Gilt Trip (9 page)

Carmela swallowed past a dry patch in her throat. “Have you ever had a trocar in your inventory?”

“Actually, I had one several months ago,” said Joubert. “I picked up a set of old embalming tools at an auction in Shreveport.”

“But the trocar's no longer here?”

“It's been sold.”

Carmela thought for a moment. She wondered who would buy something like that. A collector of weird items? A killer?

“Do you remember who the lucky buyer was?”

“Sadly, no.”

Carmela met his gaze. “You know why I'm asking about this, don't you?”

Joubert nodded. His eyes were dark and intense. “Because of the murder.”

“That's right,” said Carmela. “I was at that party. I discovered Jerry Earl Leland's body.”

“I read all the details in the paper,” said Joubert. He glanced at the medical illustration again. “All except one, apparently.”

Carmela followed his gaze. “That's right,” she said. “Jerry Earl was stabbed with a trocar.”

“How very odd,” said Joubert. “And grim.”

• • •

GABBY WAS DEEP IN CONVERSATION WHEN CARMELA
returned to Memory Mine. She'd pulled out a couple of examples of wedding scrapbooks, and she and a fresh-faced young woman were eagerly paging through them.

“I love this!” squealed the woman. “Look at that adorable wedding bell design. Ooh, and those are my exact colors, champagne and dusty pink!”

Obviously a bride, Carmela decided. Here to get some ideas for invitations, place cards, and wedding scrapbooks. She found that more and more brides were creating their own invitations these days. Maybe it was a reaction to the tough economy; maybe it was because they wanted to make their invitations more personal. Whatever the reason, Memory Mine seemed to be doing a land office business with brides.

Tossing her bag on her desk, Carmela snatched up the phone. And was lucky enough to catch Bobby Gallant just as he was leaving.

“Carmela, I'm just out the door.” He sounded tired and crabby. “What do you want now?”

“I have a couple of things for you to noodle over,” she told him.

“This isn't going to work,” said Gallant.

“What's not going to work?”

“You running some sort of parallel investigation.”

“It's not really,” said Carmela, “so just hear me out. You know that shop next door to me? Oddities?”

“Yes,” came Gallant's bored answer.

“Well, I was just over there, doing a little research into trocars.”

“How did you know about the trocar?” Gallant thundered.

“Never mind about that,” said Carmela. “Suffice it to say that I do know.”

“Now you're being perverse,” said Gallant. “Is there a point to all this?”

“Yes, there is. I was talking to Marcus Joubert, the shop's owner, and he mentioned that he'd recently sold an antique trocar.”

“Okay, I'll bite,” said Gallant. “Who bought it?”

“That's the unfortunate part. He doesn't know.”

“And you thought this was helpful how?”

“Just a sort of an FYI thing,” said Carmela.

“And that's it? That's what you wanted to tell me?”

“There's more,” said Carmela. “I may have figured out what End of the World means.”

“Seriously?” Now there was wariness in his voice.

“You said Jerry Earl had a gang tattoo, right? Well, is it possible the gang hails from somewhere around Venice, Louisiana?”

The silence on the other end of the line told Carmela she'd just struck investigative gold.

“Well?” she said. “What do you think?”

“You put two and two together?” he asked. “Just like that?”

“That's right.”

“Why? How?”

“Because I'm smart,” said Carmela. “And I'm right, aren't I?”

“There's a remote possibility,” said Gallant. “I did some checking with the prison officials where Jerry Earl was incarcerated, and there
was
a gang that hailed from around Venice.”

“Do you think Jerry Earl hung out with them?”

“That's still being investigated,” said Gallant.

The notion of old Jerry Earl chumming with a bunch of redneck Cajun swamp rats somehow tickled Carmela. “Are those guys still in prison? Can you talk to them? Maybe Jerry Earl knew his life was in danger and that's why he joined up with them.”

“Most of them have already been released,” said Gallant.

“At the same time as Jerry Earl?”

“No, no, some maybe a month earlier. Some three or four months earlier. They weren't there because of any major crimes. It was mostly junk stuff—poaching, bootlegging, that sort of thing.”

“Do you think Jerry Earl might have done something to anger them? That
they
might be the killers?”

“Anything's possible,” said Gallant.

“Well, are you going to talk to these guys?”

“If and when we locate them, yes. Venice barely exists anymore, and most of these former prison guys live way off the grid.” He hesitated for a moment and then said, “But don't
you
try and find them.”

“I wouldn't,” said Carmela. “I wouldn't do that.” But all the while she was thinking,
Maybe I
should
take a little trip down there.

T
HE
courtyard of the Trillium Hotel was paved with red brick cobblestones and surrounded by impressive stone masonry that included a mash-up of Greek columns and Roman statues. A grove of potted palm trees bobbed their shaggy heads next to a sparkling azure pool. At the outside bar, which was one umbrella short of a tiki bar, a couple was toasting each other, tipping their giant hurricane cocktails together with a resounding
clink
. A hotel worker in a black Chinese-style jacket mopped a spill nearby.

Ava gripped Isis's carrying cage as she and Carmela headed for the hotel's ballroom. She was decked out to the nines in hot pink Capri pants, a clingy off-the-shoulder white blouse, and sky-high gold sandals. Carmela followed in jeans, a blazer, and more sensible shoes. She was trying to tell Ava about her conversation with Bobby Gallant, about how he'd pretty much tap-danced around everything she'd brought up. But it wasn't working.

“Oh,
cher
,” Ava complained as she lurched and wobbled for about the fiftieth time. “My heels keep getting stuck between these cobblestones.” She held out the carrier to Carmela. “Do you think you can take Isis?”

Carmela grabbed the cat carrier as the hotel worker hurriedly dropped his mop and rushed over to assist. Predictably, his eyes roved over Ava and his tongue practically wagged out of his mouth.

“Can I help you, miss?” asked the young fellow. He offered his arm to assist her. “I'd hate to see a pretty lady take a tumble.”

Ava dimpled prettily. “Aren't you just a perfectly darling Southern gentleman!” she squealed. Then she clutched his arm tightly and began a running commentary on how
fabulous
it was for him to offer such
welcome
assistance as she marched on ahead of Carmela.

Carmela raised the carrier to eye level and gazed at Isis. “What am I,” she asked the cat, “chopped liver?”

Isis meowed, her pink tongue flashing between sparkling white teeth.

“I don't actually
have
liver for you, my dear. I'm asking if . . . oh, never mind. But I must say, you look exceedingly lovely tonight. In fact, you're almost as spiffed up as Ava.”

• • •

THE STAR OF THE SOUTH CAT SHOW WAS BIG. IN
fact, as they entered the Millennium Ballroom, where the show was being held, Carmela saw that it was humongous. Basically Cat Central.

There were fifteen rings with judging all going on at once. Categories ranged from bench judging to feline agility, as well as specialty contests for themed cat costumes and even cage decorating. And, oh my goodness, what an amazing array of cats and kittens! There were Persians, Maine Coons, Norwegian Forest Cats, Savannahs, Siamese, Oriental Shorthairs, Bengals, Ragdolls, and even tabby kittens. In one corner of the ballroom, Animal Rescue New Orleans had even set up a booth where cats and kittens were being offered for adoption.

As Ava took Isis and hastened to the registration desk, Carmela wandered between the show rings, enjoying the scene. Pausing at one ring, where three elegant Siamese finalists were awaiting the judge's final verdict, she spotted the face of her friend Jekyl Hardy bobbing through the crowd. He was pale, tall, rail-thin, and wore his dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. Dressed in his trademark black silk shirt, black slacks, and black high-gloss shoes, he was a dead ringer for Anne Rice's Vampire Lestat. Although, to Carmela's knowledge, Jekyl had never shown any aversion to the sun.

Jekyl saw her and gave a wave. He was as excited as Carmela and Ava to watch Isis compete in her first show.

“Car-
mel
-a!” Jekyl called as he approached. “Looking gorg as always. And where's my other divine diva?”

Carmela nodded toward the registration desk, where Ava seemed mired in paperwork.

“Ava!” Jekyl called. “Hey, baby!” He waved madly at Ava, who winked and blew kisses back to him.

“Let's find a seat,” Carmela said.

She and Jekyl pushed their way past cats, cat lovers, stacks of cat carriers, and various food vendors, heading for a stand of audience bleachers that had been set up. The smell of freshly shampooed cats, fried crab cakes, and spicy andouille sausage filled the air around them.

Jekyl raised a sharp eyebrow at Carmela. “Can I tempt m'lady with a crab cake?”

Carmela shook her head. “I think I've already exceeded my caloric allotment for today.” She'd for sure hit her quota at lunch, not to mention dinner.

Jekyl snorted. “Poor dear, you are missing out.” He put up one slender finger and motioned to the crab cake vendor.

After receiving his fried treat in its little red and white striped cardboard container, he dripped on enough aioli sauce to induce a medium-sized coronary. Then they climbed the bleachers and, from their vantage point, enjoyed a clear view of Ava holding her cat while she preened for the judges.

“So,” said Carmela, “thanks to you, Margo Leland has pressured me to look into the circumstances surrounding Jerry Earl's murder.”

Jekyl gave her a sideways glance and then proceeded to stuff half a crab cake into his mouth.

Carmela rolled her eyes. “Oh, I see you can't talk about it now. But you certainly didn't have any trouble yapping to Margo that good old Carmela happens to be a crackerjack amateur investigator.”

Jekyl's eyes danced with amusement as he continued to chew.

“Anyway,” said Carmela, “I had a very interesting meeting with Margo and her friend Beetsie this morning.”

“Tell me,” said Jekyl finally.

So Carmela told him about Margo, weird old Beetsie, and weirder old Duncan Merriweather. Then, because her story sounded like a crazy, jumbled mess, she threw in the part about Eric Zane, too.

“Don't you love the gall of Garden District swells?” Jekyl chortled. “They think just because they have money, they can snap their fingers and make all their problems go away.”

“Not in this case,” said Carmela. “There's been no snapping of fingers or exchanging of money as far as I can see.”

Instead of one of his usual sharp retorts, Jekyl proceeded to wipe his fingers with a paper napkin.

“What?” said Carmela.

“Nothing,” said Jekyl.

“Something,” said Carmela. “You
know
something.”

“Just a rumor that's been flying around the ozone.”

Carmela waggled her fingers. “Concerning . . .”

“Beetsie Bischoff.”

“Margo's self-proclaimed BFF? What's going on? You better tell me.”

Jekyl shrugged. “I shouldn't really.”

“How about I twist your arm and pinch your nose closed until you turn blue and can't breathe?” Carmela knew it wouldn't come to that. She knew Jekyl was positively
dying
to tell her.

“Mind you,” said Jekyl, talking in a low, conspiratorial voice now, “I got this information secondhand.” He thought for a moment. “Well, maybe thirdhand. I talked to Devon Dowling, who heard it from Stefan Purdy at the Estate Gems and Jewels Gallery.”

Carmela waggled her fingers again. “And?”

“And what I heard,” said Jekyl, “was that Beetsie and Jerry Earl were
involved
.”

Carmela frowned. “You mean . . . involved in a compromising situation?”

“Bingo. Give that lady a plush pink panda.”

Carmela let this information percolate for a few moments.
Beetsie and Jerry Earl?
How could Beetsie and Jerry Earl be having an affair and Margo not tumble to it?

Then she remembered the death portrait. That little bit of mischief had been Beetsie's brilliant idea. A chill zipped up Carmela's spine. Had Beetsie wanted Jerry Earl dead? If so, why? He certainly wouldn't be leaving his fortune to “the other woman”!

“I'm just saying,” said Jekyl. “Mind you, this is just a rumor.”

“Still,” said Carmela, “if there's any truth behind it, then . . .” She hesitated. Then what? Then Beetsie was definitely a suspect? Or Margo was a suspect because she'd deprived Beetsie of her husband's ardor? None of it felt right. And yet . . . there it was. Sitting there like a big fat meatball of information.

“Well, I'll be darned,” Jekyl chuckled.

Carmela looked up and suddenly saw Ava hopping up and down like crazy. And wonder of wonders, the silver-haired judge was smiling brightly at her and handing her a white ribbon!

“Oh my gosh!” Carmela exclaimed. “Isis won?”

“Correction,” Jekyl said in a droll voice. “I'd say
Ava
won. Judging by the look on that judge's face.”

“Still,” said Carmela. “It counts, right?”

“Why wouldn't it?” Jekyl grabbed her arm. “C'mon, let's go congratulate the winning team.”

They clambered down the bleachers and shouldered their way through a crowd of people who all seemed to be cradling furry white cats.

“What possessed me to wear black?” Jekyl mumbled out of the corner of his mouth. “I'm going to need three lint rollers to get all this—”

“We won!” Ava shrilled as she ran to greet them. She thrust Isis into Jekyl's arms, grabbed Carmela, and pulled her into a hippity-hop victory dance. “We did it!”

“
You
did it,” said Carmela. “What is that ribbon anyway?”

Ava dangled her white ribbon before Carmela's eyes. “Third place!”

“How many contestants?” asked Jekyl.

“Four,” said Ava. “So we really did it—we won!”

“Of course, you did,” said Carmela. “It's a major award.”

Ava suddenly stopped her little dance. “I need a drink. My face is numb from smiling at that judge and my throat is absolutely parched.”

“Maybe a frozen daiquiri?” suggested Jekyl.

“Fantastic!” said Ava. She glanced at Carmela. “You want one?”

But Carmela had just spied someone in the crowd who looked vaguely familiar to her. Could it be . . . She shook her head as if to clear it, then held up a hand. “Pass. I think I'm just going to look around for a bit.”

“Okay,” said Ava, skipping off with Jekyl. “See ya in a few minutes.”

Carmela edged closer to the man she'd spotted in the crowd.

That gray hair . . . and rigid, uptight posture. I feel like I know him. But . . . who is he?

Carmela drew breath sharply. Oh, wait just a hard minute! Because now she really did recognize him. Now she could put a name to the face.

It was Conrad Falcon! The overbearing jerk that she'd seen on TV two nights ago. The man who was Jerry Earl Leland's business rival, neighbor, and overall foe.

Falcon, obviously a successful breeder and cat fancier, was smiling magnanimously as he posed for a photo. In his arms he cradled a gorgeous Siamese cat that had an enormous purple rosette pinned to its collar.

Carmela edged closer to him. The photographer, who had probably been hired by the producers of the Star of the South Cat Show, was shooting him from different angles. Taking two-shots of Falcon and his cat, then moving in closer to frame just the cat. And all the while, Conrad Falcon was keeping up a running patter with a man who stood just a little to his left. A man with a tough, flat face, brush-cut gray hair, and cheap navy blue suit. From the looks of things, they were having what must be a very serious conversation. But about . . . what?

Curious now, Carmela moved in closer.

The man in the bad suit was nodding vigorously, as yes-men often do.

Am I rushing in where angels fear to tread?
Carmela wondered.
Yeah, maybe. Probably.

But that didn't stop her. She edged even closer, trying to hear what Falcon was saying. He was talking in a low monotone that was difficult to catch, so she heard only part of it . . .

“. . . now that he's not around anymore to make a stink,” snarled Falcon as his henchman nodded again.

What on earth? Could they be talking about Jerry Earl? Is that what Falcon means by not around anymore?

The photographer, done with snapping photos of the Siamese, abruptly straightened up and moved off. Which left Carmela standing there, staring directly at Falcon and his cat.

Trying to make a fast recovery, Carmela said, “Congratulations on your win. Such a beautiful cat.”

Falcon stared at her. “Thank you.”

Keep him talking
, Carmela told herself.

“What's your cat's name?” Carmela asked.

“Lady Devonshire of Chatsworth,” said Falcon.

“That's a pretty big name for such a dainty little cat,” Carmela replied.

Falcon grunted and was about to turn away, when Carmela took a step closer.

“If I'm not mistaken,” she said, “I saw you on the news the other night.”

Falcon glanced up at her. Now she had his attention.

“You were speaking about Jerry Earl Leland and his tragic demise,” Carmela continued.

Falcon's lips twisted and his brows bunched together. “I
was
on the news, yes.”

“You made a few rather pointed remarks about Jerry Earl Leland because he was your neighbor and business rival.”

Falcon squinted at Carmela. “Leland was my
neighbor
before he screwed up and landed himself in prison. And you, miss. Who may I ask are you?”

“Carmela Bertrand.” She extended a hand.

Falcon ignored her. He inclined his head toward his henchman. And the man, picking up on his cue, immediately held up a cage. Falcon turned and quickly deposited Lady Devonshire inside it.

“I'm a friend of Margo's,” Carmela said.

Falcon stood rigidly, his back to Carmela. He took extreme and slow care to secure the hasp on the tiny gate of the cat's carrier cage. After a moment, he turned to address Carmela.

“Margo, yes. This string of unfortunate events must certainly be trying for her.”

“She was pained by your words as well,” said Carmela.