Gossamer Ghost (21 page)

“I hear your frustration,” said Carmela. She was warming up to Mr. Pitney. He had the feisty gene. “I know you've been asked this before, sir, but now that a few more days have passed, do you have any idea, any suspicion as to who the burglar might have been?”

“That's all I've thought about,” said Pitney. “And the only thing I can come up with is that Marilyn and I—that's my wife, Marilyn, she was Miss Texas back in '59. But that's another story.”

“I'd like to hear it sometime,” said Carmela.

“Anyhoo,” said Pitney, “we hosted a big charity event at our home a month or so ago and there were several hundred guests.”

“And you think one of them was the thief?”

“
Might
have been,” said Pitney. “Hard to know for sure until we catch the bugger.”

“Was your event covered by the newspapers or any magazines?”

“A couple, yes. Do you think that's how I was targeted?”

“Maybe,” said Carmela. “Mr. Pitney, are you familiar with the name Marcus Joubert?”

“You know, a New Orleans police detective asked me the same thing—a Detective Babcock, I believe.”

“Yes, I'm know him well.” Carmela smiled. Did she ever.

“I can't say I'm familiar with the name Joubert. Sounds French. Like the surnames you folks over in New Orleans have.” He pronounced it
New Or-leens
, not
Nawlins
, like the natives did.

“So you've never met Joubert?”

“Not that I can recall.”

“How about a James Stanger?”

“No, sorry,” said Pitney.

“Mr. Pitney, thank you so much for your help.”

“I don't know what help I've been,” he said, sounding quarrelsome again. “I really just want my mask back.”

Carmela hung up the phone and gazed at the wall next to her desk. It was papered with photos, sketches, ideas she'd ripped out of magazines, and layouts she'd cadged from graphic design publications. Time was ticking away and she hadn't made any real progress. Sure, she'd managed a few weak speculations, but nothing seemed to pan out. Mavis had begged for her help and so far she'd come up with a big fat zero.

Carmela grabbed her phone again and called Juju Voodoo.

“Juju Voodoo,” came Ava's voice. “Candles and spells and charms that foretell.”

“Ava, it's me.”

“Good,” said Ava, “I can talk normal.”

“How's business?”

“Busy. I'm running my hind end off, though that may be a good thing. We're precariously low on saint candles and practically sold out of Day of the Dead items. I mean,
any
Day of the Dead item, even the crappy key chains.”

“How's your inventory of voodoo dolls holding up?” She was thinking of getting one and naming it Shamus. Let the dogs drag it around, slime it up, and maybe chew a leg off.

“Sheesh,” said Ava. “We sold out of those last week. This week has been like . . . what do retailers call that day after Thanksgiving again?”

“Black Friday,” said Carmela.

“Yeah,” said Ava. “Only we're having ours on Wednesday.” She seemed to drift away, talking to someone in the shop, then she came back. “But tonight we relax and have fun, right? Which means I'm gonna head home in about twenty minutes, have a simple little wine-tasting party on my couch, put on a Frank Sinatra album, and dance around in my underwear.”

“Frank's always worked for me,” said Carmela.

“Then I'm gonna get all glammed up for Baby's Halloween hoedown. Smear some Crisco on and slither into my costume.”

“Be at my place at seven, okay?” said Carmela. “Don't be late.”

“Don't worry. I won't!”

C
ARMELA
pulled her car to the curb, glanced in the rearview mirror, and, without meaning to, nervously fingered her necklace. She probably shouldn't have worn it, but the countess had been so insistent, and it did go gorgeously with her costume.

“Cher,”
said Ava. There was a distinct
tone
in her voice. “You have to stop obsessing.”

“I know,” said Carmela as her fingers once against crept toward the necklace.

“You said yourself what a big deal the countess made about wanting you to wear that necklace. Besides, people are going to go gaga and ask where you scored such a killer piece. And when you tell them . . . well, the way you look, you're going to be a walking advertisement for the countess's new shop.”

Ava was right, Carmela decided. She had to quit worrying. Had to Nike up and just do it.

“C'mon,” said Ava, climbing out of the car. “Time's a wastin'. I think I hear the enticing pop of champagne corks.”

Carmela and Ava headed down the street. Darkness had settled in a good hour ago and the night had swept in cool and clear. Immense live oak trees, many still clutching the last vestiges of leaves, cut etchings into a full moon. The street was filled with strolling people. A few elegant couples were headed for Baby's masquerade party, while most were out to enjoy the Halloween spectacle. As per tradition, all the streets in Baby's neighborhood, block after elegant block, were lined with glowing jack-o'-lanterns. Some scowled malevolently, others offered benign toothy grins, and all were lit by flickering candles.

“This is so cool,” Ava shivered. “Every Halloween I feel like a kid again.”

“You don't
look
like a kid,” said Carmela. “Not in that costume.” Ava wore a figure-hugging black latex dress, metallic stockings, and black thigh-high boots. Her pointed hat and black mask completed her witchy ensemble.

“You should talk,” joked Ava. “You look like a walking wedding cake with all those hoops and flounces.”

“Wearing this skirt is like being trapped in a barrel,” Carmela complained as they headed up the front walk to Baby's brightly lit Victorian manor.

“Not sure what you expected, sweetums. Scarlett O'Hara's life was anything but easy.”

Dozens of glowing lanterns lined Baby's ornate portico. White, filmy spiderwebs stretched across three jelly palm trees, and the ivy that curled up the side of the manse had hands, arms, and legs sticking out of it, giving it the appearance of a carnivorous plant that had just enjoyed a few tasty snacks. Austin Powers, a member of KISS, and Charlie Chaplin were gathered on the front porch, taking in the night air and smoking cigars.

Baby and her husband, Del, stood front and center in the elegant entryway, smiling and greeting guests. When Baby saw Carmela and Ava, she fairly beamed. Then she hitched up her long diaphanous skirt, poked her knight in shining armor in the ribs, and said, “Carmela . . . Ava!” Breathlessly administering multiple air kisses, she added, “We're so glad you could make it.”

Del Fontaine, Baby's attorney husband, clasped a hand to his chain mail and knelt down on one knee. “M'ladies, welcome to our humble castle.”

“Del and I always dress as one of history's most romantic couples,” Baby explained. “This year we're Guinevere and King Arthur.”

“That's cool,” said Ava. “Just watch out for Sir Lancelot. I hear he's a real home wrecker.”

“Oh you,” Baby giggled. Then to Carmela she cocked her head and said, “No Babcock?”

“He'll probably turn up sooner or later,” said Carmela.

“More likely later,” said Ava. “Her guy's a workaholic.”

“But it's all for a good cause,” said Baby. “I mean, he's still investigating that murder, isn't he? Marcus . . .”

“Joubert,” supplied Carmela. “Yes, yes he is.”

“So he . . .” Baby's eyes went suddenly wide. “Carmela, my dear. What
are
you wearing around your neck?”

“That necklace happens to be vintage Cartier,” said Ava, sounding a little jealous.

“I should say so,” said Baby. “Wow, that is some incredible bauble. Please tell me it's a gift from your absentee boyfriend.”

“I wish,” said Carmela. “No, I'm afraid the necklace is just on loan. From Countess Saint-Marche, the lady who's opening the high-end jewelry store in Marcus Joubert's old . . .”

“Right, right,” said Baby, nodding. “I remember.”

“Speaking of which,” said Carmela, “has Mavis Sweet showed up yet?”

Baby frowned. “I'm not sure. People keep piling in and I
try
to greet everyone, but . . . well, things have been a little crazy.” Her eyes flicked to the front door where a new group of guests was spilling through.

“No problem,” said Ava. “We'll wander around and see what kind of trouble we can get in.” She grabbed Carmela's arm and pulled her into the fray of the party.

And it really was a fray. Tuxedoed waiters carried silver trays of champagne flutes, a rock band played in the library, and, everywhere, costumed revelers drank, danced, kissed, and caroused. Baby's enormous home, with its Aubusson carpets, ginormous white S-curved sofa, and fireplace so big you could roast a pig in it, was more than conducive to a raucous party.

“Car-
mel
-a!” came an eager voice.

Carmela and Ava spun, only to find Gabby rushing toward them. She had her husband, a disgruntled-looking Stuart, in tow.

“Oh my gosh,” marveled Carmela, “you really are getting some mileage out of that cute Annie Oakley costume.”

“And such cool six-guns,” said Ava.

“I'm sure you all remember Stuart,” said Gabby, showing him off like a prize heifer. “Masquerading tonight as Buffalo Bill.”

“Howdy, pardner,” said Ava. She gave him a slow wink.

“Hi.” Stuart, stone-faced and some thirty pounds overweight, looked supremely uncomfortable in his outfit of buckskin and fringe.

“How's business?” Carmela asked. She felt obliged to say
something
to him.

“Sales have been a little flat,” said Stuart, grabbing hold of her question like a rabid jackal. “But extended warranties and fluid flushes have been a real bright spot, thank goodness.”

“That's terrific,” said Carmela. She'd just run the table on conversation starters with Stuart.

Fortunately, Gabby pushed Stuart toward the buffet line and Ava aimed Carmela at another tray of drinks.

“Don't you just love champagne,
cher
? All those tiny bubbles dancing happily across your tongue.” She raised her glass in a salute, gazed across the room, and said, “Uh-oh.”

“What?” said Carmela.

Ava inclined her head. “Look what somebody's black cat just dragged in.”

Carmela turned around, thinking it must be Babcock. Instead her eyes fell upon Shamus. She grimaced. “I was afraid he'd show up here,” she told Ava.

“I know, Baby's so sweet she can't bring herself to drop Shamus from her guest list.”

“And look who else,” said Carmela, her tone suddenly wary.

“Carmela,” came a grating voice. Glory Meechum, Shamus's big sister and bona fide crazy lady, had just closed in on her like a great white shark going after chum. Glory was a parsimonious meanie who controlled the purse strings for the Meechum family and their chain of banks. When Glory told Shamus to jump, he generally inquired, “How high?”

“Hello, Glory,” said Carmela, fighting to keep her voice neutral, vowing not to get drawn in to one of their typical verbal slugfests. “You remember Ava?”

“Hey there,” said Ava. She smirked at the blue scrubs Glory was wearing and said, “I take it the doctors at Summer Hill gave you an overnight pass?” Summer Hill was a nearby mental institution.

“This is a
nurse's
costume,” Glory hissed.

Shamus, dressed as a vampire, complete with fangs, was suddenly at Glory's side. “Are you two having a nice conversation?” he asked hopefully. Only, because of the fangs, it came out conver-
thashun.

“No, Shamus,” said Carmela. “We are not.”

“C'mon,” Shamus wheedled. “Can't we all just be
friendsth
?”

“I think we tried that once and it went rather badly,” said Carmela.

But one of Glory's wandering eyes had suddenly landed on Carmela's necklace. “Goodness be,” she said in a slightly condescending tone. “Will you look at that necklace?” She turned to Shamus. “Carmela must have snagged a rich new boyfriend, though I can't imagine how she ever managed that.” Her grin darkened. “It's more likely a sugar daddy.”

“Okay,” said Carmela, spinning on her heel so fast her skirt practically became a deadly weapon. “We're going to help ourselves to the buffet.”

Carmela and Ava left Shamus and Glory behind in their dust.

“Talk about the Croods,” said Ava.

“If I never saw that woman again . . .” said Carmela. They caromed into the dining room where a sixteen-foot-long table, festooned in white linen, held an imposing array of silver chafing dishes.

“Holy fried oysters,” said Ava. “Will you look at this food? There's andouille sausage, and trout meunière
and shrimp in remoulade sauce.”

“And pork chops with bing cherries,” said Carmela, grabbing a plate.

“I'm loading up as we speak,” said Ava. “Ooh, and chocolate cake, too.”

The dark chocolate cake had been cut into squares to replicate clods of earth. Peaks of green frosting formed the grass and red and yellow gummy worms crawled through each piece.

“Nothing like sugar-rich cake,” said Carmela, helping herself to a large piece.

“Right,” said Ava, grabbing an even bigger piece. “If I'm gonna push my body to adult-onset diabetes anyway, I may as well enjoy this.”

“Calories, calories,” came a taunting male voice.

Carmela and Ava both looked up at the same time to find Boyd Bellamy, Carmela's landlord, shaking a finger at them.

“Excuse me?” said Ava.

“If you gals want to keep your girlish figures,” he leered, “you'd better lay off those rich desserts.”

Ava looked at Carmela. “Did he just chastise us?”

“It sure sounded like it,” said Carmela.

“Let's get one thing straight,” said Ava. “We're not
gals
and we sure don't need a Porky Pig look-alike telling us how to fill our plates.”

Bellamy fairly bristled. “It was simply an observation. Heh heh. A joke.”

“Go peddle your jokes somewhere else,” said Ava, as she and Carmela headed out with their plates.

“Imagine that,” said Carmela, as they settled into wicker chairs on Baby's sunporch. “That overweight slug criticizing us.”

“No wonder some poor women develop body dysmorphia,” said Ava. “When they should just relax and enjoy their food.”

“Agreed,” said Carmela. Then she paused, as a recurring thought suddenly bounced into her brain.

“What?” said Ava. “You're not stroking out are you?”

“That guy Bellamy.”

“Yeah?”

“You don't think he'd murder Joubert just to get rid of him, do you? Just so he could lease the space to someone else?”

Ava stared back at her. “It never occurred to me. But from the sourpuss face you're making, it's obviously rattled around in your brain.”

“Yes, just now.”

“Doggone,” said Ava. “Here we are at an A-list party and we're talking about that stupid murder again.”

“Sorry,” said Carmela. And she meant it. “I really am sorry.”

Ava waved a hand. “Ah, it's okay. It's only natural for you to . . . oh hey!” She waved a hand and a half dozen plastic skull bracelets clanked. “Mavis. Get out here, girl. Come sit with the cool kids.”

Carmela pasted a neutral smile on her face as Mavis Sweet hurried toward them, carrying a plate of food and a glass of champagne. “Don't say anything about . . .”

“I won't,” Ava whispered.

“You made it,” said Carmela, as Mavis sat down to join them. “I'm so glad you decided to come.”

“I am, too,” said Mavis. She glanced around as if in shock. “This party is so . . . elegant. With real champagne, not just Cold Duck. And all these important people . . . it's like something out of a movie.” She seemed pathetically grateful to be included in such a tony guest list.

Carmela smiled with encouragement. Mavis's words seemed so innocent . . . so heartfelt.

“I really like your costume,” Ava told Mavis. Mavis wore a Cleopatra headpiece and a long gold tunic. She'd rimmed her eyes with kohl and the added makeup gave her a startling, bug-eyed appearance. “You look . . . interesting.”

“Thank you,” said Mavis. “And you—your dress—it's so glamorous.”