Postcards from the Dead (2 page)

Chapter 2

H
ORRIFIED
,
trying to get a grip on her initial shock and almost paralyzing wave of fear, Carmela jerked herself back upright. Was that really Kimber Breeze dangling from a black cord? Yes, it was. Oh, dear Lord, yes it was. With her face all purple and her body so limp it looked practically devoid of bones!

Hot gorge rose in the back of Carmela’s throat and then receded. Gasping, she sucked in great gluts of air, fighting her overwhelming nausea and trying hard to clear her brain. She knew she had to summon help. Immediately. Squaring her shoulders, Carmela prepared to step back into the suite and sound the alarm. As she did, she glanced hastily right, then left. And saw that the nearby balconies practically kissed up against the very one she was standing on.

Could someone, presumably Kimber’s killer, have escaped onto one of those rounded balconies? Of course they could have.

Tilting her head back, Carmela gazed upward and saw a metal fire escape, really just a rickety ladder, bolted to the exterior of the Hotel Tremain. It led, presumably, to the rooftop. Another escape route? It could be. Unless the killer had somehow slipped back into the suite, where the revelers continued to drink and dance and shout greetings to each other.

A nightmarish scene, Carmela decided. Almost akin to some sort of twisted, locked-room mystery.

Then the party screeched to a halt as two hotel security guards crashed into the suite at the exact moment Carmela stepped in from the balcony. And, like a black poison tide gliding in atop the waves, the shocking news of Kimber’s demise suddenly spread throughout the room.

And that was when the worst possible thing that could ever happen happened. Panic struck and the crowd began to scatter! A costumed Punichello slipped out the door. A vampire and a skeleton slithered after him. Two Chinese opera characters followed in their wake. Then a stream of showgirls and top-hatted gents that included Sugar Joe!

“No!” Carmela cried. She pushed her way over to one of the security guards, an older man with a lined face, a cap of white hair, and a walrus mustache. “We’ve got to keep everyone here!” she told him, as people continued to dash past them. “These people are either witnesses or suspects!”

But it was an impossible task, like herding cats.

People pushed their way toward the double doors, then oozed their way down the various stairways and elevators even as the fire department arrived outside, red lights flashing and sirens blatting, to raise their ladder up to where poor Kimber still dangled.

And five minutes after that, when a contingent of police finally arrived in the Bonaparte Suite, only a handful of people were left.

“This is preposterous!” fumed Detective Bobby Gallant. “There were fifty people in this room and now there are six?” Gallant was relatively young for a detective, with a dark complexion and swirl of dark hair, dressed in a black leather jacket and chinos. He was usually cool and unflappable, but tonight he bristled with fury.

“We tried to keep them here,” Carmela told him, “but it was impossible. Everyone kind of panicked.” She knew Gallant fairly well, knew that he was a credible, careful detective who had solved more than his share of homicides.

“What about you two?” Gallant barked at the security guards. “What were you guys doing?”

The hangdog expressions on the guards’ faces pretty much said it all. They were rent-a-cops through and through. No street experience, no expertise in crowd control, and they’d certainly never dealt with a homicide. Not even close.

“They tried,” said Carmela, coming to their defense, “they really did. But everyone got scared and bolted.”

Gallant turned his attention to Raleigh, who sat crumpled and dejected before his monitors and console. “I sincerely hope you have a guest list,” he said.

Raleigh looked sick. “Just a list of the people Kimber was supposed to interview.”

Gallant shook his head, as if a swarm of angry bees were buzzing around him. “It’s a start.” He pointed a finger at one of the uniformed officers who had accompanied him. “Gary, you talk to everyone who’s still here and try to get them to remember exactly who was present in the room.”

“Everyone was in costume,” said Ava. “Some of them even wore masks.” Even though Ava pretended to be indifferent, Carmela could tell she was shaken by Kimber’s death.

“Peachy,” sighed Gallant. “Makes our job that much harder.”

“What about the cameras that were recording?” asked Carmela. “Maybe something there?”

Gallant lifted an eyebrow. “That might help.”

“Raleigh?” said Carmela.

Raleigh nodded. “Sure. I guess.” He moved woodenly, as if in a trance.

Gallant looked around the room, then back toward the balcony. “What kind of crazy crap was going on here, anyway?”

“Maybe a better question,” said Carmela, “is who had it in for Kimber Breeze?”

Gallant focused on her. “Seriously? From what I understand, the woman was amazingly popular. Then again, TV personalities generally are.”

“But Kimber had her detractors, too,” said Carmela.

“You included?” said a rich baritone voice behind her.

Carmela whirled about swiftly and found Detective Edgar Babcock gazing at her. He was, of course, her sweetie and personal cuddle bunny. Aside from that, Babcock was tall, lanky, and handsome. His ginger-colored hair was cropped short and neat and his blue eyes were constant pinpricks of intensity. Amazingly, he was always well dressed. A cop with a curious taste for designer duds.

“Detective!” Carmela cried out. She would have much rather flung her arms around Babcock’s neck and delivered a huge kiss, but he had rushed here for a murder investigation. So . . . she had to show some decorum.

“What have we got?” Babcock asked Gallant.

“Victim hung over the balcony,” said Gallant. “Rubber cord around her neck.”

“Witnesses?” asked Babcock. Now he switched his gaze to Carmela.

“None,” said Carmela. “At least I don’t think so.”

“None that we know of,” said Gallant. “Yet.”

Carmela and Gallant spent two minutes filling Babcock in. He listened, nodded, then stepped out onto the balcony. Carmela followed him.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” said Babcock.

Carmela glanced down to where two firemen were gently passing Kimber Breeze’s lifeless body down to a pair of EMTs in blue jumpsuits. “Neither should she,” she said. A white ambulance had pulled up onto the curb, its red light twirling lazily. No hurry now.

“Seriously,” said Babcock. “Why were you here? You do, after all, have a somewhat checkered past when it comes to dealing with the notorious Miss Breeze.”

Carmela shrugged. “The TV station was doing real-people commentaries and play-by-plays. As part of their Mardi Gras coverage. One of their producers called and asked me to participate, so I figured why not?”

“You didn’t know Kimber was doing the interviews?”

“No, I did not. Not until I got here.”

“But even when you saw it was her,” said Babcock, “you decided to go ahead. Maybe gain a little extra publicity for your scrapbook shop?”

“Publicity never hurts,” said Carmela. She glanced down again and saw that a shiny black medical examiner’s van had pulled up. On the other hand, she thought, maybe this kind of publicity wasn’t so great. Then she noticed that, ten feet away, the parade revelers had seemingly gotten bored with the Kimber Breeze incident and were now drinking from
geaux
cups and snatching beads out of the air.
Laissez les bon temps rouler.
Let the good times roll. Even in the presence of death.

Then again, Carmela told herself, people in New Orleans lived with a constant reminder of death. The aboveground cemeteries, or Cities of the Dead as they were famously called, loomed everywhere. A reminder that all good things must end.

“Lieutenant?” Bobby Gallant stood in the doorway looking out at them.

“Yeah?” said Babcock, turning.

“We’ve got some TV people who just showed up,” said Gallant. “The owner of the station and a reporter. They want to do a live on-the-scene report. And maybe ask you a couple of questions.”

“Okay,” said Babcock. “Obviously we can’t say much at this point, but I suppose we could get the public involved. There’s a good chance somebody down below saw something.” He hesitated, tossing around the pros and cons for a few moments, then made up his mind. “Maybe we can even get a description.” He looked directly at Carmela. “Yeah, a TV interview is probably good exposure.”

“So go expose yourself,” said Carmela.

* * *

THE OWNER OF KBEZ, DRESSED IN A CHARCOAL-GRAY
three-piece suit and sporting a gold Rolex on his wrist, greeted Babcock with a somber expression. “Ed Banister,” said the man, extending his hand. He was chubby and bespectacled with a fringed ring of gray hair, like an old-fashioned friar, around his shiny pink dome. “Anything we can do in the way of cooperation, just ask.”

“I understand you want to do a live broadcast,” said Babcock. He wasn’t swayed by Banister’s offer to help. Babcock knew darn well this was an opportunity for KBEZ to own the story and leapfrog the other TV stations and print media.

“Yes, a remote,” said Banister. “Obviously we’d like to be first out with this story because she’s one of ours. We’d also like to interview you, too, detective, and . . .” He glanced at Carmela. “Carmela? Is that your name? You were first on the scene?”

Carmela nodded. “I’m Carmela Bertrand. And, yes, I ran out onto the balcony and found Kimber.”

“We might want to do a second interview with you,” said Banister. He glanced over at Raleigh. “Seeing as how our equipment is all set up and ready to go.” Banister seemed to consider his words, then glanced at Babcock again. “That’s if we have your permission, detective.”

“Fine with me,” said Babcock. “Truth of the matter is, your broadcast might help shake things loose for us.”

“Exactly my thought,” said Banister, nodding.

“So if you do your news story, then I say a few words, that should serve both our purposes,” said Babcock. His brow furrowed. “Only, who’s going to . . . ?”

“I am,” said a young woman, elbowing her way to the front of the pack.

“This is Zoe Carmichael,” said Banister. “She’s a sort of apprentice at KBEZ-TV.” He sounded just this side of nervous.

But Zoe wasn’t.

“I can do it,” she said. She waved in front of her face a small microphone that was attached via cable to a battery pack clipped to her belt. Petite, with a mass of reddish-blond hair, Zoe had a pert nose and cherubic smile.

“Raleigh?” said Ed Banister. “Kindly make this happen.”

Zoe, looking both confident and eager, scurried over to confab with Raleigh. Two minutes later, he’d positioned her in front of the balcony door, aimed a key light at her, completed a sound check, and was back manning his equipment.

“You’re going live?” asked Carmela. She’d watched and listened to the proceedings with great interest. It seemed incongruous to her that the TV station Kimber Breeze worked for would jump to capitalize on her death like this. On the other hand, it
was
a heck of a news story.
Pretty, sexy TV reporter murdered on balcony overlooking crazy Mardi Gras parade.
It had
ratings
written all over it.

“The control room will cut into our regular programming,” explained Raleigh. “They’ll put a news flash visual on the screen and then we’ll go live.” He was answering Carmela’s question as well as explaining to the young reporter Zoe exactly how it was going to go down. He fiddled with the dials on his equipment, then moved behind a camera and focused his lens directly on Zoe. “Okay?”

Zoe did an exaggerated smile, wiggled her shoulders to shake loose any tension, then said, “Okay. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”

Raleigh pulled on a headset, listened to the instructions from the control room back at the station, then began his countdown.

“And five,” said Raleigh, splaying out his fingers. “Four, three . . .” He counted down silently until one finger pointed at Zoe.

“This is a KBEZ-TV news alert,” said Zoe. “We’re coming to you live from the Bonaparte Suite at the Hotel Tremain, where, just moments ago, a brutal murder took place on the balcony behind me. Sadly, the victim was our own reporter Kimber Breeze.” Zoe allowed for a dramatic pause, then seemed to adopt an even more somber tone of voice. “While doing a broadcast from this fourth-floor balcony, Kimber Breeze was apparently strangled by an unknown assailant. With a makeshift noose wrapped around her neck, Miss Breeze plunged to her death.” Zoe tilted her head, as if considering this. “Obviously, the police suspect foul play.”

Raleigh gestured to Babcock, who stepped in next to Zoe. Raleigh pulled back on his camera lens and, suddenly, a two-shot appeared on the monitor.

Zoe asked a few quick questions, which Babcock handled effectively, and then Raleigh moved the camera back in for a close-up of Zoe. “We at KBEZ-TV are as stunned and shocked as you are,” said Zoe. “If you know anything, anything at all, please contact our tip line at the bottom of the screen. And, rest assured, we’ll continue to bring you up-to-the-minute news on any and all developments.” She paused. “This is Zoe Carmichael coming to you live for KBEZ-TV.”

“Good,” said Banister, after a few seconds. “Excellent.” His mood seemed to have improved.

Zoe beamed.

* * *

AS DETECTIVES BABCOCK AND GALLANT CONFERRED
with Banister once again, Carmela sidled over to Zoe. “You were very composed,” she told her, “considering the circumstances.”

“Thank you,” said Zoe. She looked thrilled. And energized by her turn in front of the camera.

“You’ve been a reporter at KBEZ for how long?” asked Carmela.

“Actually, I’ve been Kimber’s assistant for almost three years. Tonight was the first time I’ve ever been allowed to do a live report.”

“This was your first?” said Carmela. She was surprised and impressed with Zoe’s poise and composure. On the rare occasions she’d had to do public speaking, she usually downed a Xanax.

“I was working down the block when I got the call,” said Zoe, “doing the odd bit of generic footage and commentary on the parade.” She rolled her eyes. “As if they’d ever use it. Plus they put me with the C-team cameraman, a guy who seems to delight in cutting off the top of my head.”