Gilt Trip (10 page)

Falcon gazed at Carmela with the intensity of a cobra sizing up a mongoose. “Perhaps she's better off without him.” Then he shrugged. “And if the justice system hadn't been so rudely tampered with, Jerry Earl Leland might still be alive. He'd be behind bars, mind you, but I doubt he would've been murdered there.”

“I understand you two were business rivals.”

Falcon twisted his mouth into a harsh sneer. “When it comes to business, young lady,
everyone
is my rival.”

Carmela was about to let loose a sharp retort, but stopped herself short. After all, this was a man who ran a huge company and had an army of people at his command. When a man wielded that much power, she surely didn't need to make an enemy of him!

• • •

AVA TAPPED CARMELA ON THE SHOULDER.

“Who was that unhappy-looking man you were just yucking it up with?”

“Remember the guy we say on TV the other night? Conrad Falcon?”

Ava's eyes grew large. “Whoa. That was Falcon? The whistle-blower? What'd he say? What'd you ask him?”

“I tried to talk to him about Jerry Earl,” said Carmela. “But he clearly wasn't having it.”

“He was rude to you?”

“More like hateful. It pretty much oozed out of every pore!”

Ava clutched the white ribbon to her chest as if to protect herself from hatred contamination. “Ooh, that means he's negative juju,
cher
. Let's get out of here.”

“Good idea,” said Carmela. “Where's Isis?”

“Jekyl's got her. He's showing her off to some of his friends. You'd think
he
entered her in the darned contest.”

“Let's get her and go,” said Carmela.

They found Jekyl cooing over Isis and chatting with a bunch of fellow antique dealers. Once they pried Isis away from him, they cut a direct path through the crowded room, heading for the exit. As they passed the booth sponsored by Animal Rescue of New Orleans, a woman in tan pants and a pink blazer held a tiny tabby kitten out toward Carmela.

“Are you interested in adopting a kitten, dear?” asked the woman.

Carmela shook her head, but Ava nearly exploded.

“Oooh! Look at the itty-bitty baby!” Ava reached a finger out to gently stroke the adorable little kitten. The kitten let out a sound that was somewhere between a purr and a pleading squeak. “He's saying, pleeease love me! Now you have to adopt him!” Ava pleaded to Carmela.

“No, no,” said Carmela. “Not with two dogs.”

“They'd love a baby kitty to play with,” Ava said.

Carmela laughed. “Somehow I can't fathom that working out.”

Ava took the kitten into her hands and pressed her cheek against the kitten's fur. “But he's so soft and cuddly!”

“I know, now give him back.” Carmela took the kitten from Ava and handed him back to the Animal Rescue lady, who in turn raised an eyebrow.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

Carmela nodded. “Afraid so.” She made a note to herself to send a donation to the Animal Rescue people. They did fantastic work and she knew they could use all the help they could get. Of course, if the world were a perfect place, there wouldn't be any hapless little creatures who needed homes.

• • •

CARMELA GUNNED HER ENGINE AS SHE TURNED
from Decatur onto St. Louis, heading for home. The night was cool and the colorful neon lights from the nearby clubs and bars spattered prisms of red, blue, and green across her windshield—a French Quarter light show.

“So what did Conrad Falcon say when you mentioned Jerry Earl?” Ava asked. She was holding Isis in her lap, looking happy and relaxed, beginning to come down a little from her triumphant win.

“He said maybe Margo was happy to be rid of him.”

“Yeah?” said Ava. “Do you think she is?”

Carmela drove for another block, thinking. Then she said, “I'm not sure. She vacillates between being weepy and a kind of manic high.”

“What do you think that means? That she should be popping Prozac? Or that she really should be considered a suspect?”

“You know,” said Carmela, “in a case like this, the spouse is
always
a suspect.”

“What would be her motive?”

“Money, I suppose,” said Carmela.

“And Conrad Falcon? What motive would he have?”

“Pure hatred.”

“Okay,” said Ava. “And suspect number three, Eric Zane. What's in it for him?”

“I don't know,” said Carmela. “Freedom?”

“Couldn't Zane have just quit his job if he hated it so much?”

“Easier said than done,” said Carmela. “Sometimes it's trickier than just kicking the dust off your shoes and walking out the front door. Sometimes people are physically and emotionally stuck, so they're unable to make any kind of move.”

“Huh,” said Ava. “Like being Velcroed to the wall.” She wiggled her shoulders. “Awful.”

“I found out something else, too,” said Carmela.

“What's that?”

“Jerry Earl was carrying on with Beetsie Bishoff. At least that's the latest scuttlebutt according to our good friend Jekyl.”

“No!” said Ava. “That scrawny old bird and Jerry Earl?”

Carmela nodded.

“What a betrayal!” Ava dropped her head and planted a little kiss on the top of Isis's furry head. “Do you think Margo knows? Or that she suspected?”

“I don't think Margo has a clue. She wouldn't still be all buddy-buddy with Beetsie if she knew Beetsie had been canoodling with Jerry Earl. And I have no idea if the affair was carried on while he was in prison.”

“How do you even have an affair with a guy who's in prison?” Ava asked. She sounded interested.

“You're asking me?” Carmela said as she zigzagged around a slow-moving vehicle. “You're the relationship expert. You've dated in just about every crazy situation—”

Ava held up a hand. “Excuse me! I don't do jailbirds or married men. A lady has to draw the line somewhere!”

Carmela laughed. “You don't think men in orange are cute?”

“It's not the orange that I object to, it's the baggy jumpsuits,” Ava said, smiling wickedly.

“Speaking of jailbirds and jumpsuits,” said Carmela. “Remember those tattoos I told you about? The ones the ME discovered on Jerry Earl's body?”

“Yeah,” said Ava. “So you found out more?”

“Well, I talked to Bobby Gallant—it was like pulling teeth, but I finally got some inside information—and he told me about this crazy group of guys down in Venice who were in prison the same time Jerry Earl was.”

“What are you saying?” asked Ava.

“There's a possibility they might be involved.”

“That they murdered Jerry Earl?” said Ava.

“Maybe.”

“There are a lot of maybes in this case,” said Ava. “Too many.”

Carmela shrugged. “I know.” She hesitated. “But one more maybe?”

“What's that?” said Ava.

“Maybe we should drive down to Venice and check out those guys for ourselves.”

“We could do a road trip!” squealed Ava. “Just like
Thelma and Louise!
”

“As long as you don't shoot anyone,” said Carmela.

“And you don't drive us off a cliff!” said Ava.

C
ARMELA
was scrutinizing her racks of paper this Wednesday morning, trying to figure out what might tickle the fancy of her crafters for her afternoon Paper Moon class. Maybe her Japanese rice papers with the kimono designs? She pulled a few sheets out. And how about the suede papers? Sure, why not. The suede paper was gorgeous. She also grabbed a few sheets of vellum and foil paper and was debating over the cork paper when the bell over the front door did its high-pitched
da-ding.

Carmela glanced up at the same time Gabby did. Gabby was standing at the front counter, creating a display with seals and rubber stamps, when a man in a blue uniform charged in.

“Carmela?” he said, looking at her.

“Gabby,” she said.

“Got a delivery here for a Carmela,” the man said.

“That's me,” said Carmela. She set her stack of paper down and walked the few steps to the front. “Whatcha got?”

The man shrugged, then handed her a long white envelope. “Don't know, ma'am, I just make the deliveries.”

“Thanks anyway,” said Carmela as he charged back out the door.

“That looks awfully small to be the foam core I ordered,” said Gabby.

“I don't know what it is,” said Carmela. She hooked a fingernail under the envelope's flap and flipped it open. “Oh. Tickets.” She glanced at Gabby. “For Saturday's Cakewalk Ball. You know, from Margo.”

“I thought you weren't interested in going to things like that,” said Gabby. “After Shamus dragged you to every charity and society event in town.”

“Eh,” said Carmela, “I kind of got pressured by Margo. She's co-chair or something like that.”

“Well, I'm glad you're going. Now I'll have someone to hang out with.”

Carmela raised a single eyebrow. “What about Stuart?” Stuart Mercer-Morris, Gabby's husband, owned eight Toyota dealerships and was known as the Toyota King of New Orleans. He dressed like a preppy, voted conservative, was a bit of a control freak, and lived and dreamed car deals. He got particularly excited when it came to fleet leasing.

“Stuart will be busy yucking it up with his friends as usual,” said Gabby. “And probably bragging about his cake.”

“What's he planning to donate? I hope he didn't pinch something from your jewelry box.”

“No,” said Gabby. “One of his managers has a wife who's an amateur baker and cake decorator. She's going to do a four-layer cake and incorporate a long strand of opera-length pearls and a diamond-studded key pendant.”

“Classy.”

Gabby wrinkled her nose. “You think?”

“It is for a car dealer.”

• • •

TWENTY MINUTES LATER THEY WERE UP TO THEIR
ears in customers. A trio of women came tripping in and started grabbing packs of beads, colored brads, and stickers.

Another woman, a semi-regular named Amanda who'd just acquired a stash of antique paper dolls, cornered Carmela and inquired about the best way to display them.

“Display them?” asked Carmela. “Or showcase them in an album?”

“Hmm,” said Amanda. “Maybe I would rather put them in an album. If I did go that route, what would you recommend?”

Carmela reached up and grabbed an album off the shelf. It had a pebbly black leather finish that made it look old, like a vintage ledger or banker's book. “This might work.” She carried it to the craft table in back. “How many paper dolls do you have?”

Amanda opened her portfolio and showed her. “A dozen.”

“So maybe give each paper doll her own page?”

“That's a lot of pages,” said Amanda. “I don't know if I can manage that many.” Her finger touched one of the dolls. “What I'm saying is, I don't know that I'm that creative.”

“The thing is, we have a lot of antique-looking paper. So if you use that for background, you're already halfway there.”

Amanda remained doubtful. “Can you show me? Just one example?”

“Sure.” Carmela spun around and grabbed a sheet of paper that was printed with a wonderful collage that included old newspapers, antique flower seed packets, and vintage postcards. “You see, this sets the vintage tone right away.”

“Neat. But what else?”

“You could also add a snippet of vintage fabric or lace, add some buttons, and even pressed flower petals.”

“I love it,” said Amanda. “What other papers do you have that would work?”

Carmela grabbed a handful of twelve-by-twelve-inch sheets of paper that featured designs of old sheet music, vintage wallpaper, Audubon prints, and butterfly designs.

“I get it,” said Amanda. “And I think I can figure out the rest.”

“I knew you could,” said Carmela.

Gabby seemed to have everything in the shop under control, so Carmela retreated to her office. She plopped down in her chair and studied the items she'd brought back yesterday from Margo's house.

She leafed through some of the photos, then picked up Jerry Earl's antique leather journal. As she carefully turned the pages, she was quickly mesmerized by all the notes and scrawls and diagrams. She could understand why Jerry Earl had found this little journal so fascinating. She wondered if he had regarded it as a sort of good luck talisman in his own search for treasure.

A discreet knock on the doorframe caused Carmela to lift her head and turn around. Gabby was standing there, a crooked smile on her face.

“What on earth are you reading?”

“A very fascinating little notebook,” said Carmela. “Did you know that all sorts of fossils and bones have been discovered in Louisiana?”

“No, I did not,” said Gabby.

“Well, according to Jerry Earl's notes, this state is a hotbed for them.”

The phone suddenly rang, as if to punctuate her sentence. And Gabby, ever the good and mindful shopkeeper's assistant, reached across the desk and grabbed it. She listened for a moment, then covered the receiver with her hand.

“Speaking of hot beds,” said Gabby, “your ex is on the phone.”

Carmela made a face.

“Now, now,” said Gabby, chiding her.

Carmela took the phone. “What?” she said.

“Babe,” said Shamus, “is that any way to say hello?”

“Hello,” said Carmela. “What?”

“I have a favor to ask,” said Shamus.

“No,” said Carmela.

“You don't even know what it is!”

“The answer is still no,” said Carmela.

“Pleeease,” said Shamus. “I need your help. I need to tap that spark of creative genius that burns inside your pretty little head.”

“What are you talking about, Shamus? Spit it out.”

“I can't. Not over the phone. Meet me for a drink after work, okay?”

“I don't like this, Shamus, you're being very mysterious.”

“Does that mean you'll meet me?”

“Is this about money?” Carmela asked. “Because I have no intention of rehashing old—”

“It's not,” said Shamus. “It's just a teensy, tiny personal favor that's right up your alley.”

Carmela sighed. “Okay, but this is against my better judgment . . .”

“Across the street from your shop,” said Shamus. “Glisande's Courtyard Restaurant. See you at five.”

“This better be good, Shamus!”

• • •

TWO SECONDS AFTER SHE HUNG UP, THE PHONE
rang again. This time Carmela snatched it up. “Memory Mine,” she said in a pleasant tone. “How can we help?”

“You can start by explaining a few things,” said a rich, baritone voice.

Babcock! Carmela felt a warm flutter of butterflies deep within her stomach. “How are things going?” she asked. “How's your seminar? Are you learning lots of exciting new investigative techniques?”

“Never mind my seminar,” said Babcock. “What I want to know is why are you interfering so much in Gallant's case?”

The butterflies stopped fluttering and took a nosedive. “I'm not.”

“That's not what I hear.”

“Um . . . he called you?”

“Yes, he called me. He works for me, remember?”

“I maybe asked him just a couple of little things, that's all,” said Carmela.

“Are you being truthful?”

Carmela crossed her fingers to help mitigate her little white lie. “Sure.”

“Well, just take it easy on Gallant, okay? He's tearing his hair out over this Jerry Earl Leland case.”

“It's a tough nut to crack,” admitted Carmela.

“Just don't
you
try to crack it,” said Babcock.

“Um,” said Carmela.

“Listen, Carmela. Margo Leland is really, really rich. And her husband, like it or not, has been a major political contributor in the past.”

“So what are you saying?” said Carmela.

“There's some serious pressure to solve this thing,” said Babcock. “From the mayor's office on up.”

“Got it,” said Carmela. She didn't want to get into another big go-round with him, so she hastily changed the subject. “When will you be home?”

“Probably late Saturday.”

“Any chance you can make it to the Cakewalk Ball at NOMA? Um, the New Orleans Museum of Art?”

There was a pause and then Babcock said, “Cakewalk Ball? You never mentioned that before. What on earth is it?”

“Just your basic annual charity event. Big-buck donors, lavish cakes, dinner, dancing, schmoozing, and a
de rigueur
auction.”

“So it's fancy. Does that mean I have to wear a monkey suit?”

“It would be quite appropriate if you did, yes.” This was a man who favored Hugo Boss, Zegna, and Armani, but was unhappy about wearing a tux? Gimme a break.

“I'm not sure I'll be able to make it in time.”

Carmela heard indecision in his voice. “I'd love it if you'd try,” she said. “I promise to wear something cute!” Nothing like trying to up the ante.

“You mean like a party dress?” Now Babcock sounded interested.

“Something like that, yes.”

“Well . . . I can try to make it, but don't hold your breath.”

• • •

AFTER LUNCH, WITH ONE EYE ON THE CLOCK,
Carmela got busy and pulled several more sheets of paper for her Paper Moon class. Since she was so intrigued by the little journal, she pulled a bunch of parchment paper, too.

“Parchment,” said Gabby, studying her choices. “That's unusual. Usually you're all gung-ho over sheets of handmade paper and Japanese rice paper.”

“Oh, we'll have that, too,” said Carmela. Then the front door chimed, and Baby and Tandy came flying in. Baby, as usual, was dressed impeccably in a tailored black and white houndstooth jacket with slim-fitting designer jeans. Tandy looked snazzy in a fire red and orange top that matched her mop of hennaed hair.

They caromed through the shop and slung their scrapbook totes onto the table in back.

“Well,” said Baby, picking an invisible piece of lint from her blazer. “What's new on the investigative front? Have you figured out who killed Jerry Earl?”

Carmela squinted at her. “I haven't solved the case yet, if that's what you're asking. Then again, neither have the New Orleans Police. But there are more and more seedy details that keep coming to the surface.”

“Tell us!” Tandy squawked. She was always up for a choice tidbit of gossip. “What scandalous information did you find out?”

“Just the usual—betrayal, backstabbing, and shameful affairs,” Carmela said. She dropped her armload of craft supplies in the middle of the table, where it landed with a
thunk
.

“Since it's a murder investigation,” Gabby chimed in, “there's got to be betrayal.” She paused and poked a hank of blond hair behind her ear. “But what's this about affairs?”

Baby inhaled sharply. “Was Margo having an affair?”

Tandy slammed a hand down on the table. “Holy buckets, that's it, isn't it! Margo murdered Jerry Earl so she could run off with her lover! So . . . who is he? Some nasty social climber who's interested in her money or some misguided young swain?”

Carmela gave a Cheshire cat smile. “You've got half the equation right.”

Baby edged closer. “Which half?”

Carmela glanced around to make sure it was just the four of them who were in earshot. “It was Jerry Earl who was having the affair.”

Tandy whistled. “Hound doggin' around. Can't say I'm surprised.”

“That rat,” said Baby.

“A total louse,” put in Gabby.

“So who was he carrying on with?” Tandy asked.

Carmela was about to clue them all in when the front door slammed open and two women pushed their way in.

“We're here for the Paper Moon class,” a woman in an elegant feather hat called out. She had long curly blond hair that peeked out from beneath her hat and was dressed in a flouncy pink blouse and black skirt. Her friend shared similar facial features and the same honey-colored hair.

Carmela decided they had to be sisters. “Welcome,” she said and gave a friendly wave. “Come on back and meet the rest of the gang.”

“Fill us in later, okay?” whispered Tandy as two more women burst through the front door, eager to join their class.

• • •

CARMELA KICKED THINGS OFF WITH A QUICK INTRODUCTION
on the different types of papers that were available, passing around sheets of vellum, crinkle paper, linen paper, batik papers, and others that she'd pulled earlier.

“Remember,” she told her class, “these types of paper aren't just for scrapbooking. They're perfect for journaling, card making, tags, booklets, shadow boxes, labels, and wherever else your creativity leads you.”

“But what are we going to work on today?” asked Tandy. She was a scrapper of the first magnitude, always eager to dig in and work on a new project.