Postcards from the Dead (26 page)

“You did this!” she cried again.

“Excuse me,” Joubert said to his customer. He met Carmela halfway, ducked his head, and said, “You have some nerve!”

“
You
sent the postcards!” she shrilled.

Joubert pulled himself up to his full height and peered down his nose. “I did no such thing.”

Carmela thrust her cell phone under his nose. “Exhibit A. Your mug caught on camera! Gotcha!” She showed him the video, at which point Joubert’s customer beat a hasty retreat.

Now that Joubert realized he’d been caught red-handed, his reserve crumbled. “All right, yes. I did it and for that I apologize. But, please believe me, I meant no harm.”

“No harm?” Carmela screamed. “You were trying to scare the crap out of me! What would you
do
that?”

Joubert looked suddenly miserable. “I . . . I thought the postcards might eventually be collectible. Attached, such as they are, to a local murder.”

“Have you lost your mind!” Carmela cried. “Why would you
think
that?” She jammed the postcard up under his nose. “I want an explanation!”

Joubert gave a helpless shrug. “Business is terrible. The economy sucks.”

“You cooked up this postcard fiasco to spike
business
?” Carmela sputtered. She’d never heard of anything so preposterous. Or so ridiculous.

“I’m sorry, I’m truly, truly sorry!” cried Joubert. Now he looked ashamed, and ready to burst into tears.

But Carmela wasn’t finished. She got in his face again and screeched, “Did you smoke-bomb my apartment?”

“No!” said Joubert. “I wouldn’t . . . I—never!”

Carmela gritted her teeth. Her voice was cold as ice. “Did you kill Kimber Breeze?” she demanded.

Joubert held up a hand as if to deflect her anger. “Absolutely not!” he cried. “I didn’t even
know
the woman!”

“But you weren’t afraid to capitalize on her death!” said Carmela. Really, this was the most preposterous prank she’d ever witnessed!

“Trust me, please,” implored Joubert. “I only did it for business.”

“Business!” Carmela spat out the word like it was a rotten hunk of fish. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard!”

“I spent too much money amassing inventory,” said Joubert. “And I’m not . . . no, the fact is I’m
horrible
at marketing.”

Carmela paced his shop like an angry jungle cat. “Don’t you have a Web site?”

Joubert shook his head. “No.”

“Did you send out press releases?”

“Are those the same as invitations?”

“No,” said Carmela. She tried to dial back her anger a bit. “What about reciprocal agreements with some of the local galleries and antique dealers? Handing out their business cards in exchange for handing out yours?”

Joubert put his head down. “I didn’t think of that.”

“You’re stupid, aren’t you?” said Carmela.

“I suppose so.”

Carmela reined herself in before she really went off the deep end. She didn’t like this crazy, screaming Carmela. This wasn’t the rational, sane person she usually was.

Carmela held her hands out as if to placate him. “Okay. Enough. This postcard crap ends right here, right now. Okay?”

“Of course,” said Joubert. “Whatever you say.”

Carmela stared at a funeral urn for a long moment, then turned back to him. “I’m going to ask you one more time. Did you kill Kimber Breeze?”

This time Joubert’s answer was a high-pitched wail. “No!”

Chapter 29

C
ARMELA
couldn’t get through the door of Memory Mine fast enough. She slammed the door, locked it behind her, tossed her jacket and bag on the front counter, and headed for her office.

Where she collapsed in a heap.

What a crappy last couple of days. What a crappy week!

Kimber was dead, suspects lurked at every turn, and Babcock, her biggest ally, was spitting mad at her. Maybe so mad he never wanted to see her again.

Not good. Awful, in fact.

Carmela leaned forward and rested her forehead on her desk. Now what? Go out and try to have a fun Mardi Gras? Wave at the passing parades? Pretend that none of this had happened, that it wasn’t eating at her gut like a batch of rotten microbes?

No can do.

Carmela, never one to retreat, was now ready to throw in the towel. And the more she thought about it, the better it sounded. Yes, that was exactly what she’d do. Head back to Ava’s place, cozy up with her dogs, and pull the leopard-print covers over her head. Try to sleep, try to dream, try to forget. Make like an ostrich for a while.

Her cell phone sounded, startling the crap out of her.

Carmela snatched it up. “What!”

“Jeez, Carmela, mellow out,” said Shamus.

“Oh. It’s you.”

“Yeah, it’s me,” said Shamus. “And I’ve got some information for you.”

“What is it? Something about Whit Geiger?”

“Actually,” said Shamus, “it’s the 411 on your foreclosure guy.”

Carmela frowned and sat a little straighter in her chair. “Laforge? What about him?”

“First off, there’s not going to be a foreclosure.”

“You got Glory to change her mind?”

“Hardly,” said Shamus. “The thing is, Billy Laforge is going to have plenty of money for his mortgage. Enough to pay off the whole shebang and still have a serious chunk left over.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Carmela.

“As you know,” said Shamus, suddenly sounding very proper and bankerish, “Crescent City Bank also has an insurance division.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Carmela, wondering where this was leading, hoping he’d speed things along.

“So I did some checking, and it turns out we wrote all of KBEZ-TV’s insurance policies,” said Shamus. “Including key person insurance.”

“Meaning?” said Carmela.

“Billy Laforge was listed as his sister’s sole beneficiary,” said Shamus. “So baby brother stands to inherit one million dollars in insurance money.”

Carmela gasped out loud as Shamus’s words echoed in her head. “Are you sure about this?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” said Shamus, sounding peeved.

“Do the police know about this?”

“Mmm . . . doubtful.”

“There you go,” said Carmela, suddenly feeling energized. “There’s the smoking gun!”

“Gun?” said Shamus, “I thought you said the guy’s gun was stolen.”

“Thank you, Shamus,” said Carmela. “I mean it. Thank you so much and I’ll . . . uh . . . talk to you later!” Carmela sprang up from her chair. “That’s it!” she shouted, her voice echoing through her empty shop. She did a fist pump and thrust her arm high in the air. “There’s the motive! Billy Laforge really did kill his sister!”

* * *

CARMELA DECIDED HER NEXT MOVE HAD TO BE
handled with extreme delicacy. After all, Babcock was still mad as a wet hornet!

But would he be quite as angry when she told him about the insurance money Billy was about to inherit? When she handed him the motive for a brutal murder on a silver platter? Probably not. Hopefully not.

Okay . . . so . . . make the call.

She grasped her cell phone and punched in Babcock’s number.

There was a buzz of static, then a hollow sound, and Carmela thought maybe the call hadn’t gone through. But then Babcock was on the line.

“Carmela? What?” His voice was tight with anger.

“I have to talk to you,” said Carmela. She tried to sound cool and a little placating.

“Not much to talk about,” snapped Babcock.

“I just now received some key information,” said Carmela, “that seriously impacts your investigation.”

“And I thought I made it quite clear that you were out of the investigation,” said Babcock. His tone was pure arctic ice.

“Please,” said Carmela, “hear me out.”

A sigh. And then, “I’m listening.”

“This is information I just got from Shamus,” said Carmela. “But it’s good information. Critical information about Billy Laforge.”

“Go on.”

“Here’s the thing,” said Carmela. “Billy’s farm was being foreclosed on and he was desperate.”

“Okay,” said Babcock, a chill still coloring his voice.

“So he tried to borrow money from Kimber. When she turned him down, Billy figured out another way to get the money.”

“Where are you going with this?” asked Babcock.

“The insurance money,” said Carmela, her words tumbling out. “Billy was named beneficiary on Kimber Breeze’s insurance policy.”

“You’re sure about this?” His voice thawed ever so slightly.

“Positive,” said Carmela. “According to Shamus, Crescent City Bank underwrote all the KBEZ-TV policies, particularly key person insurance.”

“Son of a gun,” Babcock said, softly. There was a long pause and then he said, “Billy did it. He offed his own sister.”

“Yes, he did,” said Carmela. She hesitated. “Plus, he kind of threatened me last night.”

“He
what
?” Babcock’s protective instincts suddenly asserted themselves.

“At Baby’s party,” said Carmela. “Billy turned up there, told me that he followed me. I don’t know how he figured out that I was looking into things, but he did.” She swallowed hard. “If someone hadn’t come along, I think he meant to harm me!”

“Holy smokes,” Babcock yelped. And then, more in control now, “I’ve got to grab Bobby Gallant and get out there right away!”

“I’m going with you!” said Carmela.

“No, you’re not!”

“I have a right,” said Carmela. “I helped figure this out.”

Babcock groaned. “Carmela. Oh man . . .”

“I’m at Memory Mine,” she told him. “I’ll be waiting out front.”

“Okay,” Babcock said grudgingly, “a ride-along only. You have to stay in the car once we get there.”

Carmela smiled to herself. “Absolutely, officer.”

She quickly called Ava’s phone. No answer. Ava would be worried, wondering if she was coming back.

So Carmela dialed Mumbo Gumbo’s number and finally got hold of Quigg.

“It’s me,” said Carmela.

“Who’s me?” said Quigg.

“You know darned well who this is,” said Carmela.

“Carmela, sweetheart,” said Quigg. “You ran out on me.”

“Sorry,” said Carmela. “I’m in the middle of something big right now.”

“That’s my girl.”

“Just tell Ava . . . she’s still there, right?”

“She’s here. She’s a little blitzed, but she’s still here.”

“Tell her I’m on my way to Billy Laforge’s place, okay?”

“Hang on,” said Quigg, “my TV people just showed up.” Carmela heard a mumbled exchange and then Quigg was back on the line. “Okay, what’d you want me to tell Ava again?”

“That I’m going to see Billy Laforge,” said Carmela.

“Got it,” said Quigg. “Carmela. Going to see Billy Laforge. And what’s the rest of the message?”

“That’s it,” said Carmela. “She’ll know what I’m talking about. And thanks.”

* * *

CARMELA WAS SITTING IN THE BACKSEAT OF BABCOCK’S
car, all by herself, on a twisty road that led to Billy’s cabin. Babcock had driven in a different way, a sneaky way. Gallant had called up MapQuest and Google Earth and they’d discovered a side road, really a trail, into the alligator farm.

“Be careful,” Carmela had warned them, but Babcock and Gallant had jumped out of the car like paratroopers ready to storm the bastions. Now it was getting dark and Carmela had no idea what was happening.

Was Billy at his cabin? Or had he given them the slip? Had he gotten the drop on them? Or was he being led docilely back to the car in handcuffs?

Only fifteen or twenty minutes had gone by, but time hung heavy. Carmela gazed out at the landscape, saw nothing but bayou closing in. Tupelo trees, a few sickly looking oaks, lots of brackish water. Normally, she felt no fear in a bayou, had enjoyed spending time at Shamus’s camp house in the Baritaria Bayou. But this was different. There were alligators around. Lots of them. True, they were ranched alligators confined to pens, but maybe there were some angry escapees? Could be.

Carmela was creeped out by that thought, enough so that when her cell phone shrilled, she jumped.

She flicked it on.
Babcock? Calling for help?

No, it was Ava.

“Where are you?” asked Ava. She sounded a little loopy, like she’d definitely drunk too much champagne. “Where’d you run off to?”

“Didn’t Quigg give you my message?”

“No. But I was out in the street for a while watching the parades and he’s been charging around here like a wild man.” She let loose a high-pitched cackle. “Boozing and schmoozing.”

“It’s a long story,” said Carmela. “I’m at Billy Laforge’s place. With Babcock.”

“You’re what!” Ava cried. “You solved the murder?”

“Well . . . almost . . . I mean, I think . . .” said Carmela. Babcock and Gallant are creeping through the swamp, on their way to apprehending him.”

“Well, jeez Louise, Carmela!” said Ava. “That’s just great. All your efforts really paid off!” She paused to take a breath. “Hey, I got something you’ll get a kick out of! It’s a photo I took earlier. You’re not gonna believe this! I mean your eyes are gonna pop right out of your head!

“What are you talking about?” said Carmela.

“Hold on,” said Ava. “Okay, look at your phone. Did it come through yet?”

“No,” said Carmela. “Wait a minute, it’s coming now.”

“You see it yet?” burbled Ava.

Carmela stared at the e-mailed photo Ava had just sent her. It was a photo of Ed Banister wearing the Canio costume!

“Dear Lord!” Carmela muttered, as an icy finger stabbed at her heart. “Is that who I think it is?”

“Pretty crazy, huh?” said Ava. “I thought you’d get a good chuckle out of that. You’ve been looking high and low for that silly costume and today it came sauntering into Mumbo Gumbo. Ain’t that a wild coincidence? I wonder if Ed knows that . . .”

But Carmela had already clicked off. “Holy crap!” she screamed, her voice shrill and filled with panic. “The killer’s not Laforge at all. It’s Ed Banister!”

But, of course, nobody was around to hear her.

Chapter 30

C
ARMELA
crawled out of the car. The sky was growing darker by the minute. Thick, slate-gray clouds had tumbled in from the Gulf of Mexico and the scent of rain hung heavy in the air. Any minute now, the heavens would open wide and unleash a storm of biblical proportions, she just knew it.

But what to do? She knew Gallant had circled around one way and Babcock had circled the other way. They’d been planning to come at Billy’s cabin from opposite directions.

She had to warn them, somehow stop them. She didn’t want Babcock and Gallant involved in a needless and bizarre shoot-out. If Billy feared they were coming to haul him off to jail or foreclose on his farm, he might flip out and try to defend himself.

But which way to go?

Carmela stared at the narrow trail and decided to follow it. She took off at a slow jog as rain began to patter down. After a quarter of a mile, rain sliced down harder and she quickened her pace, even though she was getting soggier by the minute.

Still, she didn’t seem to be making any progress. She fervently wished she’d taken a closer look at those maps Gallant had printed out. If she knew the general direction of Billy’s cabin, maybe she could cut through the bayou?

She decided to risk it anyway.

Twenty feet in, past thickets of cane and more tupelo, soft mud gave way to a small creek. She slogged along the bank for a few minutes, slipping and sliding, wet branches slapping her face. The earth was sodden and spongy and she felt dampness seeping into her shoes.

Stopping in her tracks, wishing she’d worn more weather-proof footwear than her ballet flats, Carmela cocked her head and tried to listen. And just as a long, rolling thunderclap ended, she heard faint voices, off in the distance.

Gotta be them!

Carmela angled off in the direction the voices had come from and covered another fifty yards.

I must be getting close.

Wiping rain from her eyes, Carmela stared through dense foliage. Way off in the distance, she thought she could see a patch of brown.

Billy’s cabin?

She kept slogging as darkness closed in around her. Stopping again when she heard a high-pitched cry, Carmela decided that Babcock and Gallant must be ordering Billy to come out.

If she could just get a little closer, she could wave them off. Tell them they were after the wrong man and get them to stand down. Explain to them that the real killer was sauntering around the French Quarter in a white silk clown costume.

Ducking around a stand of wild camellias, Carmela was halted by a waist-high wire fence. Did she dare climb over it? Should she risk putting herself in danger?

She heard footsteps up ahead, someone running.
Babcock?
Had he gone back to the car? Finding it empty would drive him frantic with worry!

“Hey!” Carmela called out, trying to make herself heard above the slashing wind and rain. “I’m over here!”

She vaulted over the fence and plunged through dense foliage, moving as fast as she could. And just as she ducked around a fallen tree, she caught a burst of movement through the trees.

Was it Babcock?

“Over here!” she called out again. She dodged around a pine tree, then froze in her tracks.

Because the man who was creeping along wasn’t Babcock at all. It was Ed Banister. Ed Banister carrying a gray snub-nosed gun!

“Carmela!” Banister suddenly called out. “I know you’re there!”

Carmela flattened herself against a tree.
Now what?

Now her mission was twice as urgent! She not only had to escape from Banister, she had to warn Babcock!

She spun wildly and flung herself behind a rough-barked oak. Panting heavily, she calculated that if she made a mad dash back to the little stream she could probably lose Banister. And still circle around and warn Babcock? Hopefully.

“Carmela,” came Banister’s singsong voice. “Come out, come out wherever you are.”

Carmela pushed off hard, dodging left, then right, sprinting as fast as she dared. Behind her, she could hear Banister crashing through the trees, swatting branches and swearing at her.

If I can just . . .

Carmela ducked around an enormous moss-covered tree and ran directly into the arms of . . .

“Billy!” she shrieked, as she ran up hard against him.

Billy Laforge looped his arms around her and held her tight.

“Billy!” she babbled. “We’ve got to get out of here! Banister is . . .” She fought and twisted in Billy’s arms, but he held her firm. “Billy!” Carmela cried, desperately trying to get through to him. “That’s Ed Banister out there. He killed Kimber!”

Billy stared at Carmela, his dark eyes suddenly unreadable. She couldn’t tell if he was rocked to the core or couldn’t care less.

Then, with a rough jerk, he dragged her over to a slightly flatter area where high wet grass came up to their knees.

“I got her!” Billy called to Banister. “She’s over here!”

“Billy, no!” Carmela pleaded, suddenly understanding that he meant to turn her over to Banister. “You’re better than this!” She kicked at him, trying to drive a heel into his instep. But he gripped her tight.

“Kid!” Banister yelled, as he thundered toward them, “get out of the way!”

“Listen to me!” Carmela screamed, trying to get through to Billy. “He strangled your sister!”

Banister crashed through the trees and out into the open. When he saw them, he stopped in his tracks. He was breathing heavily, face red as a tomato, eyes bright and menacing.

“Hey,” Billy said to Banister. He lifted his chin and said, “You killed Kimber?”

Banister stared at him. “I’ll kill
you
if I have to.”

“Don’t bother,” Billy said in a harsh voice. “I’m on your side. Kimber was a worthless, self-promoting nobody.” His face pulled into a sneer and a crazy light danced in his eyes.

“Billy, no!” cried Carmela.
What was he doing? Was he as crazy as Banister? As filled with hate?

Billy dragged Carmela another couple of steps and stopped. He grabbed her wrist, twisted it sharply, and angled her behind him. “I wanna shake your hand, man,” he said to Banister. “Can we do that? Can we shake hands?”

Banister snorted as he lowered his pistol. “Whatever,” he said. He shook his head, took two steps forward, then suddenly stiffened, as if he’d just been shot through with a million watts of electrical current. His mouth gaped open as he gasped in pain, his eyes rolled back in his head until only the whites showed, and the gun flew from his hand. Banister’s face turned bright purple and he let loose a bloodcurdling scream!

“Gotcha, man!” cried an ecstatic Billy. “Gotcha good!”

Banister was bellowing like a stuck pig now. Bent over, wildly clawing and batting at his ankles and feet.

“Billy!” cried Carmela, trying to peer around him. “What did you
do
?”

Billy spat at Banister. “Too bad about that nasty leg trap,” he rasped. “But, hey, dude killed my sister.” Then his face crumpled into a look of supreme sadness as he turned to face Carmela. “Did he really?” he whispered. Billy’s eyes brimmed with tears and his lower lip quivered.

“I’m afraid so,” said Carmela. She put her arms around Billy and let him collapse against her. “I’m so sorry,” Carmela crooned, as Billy’s tears ran down his face and mingled with her own. “I’m so sorry.”