Postcards from the Dead (12 page)

“Gabby told me,” said Babcock.

“She shouldn’t have done that,” said Carmela.
Now it’s really gonna hit the fan!

“Oh yes, she should have,” said Babcock. “In fact,
you
should have told me. You receive strange anonymous messages on the heels of a murder? I’d say that’s rather serious.”

Carmela tried to defuse his anger. “It’s just a crank.”

“Perhaps you should let me be the judge of that,” said Babcock.

“If I show you the postcards, are you going to confiscate them?”

Babcock’s face slowly relaxed. He didn’t quite manage a smile, but it wasn’t the stolid Easter Island face he’d walked in with. “No, but I’d like to stash them somewhere safe.”

“Like in your evidence room or fingerprint lab?”

“Those are a couple of places that come to mind,” said Babcock.

“Well . . .” Carmela was still reluctant.

“I could confiscate the postcards on the grounds they’re part of an ongoing homicide investigation.” When Babcock saw the look on Carmela’s face, he added, “Or you could just hand them over to me and demonstrate a little trust.” Now he was the one doing the defusing.

Carmela did a quick calculation and decided he probably deserved her trust. And she knew he did have her safety in mind. So she dug into her desk drawer and pulled out the postcards.

“Just slide them into an envelope,” Babcock told her. “We don’t want to have to wade through numerous sets of prints.”

“Okay,” said Carmela, putting them into a shiny black envelope. She knew Ava and Madame Blavatsky had already handled the postcards, but what could she do? Nothing, really. She hadn’t conceived they’d ever be used as any sort of evidence.

“That’s good,” said Babcock, the corners of his mouth finally managing an uptick.

“Since we’re on the subject of murder,” said Carmela, “how are things proceeding with the investigation?” She didn’t want to reveal her clown clue just yet. Her theory still seemed a little half-baked.

“Things are ticking along,” said Babcock.

“What’s up with Kimber’s brother?”

“You mean did we arrest him?”

“Well, yes.”

“We did not,” said Babcock. “Since there was a decided lack of evidence.”

“But you questioned him.”

“Obviously. In fact, Gallant and I spoke to him just this morning.”

“And?”

“The brother does indeed own a farm,” said Babcock. “An alligator farm, to be specific.”

Carmela wasn’t surprised at this. In the state of Louisiana there were something like two hundred licensed alligator farms. Breeders raised them for hides and meat. Some of the larger alligator farms were also tourist attractions and put on shows. Though the idea of going into a pen with a twelve-foot alligator, then tapping its nose and feeding it a whole chicken, seemed incredibly foolhardy, it went on just the same.

“That’s it?” said Carmela. “You just talked?”

Babcock nodded.

“How long did you talk to him?”

“Long enough,” said Babcock.

“I know you said the brother wasn’t a prime suspect, but could you detect any underlying motive?” asked Carmela. “Anything that
might
make him a suspect?” She wanted to cut to the chase.

Babcock looked like he wasn’t going to reveal anything more, and then he said, “His farm is being foreclosed on.”

“Ah,” said Carmela. “So he
was
desperate for money. Is desperate.”

Babcock’s brows knit together as he gazed at her. “Would you care to venture a guess as to which bank is foreclosing on him?”

There was something in Babcock’s voice. A wary tone . . .

“Oh crap.” Carmela gulped. “Don’t tell me it’s Crescent City Bank. Shamus’s bank!”

Chapter 12

B
ABCOCK
gave an affirmative shrug. “Give that lady a plush pink teddy bear.”

“Is there any way he can get an extension?” Carmela didn’t even know Billy Laforge, had pretty much pegged the guy as a suspect, but now, in the blink of an eye, she was rooting for him. The little guy against the big bad bank. Carmela knew it was a little wacky, but it had always been in her nature to side with the underdog.

“I have no idea what his financial situation is,” said Babcock. “That’s not my area of interest or expertise. I’m far more concerned with questioning possible suspects and determining motive.” He hesitated. “Basically, chasing down the bad guys.”

“Gotcha,” said Carmela, as her mind leaped into overdrive and she thought,
Maybe I can find something out from Shamus
.

“So I’m going to be busy tonight,” said Babcock, moving a step closer to her, finally sending out the sexy vibes. “But maybe we could meet for a drink?”

Carmela was still a little distracted. “Sure. Where?”

“Across the street? Glisande’s?”

“All right,” said Carmela. “I should meet you there . . . what? Around five?”

Babcock leaned forward and kissed the top of Carmela’s head. “Perfect. I’ll see you there.”

But before Carmela turned her attention back to her crafters, she had a phone call to deal with. A rather strange call from Ed Banister at KBEZ-TV.

“Carmela!” said Ed, greeting her with over-the-top exuberance. “I want to put you on TV!”

That pretty much caught her off-guard. “Seriously?”

“I’m dead serious,” said Banister.

“Um . . . why?” asked Carmela. She didn’t think her good looks, charm, and sparkling wit would exactly make for a kick-butt reality show. Or even warrant another interview.

“It’s about the postcards,” said Banister.

“Oh crap! Did Gabby . . . ?”

Banister hastened to fill her in. “No, no, your friend Ava told me all about them. We’re still shooting our Mardi Gras documentary, and her shop was on our shot list. Tourists are fascinated by our local voodoo shops. You know how it is . . .”

“And while you were interviewing Ava she just blurted it out to you,” said Carmela. “About the postcards.”
Jeez, does everybody know about these stupid postcards?

“Ava and I were discussing Kimber’s murder—how could we not?” said Banister. “And then the postcard thing just naturally came up.”

Naturally. Right.
“I see,” said Carmela, sounding a little grumbly.

“So what I’d really love to do,” said Banister, “is put you on TV and do a feature story.”

“Creepy postcards are fodder for a story?” asked Carmela. Somehow, she didn’t quite see it that way. They were certainly a curiosity, but an actual story?

“No, no, they’re a fantastic story!” Banister countered. “Linked to the Kimber Breeze murder, it suddenly gives us an added dimension of danger and mystery.”

“Interesting,” said Carmela, even though she still wasn’t feeling it.

“Plus,” said Banister, his voice intensifying, “it’s possible a story on TV might even lure in the killer!” There was a moment of silence as they both chewed on this idea. Then Banister added, “Maybe we could even offer a reward!”

“I don’t know,” said Carmela, “it sounds a little dangerous.”
Dangerous for me.

“But think of the ratings!” Banister rhapsodized. “Plus, you’d be an instant celebrity. Everybody and his brother-in-law wants to be a celebrity these days. Everybody thinks their life would make for great television viewing. And . . . and . . .” Banister was totally whipped up. “You could even, heh heh, outshine your ex-husband! Show up that crazy Meechum family.”

“So there
would
be a bright spot in all of this,” said Carmela.

“All I’m asking,” said Banister, “is that you think about it. Will you do that? Think about it?”

“I’ll think about it,” Carmela promised.
For about three seconds.

* * *

WHEN CARMELA FINALLY MADE IT BACK TO THE
craft table, she was thrilled at how terrific the cigar box purses looked. Tandy had opted for a French menu design, while another crafter had woven strands of raffia into a bird nest, then affixed it to the side of her bag and added a tiny, feathered bluebird.

“You didn’t need me.” Carmela laughed.

“Are you kidding?” said Baby. “You were the inspiration for this entire class.”

“The springboard,” added Tandy.

“No,” said Carmela, “you guys just let your imaginations rip. And that’s what it’s all about. So . . . good work.” Pleased, Carmela wandered up to the front counter, where Gabby was tallying the day’s receipts. “You told Babcock,” she said, but not in an accusatory manner. “About the postcards.”

“I’m sorry,” said Gabby, looking nervous, “but I was terrified for you. I had this horrible vision in my head that the same maniac who hung Kimber Breeze from that balcony would come after you.” She touched a hand to the side of her face. “And it was too awful to even contemplate.” She hesitated. “Are you furious with me?”

“No,” said Carmela. “It turns out Ava blabbed, too.”

“Did she really? About the postcards?”

“Yup. She mentioned them to Ed Banister at KBEZ and now he’s all whipped up and wants to do a feature story about them. Correction, about me receiving the postcards.”

Gabby looked shocked. “You can’t do that! The
police
need to deal with this, not a bunch of television goofballs.”

“Well,” said Carmela, “the television goofballs are all over this, like a rat terrier on a chew bone.”

“And they want you to go on TV?” said Gabby, shaking her head. “What did you tell them? A big fat no, I hope.”

“That was my gut reaction,” said Carmela.

“Good,” said Gabby.

“But now that I think about it . . .” said Carmela. “I mean, what if a story about the postcards
did
shake something loose? What if it helped flush out the killer?”

Gabby gazed at her with flashing eyes. “What if it got you killed? What about that!”

“I’m not saying I’m going to do it,” said Carmela, “but if I did, it would have to be with some serious police protection.”

“It still sounds too risky.”

“Just the same, I’m going to run it past Babcock.”

“And he’s going to say no,” said Gabby. “He’s going to despise the idea!”

“You think?”

“I know he will,” said Gabby. She leaned across the counter toward Carmela and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Carmela, whoever murdered Kimber is a
maniac
. Believe me, you don’t want a guy like that turning his attention on you.”

“The thing is,” Carmela said with a grimace, “if the killer and the postcard guy are one and the same, then I already have a target on my back.”

* * *

CARMELA WAS HELPING THE LAST COUPLE OF CRAFTERS
apply a tricky stencil design when Shamus called. As Gabby made meaningful hand signals, indicating it was Shamus the rat, Carmela sighed deeply and slipped into her office to take his call.

“Hey,” she said to Shamus, taking care not to convey too much warmth or excitement. Lest he read something into it. Like getting back together for an extracurricular tryst.

But Shamus was syrupy sweet. “Carmela!” he said. “Babe!”

With a greeting that warm and friendly, Carmela knew he was up to something. “What do you want?”

“Can’t I just phone my ex-wife to say hello?” said Shamus.

Carmela considered his words. “No. Because there’s always a hidden agenda. Whenever you call me, it’s to ask for a favor or some sort of . . . I don’t know . . . concession. So. What do you want?” Carmela could imagine Shamus sitting at his desk, nervously jiggling a foot. Tall, good-looking, a swipe of brown hair across his broad, handsome face, and an easy grin that could turn into a smirk at a moment’s notice. He’d been born into money and pretty much figured the world was his pearl-producing oyster.

“Did you get a chance to talk to your police detective friend?” Shamus asked.

“Not really.”

“But you’re going to, right?” said Shamus. “I mean, Sugar Joe is awfully unnerved. Him being a prime suspect and all.”

“Somehow I don’t really think he’s a legitimate suspect,” said Carmela.

“Oh no?” Shamus sounded surprised but pleased.

“I don’t think the police will try to pin this on him. Sugar Joe was just sort of . . . tossed into the mix. Doesn’t mean too much.”

“Heh heh,” said Shamus. “So you
did
work on your cop lover boy. Good for you, babe.”

“Whatever,” said Carmela.

“There’s something else I need to talk to you about,” said Shamus.

“What’s that?”

“I want to invite you to a special art opening at the Click! Gallery.” The Click! Gallery was an established French Quarter gallery. In fact, Shamus had once had an exhibit of wildlife photography there.

“Yeah?” said Carmela. “When’s the opening?”

“Tonight,” said Shamus.

This was typical Shamus, Carmela decided. Always leaving things to the last minute. “Excuse me, but this is awfully late notice.”

“You’re a spontaneous person,” Shamus urged. “So be a sport and come.” He paused. “I’ll be there.”

“Shamus,” said Carmela, “we’re no longer married and you’re no longer large and in charge. Besides, what if I happen to have plans for tonight?”

“I bet you don’t,” said Shamus. “And I’m being real nice and polite because I’m asking such a big favor. Aren’t I being polite? Aren’t I being sweet?”

“Riddle me this, riddle me that, Shamus. What
are
you talking about?”

“Here’s the deal,” said Shamus. “Crescent City Bank is sponsoring this art exhibition, and part of the profits from the sale of the artwork will be donated to charity.”

“So you’re asking me to come as a ringer,” said Carmela.

“Well . . .” said Shamus.

“You want me to help make the crowd look bigger so you get media coverage. Which is kind of like . . . I don’t know . . . stuffing the ballot box.”

“You make my motives sound so duplicitous,” said Shamus. “When all I want is for you to show up and have fun.”

“Doubtful,” said Carmela. She let loose an exasperated huff, then said, “What charity?”

“I don’t know. Something to do with orphan animals, I guess.”

“You’re not just saying that to pluck at my heartstrings, are you?”

“I wouldn’t do that,” said Shamus.

“Of course you would,” said Carmela. “Crap, it’s probably to raise money so rich kids can take polo lessons.”

“Please,” Shamus wheedled. “You could drop by for, like, twenty minutes. It wouldn’t kill you. And it would mean everything to me.”

“I was going to do something with Ava.”

“That’s perfect,” said Shamus. “Bring her along. The more the merrier.”

“Mmm . . . maybe I could drop by if you shared a little information with me.”

Shamus was instantly on alert. “What are you talking about?”

“There’s an alligator farm over near Theriot that Crescent City Bank is about to foreclose on . . .”

“I don’t work in mortgages or foreclosures,” snapped Shamus. “I’m in private banking. Basically, it’s up to me to maintain smooth customer relationships with our major account holders.”

“Your role at the bank is to schmooze fat cats,” said Carmela. “Take ’em to lunch and pay for drinks. Play a round of golf with them and slip them football tickets once in a while. I’m sure the job’s a pressure cooker.”

“It is,” said Shamus, with all seriousness.

“But maybe you could check on this one little thing for me?”

Shamus made a rude sound.

“How about this,” said Carmela. “Straight-ahead quid pro quo. Any information you can dig up in exchange for my personal appearance tonight.”

“I suppose.” The reluctance in Shamus’s voice made him sound like a stubborn five-year-old who was finally agreeing to lie down and take his nap.

“And one more question,” said Carmela. “Are you familiar with a real estate developer by the name of Whitney Geiger?” Geiger was one of the stories Kimber Breeze had been working on. Carmela knew it was tenuous, but she was looking at all possible connections to the murder.

“Why are you asking?” said Shamus.

“Geiger’s name came up in conversation and I’m curious about him,” said Carmela. She was pleased that she’d answered Shamus’s question without giving a legit answer.
I should have Shamus’s job.

“I don’t know him well,” said Shamus, “but Geiger’s in the Pluvius krewe with me and Sugar Joe.”

“Seriously?”
So he’ll probably be at the float party Sunday night.

“Yeah, of course I’m serious.”

“So what do you know about him?” Carmela asked.

Shamus hemmed and hawed for a few moments, and then Carmela said, “I really will make this worth your while.”

“So you’ll really come to the art show tonight?”

“I’ll be there with bells on. And Ava on my arm. Two cute chicks for the price of one.”

“Okay,” said Shamus. “You drive a hard deal, but we do have a deal.”

“So tell me,” said Carmela.

“Whit Geiger owns a company called Royale Real Estate. He was a mortgage banker for a while, but now he’s building a slug of mega mansions over near the Lake Vista area.”

“Anything else you know about him?”

“Not that I can think of at the moment,” said Shamus.

“I’m going to need you to find out a little more. Could you ask somebody at the bank? Someone who deals in real estate?

“Mmm . . . maybe.”

“It would mean a lot to me,” said Carmela.

“And you’re really coming to the Click! show?”

“Yes, a promise is a promise.”
Even though you never kept yours. Particularly your marriage vows.

“Excellent,” said Shamus. “See you tonight!”

* * *

ONCE CARMELA HAD CALLED AVA AND PUT HER ON
red alert for the Click! Gallery show, she hustled her buns across the street to meet Babcock.

Glisande’s Courtyard Restaurant was already full, its dining room decorated in a lovely French country style, its bar a little more sleek and dark, like an old French railway car.