he scrammed with the rest of the lowlifes.”

“He’s a good guy,” said Carmela.

“I have two witnesses who place him at the murder scene.”

“There were forty people at the murder scene!” Carmela exclaimed.

“But apparently this Sugar Joe character was the last person to see Kimber Breeze alive.”

“Sugar Joe’s not a killer,” said Carmela. “He’s a . . . I don’t know, he’s like an heir to a big sugar plantation.”

“The Evangeline Sugar Corporation based in Lafayette,” said Babcock. It sounded like he was reading from his notes. “Joe Panola is also a friend of your ex-husband.”

“So what?”

“That would give you a strong reason to come to Mr. Panola’s defense, wouldn’t it?”

“Absolutely not,” said Carmela, getting a little hot. “And, by the way, have you checked out the Hotel Tremain yet? Do you know who rented the rooms on either side of the Bonaparte Suite? Does that fire escape lead to the roof? And is there an easy exit onto another building?”

“You’re too much,” said Babcock.

“These are just normal questions,” said Carmela. “Really just observations.”

“Normal for you, maybe.”

“So you did check to see if these could be exit points?”

Everything’s been looked into,” said Babcock.

“And?”

“That’s confidential information.”

“Tell me
something
,” said Carmela.

“The fire escape does, in fact, lead to the roof of the building.”

“So there are probably several easy means of escape,” said Carmela. “Like jumping down to a neighboring building.”

“Unfortunately . . . yes.”

“And the rooms on either side?” Carmela pressed.

“Unoccupied,” said Babcock.

“Somebody could have been in one of them,” mused Carmela. “I mean, that’s probably how the murderer got away so fast.” She paused. “Don’t you think?”

“What I think doesn’t matter,” said Babcock. “I need to rely on empirical evidence.”

“Which is . . . ?”

“Not a lot. Yet.”

“Huh,” said Carmela. It wasn’t the answer she wanted to hear. She sat there tapping her foot, wondering if she should tell Babcock about the postcard she’d received. And decided not to. It would make him all bonkers and bring out his protective male instincts. Which was the last thing she wanted right now.

“Okay,” said Carmela, “what about Kimber’s boyfriend, Davis Durrell? Have you done an in-depth interview with him yet?” Carmela figured Durrell might be able to offer some ideas about Kimber’s murder. Or at least he could speculate.

“I’m on my way to talk to him now,” said Babcock.

“Will you call me afterward?” Something had just popped into Carmela’s head.

“Probably not.”

“Because I was just wondering,” said Carmela, trying not to rush her words, “how Durrell happened to arrive at the murder scene so quickly.”

* * *

FIVE MINUTES LATER, THE CLOCK STRUCK NINE,
the front door was unlatched, and Baby Fontaine and Tandy Bliss, two of Carmela’s scrapbooking regulars, came charging in.

“What the heck, Carmela!” yelped Tandy. She was short and skinny to the point of being emaciated, and she had a tight crop of hennaed curls ringing her bony face. “
Now
what did you get yourself involved in?”

Baby, her companion, was fifty-something and still gorgeous, a Garden District socialite who sported Chanel jackets teamed with perfect white blouses and blue jeans. Her pixie-cut blond hair was always perfectly coiffed and her face was amazingly unlined. In direct contrast to Tandy, Baby’s nature was far more gracious and tactful.

“Carmela’s not involved,” said Baby, in a soothing tone. “She just happened to be there.”

“Thank you, Baby,” said Carmela.

But Tandy peered across the tops of her red half-glasses and said, “Phoo. If Carmela was there, then she’s already spinning murder theories.” She tilted her head in an appraising gesture. “Am I right?”

Carmela hesitated. Fact was, she
was
noodling a few theories. There was Kimber’s mysterious dinner companion, of course. And the boyfriend who had seemed, dare she say it, over-the-top hysterical?

“If Kimber was killed on purpose,” Tandy continued, “it would be more like a crime of passion. I mean, maybe Kimber was involved in an illicit affair. Or even something illegal, like drugs or organized crime.” She said this casually as she dug into her scrapbook tote and pulled out a Tupperware container filled with homemade peanut butter bars. She ripped off the plastic top and held the container out to Gabby. “Care for a bar, honey?”

“Sure,” said Gabby, taking one.

“Hanging someone from a fourth-floor balcony doesn’t sound like passion to me,” said Baby. “It sounds extremely premeditated. Also, I’d venture to guess that Kimber knew her killer. That’s how they were able to get so close to her.”

“Never can tell,” said Tandy, who seemed to thrive on imagining worst-case scenarios. “It could have been a random stalker.”

“You think?” said Gabby.

“Sure,” said Tandy. “Think about it. Kimber was a pretty TV reporter in a high-visibility job. Somebody saw her on TV, became intrigued, and then got it in their sick little head that they were in love. Or in hate. Or whatever.”

“That’s not a bad theory,” said Gabby.

Tandy continued. “You know how much things have changed down here. Lots of new people moving in to snap up abandoned properties and try to make a fast buck in real estate.” She snorted. “Lots of people from not here.”
From not here
was New Orleans slang for someone who wasn’t born and bred there.

Gabby took a bite of peanut butter bar and gazed at Carmela with questioning brown eyes. “What do you think, Carmela? You’re always so good at constructing theories and figuring out motives.”

Baby nodded. “She’s the best. Silly us, we came stampeding in like a herd of cattle and never gave Carmela a chance to talk.” She flashed Carmela an encouraging smile. “What do
you
think? You can always pull random threads together and make a logical connection. What do you think about Kimber’s murder?”

All eyes were suddenly turned on Carmela, as the women spread out around the table.

Carmela almost didn’t show them the postcard. Then, at the last second, she changed her mind. After all, what could it hurt? And it did seem related to the murder, in some strange, sick way. So she pulled the cemetery postcard from the pocket of her suede jacket and slowly placed it in the middle of the table.

“Take a look at what turned up on my doorstep this morning,” she said.

* * *

TANDY’S MOUTH OPENED AND CLOSED IN A GASP,
like a fish hauled out of water. Then, in a loud bray, she exclaimed “Holy shih-tzu, Carmela!” Snatching up the postcard, Tandy pored over it like a fiend. She flipped it back and forth a dozen times, then looked up, wrinkled her nose, and declared, “It’s a crank. Has to be.”

“Of course it is,” said Baby, who’d been hunched over Tandy’s shoulder, studying the strange postcard. “But what a terrible nasty joke. If that’s what you can even call it!”

“You found this on your doorstep?” said Gabby. She just looked stunned.

Carmela nodded. “Uh-huh. This morning, with my newspaper.”

“Who would do something like that?” asked Gabby. She hugged herself, arms crossed in front of her, as if she had a sudden chill. “A crazy person?”

“It’s a joke,” Tandy repeated. “A bad joke, but a harmless one.”

“What if it’s not?” said Gabby. “What if it’s not harmless at all?”

“What do you mean?” asked Baby.

“It could be a warning,” said Gabby, her eyes going big. “What if somebody thinks Carmela is some sort of star witness and they’re telling her to back off and shut up?”

That gave them all pause.

“But I wasn’t a witness,” Carmela said, finally. “I was there, yes, but I didn’t actually see anything. Just the . . .” She gulped. “The aftermath.”

“Maybe somebody
thinks
you know more than you do,” said Gabby.

“That’s a very interesting theory,” said Tandy. She was starting to buy into Gabby’s argument.

“It’s ridiculous,” said Carmela, grabbing the postcard back. She suddenly wished she’d never shown them the darned thing. “I was hoping we’d get a good laugh out of it.”

Gabby peered at her. “Did you really?”

“Sure,” said Carmela. But deep down, she knew that wasn’t the absolute honest truth. So what had she really wanted? To be assured by her friends that the postcard meant nothing? To elicit their opinions on whether she might be in serious doo-doo? Perhaps. But now that she’d shown the postcard to Gabby and Baby and Tandy, it felt like it really should be heeded as a warning. Except, if it was a warning, wouldn’t the writing have said
Back off
or something equally strident?

Why did the scrawled message say
Why didn’t you help me?
And why had this sick someone signed Kimber’s name? Carmela shivered. And for the first time, she felt an inexplicable creepy sensation, like somebody had just walked across her grave.

“Did you tell Babcock about the postcard?” asked Gabby.

“No, I did not,” said Carmela. “And I don’t want you to, either. It’s probably nothing and he’s got enough to worry about right now.”

Luckily, Baby stepped in to lighten the tension that hung in the air like sticky strands of Spanish moss. “I guess we’re all looking forward to Carmela’s class on cigar box purses tomorrow afternoon, aren’t we?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” declared Tandy, “since I’ve got a couple of designs in mind.” Tandy was a dedicated scrapbooker and crafter and never missed any class or daylong seminar that Carmela taught. Paper moon, lettering, memory boxes, Paperclay classes—she attended them all and worked painstakingly on each and every project.

“I think,” said Carmela, also striving to break the tension, “what we need right now is a nice, fun project.”

“A quickie project,” said Tandy.

“We can make that happen,” said Gabby. She glanced across the table at Carmela, as if looking for confirmation.

“I just happen to have some wonderful photocopied angel images,” said Carmela, “to paste on the front of a small booklet and make an angel notebook.”

“What?” yelped Tandy, “I
love
angels.”

“Who doesn’t?” said Baby, “they’re so sweet and . . . angelic.”

“How do we start?” asked Tandy.

Carmela grabbed three small paper notebooks, loosely bound with stitching, and placed them on the table. Then she rifled through one of her flat file drawers and pulled out two dozen or so angel images.

“First you need to choose your angel,” Carmela told them.

There was a mad scramble as Gabby, Baby, and Tandy pawed through the images and each selected one.

“My angel looks like Gabriel,” said Tandy.

“I think mine looks like the angel Michael,” said Baby. “I think he’s my favorite. He leads the Lord’s armies against the devil.”

“So what now?” asked Tandy.

“Take your angel image,” said Carmela, “and scout around the shop for some paper that picks up the same colors. Most of the angels are sort of ethereal looking, so I suggest you look at our pink and mauve mulberry papers as well as our purple and gold lokta paper from Nepal.”

“Then what?” said Baby.

“Add a little paint?” asked Gabby.

Carmela nodded. “Yes, but first you’re going to cut your angel image into a circle and back it with a slightly larger circle, using card stock in gold or black to really make it pop. Once that’s done, you want to select a little gold charm or embellishment to go at the top and bottom of your image.”

“We have some wonderful new floral embellishments,” said Gabby. “Lilies and vases and vines.”

“Those would work perfectly,” said Carmela. “Okay, so you glue mulberry paper onto your cover, add your circular angel image with charms, then do a little enhancing with paint.”