Postcards from the Dead (13 page)

Babcock was sitting on a bar stool, twiddling a swizzle stick in one hand. His drink and cell phone rested on the bar in front of him. He looked tall, handsome, and available, and Carmela had the feeling that more than a few predatory single women had already noticed him and scoped him out.

She slipped onto the bar stool next to him. “Hello, handsome,” she said. “Buy you a drink?”

He swiveled toward her. “Sorry, ma’am, but I’m with someone.” Then he grinned and leaned forward to give her a kiss. “In fact, I’m with you.” He kissed her again and they snuggled closer, touching and bumping shoulders. “What would you like to drink?”

“Just a Diet Coke,” said Carmela. “I’m rushing off to the Click! Gallery tonight.”

“Where they’ll undoubtedly be well stocked with cheap white wine,” said Babcock. “The art gallery’s stock in trade.”

“Probably brought in from New Jersey in tanker trucks.” She waited as Babcock ordered her Diet Coke and then got another ginger ale for himself. Then she said, “I’ve got something I want to run by you.”

“Shoot,” said Babcock.

“It turns out everybody and his brother-in-law knows about those stupid postcards I got,” said Carmela. “Including the people at KBEZ-TV.”

Babcock frowned. “Who spilled the beans?”

“Ava.”

“Ah, she can be quite the motormouth.”

“Anyway,” said Carmela, “Ed Banister asked if I’d be willing to let them do a story about the postcards. A sort of TV sidebar. You know, something that’s peripherally related to the murder?” Even as she spelled it out, it sounded like a terrible idea. “So, what do you think? Good idea? Not so good?”

“It’s a terrible idea,” Babcock sputtered.

“So what do you
really
think?” Carmela asked.

“I’m radically opposed to the idea,” said Babcock, “because there’s no earthly reason to believe the postcards are in any way related to Kimber’s murder.”

Carmela raised an eyebrow. “Oh no? Then why does the sender always ask why I didn’t help Kimber? And why are the cards signed with her name?”

“Because some creep thinks it’s funny, that’s why,” said Babcock.

“And you don’t think the two are related?”

“There isn’t a shred of evidence to suggest they are,” said Babcock.

“Okay,” said Carmela. “I guess that settles that.” She took a sip of Diet Coke and said, “Is Sugar Joe a real suspect?”

“Joe Panola?” said Babcock. “Not really. He doesn’t have any priors, nor does it appear he had a motive. Unless, of course, something pops up on our radar screen.”

“Good,” said Carmela. “Excellent. Then what about Whit Geiger?”

“What about Whit Geiger?”

“Kimber was doing some sort of investigative report on him,” said Carmela.

“Let me guess,” said Babcock. “So now
you’re
investigating him.”

“It could lead to something,” said Carmela.

“And it could lead to nothing.” Babcock leaned forward and rested his elbows on the bar. “I received a rather interesting tape this afternoon. Or, rather, DVD.”

“Oh?” Carmela took another quick gulp of Diet Coke.

“From Raleigh, the cameraman.” His finger poked out and spun his cell phone around.

“Uh-huh,” said Carmela, watching the slice of silver spin like a top.
Lots of information locked up in there
, she thought.

Babcock narrowed his eyes. “You know exactly which DVD I’m referring to, don’t you?” He was no fool. He knew she was tight with Raleigh.

“Um . . . maybe.”

“A video of the party that was going on in the Bonaparte Suite?”

“Anything interesting on it?” asked Carmela.

“Possibly,” said Babcock. “Oh crap.” He scrunched to one side, then pulled out the beeper that was clipped to his belt. He squinted at it, sighed, and said, “Gotta make a call. Excuse me.” Then he was gone. Out the back door and onto the patio where he could do his police work relatively undisturbed. And where she couldn’t eavesdrop.

Carmela sat up straighter and gazed out a sliver of window. Yup, he was out there all right, pacing back and forth. She wondered what was going on. A new development in the case?

When Babcock returned she asked him.

“So what’s up?”

He made a face. “Just this drug thing I’m working on. There’s a whole roster of new street drugs out there—spice, K2, Ivory Wave—you name it. And we can’t seem to get a handle on the crew that’s behind them.”

“Tough,” said Carmela. New Orleans, being a port city, meant ships were coming in from everywhere. The Caribbean, South America, Asia.

“Those drugs are bad news,” said Babcock. He hesitated for a moment, then said, “Did you know the TV station might try to offer some kind of reward?”

Carmela gazed at him. “For information leading to?”

“Exactly,” said Babcock. He eyed her. “I’m guessing they figured you wouldn’t consent to an interview, so they cooked up the reward.”

“There really is a reward? When did this happen?”

“We got the call a couple of hours ago,” said Babcock.

“Maybe offering a reward is a good idea,” said Carmela.
Better than me going out on a limb.

“And maybe we’ll get a million calls from everybody who’s either dead broke or paranoid,” said Babcock. “No, I basically hate the idea of a reward. It ties up critical manpower and the information rarely pans out.”

“You’ve always got me,” Carmela joked. “I’ll help out.”

Babcock held up a hand. “Please. Don’t do any more than you already have.”

“I’m just saying . . .”

Babcock slid off his bar stool and circled his arms around her. “I just want you to stay safe, okay?”

“Okay,” said Carmela.
Okay
to her meant,
Okay I hear you
. Not,
Okay I’ll stay in the background
.

“I’ll be back in two shakes,” Babcock told her. “I have to run out and have a word with Gallant. He should be parked out front by now.”

As Babcock dashed off, Carmela’s eyes drifted to his cell phone, just sitting there next to his drink.

Do I dare?

She dared.

Quickly, Carmela flipped through the address book. When she came to the name Billy Laforge, she studied the address. Two eighty-one Longfellow Road. Yup, she could remember that.

In fact, she might even take a trip out there and pay Billy a friendly visit.

Chapter 13

T
HE
Click! Gallery, owned by Clark Berthume, was a long, narrow gallery wedged in between Calliope Antiques and Shooters Oyster Bar. Normally, its shiny white walls were hung with photographs. Black-and-white shots of St. Louis Cemetery No. 2, architectural studies of the French Quarter, moldering old plantations out on River Road. Sometimes the shows were more colorful, offering moody portraits of shrimpers working the Breton Sound, serene ibis and egrets hovering over the Baritaria Bayou, or fantastic shots of torchlight Mardi Gras parades.

Tonight Carmela could see big, color-splotched paintings gracing the walls. And the gallery was already humming with noise and thronged with people.

“Looks like their opening reception is a huge success,” said Ava, as they stood in the doorway. Somewhere, beyond the jostle of beautiful people, was a DJ spinning music. Carmela thought it might be a mash-up of Lady Gaga’s “Marry the Night” and Katy Perry’s “Firework.”

“It’s a success only if they sell paintings,” said Carmela, “not if a bunch of freeloaders show up to guzzle wine and snarf their food.”

“Like us?” said Ava, grinning.

“Excellent point,” said Carmela. “Except we’re
invited
freeloaders.”

Ava gazed around. “So, who’s the artist?”

“Probably someone who does landscape paintings or sentimental stuff,” said Carmela. “That’s what they usually . . .” As her eyes searched around, they landed on a large poster balanced against a wooden easel. “Whoa! Was I ever off base! It’s Sullivan Finch.”

Ava eyed the poster. “You know this artist?”

“Sort of. I happened to see one of his pieces when I stopped by KBEZ-TV yesterday. It was hanging in their lobby.”

“So you like this guy’s work?” said Ava.

“Eeh.” Carmela held up a hand and made a seesawing motion. “Maybe a little too quirky for my taste.”

“Really,” said Ava, pushing forward. “Now I’m intrigued.”

But as Ava disappeared into the crowd, Carmela’s way was blocked by Shamus, who seemed to lurch out of nowhere to corner her.

“You came!” Shamus cried. He leaned forward to give her a big sloppy kiss, but Carmela managed to turn her head just in the nick of time. A damp ear was infinitely better than a wet cheek.

“Are you drunk?” Carmela hissed. Shamus had that off-balance stance that only serious drunks and sea captains seemed to share.

“Been drinking a little,” Shamus admitted. He held up his drink to show her and in the process sloshed a few drops of amber liquid on the floor. “Oops.” He let loose a giggle.

“This is how you act at a charity event?” said Carmela. “Where you probably have to glad-hand clients?”

Shamus peered over the rim of his glass at her. “Huh?”

“Never mind,” said Carmela.
I’m not your babysitter anymore.
She glanced past him and saw the broad-shouldered Sugar Joe elbowing his way toward them.

“Carmela!” exclaimed Sugar Joe. He looped an arm around her and gave her a warm squeeze. “You’re looking absolutely gorgeous! Did you come here tonight just to break my little old heart?” Sugar Joe might be a terrible flirt, but he was harmless.

“I’m here because Shamus got down on his hands and knees and begged me to come,” said Carmela.

Shamus nodded. “I thought she might add a little class to this event.” He took a quick sip of his drink. “And you know what else?” He winked at Sugar Joe. “I think I got Carmela to call off the Doberman pinschers!”

Sugar Joe grinned from ear to ear, as if this were the best news he’d ever heard. “You convinced your detective boyfriend that I’m not a suspect?”

Carmela shrugged. “Maybe.” She had no intention of talking to Babcock, but what these two didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.

“What’d I tell you!” cried Shamus. “Carmela’s got clout with the NOPD!” He looked infinitely pleased, as if he’d just soloed Everest or pulled off some equally heroic feat.

“You gave the cops what for,” proclaimed Sugar Joe. “Wow. How can I thank you?”

Carmela poked a finger into Shamus’s chest. “For starters, make sure this doofus gets home safely. Don’t let him drive.”

“I won’t,” Sugar Joe promised.

“You’re my goodest, bestest friend,” Shamus slurred to Sugar Joe.

And maybe your only friend
, thought Carmela. “Listen,” she said to Shamus, “did you find out anything more about Whitney Geiger?”

Now Shamus looked indifferent. “Only that his company, Royale Real Estate, is incorporated in Florida.”

“I wonder why Florida?” said Carmela.

“Gotta be the favorable tax laws,” said Shamus. Carmela knew that Shamus despised paying taxes and tried to claim every possible deduction and write-off he could find. Then again, he’d written off their marriage, hadn’t he?

“Tax reasons,” said Carmela. “Okay. But can you dig a little deeper?”

Shamus looked pained.

“Do it for Carmela,” urged Sugar Joe. “We owe her big-time.”

“Okay . . . okay,” said Shamus.

“Shamus!” An ungodly, piercing voice suddenly rose above the din of conversation and music.

Carmela took a step back and saw Glory Meechum, Shamus’s older sister, elbowing her way through the crowd straight toward their cozy little group. Glory was half a head taller than Shamus, with a helmet of gray hair. She was an indeterminate age, though Carmela figured she was mid-fifties, and had beady, wonky eyes that didn’t always work in tandem. Tonight she wore her usual shapeless black dress and sensible squatty heels.

“Shamus!” Glory snapped again, “we’re supposed to present the check now. Your presence is required.”

“Nice to see you, too, Glory,” said Carmela.

Glory turned and gave her the flat-eyed stare of a rattlesnake. “Carmela. What are you doing here?” Glory had always hated Carmela. She hadn’t wanted Shamus to marry her, and then she didn’t want Shamus to divorce her. Go figure.

“Shamus invited me,” said Carmela. She dimpled prettily. “Didn’t you, Shamus?”

Shamus nodded. “Yeah, I guess.” He edged closer to Sugar Joe, as if for protection.

“Since you’re still able to stand,” Carmela said to Shamus, “you’d better go play big-time donor and present your check. You certainly don’t want to keep the crowd waiting.”

Glory held up her almost-empty glass and wiggled it in the air. “Get me a bourbon first, Shamus,” she said. “Before you do anything else.”

“Sure thing,” said Shamus, shuffling away.

* * *

TWO MINUTES LATER, CARMELA CAUGHT UP WITH AVA.
She was chatting with two men who were grinning at Ava as if they’d just hit the hottie patottie jackpot.

“Carmela!” cried Ava. “I want you to meet my two new friends.” She pointed at a dark-haired guy. “Arnett.” Then indicated a blond guy. “And Earl.”

“I’m Arnett,” said the blond guy. He indicated his buddy. “That’s Earl.”

“Whatever,” said Ava. “And this is Carmela.”

They chatted together for a few moments, then Carmela touched Ava on the arm. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Excuse us,” Ava said to the two men. “And if you gentlemen want to fetch us a couple more glasses of champagne, we surely wouldn’t mind.”

“Maybe we should take off,” Carmela said, once they were alone.

“What?” Ava was shocked. “We just got here! Besides, I’m having fun.”

“Seriously?” She knew that Arnett and Earl weren’t Ava’s type at all. They were waaaaay too conservative for Ava’s liking.

“It’s kind of amusing here. And have you even had a chance to peek at the artwork?”

“Not yet,” said Carmela.
Maybe not ever.

“Some of it’s really quite stunning,” said Ava. “Kind of . . . visceral.”

“You think?” said Carmela. Together, they turned and stared at an enormous red-and-orange painting. To Carmela, it looked like a final sunset on a deserted beach after the world had imploded.

“Powerful stuff, huh?” cooed Ava.

“Er . . . I certainly admire the artist’s technique,” said Carmela. “I’d say he wields a serious palette knife and isn’t afraid to slather on multiple layers of paint.”

“Thank you,” said a male voice behind them.

They both whirled to find a tall, shaggy-looking man giving them a crooked grin.

“Let me guess,” said Carmela, “you’re the artist?”

“Sullivan Finch at your service,” said the man, giving them a wide smile. He had the scruffy look of an artist. Shoulder-length hair, watery blue eyes, drooping mustache, and tweedy but slightly frayed jacket worn casually over blue jeans.

“Nice to meet you,” said Ava. She touched a finger to her chest. “Ava.” She pointed toward Carmela. “And this is Carmela.”

“How absolutely grand,” said Finch. He looked like a hippie but affected the bored manner and tone of a smart-ass, erudite Ivy Leaguer. “Now if either of you would care to put a red dot on one of my paintings, I’d be indebted for life.”

“A red . . . oh,” said Ava. “You mean
buy
one?”

“Only if you can’t bear to live without it,” said Finch. He made a fluttering gesture with his hands. “I only want my paintings going to loving homes where they’ll be appreciated and cherished forever.”

“Forever’s a long time,” said Carmela. This guy was too much.

“Then how about until the paintings take a nice leap in value?” said Finch.

“Now you’re talking,” said Ava. She wiggled her hips as they moved along to the next painting. “A dog,” she said. This painting was a smaller, slightly derivative version of the piece Carmela had seen at KBEZ-TV.

“Fun,” said Carmela.

“Fun?” said Finch. He cocked his head like an inquisitive magpie.

Carmela gave him a look dripping with sincerity. “Your work is meant to be interpreted as a dystopian fantasy, right? So it’s going to be a little loose and . . . dare I say it? Cheeky?” Was she good or what? All she had to do was spout a snatch of copy from his brochure!

Finch’s face lit up like a neon sign. “Thank you, dear girl! So few people actually understand the gestalt of my work! Tell me, are you an artist yourself?”

“Carmela’s a designer,” said Ava. “Plus she owns a scrapbooking shop.”

“Then you have studied art,” said Finch.

“Guilty as charged,” said Carmela. “Design major.”

“I can always tell,” said Finch, as they edged their way to the next painting.

Ava suddenly stopped dead in her tracks. “Whoa!” she exclaimed. “What’s going on here?”

Carmela gazed at the next painting. It was a portrait of a blond woman with haunted, sunken eyes and a slash of purple down the middle of her chalk-white face. Unsettling to be sure, but there was also something extremely familiar about this woman. Carmela racked her brain, then was startled as comprehension dawned. Oh no, it couldn’t be! No, the gallery wouldn’t dare put this on display, would they?

“It’s one of my death portraits,” said Finch, regarding the painting with a somber yet paternal gaze.

“It’s Kimber Breeze!” exclaimed Ava.

“Yes, it is,” said Carmela. For some reason, the tiny hairs on the back of her neck were standing at full attention.

Finch nodded. “Death portraits are one of my specialties.”

But Carmela was still taken aback. “When was this done?” she asked. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. A death portrait of Kimber Breeze? And to put it on display here, tonight, seemed in awfully poor taste!

“I painted this nearly a year ago,” said Finch. “Before she . . .” Finch looked suddenly mournful.

“It’s like a portent or premonition,” Ava whispered. “Of what was to come!”

“Did Kimber know you painted this?” asked Carmela. She needed a little back story here.

“Are you kidding?” said Finch. “Kimber
posed
for it. Like I said, it’s my thing. Death portraits of living people. You’d be surprised how many people commission me to do portraits like this.”

A hand reached out of the crowd and clamped down tightly on Finch’s right shoulder. It was Clark Berthume, the chubby, genial gallery owner. “Are you ladies monopolizing my artist?” he asked.

“Are we ever,” said Ava.

“I need to grab him for a few moments,” said Berthume. He dropped his voice. “Sully, I think I have a buyer for your
Other World
piece.”

Finch nodded, then turned his gaze to Ava. “Can I call you? I’d love to take you to dinner sometime. Or perhaps even have you pose.”

“Sure,” said Ava, digging eagerly in her clutch purse. “Here, let me give you my card.” She handed it to Finch. “Call any time.” She grinned. “Day or night.”

“I’ll do that,” said Finch, as he hurried off with Berthume.

“Interesting that he wants to take you out,” said Carmela under her breath. She wasn’t jealous, she just thought Finch seemed more interested in hustling his paintings than flirting with women.

“He seems awfully nice,” said Ava.

“Don’t you find it strange that he did a death portrait of Kimber?” asked Carmela.

“He said he did it a year ago,” said Ava, “so it’s really just a wacky coincidence.”

“But Ava, you’ve always been a
huge
believer in coincidences.”

Ava tried to shrug off Carmela’s warning tone. “Still,” she said, “sometimes things are just . . . happenstance.”

“Okay,” said Carmela. She’d just spotted another painting she found singularly strange. One that Ava had her back to. “What about
this
particular painting?”

“Huh?” Ava whirled to check out the painting, then stared in confusion. The subject of the painting was a man in a white tattered costume standing against a red velvet curtain.

“What does that look like to you?” asked Carmela.

Ava clapped a hand to her mouth then released it. “Shoot! It’s a clown.”

“But look at the costume,” said Carmela. Now she was getting a weird vibration in the pit of her stomach.

Reluctantly, Ava said, “It kind of reminds me of the clown we saw on Raleigh’s DVD.”

“Yes, it’s very similar,” said Carmela. “Which I find particularly creepy.”

“So . . . what?” said Ava.

“Thinking back to the clown on the DVD,” said Carmela, “makes me think I should check out the local costume rental shop to see who might have rented that costume.”