Gilt Trip (7 page)

“Oh yes,” said Zane. “I saw the lights on in Mr. Leland's office and I peeked in.”

“And what did you see?” asked Margo.

Zane shrugged. “Just that he was on the phone.”

“Any idea who he was talking to?” asked Beetsie.

“I would never presume to eavesdrop,” said Zane. He squared his shoulders and stared at Margo. “I hope you're not suggesting that I had a hand in Mr. Leland's death.”

Margo waved her hands wildly, spilling a big splotch of tea in her lap. “No, no, Eric. We're not suggesting that at all!”

“Because,” said Zane, “I didn't talk to him, I didn't quarrel with him, and I certainly didn't kill him!”

Carmela noted the anger that seethed below the surface with Zane. Zane certainly had access to Jerry Earl, and lots of employees entertain murderous thoughts about their boss. But most of the time they were just . . . thoughts. If Zane really had murder on his mind, would he kill Jerry Earl smack dab in the middle of a fancy party? With a hundred guests milling around? Or would that be the
ideal
time to kill someone? When people were tipsy and raucous and there was a houseful of potential suspects?

“I can assure you,” said Zane, “I did everything humanly possible to ensure the success of Mr. Leland's party—not disrupt it. I helped select the highest-caliber caterer, bartending staff, florist . . .”

“Your taste is to be commended,” said Beetsie.

Before Zane could respond, the phone on the desk started to ring. Margo reached out and grabbed it.

“Hello?” Margo squawked into the line. Then she smiled and nodded. “Oh yes, Detective, one moment.” She put a hand over the receiver and said to Zane, “I'm going to take this in the other room. Please hang up when I pick up the extension.”

Zane nodded. “Of course, ma'am.”

Margo set the phone down next to a large gold mask that rested on a black metal stand and hurried out of the room. Carmela, Beetsie, and Zane waited in silence until they heard Margo call out. Then Zane replaced the phone on the hook.

“Where were we?” Beetsie asked.

“Florist,” said Carmela.

Zane rolled his eyes. “That vendor proved to be slightly problematic. Mrs. Leland wasn't one bit happy with the zinnias. We ordered lavender and pink and the florist delivered yellow and white. Ghastly. Not a bit of pop. And the dahlias were wilted.”

“First thing I noticed,” said Beetsie. “The poor things were losing petals by the minute. Reminded me of a Pomeranian I once had, shedding hair constantly until all that was left was his poor dimpled pink skin.”

With the conversation taking a sudden jog, Carmela wondered if she'd gotten as much information as she could. The answer was probably yes. Both Margo and Beetsie seemed prone to theatrics and veering off course.

Carmela aimed a smile at Zane. “Thank you for answering my questions. I'm sure this hasn't been easy for you.”

Zane scrunched up his face and said, “I want Mr. Leland's killer brought to justice as much as anyone. So if there's anything else I can do, any way I can help, please let me know.” He reached down, picked up the teacups, and set them on the tray.

“Thank you,” said Carmela. “We'll be sure to keep you in the loop.”

Zane scurried out of the office. By the way the teacups clinked and clattered against each other, Carmela guessed he was happy to escape.

Margo's footsteps sounded in the hallway.

“Margo, dear,” said Beetsie. “Did the Detective . . .”

Margo staggered into the room, looking white-faced and stricken.

Now what?
Carmela wondered.

“What's wrong?” Beetsie gasped. “More bad news?”

“Strange news,” said Margo. “That was Detective Gallant on the phone.”

“What did he want?” asked Beetsie.

“He asked about tattoos,” said Margo. She managed to walk another couple of feet then sat down heavily behind the desk, looking more than a little upset.

“Tattoos?” said Beetsie.

“Why was he asking about tattoos?” said Carmela.

“I can't quite believe this,” Margo gasped, “but apparently the medical examiner found two tattoos on Jerry Earl's body! Jerry Earl didn't have any tattoos when he went off to prison!” She shook her head in total disbelief. “What on earth do you think it means?”

C
ARMELA
, ever the practical one, said, “I think it probably means somebody tattooed Jerry Earl with a ballpoint pen while he was in prison.”

Beetsie bought into Carmela's explanation immediately. “Prisoners do that, you know. Take ink pens and gouge all sorts of crazy designs into their skin.” She nodded emphatically. “Crosses, eagles, even skulls.”

Beetsie seemed so knowledgeable, Carmela figured she must be a closet fan of
Miami Ink.

“Do you think a gang of prisoners tattooed Jerry Earl against his will?” asked a horrified Margo. “I hate to think that they held him down and forced him!”

“I don't know,” said Carmela. She could think of worse things. “I suppose it depends on where the tattoos are.”

Margo reached over with her right hand and absently touched her left shoulder. “The medical examiner said one was here. On his shoulder.”

“Did they say what kind of tattoos they were?” Carmela asked.

“No.”

“He must have joined a gang,” said Beetsie. “A prison gang.”

Margo shook her head. “Jerry Earl wasn't a big joiner. Just the Springhill Country Club. And the Republican Party, of course.”

“Maybe he joined some sort of gang for preservation reasons,” said Carmela. “If he
was
part of a gang, maybe it meant the other members would offer protection.” Carmela hesitated. “When you spoke to Detective Gallant, was he able to tell you any more about the murder weapon?”

Margo's hands fluttered to her chest and she covered her heart, clearly in distress. “No, he didn't mention it. Should I have asked him?”

“Probably not,” Carmela said. Knowing the grisly details of her husband's murder wasn't going to help Margo sleep any. There was no reason to distress the woman more than she already was.

Beetsie leaned close to Margo and patted her hand. “You're being so brave and strong about this when anyone else would have fallen to pieces.”

Carmela nodded in agreement.

Beetsie directed her gaze at Carmela. “Do you know, Margo's even going ahead with her donation to the Cakewalk Ball on Saturday night.”

“I have to,” said Margo. “Everyone's counting on me big-time. I'm co-chair of the event.”

The Cakewalk Ball was an annual charity event held at the New Orleans Museum of Art. Individual big-buck donors as well as major corporations commissioned lavish cakes from the finest bakeries in town. Then each cake was decorated with an expensive piece of jewelry. After the dining and dancing and schmoozing were done, all the cakes and jewels were grandly auctioned off, with the proceeds going to charity.

“Still,” said Beetsie, “it's amazing how you manage to carry on in the face of adversity.”

“I just couldn't let Angela down,” said Margo.

“You're talking about Angela Boynton, the curator?” said Carmela. “She's honchoing this event?”

“Yes,” said Margo. “Do you know her?”

“She's a good friend of mine,” said Carmela. “And I've worked with Angela on the Children's Art Association, too.”

“Then you simply
must
come to the ball,” Margo urged. “In fact, I'll send over a couple of tickets for you and Eva.”

Carmela would have preferred to spend Saturday night at home, awaiting the arrival of Detective Edgar Babcock, who was due back that evening. But Margo looked so miserable and forlorn that Carmela couldn't refuse. “That would be nice, I've always wanted to attend the Cakewalk Ball. I think Ava has, too.”

“Carmela?” Margo was casually studying one of her ginormous diamond rings. “There's something else I want to ask you.”

“What's that?” said Carmela.

“Could you possibly arrange a private tarot reading for me? At your friend Eva's shop?”

“Ava's shop,” said Carmela. A tarot card reading? Margo was just full of surprises.

“That's a very good idea,” chimed in Beetsie.

But Carmela wasn't so sure. “Are you sure you want to do that?” she asked. What if, through the luck—or bad luck—of the draw, Margo got the death card or some other card that freaked her out?

“I'm positive,” Margo said. “You see, I want to try very hard to
communicate
with Jerry Earl. Since he . . . um . . . left us so abruptly, I know there's a passel of unfinished business. I'm sure there's
something
he wants to tell me.”

“If only that he loves you,” Beetsie murmured.

“And another thing,” said Margo.

“Yes?” said Carmela.

“When I was at your scrapbook shop yesterday, I fell in love with that adorable shadow box that you created.”

Carmela smiled. “With the bird's nest?”

“That's the one,” said Margo. “Anyway, I was wondering if you'd create something like that for me. As a kind of artistic commission.”

Artistic commission. Just like the death portrait.

“I'd be happy to,” said Carmela. “Did you have a particular theme in mind?”

“Oh, I'd want it to be dedicated completely to Jerry Earl,” responded Margo. “A kind of mini memorial to celebrate his memory.”

I think that's a lovely idea,” said Carmela. “Do you know what sorts of paper or photos or objects you'd like to include?”

“I have a few ideas.” Margo stood up, walked over to a shelf, and pulled down a red and blue paisley photo box. “For starters, I'm sure we can find plenty of material in here,” she said as she handed the box to Carmela.

Carmela opened the box and flipped through a stack of photos while Beetsie looked over her shoulder.

“Look at that one!” Beetsie giggled. “Back when Jerry Earl still had a full head of hair. What a charmer he was. And look at his shirt with the pineapples all over it! Isn't that precious?”

Carmela fingered another photo. One of a smiling Jerry Earl in a more decorous-looking business suit holding some sort of plaque.

“Now that one,” said Margo, “was taken when the mayor gave Jerry Earl the Keystone Award for his many civic contributions.”

“Maybe this is the perfect photo for your shadow box,” said Carmela. Remembering Jerry Earl in his glory days.

Margo thought for a moment. “Maybe not, since that award was rescinded when Jerry Earl was sent to prison.”

“Next!” cried Beetsie.

Carmela's eyes wandered across the top of Jerry Earl's desk, taking in the scatter of geodes, gold coins, and fossils. “How about if we include something like this?” she said, fingering one of the geodes. “It's a great little eye-catcher.”

“It's certainly apropos,” Margo declared. “Fossils and geology were one of Jerry Earl's passions.”

“We'll also need some sort of background,” said Carmela. “I have some lovely handmade papers at my shop . . .”

Margo grabbed a small leather book from Jerry Earl's desk. “Why not take a page from his notebook?” She handed it to Carmela.

Carmela turned the leather-bound book over in her hands and examined the worn leather. Then she flipped the metal hasp and opened the book. “Wow.” She ran the tips of her fingers over thin sheets of vintage parchment paper that were covered with scribbles, drawings, and notations. “This looks quite old.”

“It is,” said Margo. “Jerry Earl discovered that notebook in an antique shop many years ago. Best we could determine, it belonged to a man who was an amateur paleontologist. Anyway, my dear husband decided it was good luck and always used it for jotting down notes or ideas for his fossil hunting.”

“So just use a page?” said Carmela.

“Tear out any page you want,” said Margo, sniffling. “Jerry Earl won't be needing it now.”

“Margo?” Duncan Merriweather stood in the doorway, looking large and imposing with his hangdog face. “We have to leave now.” He tapped an index finger against the face of his gold Rolex watch. “The people at Baum and Bierman will be waiting.”

Margo's face crumpled like a paper bag. “The funeral home,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “We have to go select . . . you know.”

Carmela gazed at Merriweather. “Can you give us a moment?”

He nodded and withdrew.

“Beetsie?” Carmela said. “I'd like to speak with Margo in private.”

Beetsie clenched her teeth so tightly she looked like she was going to pop a filling. But she rose from her chair stiffly and rather ungraciously stomped out of the room.

“What?” said Margo, staring at Carmela. She looked worried and a little perplexed.

“I hate to bring this up,” said Carmela. “But I have to ask . . .”

“Ask me anything,” said Margo.

“I understand you commissioned a death portrait of Jerry Earl.”

• • •

CARMELA HAD BARELY UTTERED HER WORDS
when Margo's lower lip began to quiver and tears shone in her eyes. Then her chest heaved and she let loose a stuttering moan.

“Margo?” said Carmela. She couldn't tell if the woman was stonewalling again or completely overcome with emotion.

Margo pulled a tissue from the pocket of her jacket and dabbed at her eyes. “Yes,” she said. “I'm afraid I did.”

“Why. On. Earth?” said Carmela.

Margo gazed upward as if searching for an answer in the heavens. Or at least in the cove ceiling. “Because . . . at the time I did it . . . it seemed . . . fun.”

“Fun,” Carmela repeated.

“You know . . . trendy,” said Margo. “A few weeks ago, Beetsie and I saw some of Sullivan Finch's work at the Click! Gallery. And I thought . . . why not?”

“You just decided it might be a wild and crazy thing to do?” said Carmela. She glanced at the cypress-paneled walls that were hung with dozens of staid-looking landscape paintings. And tried to imagine a death portrait hanging among them. Just the notion of the incongruity sent a shiver down her spine.

Margo snuffled into her tissue. “Beetsie was all gung-ho cheerleadery about having a portrait done. She was the one who really pushed for it. So I just . . . well . . .” Tears streamed down her face. “Oh, Carmela,” she sobbed. “Do you think I brought it on?”

Carmela shook her head. “Brought what on?”

“Jerry Earl's death. His . . . murder!” she said in a loud stage whisper.

“You're asking me if commissioning the portrait was some kind of talisman or bad magic?”

“Yes!” Margo breathed.

“No,” said Carmela. “I don't think it works that way. I don't believe in—what would you call something like that? A psychic inducement?”

“So it wasn't my fault?” Margo asked tearfully.

No
, Carmela thought. But why on earth had Beetsie goaded her into it? Why on earth would Beetsie be all rah-rah over a crappy death portrait? Was Beetsie not what she appeared to be?

• • •

MARGO, BEETSIE, AND MERRIWEATHER TOOK OFF
then, leaving Carmela waving good-bye from the front door. They'd urged her to stay as long as she needed. To peruse the rest of the photos and objects in Jerry Earl's office and select whichever ones she thought would work best.

But now the house felt strange and deserted. Down the hallway a clock ticked loudly. Upstairs, Carmela could hear the whisper of footsteps. A maid perhaps? Or cleaning woman? And there was a far-off low rumble of something else, too. Carmela prayed it wasn't the clothes dryer.

They'd already selected a half dozen photos, and Carmela decided she'd better scoot back to Jerry Earl's office and grab that small, sparkling pink geode, too. It would be a perfect addition to the memory box.

But when she got to the office, Eric Zane was standing at the desk. And he seemed to be studying a sheaf of papers.

“Hello,” said Carmela.

Zane practically came out of his loafers. “You! I didn't know you were still here!” He was startled and discombobulated, but not enough so that he wasn't able to cover up the papers he'd been peering at.

This is a house filled with secrets
, Carmela thought to herself.

Carmela approached the desk and saw what looked like some kind of geological map.

Interesting.

“I'm just tidying up some business,” Zane told her primly.

“So you functioned as Jerry Earl's personal assistant?” Carmela asked. She knew that he knew she'd glimpsed the map.

“That's right.”

“What kinds of things did you do for him?”

Zane held her gaze. “Whatever needed doing.”

“I suppose you handled business matters as well as personal matters?”

“You might say that,” said Zane.

Carmela picked up the small geode. “It appears that your employer was quite the antiquities buff, what with all the fossils and
maps
and things.”

“He was an antiquities freak,” said Zane. “Always trying to add more and more to his collection.” He indicated a bone mounted on a metal stand. “You see this? It's the jawbone from a mastodon. Part of one that was dug up back in nineteen eighty-two in West Feliciana Parish, just northwest of here.”

“So it's not just fossils Jerry Earl was crazy about,” said Carmela. “It was dinosaurs, too.”

“Technically, mastodons weren't dinosaurs,” said Zane. He gave a self-satisfied smile. A know-it-all smile. “They went extinct at the end of the Pleistocene era, about ten thousand years ago. Dinosaurs preceded them by some one hundred and fifty million years.”

“So no dinosaurs were ever discovered in Louisiana?”

Zane shrugged. “It was always Jerry Earl's hope to find one.”

“And he liked gold,” said Carmela. “Judging from all the gold coins and nuggets and trinkets that he collected.”

“That's another thing,” said Zane. “Mr. Leland was a real gold bug.”