Postcards from the Dead (9 page)

“At any rate,” said Carmela, “it would be interesting to know who was wearing a white clown costume last night.”

“Send in the clowns,” said Ava, taking another sip of wine.

* * *

LATER THAT NIGHT, AFTER AVA HAD LEFT, AFTER BOO
and Poobah had been walked, Shamus called.

“What?” said Carmela. She’d brushed her teeth and was tired and ready for a good night’s sleep. Now Shamus’s unwelcome hysteria had suddenly invaded her quiet space.

“It’s about the murder last night!” said Shamus. “First I find out that Sugar Joe, my best friend in the entire world, is a suspect! Then I find out you were actually there!”

Carmela yawned. “Tell me about it.”

“This is crazy town!” he screeched.

“Of course it is,” said Carmela, taking a deep breath and trying to remain calm. “And now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to turn out the light and . . .”

“You’ve got to help make this right!” implored Shamus. “Talk to that Dudley Do-Right boyfriend of yours and tell him he’s looking at the wrong guy!”

“I can’t do that.”

“Sure you can,” said Shamus. “Just
tell
him. Just vouch for old Sugar Joe.
You
know he’s a good guy and
I
know he’s a good guy; what more proof do you need?”

“Shamus,” said Carmela, “just let this play out. I’m sure . . .”

“No!” cried Shamus. “You’ve got to intercede! You’ve got to tell that crazy Babcock to
back off!
”

Carmela leaned over and snapped off the light. “Good night, Shamus.”

Chapter 9

F
RIDAY
morning dawned cool and crisp. Shards of gray clouds hovered above the lazy curl of Mississippi River but didn’t look particularly substantive. A gentle breeze, a pop of sun, and they’d be gone, swooshed away in a moment. Which meant another great Mardi Gras day.

Gabby beat Carmela to work by ten minutes, but only because Carmela stopped at Café du Monde to grab two café au laits. She juggled the two grandes in their green cups as she pushed through the front door. Then Gabby was there, greeting her and thanking her for bringing a caffeine lift.

“It’s going to be a great day,” said Gabby. “There’s going to be a huge influx of customers, we’ve got the cigar box purse class . . .”

“Ava and I watched a video of the murder,” Carmela told her.

Gabby looked suddenly jittery, and it wasn’t because of the strong coffee. “The actual murder? It’s on video?”

“Well, no,” said Carmela. “What we watched was a recording of the party in the Bonaparte Suite.”

Gabby frowned and drew a sharp breath. “Did you see anything strange? Any . . . suspects?”

“There was one possibility,” said Carmela. “A guy in a clown costume. Kind of like . . . you know, from that opera? Pagla . . .”

“You mean
Pagliacci
?” said Gabby. “The Canio character?” She and her husband, Stuart, were devoted opera fans.

“That’s it!” said Carmela, kicking herself that she hadn’t been able to dredge up the correct name. Why was she so well versed in pop culture instead? Probably because she watched way too much TV. “Anyway, one minute the Canio character was standing by the door that led to the balcony and the next minute he was gone. Poof.”

“Is this speculation?” asked Gabby. “Or actual evidence?”

Carmela considered Gabby’s question. “Um . . . I think mostly speculation on my part.”

Gabby took another sip of coffee. “I hate to ask, but do the police have a copy of this same video?”

“I think Raleigh gave them a copy. No, I’m pretty sure he did.”

“You better make darned sure,” said Gabby. “Because if the police don’t have it, and that video holds key information that could lead to a possible arrest . . .”

“Then I’d be withholding evidence,” said Carmela. “Yeah, I know. I thought about that.”

“So you need to be absolutely clear with Babcock,” said Gabby.

Carmela wrinkled her nose. “I will. I promise.” She gazed at the front counter, anxious to change the subject. “Anything? Any messages?”

Gabby handed her three pink message slips. “Just customers who left messages on the answering machine. Nothing earth-shattering. The most pressing is a woman who needs a Prussian blue ink pad.”

“Okay, I’m gonna go in my office and get my head together for a few minutes.” Carmela was meeting with Durrell in twenty-five minutes and she wanted to get clear in her mind exactly what questions to ask. She knew once she’d offered her cooked-up sympathies, Durrell would probably give her the bum’s rush out the door.

“I’ve got our cigar boxes all lined up and ready to go for this afternoon,” said Gabby. “But I know you’re going to want to pull some fun papers and decals and things.”

“I have to pop out for a meeting in a couple of minutes,” said Carmela, “but when I get back we’ll pull papers and decals and things together, okay?” Carmela walked slowly back to her office, perusing the message slips, sipping coffee, and tossing around a few more ideas for her class today, which she was really beginning to look forward to.

In the shower this morning, she’d come up with an idea for a Parisian-themed purse and was anxious to sketch out her design. She was going to affix dark-blue paper with tiny pink dots on the outside of her cigar box. And then she was going to add an Eiffel Tower stamp that . . .

Carmela stepped inside her office, then stopped in her tracks so fast a tiny blurp of coffee sloshed from her cup onto the floor. Because sitting smack-dab in the middle of her desk, the one she’d tidied so fastidiously last night, was a sepia-toned postcard.

Postcard? Another postcard? Where did it . . . ?

Carmela took a deep breath and carefully set her things on an adjacent credenza. Then she picked up the postcard and studied it. This one was a photograph of St. Louis Cemetery No. 3, circa 1902.

Dreading what she might find on the other side, Carmela slowly turned the postcard over.

Yes, another message had been scrawled there.

It read,
Carmela, I’m still waiting!
And it was signed
Kimber
.

Carmela reeled back, feeling gob-smacked. She blinked and read the message again as a sick, acidic feeling seeped into her stomach.

Who wrote this?
she wondered. And, on the heels of that thought,
Oh crap, how did it get on my desk?

Gasping, Carmela lurched from her office toward the heavy metal door that led out to the loading dock and alley. It was rarely used, except when she was expecting a large delivery or was trying to slip out of the shop discreetly.
Please tell me this door is locked tight.

But like a twisted image in a bad dream, it wasn’t. The door was shut, but it wasn’t locked. The deadbolt wasn’t engaged.

“Gabby, get back here!” Carmela shrieked.

Startled, Gabby snapped her head forward and dropped the packets of colored beads she was sorting. Then she was scurrying toward the back door, her skirt billowing out around her and her kitten heels sounding like castanets on the sagging wooden floor. “What’s wrong?”

“Look at this.” Carmela pointed at the brass lock on the door. “See the scratches?”

Gabby squinted as she moved in close. “Yes, I do.” Then reality hit home. “Oh no, did somebody try to jimmy the lock?”

“I think so,” said Carmela. She hesitated. No, she couldn’t keep this a secret. She had to tell Gabby the truth; it was only right. “Actually, I know so. Wait a minute, there’s something I have to show you.” Carmela slipped back into her office, grabbed the postcard, and handed it to Gabby.

Gabby’s face went slack. “You got another one.”

“It was right here, sitting on my desk. Waiting for me.”

Gabby jerked spasmodically. “You mean somebody broke into Memory Mine last night?”

“I think so.”

“Just . . . just to leave this postcard?” Gabby was both frightened and confused. “But what . . . ?” She sucked in a gulp of air. “But they didn’t
rob
us?”

“Doesn’t look like it,” said Carmela. “Have you checked the cash register today?”

“I peered in a few minutes ago and everything was fine.”

“There you go,” said Carmela. “The break-in was for scare purposes only.”

“Somebody broke in just to leave a postcard?” Gabby repeated. In a city where robberies and muggings were commonplace, she couldn’t seem to get past that. “Who would do something like this? I mean, it’s terrifying, but it’s stupid and nonsensical, too.”

“I don’t have a clue as to who’s behind this,” said Carmela, biting off her words sharply. “But come hell or high water, I intend to find out!”

But Gabby was suddenly thinking more rationally. “You have to call Babcock.”

Carmela balked. “I really don’t want to do that.”

“We’re talking about breaking and entering,” Gabby pointed out. “I think that’s technically a felony. It has to be reported.”

“Yeah, but . . .”

“Listen,” said Gabby, “whoever left this postcard, it could be the same person who murdered Kimber! That person might be . . . baiting you!”

“I suppose it’s possible,” said Carmela.
Actually, it’s quite probable.

“Or else . . .” Gabby glanced furtively at the postcard, and her voice took on a whispery edge. “It’s like Kimber’s reaching out to you from the grave.”

“Trust me,” said Carmela, “she’s not. There’s nothing magical or paranormal about this. There’s a reasonable explanation.”

Gabby put a hand on her hip. “You think so? Because breaking and entering to leave a wacked-out postcard on somebody’s desk seems very
un
reasonable to me.”

* * *

FIVE MINUTES LATER, WITH GABBY CALMED DOWN
and a technician from A-Plus Locks on his way over, Carmela walked briskly down Burgundy Street to the Gallier Building. It was an old yellow brick building that had been built around the turn of the century. Not this century—the previous century. It had started as a sugar factory, morphed into a warehouse, then, in the early eighties, when rehabbing buildings became fashionable, turned into office space.

Now a sleek, modern elevator whooshed Carmela up to the fifth floor, the top floor, and disgorged her in the posh lobby of Gold Star Investments. Though the old yellow brick walls remained, Carmela wondered why every interior designer felt compelled to modernize old buildings. Why couldn’t they just work with the good bones of these places? But no, chrome and glass fixtures had to be installed, and all sorts of modern touches added.

After introducing herself, Carmela was led by a tall, willowy receptionist in a navy blue skirt suit back to Durrell’s office. Mavis, the secretary, who was indeed plump and motherly, sprang up to greet her. Then she rapped on Davis Durrell’s door to announce Carmela.

The wood-paneled door swung open and Carmela stepped into an ultraplush office. A large executive desk anchored the center of the room. Two black leather Eames chairs faced it. Underfoot, the wine-colored carpet had two gold interlocking
D
s cut into it. Custom made for the ego-driven.

Carmela strode across the
D
s to greet Durrell. “I know we spoke briefly on Wednesday night, but I wanted to offer my condolences in a more personal way.”

“Thank you,” said Durrell. “I appreciate your concern.” He looked subdued and a little haggard. Maybe because he was still in shock, maybe because he hadn’t gotten much sleep. Or maybe because he was a little spooked that the police had drilled him with so many questions.

“I’m sure this is a trying time for you,” said Carmela.

Durrell offered a thin smile and indicated that Carmela should take a seat. Once she’d settled in, he sat down behind his desk and faced her.

“You have no idea,” said Durrell. “It’s been ghastly.”

Carmela decided that Durrell didn’t look like a financial guru. Rather, he gave the outward appearance of an indolent Southern rich guy who sat around drinking Sazerac and trying to impress women by quoting verses from Proust. Which, for some reason, reminded her of Shamus, whose picture should definitely be in
Webster’s Dictionary
under the word
lazy
.

But Durrell possessed the requisite three computer screens crawling with columns of red and green numbers; two iPhones, one at the ready and one plugged into a charger; an acre of mahogany desk; and photos of himself with his arm casually slung around the shoulders of a dozen or so minor celebrities—if you considered lawyers, real estate moguls, and a New Orleans Saints nose tackle minor celebrities.

“Anyway,” said Carmela, touching a hand to her chest, “my heart goes out to you. If there’s anything I can do . . .”

Durrell nodded. “You’re very kind. Your words come as a great comfort.”

“Good to know,” said Carmela, trying to muster a sincere smile that wasn’t too smiley.

Durrell gazed across his desk at her, as if waiting for Carmela to continue.

“So,” she said, “I understand you’re a money manager?”

“That’s correct,” said Durrell. “I work with a select group of rather well-heeled clients.” He offered a thin smile. “Are you an investor yourself? I understand you’re recently divorced . . . from Shamus Meechum?”

“That’s right,” said Carmela.

Durrell leaned forward, rested his elbows on his desk, and steepled his fingers. “Forgive me, but newly divorced women often find themselves with generous settlements, yet they don’t always possess the . . .”

“Financial savvy?” said Carmela. “The wherewithal to handle their own money?” Warning bells were suddenly clanging in her head. Granted, she’d come here under false pretenses. But now Durrell had suddenly spun the tables on her and was giving her a soft-sell pitch!

Durrell gave a helpless shrug, as if acknowledging the fact that not all women were financial geniuses.

“I’m managing just fine,” Carmela said, deciding the man was pretty much pond scum. “In fact, I very much enjoy business.”

“Do you now?” Durrell sounded just this side of disappointed.

“Running my own retail operation can sometimes be a challenge, but for the most part I’m loving it. As far as following the whims of Wall Street and directing my own investments . . . I’d say it’s a constant learning experience.”

“I’m sure Shamus must have been a great help,” said Durrell.

“You know what?” said Carmela, “Shamus was no help at all. His family may own Crescent City Bank, but Shamus doesn’t exactly have a degree in high finance from Wharton.” Fact was, Shamus could barely balance his own checkbook and had made it through Tulane by the seat of his pants and lots of help from his frat rat buddies.

“Oh dear,” said Durrell, feigning interest, “it sounds like you and Shamus have a somewhat hostile relationship.”

“Not really,” said Carmela. “Now that we’re out of each other’s hair, we get along better than ever.”
Yeah, right. Sure we do.

Durrell let loose a throaty chuckle. “Relationships . . .”

Which gave Carmela the conversational entrée she’d been hoping for.

“How long had you and Kimber been dating?” she asked.

Durrell leaned back in his chair, as if he had to think about that. “Oh, maybe six months.”

“I take it you were planning to get married?”

Durrell gave a far-off smile. “We talked around it. So, yes, I suppose our relationship would have eventually progressed to that point.”

To Carmela his answer sounded more like lawyer-speak than the words of a lover. On the other hand, neither of them seemed like till-death-do-us-part commitment types, but how did she know what true feelings were hidden deep within someone’s heart?

“Do you know how the police investigation is going?” asked Carmela.