Postcards from the Dead (23 page)

“I don’t know where to start first,” said Ava.

“I’m going to hit the fried oysters hard,” said Carmela, “and do a little grazing on all the rest.”

“Excellent strategy,” said Ava.

They filled their plates, then wandered into one of the smaller parlors, hoping to find a place to sit down. What they found was Madame Blavatsky dealing out her tarot cards to a fairly interested audience. They plunked themselves down on a blue velvet love seat and watched with interest as Margo Leland, a Garden District doyenne, got a reading.

“Choose three cards,” instructed Madame Blavatsky. “One for past, present, and future.”

“A speed read,” murmured Ava.

Margo, swaddled in sparkles and fur, made a big show of choosing her cards. Then she laid them on the table facedown. “Now what?” She looked up expectantly, blue eyes shining, masses of blond curls bobbing. Carmela had never seen Margo with so much hair. She must have pinned on at least three Hair U Wears.

“Now we peer into the infinite,” said Madame Blavatsky.

“She’s good, isn’t she?” Ava whispered to Carmela. But Carmela was watching closely.

Madame Blavatsky’s nimble hands turned over the first card. “This represents your past.”

“What do you see?” asked Margo.

“The Four of Wands,” said Madame Blavatsky. “Prosperity.”

“She’s right!” shrilled Margo. “My ex-husband Jerry Earl was a whiz at making money!”

“Too bad he’s doing two to four at Dixon Correctional for cooking the books,” whispered Ava.

“For your present situation,” said Madame Blavatsky, turning over the middle card. “The Magician. An indication of creativity and skill.”

“That’s me,” said Margo.

Madame Blavatsky’s finger touched the final card and lingered for a moment.

Margo drew an excited breath. “And my future?”

Madame Blavatsky flipped over the Lovers card and smiled. “It would appear love is in your future.”

Margo sprang up from her chair, delighted. “Did y’all hear that? I’m gonna find husband number four!”

“Maybe he’s here tonight,” remarked Carmela, still working away on her plateful of goodies.

“Say,” said Ava to Madame Blavatsky, “can you do a kind of blanket reading? Can you scope out the general tone of this party?”

“I can try,” said Madame Blavatsky.

Ava moved over to the chair Margo had just vacated while Carmela looked over her shoulder.

“Same kind of spread?” asked Ava.

“Better that you shuffle the entire deck and draw just one single card,” Madame Blavatsky instructed.

“Ooh, I like that,” said Ava, as she grabbed the deck and shuffled, fingers working nimbly like a practiced blackjack dealer. “Okay, one card.”

“One card,” echoed Carmela.

Ava pulled out a single card, then flipped it over.

It was the Seven of Swords.

A look of concern flickered on Madame Blavatsky’s face.

“What’s it mean?” asked Carmela, curious.

“Deceit,” said Madame Blavatsky. “Someone here is planning a huge deception.”

“You mean in this room?” Carmela asked. She glanced hastily around. “At this party?”

“Well, that’s a buzzkill,” said Ava.

But Madame Blavatsky was taking it all quite seriously. “Be careful,” she cautioned. “Someone very close to you is not what they appear to be!”

And who might that be?
Carmela wondered. Shamus? No, he was totally transparent. So who else here tonight had deception or treachery on their mind and in their heart? Was it Whit Geiger? Or Zoe? Or the soon-to-arrive Sullivan Finch? Who exactly should she be watching out for?

It would seem there was a veritable roster of folks. And it included Davis Durrell.

Chapter 26

“
C
ARMELA
,”
called Baby. She came swanning across the dance floor, one hand clutching Durrell’s upper arm. “Have you had the pleasure of meeting my new neighbor?”

“Actually, I have,” said Carmela, gazing at Durrell.
Or was it my displeasure? Then again, maybe I should be happy he’s not wearing a clown costume.
Durrell, tricked out as a cowboy, wore jeans, cowboy boots with genuine spurs, a checkered Western shirt and leather vest, and a ten-gallon hat. A leather holster was slung around his waist and held what looked like a genuine pearl-handled pistol.

“Is that a real gun?” Carmela asked him, as Baby flitted off.

“Of course it is,” said Durrell. “This is a Colt .45.”

“Loaded?”

Durrell’s eyebrows inched up a notch. “What do you think?”

“Dangerous,” said Carmela.

“Only in the wrong hands,” said Durrell.

“So,” said Carmela, “how are you managing?” She figured she had to somehow reference Kimber’s death. Even though everyone here was drinking and dancing and having a grand old time. Probably Durrell included.

“Hanging in there,” said Durrell, in a noncommittal tone. “Still hoping the police come up with some answers.”

“Me, too,” said Carmela.

“Yes,” said Durrell, giving a nasty smirk, “your husband told me you’re quite the amateur investigator.”

“Excuse me?” said Carmela.

“Correction,” said Durrell, “your
ex
-husband.”

“Tell me again,” said Carmela, “how is it you know Shamus?” It worried her that Shamus might have made some offhand remark to Durrell. Shamus could be awfully trusting. And the more he drank, the more he blabbed.

“We’re in the Pluvius krewe together,” said Durrell. “But I think you knew that.”

“Were you at the party last night?” asked Carmela. She hadn’t seen him there, but that didn’t mean anything.

“No,” said Durrell, “I’m afraid I had business.”

“Must be those pesky overnight markets,” said Carmela.

Durrell’s mouth twitched. “How would you know about that?”

His jibe grated Carmela. “Why do you persist in thinking I’m completely unenlightened when it comes to investing?” she asked. “Really, your attitude is quite tedious.”

Durrell eyed her with caution. “Apologies, then.”

“I understand,” said Carmela, deciding to give her investigative skills a workout, “that you’ve recently joined the City Opera’s board of directors.”

“That’s right,” said Durrell. “I was just appointed.”

“You’re an opera buff?”

Durrell gave an offhand shrug. “As much as anyone.”

Should I?
Carmela wondered. Then plunged ahead. “What’s your favorite opera?”

Durrell regarded her with a steady gaze. “Really, I enjoy them all.”

“How about
Pagliacci
?”

“Wonderful,” said Durrell, without much enthusiasm.

“Tell me,” said Carmela, watching Durrell’s face carefully, “what do you know about Canio?”

“We’ve not met,” said Durrell, fixing his gaze somewhere above her left shoulder.

“You’re sure about that?” asked Carmela.

“Perhaps when I have a chance to get better acquainted with all the members,” muttered Durrell. He looked both embarrassed and confused. “Excuse me,” he said, edging away. “There’s a . . .” And he was gone.

Carmela felt a thrill of triumph.
He doesn’t know. Durrell had absolutely no clue what I was talking about. He’s no opera buff. If he’s really, truly sitting on the board, and I’m pretty sure he is, then all he is is a big fat poser.

* * *

CARMELA COULDN’T WAIT TO TELL AVA. SHE EASED
through a crowd of hooded monks, dance hall girls, and World War II–era soldiers, and found Ava sitting on a chair, talking to a Vulcan, complete with
Star Trek
tunic and pointed ears. When she pulled Ava aside, she said, “I just had a conversation with Durrell.”

“Okay,” said Ava.

“About Canio.”

“The clown,” said Ava. Then the implication hit her. “Oh!” Her eyes widened. “The clown costume. Did your mention of the clown shake him up?”

“Not in the least,” said Carmela. “In fact, Durrell had absolutely no clue what I was talking about.”

Ava was surprised. “Seriously?”

“I think Durrell shoehorned himself onto the opera board for the sole purpose of rubbing shoulders with heavy hitters, people with money.”

“What a scumbag,” said Ava, curling her lip.

“But maybe not a killer,” said Carmela. “I’m guessing it wasn’t him in the clown suit.”

“Maybe not,” agreed Ava.

* * *

CARMELA DECIDED SHE HAD TO RETHINK HER LIST OF
suspects. She wandered past the buffet table, stepped out the French doors onto a brick patio, and wandered toward the far corner of the yard and a lovely vine-covered arbor. She needed a little quiet time, away from the shrieks of the crowd, the guffaws of the heavy drinkers, and the loud, pulsing music from the DJ’s turntable.

But when she sat down on a narrow bench woven from tree willows, the bushes next to her shook slightly. And not from the wind.

What? Was someone there?

“Psst!”

There
was
somebody hiding in the bushes!

The leaves shook and jiggled again, this time more vigorously, and a dark face peeped out. Carmela let loose a startled little, “Oh!” in recognition. Because this was the last person in the world she expected to see here!

Then an entire head and shoulders materialized and Billy Laforge said, “Miz Meechum, I gotta talk to you!”

Kimber’s kid brother! Here? Why?

Carmela glanced around hastily. There wasn’t another soul in sight. Was she safe or should she scream bloody blue murder for help? But when she gazed at Billy’s face, there was something there, a funny look, that made her hesitate.

“What are you doing here?” Carmela managed to choke out.

Billy’s voice was low and urgent. “Ma’am, I’m sorry for how I treated you the other day. I was upset and I thought you were with the TV or newspaper or something. I thought you were sneaking around trying to take pictures or pressure me for an interview.”

“Okay,” said Carmela, swallowing hard. “No harm done.”

“But I can see you’re a nice lady,” said Billy. “A kind lady.”

“Thank you,” said Carmela. His words were so unexpected and strange, considering the circumstances, that she was completely taken aback. Was this the same guy who’d screamed at her just two days ago? The guy who’d basically threatened her life and kicked her off his property?

“That’s why I came to ask for your help,” said Billy.

“What?” Now Carmela was utterly perplexed. “Excuse me, what exactly are you talking about?”

“About my farm,” said Laforge.

Carmela shook her head. This did not compute. “What about your farm?”

Now there was a grudging undertone to Billy’s voice. “I need your help, ma’am, because you’re one of them. One of the bank people. A . . . a Meechum.” He spat out the word
Meechum
as if he were referring to pond scum.

“No, I’m really not,” said Carmela. “You’re thinking of my ex-husband, Shamus. But we’re divorced, have been for a couple of years.”

Billy was unrelenting. “But you could ask him to help me. With my farm. He’s a big shot at the bank.”

“Your farm?” The point of Billy’s coming to see her was slowly dawning on Carmela.
Aw crap, it’s all because Shamus’s bank is foreclosing on Billy’s farm.
And then a thin, cold wave of fear washed over her. “Wait a minute. Did you follow me here tonight?”

Billy hesitated, then answered, “Yes.”

Carmela’s heart was suddenly beating out of her chest. “Did you follow me last night?”

Billy blinked, clearly befuddled by her question. “No.”

But Carmela wasn’t sure if she could believe him. Was Billy lying? Was he trying to scare her? Or coerce her? Her instincts told her to drill him with one very important question.

“Billy, did you send me some postcards?”

Now Billy Laforge seemed totally bewildered. “Postcards? You mean from a trip? I can’t take a trip, not with the bank people after me. They already stole my dog and threatened to take my gun.”

Carmela stared at him. She was hearing his words just fine, but they didn’t make any sense to her. They sounded like gibberish. “Billy, get real. Banks don’t do that sort of thing.”

Billy’s face pulled into an insistent glare. “Yes, they did. A man called me on the phone and warned me they were going to do exactly that. And then yesterday, when I got home, my dog Saber was gone.”

“That’s crazy,” said Carmela. “That’s not how banks operate.”

“It is, and it’s why I need your help!” said Billy. His face darkened and his eyes blazed.

“I can’t help you,” said Carmela. “Really.”

“You have to!”

Carmela felt a sudden uptick in what she gauged as a threat level.
Get out of here!
her inner instincts screamed at her.
Get away from this crazy guy!
And just as she tensed her entire body, just as she was about to bolt, footsteps sounded on the nearby patio. A voice called to her.

“Carmela?” Ed Banister was standing some ten feet away, peering at her through the darkness. “I heard voices. Are you okay?”

Her rescuer!

“Ed!” she cried.

Banister took a step forward, suddenly unsure. “You out here all alone?”

Carmela drew breath, about to say something, then changed her mind. Banister was standing right there. She was safe. Nothing could happen to her now.

“I’m . . . fine,” said Carmela. The leaves next to her rustled ever so slightly as Billy Laforge retreated deep into the magnolias and ivy. “What’s up?”

“Oh,” said Banister, “we’re going to shoot a sort of dance scene, where, at the end, everyone rips off their masks for a big reveal. And we wanted you to join us.” He cocked his head, as if worried he wasn’t getting through to her. “You sure you’re okay?”

Carmela heard the faintest of rustling and, seconds later, Billy was gone for good. Poof.

“Really,” said Carmela, “I’m peachy.”

“Whatcha doing out here all by yourself?” Banister asked.

“Nothing,” said Carmela. “Just getting some air.”

* * *

AS CARMELA STEPPED INTO THE HOUSE, AVA RUSHED
to greet her. “You gotta hurry!” She pulled her along as Carmela managed to grab a flute of champagne from a passing waiter. “We gotta get in the shot!”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” said Carmela. “Where’s Sullivan Finch?”

Ava waved a hand. “Already here and gone. He had time for one little glug of champagne, then he had to rush back to the Click! Gallery. Some big-shot collector saw his work and wants to buy three or four pieces.”

“And you believed him? You trust Finch?”

Ava stopped in her tracks. “Why shouldn’t I?”

Madame Blavatsky’s warning ran through Carmela’s head like chase lights on a theater marquee. “Maybe because your tarot-reading friend said there was deception afoot?”

“I didn’t think she meant
him
,” said Ava.

“Then who?”

Ava shrugged. “Dunno. But I figured the warning was aimed more at you.”

“Ladies.” Ed Banister was at their elbow. “The unmasking shot?”

“Let’s do it!” said Ava.

Carmela set her glass of champagne down on a circular glass end table and elbowed her way into the crowd. Unlike Ava, she felt no compunction to be front and center. Better just to be part of the swirling crowd. Probably more fun that way, too.

Lights blazed as Raleigh framed his shot. He peered through his lens, made a minor adjustment, then called to the DJ, “Cue the music.” Usher’s “Without You” blared as Raleigh waved a hand and yelled, “Action!”

Then Carmela was dancing, swept up in the whirling crowd. She danced with a green elf, then suddenly found herself boogying with a Japanese samurai.

“Everybody crowd together!” called Raleigh.

Like a school of sardines, everyone tightened into a jostling swirl. Shoulders touched and elbows jabbed as the music built to a crescendo and the mayhem increased. Carmela wondered briefly if Billy Laforge might be dancing with them. Had Billy donned a mask and costume, the better to stroll among them, just as Plague had in Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Masque of the Red Death”? Was Billy watching her right now, planning to prowl after her again? And the real question, the raise-your-hackles question, was: Had Billy killed his sister and smoke-bombed Carmela’s apartment? Had his sweetie-pie act in the garden been purely for show? Was he really evil incarnate? Or just kind of sad and crazy?

“As you continue dancing,” called Raleigh, his voice rising above the din, “I want you to rip off your masks!”

Carmela tore off her mask, in sync with forty other revelers. Hats, rubber faces, pussycat glasses, giant ears, black veils, and plastic masks all flew into the air, like a bizarre version of graduation day at the U.S. Naval Academy. Tandy’s Harry Potter hat went sailing; Gabby tossed her bandana as the dancers continued to swirl in a heated frenzy, laughing, giggling, delighted to be immortalized on film.

“And . . . perfect!” shouted Raleigh.

* * *

“WHEW!” SAID AVA, DISCREETLY WIPING A SLEEVE
against her brow. “That was some fun!”

Carmela, slightly breathless from the exertion, glanced around for her champagne. It wasn’t there. A small wet ring marked its place.

“What’s wrong?” asked Ava.

Carmela frowned. “Somebody made off with my champagne.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Ava, “considering this crazy, thirsty crowd. But no harm done, we’ll just grab a fresh glass from one of the adorable young waiters.”

“That’s okay,” said Carmela. She really didn’t want another drink. “I guess what I really need to do is have a word with Shamus.”

Ava made a dismissive gesture. “You want to talk to him again? Why do you want to do
that
?”

“Because I’m a masochist?” said Carmela.

“No, you’re divorced,” said Ava. “And, please, never forget it.”

Carmela didn’t forget it. Never again would she be beholden to Shamus. Never again would she tolerate a cheating, lying skunk of a husband. Or boyfriend, for that matter.