Postcards from the Dead (14 page)

“You think the costume leads to the killer? You think Sullivan Finch
knew
the killer?”

Or was the killer?
Carmela thought to herself. Then she said to Ava, “I don’t know, but I think the costume shop might be a good place to start.”

Chapter 14

S
ATURDAY
morning dawned cool and overcast. Carmela and Ava rendezvoused at her apartment, then drove over to St. Louis Cemetery No. 1 in Carmela’s little two-seater Mercedes, a long-ago gift from Shamus.

“Can we drive right in?” asked Ava. “It looks like it’s about to pour buckets any second and I don’t want to slop through puddles in these shoes.”

“Perhaps five-inch platform sandals dusted with glitter aren’t the most practical shoes for a day like this,” suggested Carmela, glancing down at Ava’s bedazzled feet.

“If they’re good enough for Lady Gaga, they’re good enough for me.”

“Ava Gaga.” Carmela chuckled. “It does have a certain ring to it.”

“Hah,” said Ava. “I was rocking sky-high stilettos and crazy pumps when she was a kid wearing sneakers and jeans.”

“You always talk like you’re ancient,” said Carmela, “and you haven’t even hit thirty yet.
I
haven’t hit thirty yet.”

“Time’s a-wastin’,” said Ava, sounding a little annoyed with herself. “I thought for sure I’d be married and divorced by now. Enjoying a little alimony and setting a leg trap for husband number two.”

“You don’t think that’s a bummer attitude?”

“That’s reality, chickie-poo.” Ava pulled a bloodred lipstick from her bag and smeared it across her voluptuous lips. She smacked her lips together, fluffed her mass of curly hair, then turned to Carmela and asked, “How do I look?”

“In those shoes, that lipstick, and your tight leather jeans, you look like you’re trolling for a hot date at Dr. Boogie’s jazz club.”
Not attending a funeral.

“Exactly the look I was aiming for,” said Ava, happily.

Carmela drove through the stone gates of the cemetery, passing under a scroll of antique wrought iron. Then she slowed as a uniformed police officer stepped out and waved her down. She lowered her window and said, “Problem?”

“You here for the funeral?” he asked. Looking bored, sounding bored.

“That’s right.”

“Which one?”

“Kimber Breeze,” said Carmela.

“You and everybody else,” wheezed the officer. “Ah . . . we’ve been asked to keep the looky-loos away.”

“I was told to meet up with Detective Babcock here,” said Carmela. “He’s with the Robbery-Homicide Division. “We’re . . . uh . . .”

Ava leaned over. “She’s being coy. Carmela and the officer in question are officially an
item
.”

“Okay,” said the officer. “Whatever.” He stepped back and waved them through. “Go ahead.”

“That was so helpful,” said Carmela, as she tromped on the gas pedal.

“You’re welcome,” said Ava. “Besides, we don’t want to miss the festivities.”

“What do you think is going to happen here?” asked Carmela. “A keg party and barbecued ribs?”

“No, but . . .” Ava grinned. “TV cameras?”

“Ah, that’s why you’re so jazzed,” said Carmela, as they crunched their way up a circular drive littered with white gravel. “And all duded up.” At the top of the rise, an enormous stone angel watched solemnly over acres of tombs and headstones. Now Carmela slowed. Which way?

“There!” Ava announced, pointing left. “It’s gotta be over there. Oh man, look at all the cars! Look at all the big black shiny limos. It’s like . . . I don’t know . . . a Hollywood premiere or something.”

“Or a funeral,” said Carmela. They pulled in behind a gold Lexus and got out, Ava hitching up her tight black skirt while adjusting her low-cut purple sweater even lower.

“Be careful,” Carmela said, out of the corner of her mouth. “You don’t want to show too much skin.”

“This is my
conservative
outfit,” said Ava. “You should have seen my first choice . . .”

“Dear Lord,” breathed Carmela. At least Ava hadn’t worn one of her leather-studded bondage costumes.

“But look,” said Ava, pointing, “it kind of
is
like a red carpet. They have velvet ropes set up around the grave site and everything.” She stiffened suddenly. “Oh, Lordy Lordy, what if we can’t get in? And me all gussied up.”

But as they approached the partitioned area, Carmela could see Ed Banister, the station owner, greeting guests and looking somber in a three-piece black suit.

“Carmela,” Banister said, stretching out a hand. “And Ava. Glad you ladies could make it.” They mumbled greetings back and strolled in, aware there was a growing contingent of curious onlookers who hadn’t been invited into the inner sanctum.

“I was right,” said Ava, nudging Carmela. “There is a camera. They’re going to tape the whole thing.”

Carmela wasn’t sure how she felt about taping Kimber’s funeral. Maybe that it was a bit too commercial? A little too intrusive? Then again, what wasn’t these days?

Carmela glanced over to where a sleek silver coffin rested atop a mound of unnaturally bright green plastic funeral grass. No red carpet for Kimber today, just a tacky green one. Beyond the grave site were three rows of black metal folding chairs, half occupied. Nearby, a cluster of mourners milled around. And, behind all of that, the camera on a tripod.

“Is that Raleigh?” Carmela asked, squinting. “Manning the camera?”

“I don’t think so,” said Ava.

Carmela surveyed the scene again and spotted Raleigh hanging out with a small group of people, probably KBEZ-TV staffers. He looked drawn and hunched in an ill-fitting dark suit, a radical departure from his usual outfit of chinos, T-shirt, and baseball cap.

“And there’s Zoe,” said Ava.

Carmela’s eyes lasered on Zoe. Unlike Raleigh, Zoe Carmichael looked completely poised and pulled together as she wove her way through the crowd, touching an arm here and there, whispering to coworkers.

“She looks like she’s actually enjoying this,” observed Carmela. Then decided the girl probably was. Zoe had waited a long time to come into her own, and now Kimber’s death had opened the door. The question was, had Zoe helped kick that door open?

As more and more mourners arrived, Carmela and Ava grabbed seats on a fourth line of chairs that had been hastily set up by a nervous, pacing funeral director.

“This has turned into a really big deal,” said Ava. She was sitting up straight and craning her neck, the better to be in line with the camera lens.

Carmela looked around for Babcock but didn’t see him. She had a feeling, though, that he’d show up. That he’d put in an appearance.

Finally, the last of the mourners filed in and a pink-faced minister wearing a black suit and clutching a Bible walked to the head of the casket. He waited there as Ed Banister, Zoe, Davis Durrell, and a skinny guy in a shabby black shirt and slacks took their places in the front row.

Carmela studied this peanut gallery of sorts. She understood why Banister and Zoe were there. They were Kimber’s coworkers and in charge of filming this spectacle. They were the director and producer, so to speak. As far as Durrell . . . well, he was the mournful boyfriend, so that made sense, too. But who was the other guy? The skinny, scruffy guy?

The answer suddenly hit her.

“That must be Kimber’s brother!” Carmela whispered to Ava.

Ava bent sideways to look. “The alligator farm guy?”

“I think so, yeah.”

“Judging from how poorly he’s dressed,” said Ava, “I don’t think Kimber exactly shared her success.”

But the surprises just kept coming. Now a gospel group in long purple robes filed in. Then the red eye of the camera winked on and the gospel singers sprang into action, beginning with a rousing chorus of “God Walks the Dark Hills.”

The singers were really quite good, Carmela decided, their voices joined in a lovely harmony that managed to be both uplifting but mournful, too.

When the song had concluded, the minister stepped closer to the head of the casket, lifted his hands, then spread them apart.

“Dear friends,” said the minister, “we are gathered here to bid farewell to a woman who was taken from us in the bloom of her youth . . .”

As the minister continued his soliloquy, Carmela glanced around the audience. She recognized the receptionist from KBEZ-TV, as well as the weatherman and the evening anchorman with his trademark blow-combed hair. They all looked properly sedate, as did most of the other mourners, even the ones who had probably come out of sheer curiosity.

Glancing down the row to her left, Carmela gave a start. There was a face she recognized from last night! She nudged Ava. “Your artist friend is here,” she whispered.

Ava hunched forward in her chair. “Finch? Really?”

Carmela nodded. It seemed strange to her that Sullivan Finch had shown up here. On the other hand, he had painted a portrait of Kimber. So there was that connection. Maybe artist and subject had been closer than anyone really knew?

The mousy smile on Ava’s face told Carmela that Ava would be hotfooting her way to Sullivan Finch as soon as this service was concluded. Ava was clearly interested, which worried Carmela a little. She let her mind veer off course a bit and hoped that a death portrait wasn’t a dire portent of things to come.

No, that wouldn’t happen, would it? Couldn’t. Not to Ava anyway.

As Carmela ruminated, Ed Banister stood up and gave his heartfelt tribute to Kimber. His voice shook when he talked about her devotion to the station and her superior work ethic.

Really?
Carmela thought. She’d never thought of Kimber as a particularly hardworking journalist, had always thought she was in it purely for the glamour and TV face time.

Banister’s hands trembled when he concluded his eulogy. Then he reached out and gently touched her coffin with his fingertips, bidding Kimber a tearful farewell.

Just as a thin rain began to filter down, the gospel singers kicked it into high gear again with a rousing rendition of “The Old Country Church.” Their voices rose, blended, and harmonized, echoing off nearby tombs, providing a brief moment of joy. But as their final notes hung in the damp air, people stirred, looked around, and stood up. The service was concluded.

“Just think,” said Ava, “this was all captured on tape.”

“Film at eleven,” said Carmela.

Ava lifted her chin, threw back her shoulders, and said, “Excuse me,
cher
, I’m gonna say my how-do’s to Sullivan Finch.”

“I figured you might,” said Carmela.

She watched as Ava nimbly negotiated her way down the row to end up in front of Sullivan Finch. She saw Finch grin and put his arms around Ava. It was a gentle hug, but a hug nonetheless. And it made Carmela nervous.

On her own now, unsure of what to do next, Carmela found herself edging toward Zoe.

When Zoe noticed Carmela, she gave a quick wave and a decorous smile.

“I thought I might see you here,” said Zoe. She was wearing a sedate black suit with a plain white blouse.

“And I knew I’d see you here,” replied Carmela.

“Such a sad day.” Zoe half-managed to arrange her features into a look of sadness.

“So the station filmed the entire service?”

“That’s right,” said Zoe. “We’ll probably use a few judicious clips on the news tonight.”

“And you guys are still working on your documentary?”

“Oh sure,” said Zoe. “In fact, we’ll be at it all weekend, right up until midnight on Fat Tuesday.”

“When the police come out and spray everyone with fire hoses,” said Carmela. It was New Orleans’s friendly way of saying,
Okay, you’ve partied your brains out and we’ve been more than tolerant, now it’s time to go home
.

“Don’t you just love our Mardi Gras traditions?” said Zoe.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” said Carmela, “will you continue to work on the investigative reports that Kimber had started?”

Zoe shifted from one foot to the other. “Hmm?”

“Remember? You told me Kimber had launched a couple of investigations?”

“Sure,” said Zoe, “but I don’t really know much about them.”

But Raleigh does
, thought Carmela.
So why don’t you? Or do you know more than you’re letting on?

“I have to kind of wait until Mr. Banister gives me some clear direction,” said Zoe. “You know, whether I’ll work on fluff pieces, features, or even hard news.”

“What do you want to work on?” asked Carmela.

Zoe considered this for a few moments. “Everything!”

* * *

CARMELA MILLED AROUND WITH THE REST OF THE
group for a few more minutes until she connected with Raleigh.

“A sad day,” he said, shoulders hunched, a hangdog look on his face.

“Indeed,” said Carmela. Then, “I understand you sent the police a DVD of the Bonaparte Suite party.”

“That’s right,” Raleigh said, “one to them, one to you.”

Carmela was a little surprised at that. “Nobody else?”

“You’re the only guys who want to investigate,” said Raleigh. “The only ones who really care.”

After giving Raleigh a slightly clumsy good-bye hug, Carmela decided to make a run at the cameraman. He’d finished shooting the funeral footage and was now packing his camera into a foam-lined case and coiling up wires. She also recognized him as the one who’d worked with Zoe the night of Kimber’s murder.

“Excuse me,” said Carmela, “we met the other night? At the Hotel Tremain?” They hadn’t been formally introduced, but he might remember her.

The cameraman, a skinny guy with curly brown hair, gazed at her for a second, then snapped his fingers. “You were one of the witnesses? You went out on the balcony and . . .”

“That’s right,” said Carmela. She licked her lips and plunged ahead. “I understand you were working with Zoe that night?”

The cameraman nodded. “Uh-huh, shooting the Loomis parade.”

“So you and Zoe were together the entire evening? I mean, up until the time you were called to the Hotel Tremain?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Then he shrugged. “Well, not exactly the whole time. Zoe had to do her thing. Go off in the crowd, scout out people to interview. Try to come up with some meaningful story lines.”

So Zoe could have slipped away
, thought Carmela.
And if she was really quick and really determined, she could have killed Kimber.

“Will you continue to work with Zoe?” Carmela asked him.