Gilt Trip (13 page)

“If you two had the same tattoos,” said Carmela, “you must have been friends.”

Moony seemed to pick his words carefully. “Not really friends . . . more like . . . acquaintances.”

“But you knew him fairly well,” Carmela prodded.

“Yeah, I knew Jerry Earl,” he acknowledged. “From when we were in Dixon together.”

“You were both in some sort of gang?” asked Ava.

Moony thought for a moment. “I'd call it more of a business arrangement. Me and my guys occasionally helped smuggle out information for Jerry Earl.”

“Information? What kind of information?” Carmela asked.

“More like orders,” said Moony. “That old fox was running his company from inside a ten-by-twelve-foot jail cell. Pretty funny when you think about it.”

Carmela didn't see anything funny about it. “What exactly was it you smuggled out?”

Moony shrugged. “Like I said, information. Notes and shit. You know, the kind of . . .” He twirled his hand around in a circle. “Messages. Stuff a guy like Jerry Earl would need to communicate to the outside world.”

“How exactly did you smuggle it out?” asked Ava. “If you were in the joint yourself?”

“Lots of different ways,” said Moony. “Sometimes it went out with our lawyers inside their briefcases. Sometimes one of my boys would get his release papers and carry it himself. And sometimes we used visitors or even tennis balls.”

“Tennis balls?” said Carmela.

“You had a tennis court?” said Ava. “I've heard of country club prisons but that's ridiculous—”

“No, no,” said Moony, interrupting. “From when we were out in the exercise yard. You cut a hole in a tennis ball, stuff in a note, and toss it over the fence to a waiting messenger.” He grinned. “That's a good way to get dope
into
the prison, too.”

“So the notes were all about business?” Carmela asked.

Moony shrugged. “Sometimes it was a note to his old lady; sometimes it was this crap about geology. He was loony about geology and dinosaurs. Kept yapping about how he knew where there was a T. rex buried. At least he hoped there was.”

“Did he tell you where?” Ava asked.

Moony pursed his lips and made a disparaging sound. “Come on, like you actually believe that stuff? Dinosaur bones buried in Louisiana? If you believe that, then I got some hot property down the street you might be interested in.”

“Oh no,” said Ava, “I've been down that street. Nothing in my price range.”

Moony's mood turned dark again. “Speaking of money, I did a lot of favors for Jerry Earl. And he owed me considerable money. Now that's all gone. Since the jerk went and died on me.”

“Do you get up to New Orleans very much?” Carmela asked.

Moony narrowed his eyes at her. “I haven't been up to those parts since I got out of the pen.”

Carmela decided she probably would have noticed if Moony had been at Margo's big bash. On the other hand, that didn't mean he hadn't creepy-crawled into the house through Jerry Earl's office and killed him. A man like Moony was used to flying under the radar. He could probably get in and out of Jerry Earl's house before anyone could say “Another champagne,
s'il vous plaît
.”

“Let me ask you something,” said Carmela. “How did you know that Jerry Earl was dead?”

“Lady,” said Moony, “Venice may be the end of the world. But we still get TV, newspapers, and the Internet!”

C
ARMELA
pulled back the gauze curtains in her bedroom and assessed the weather. Raindrops tip-tapped at the window and ran down in rivulets. A sodden gray mist consumed her view into the courtyard. Feeling tired and brought down by the weather, every ounce of her wanted to dive back into bed and burrow beneath the down comforter. Cuddle up with Boo and Poobah and catch a few more
zzz
's. But this morning was Jerry Earl's funeral, and she'd promised Margo that she'd be there. Front and center. Rain or shine.

She took a shower, standing under the shower head, letting the water wash over her until the pipes started clanking and the hot water dwindled to a tepid trickle. Then she dried off, smoothed on body lotion, and padded barefoot to her closet. Next problem. What to wear?

Well, it was a funeral, so she should probably choose something tasteful and sedate. She searched through her closet and came up with . . . nothing. Why was it, she wondered, that she had been shopping for twenty years and still had nothing to wear?

Okay, time to get serious. Maybe her tailored gray wool blazer and skirt? Sure, why not? Worn with a peach blouse, it had been her honeymoon going-away suit. It hadn't brought her much luck in that regard, so maybe the suit would be put to better use as funeral attire. Couldn't hurt.

Shrugging into the skirt and a black blouse, Carmela returned to the bathroom. She applied the bare minimum amount of makeup—a hint of pink lip gloss and a waft of the mascara wand—so she wouldn't get ticketed by a roving glam squad. Then she turned to her hair, which was caramel-colored and not quite shoulder-length and still dripping water. She considered doing a blowout, but in the end just settled for spritzing it with styling lotion and kind of brushing it into shape. Ava, who was a graduate of Mr. Gary's College of Hairdo Knowledge, would have scolded her. Ava would have advocated using a blow dryer and a curling iron, and pinning in three or four hairpieces, but she wasn't about to spend thirty minutes doing a fancy coif and then end up all bedraggled by the rain.

The doorbell dinged, setting off a cacophony of barks from Boo and Poobah. Canine homeland security at work.

Probably Ava.

Carmela scurried to the door and pulled it open. Ava sauntered in like she was walking the catwalk, wearing a tight black leather skirt and a low-cut hot pink and orange silk blouse. From the bounce in her step and a few other places, it looked as if she also wore a spring-loaded bra.

“Good Lord!” said Carmela. “We're going to a funeral, not trolling for questionable dates at Dr. Boogie's Jazz Club!”

Ava twirled around so Carmela could see and appreciate the full effect. “You like? I know it might be construed as being a trifle edgy by some people with a more conservative bent, but I see my outfit as being rather celebratory.”

Carmela stared at her deadpan. “Huh?”

“After all,” Ava continued in her confident jabber. “You never know when your time is up. I mean, life is for the living and this is, after all, New Orleans!”

“Okay.” Carmela wasn't sure what kind of philosophical prose that was supposed to be, but she wasn't about to argue. The clock was ticking and the dogs were padding back and forth between her and Ava, making nervous little figure eights, as if they were in a figure-skating competition.

“
Cher
, how are you fixed for coffee?”

“Sorry, no time.”

“Coca-Cola?” asked Ava. “I always need a hit of caffeine to get my engine purring.”

Ava's engine seemed like it was purring just fine. “In the refrigerator,” said Carmela. She grabbed a bag from under the cupboard and poured kibbles into two aluminum bowls for the pups.
Petit déjeuner
for dogs. “Help yourself.”

Ava found her Coke and wandered over to the dining room table. She plunked herself down, did a sort of double take, and said, “Holy chibata, girlfriend. That's a sweet-lookin' little bauble you got here!”

Oops
, Carmela thought. Ava had just spotted the diamond necklace.

“Where did you get this?” Ava had pulled it from the pouch and was practically drooling.

“From Shamus.”

Ava's brows instantly puckered. “Oh no!
Problema!
Please don't tell me that lying, scheming skunk is trying to ply you with expensive gifts? Don't you
dare
think about taking him back!”

“Not to worry,” Carmela chuckled.
That
was never going to happen. “The necklace is for the top of a cake he asked me to decorate for the Cakewalk Ball.”

Ava plucked the little pendant up and dangled it from her fingers. “You're telling me Crescent City Bank is donating this?”

“That's right.” Pause. “Would you like to go?”

“To the ball?” Ava nodded. “Sure, why not.”

“With me as your date, since I only have two tickets.”

“Okay by me.” Ava studied Carmela for a couple of seconds, then batted her eyelashes. But in a friendly way. “Carmela dear.”

“Yes?” Carmela could pretty much guess what was coming.

“Can I wear this?” Ava asked, giving the little pendant a shake. “Just for the funeral? I mean, it's the closest I've come lately to a gen-u-ine diamond.” She fluttered her left hand absently. “Honestly, I thought for sure I'd be married and divorced by now, out of my starter marriage and working on finding a second, more successful husband. And what am I? A single woman with a cat! I'm a cliché!”

“But it's a
prize
winning cat,” said Carmela. When her words failed to cheer Ava, she added, “I suppose you can wear it. After all, what Shamus doesn't know won't hurt him.”

Ava hastily strung the pendant around her neck, where it glittered and gleamed and caught the light. “Isn't it funny,” she said in a breathy voice, “that diamonds are a girl's best friend, but dogs are man's best friend?”

Carmela thought for a moment. “I guess that tells you which sex is smarter.”

• • •

CARMELA AND AVA WALKED ACROSS THE PLAZA
to St. Louis Cathedral, arguably the heart of New Orleans. With its triple steeple, the cathedral was an architecture gem. It towered above its historic neighbors, the Cabildo and the Presbytere, and looked down benevolently on the green of the Square and the block-long Pontalba Buildings with their lacy ironwork galleries.

Inside, the church smelled distinctly Catholic, a blend of frankincense and sandalwood mingling with the scent of votive candles, oil, and fresh flowers.

“Wow,” Ava whispered as she and Carmela stood in the back of the church and looked around. “Margo's turned this funeral into a real shindig.”

The great rococo altar was adorned with extravagant floral bouquets of porcelain white camellias and English roses. Enormous candles burned on two six-foot-high brass stands. And front and center, between two rows of wooden pillars, was Jerry Earl's ornate mahogany casket. It rested atop a wooden bier and was draped with a white flag embroidered with a gold Mardi Gras emblem.

“It looks like a state funeral,” Carmela whispered. She decided that all that was lacking was some red, white, and blue bunting. The kind politicians seemed to love. Then her eyes searched the crowded church, a veritable sea of darkness with everyone dressed in black like a flock of grackles. Finally, she spotted Gallant, sitting just a few rows ahead of them. “C'mon,” she whispered.

Carmela and Ava tiptoed to the pew, where Bobby Gallant was camped out. He looked up expectantly, then scooched over to make room for them.

“Anything new?” Carmela asked him.

But before he was able to answer—or maybe he wasn't going to answer her at all—a hush descended upon the crowd.

There was a clatter at the back of the church, then Carmela and the two hundred or so mourners turned to watch as Margo began her way up the center aisle. Escorted by Duncan Merriweather, Margo was dressed in a flowing black dress and wore a perky hat with a veil. As she stepped smartly along, knowing full well she was being scrutinized by everyone, it became quite apparent that her intent was to show off. Her dress, edged with pale pink lace, was knee-length in front, but fell into dramatic, sweeping, floor-grazing folds in back.

“She's wearing a mullet dress,” Ava whispered. “Business in the front, party in the back.”

As Margo continued up the aisle, a chill ran down Carmela's spine. She realized that Margo, with her black dress and matching veil, looked more like a bride than a grieving widow. Only she was a bride dressed in black, like a witch bride or a character out of some unholy fairy tale.

Margo finally made it to her seat in the front row. She and Merriweather slid in and settled next to Beetsie, who extended a bony hand to each of them. Beetsie, Carmela noted, appeared more severe than ever. She wore a plain sack-like black dress that hung loosely around her hips, and she sported a fresh-cropped haircut that revealed rather large ears.

Seated directly behind Margo was Eric Zane and two other people that Carmela recognized as household staff.

From the third row on were the hoi polloi of the Garden District. Friends and neighbors, many of whom had been present at Margo's soiree last Sunday night. Carmela even recognized Buddy Pelletier, looking dignified and somber. He was clutching the hand of a petite blond woman seated next to him. Presumably his wife.

Suddenly, organ music burst forth with an impressive rendition of “How Great Thou Art.” The priest marched in, accompanied by two altar boys, and the service was under way.

The Requiem Mass was longer and more elaborate than Carmela had remembered. And so, when Buddy Pelletier took the lectern to speak, she found it to be a welcome break. His manner was gentle and caring, and he spoke elegantly and meaningfully about his dear departed friend.

There was more incense as well as prayers and songs. And then, finally, the service came to its inevitable conclusion. The casket click-clacked down the aisle, followed by a weeping Margo, who was barely supported by a teetering Duncan Merriweather.

“Very dramatic,” Ava whispered to Carmela.

Carmela nodded. Then turned to speak to Gallant. But like a will-o'-the-wisp, he had suddenly disappeared down the side aisle.

“Doggone,” Carmela said under her breath. “I wanted to talk to him.”

“Maybe you can catch him at the cemetery?” said Ava.

“That means we have to go to the cemetery,” said Carmela. She hadn't planned on that.

“We have to go!” said Ava. “Because . . .” She hesitated.

“What?”

“There's a fancy luncheon afterward. At Commander's Palace. You know I don't get to go there all that often.”

So of course, they drove down St. Charles Street from the French Quarter to the Garden District. Or “back to the scene of the crime,” as Ava called it.

• • •

“YOUR PINK AND ORANGE TOP IS A WELCOME
hint of color in all this gloom,” Carmela told Ava as they walked through the wrought-iron gates of Lafayette Cemetery No. 1.

“Nothing will ever be dull around me,” agreed Ava. “Not even the weather.”

In the distance, a bright flash lit up the sky. It was followed by a loud clap of thunder.

Carmela laughed. “Did you do that?”

Ava raised her brows and glanced sideways at her. “That's only a small sample of my bewitching powers.”

They followed a group of mourners through the jumble of tombs and markers and mausoleums. Rain pattered down lightly as white gravel crunched underfoot.

“Spooky in here,” Ava muttered.

“I thought you liked spooky,” said Carmela.

“I like
my
brand.”

“Oh,” Carmela laughed. “You mean the manufactured kind. The voodoo dolls that come wrapped in plastic from a factory in China.”

They assembled with a small group of about thirty people, then waited in the light rain as a cadre of pallbearers carried in Jerry Earl's casket.

“At least this isn't filled with theatrics,” Ava whispered.

At which point a flash of lightning blazed across the sky and Margo Leland stepped forward to place the memory box that Carmela had crafted atop the polished casket.

“Ooh, look what's suddenly front and center,” whispered Ava.

“Shhh,” said Carmela as Margo turned to address the group.

“I'm so glad y'all could come,” Margo said in a halting voice. “It means a lot to me, and it would have meant so very much to my dear Jerry Earl.” She brushed back tears. “He did so love a good party.”

“She's not just the life of the party,” Ava whispered. “She's the death of the party.”

Margo turned and touched a hand to Jerry Earl's casket. “Now he's gonna join his momma and daddy right here in this magnificent Leland family tomb.” Her eyes went a little wonky. “Where I will probably join him sometime in the distant future.”

Carmela had seen weird send-offs before—this was New Orleans, after all. But this one took the cake.

“Buddy,” said Margo, turning slightly, “would you do the honors?”

Buddy Pelletier nodded at her and stepped smartly up to the mausoleum. As he pushed open the wrought-iron gate, it creaked back loudly on rusty hinges. Then it took another few minutes for the pallbearers to grapple with Jerry Earl's casket once again and muscle it into the tomb.

Carmela knew that family tombs were a grand tradition here in New Orleans. Coffins were often left inside for years at a time to dry out and decay. Then they were discarded and the dear departed's bones shoved down a slide to a repository below. She wondered if Jerry Earl was next in line, or if he was going to have to wait his turn. Then, because she knew her thoughts were dark and grisly, she glanced around to clear her head. And noticed Eric Zane wiping away a tear.

Is he sorry that Jerry Earl is dead? Or relieved that he's gone?