Postcards from the Dead (3 page)

“Do you think you’ll stay on this story?” Carmela asked, curious about this young go-getter.

“I hope so,” said Zoe. “Of course, it’s up to Mr. Banister, the station owner. “But if I do good . . .” She tilted her chin up and her eyes fairly sparkled.

“Then you’ll be a regular on air,” said Carmela.

“That’s my dream,” said Zoe. “That’s always been my dream.” She turned to Raleigh and said, “I want to interview her, too. Maybe the station can run it later.” Zoe smiled at Carmela. “Okay with you?”

“I suppose,” said Carmela, as Ava gave a thumbs-up.

So Raleigh adjusted the lights again and Zoe and Carmela stood facing the camera. When Zoe received the high sign, she smiled at Carmela and said, “We’re talking to Carmela Bertrand, owner of Memory Mine scrapbook shop here in the French Quarter. I understand you were a witness?”

“No,” said Carmela, “I was actually standing inside.”

“Then how . . . ?” Zoe began and trailed off.

“I noticed some movement on the monitor,” said Carmela, “and that’s when I stepped out onto the balcony to see what was happening.”

“And you found Kimber Breeze,” said Zoe. “Hanged.”

“Yes, apparently so,” said Carmela.

“What happened next?” asked Zoe.

Carmela hesitated. Should she tell Zoe that she immediately checked out the adjacent balconies and fire escape? That she’d already inadvertently launched her own amateur brand of investigation? No, that probably wasn’t a good idea.

“I immediately sounded the alarm,” said Carmela. “I suppose I was in a mild state of shock. Or panic.”

Zoe asked a couple more questions that Carmela neatly sidestepped, and then the interview concluded.

“Okay, thanks,” said Zoe. She didn’t sound particularly enthused. “There might be something we can pull out of that.”

“Great,” said Carmela. She took a deep breath.

Together, they wandered back out onto the balcony.

“So this is where it took place,” said Zoe. “I would have liked to shoot the police interview out here, but Mr. Banister cautioned me not to be too specific. I guess he’s saving the actual locale stuff for our ten o’clock news.” Zoe said it so casually, Carmela was a little taken aback. Then again, maybe if you were a newsperson covering a daily dose of murders, kidnappings, drownings, and robberies, you got a little impervious to it all. For your own self-protection and peace of mind. Or maybe they just became an endless litany of sad stories.

“Do you think—” began Carmela. The rest of her words were drowned out by high-pitched shouts. A man, angry and obviously in pain, was making a huge fuss at the door of the suite. Gallant rushed to meet him and a frantic scene suddenly developed out in the hallway.

“Let me through! Let me through!” cried a man. His face was blanched white and he was waving his arms furiously as the security guards sought to restrain him.

“What on earth?” said Carmela, peering inside. Then she saw him determinedly force his way past the security guard, even as he brushed at his tears.

“Oh my gosh,” said Zoe, in a hushed tone.

“Do you know who that is?” asked Carmela.

“That’s Davis Durrell,” said Zoe.

“The hotshot money manager?” said Carmela. She’d heard of Durrell. Who hadn’t? Durrell had been touted as some kind of financial wunderkind. And, over the last several months, he had racked up serious press in the business section of the
Times-Picayune
.

Zoe nodded. “He’s also Kimber’s boyfriend.”

Chapter 3

“W
HAT
happened?” cried Durrell. His jacket and tie were askew, his eyes were darting and frantic, and he looked shaken to the core. “Where is she?”

Babcock crossed the room with two long strides. Carmela heard him do a rather professional introduction. Then he put a hand on Durrell’s shoulder and spoke in hushed tones. Durrell listened with an unbelieving look on his face. He said, “No, no, no,” three times, then snapped his mouth shut, looking drained. Babcock spoke some more, and then Durrell shook his head in utter confusion and clenched his jaw, as if trying to nullify Kimber’s death through sheer force of will. Trembling, still listening to Babcock, Durrell finally dropped his head into his hands. Anger, denial, acceptance.

Babcock stood there looking uncomfortable. His role as a homicide detective was not to comfort the bereaved, but to pursue the killer. But Babcock was a gentleman and, as Carmela well knew, possessed a good deal of sensitivity.

A few minutes later, Durrell seemed to pull it together. He ground the heels of his palms in his eyes to brusquely wipe away tears, then growled out a couple of more questions. Carmela couldn’t hear Durrell’s words, but she surmised they concerned the circumstances of Kimber’s death. Then Babcock turned and nodded in Carmela’s direction.

Carmela gave a start.
What? Me? What can I possibly add to the conversation?

But Durrell had already pulled himself away from Babcock and was bearing down on her with a determined look.

“I’m so very sorry,” Carmela told him, after they hastily introduced themselves and shook hands. “My sincere sympathies.”

“Detective Babcock told me you were here the entire time,” said Durrell. “He said you were the one who found her.” Durrell fairly quivered with intensity. His dark eyes flashed and color was returning to his cheeks now, giving his handsome face with its full lips and aquiline nose an intense, eager appearance.

Carmela nodded. “I was here in the suite, yes. Along with a lot of other people who were hanging out. Before and after their interviews.”

“But they all left,” said Durrell. “Fled like rats,” he snapped.

“I’m afraid so.”

“When it happened, you weren’t actually out . . . ?” Durrell’s voice cracked as he turned to stare at the open doors that led to the balcony.

“No,” said Carmela. “I wasn’t on the balcony with her. No one was.”

“Someone was,” said Durrell.

Carmela swallowed hard. “Well . . . yes. I suppose that’s true.”

“But you were the one who found her,” Durrell pressed. “You sounded the alarm. At least, that’s what Detective Babcock seemed to imply.”

“I ran out there,” said Carmela, “when I saw that something was . . . amiss.”

“Amiss,” repeated Durrell. Tremendous pain shone in his eyes.

Carmela bit her lip.
Amiss
seemed like a horrible choice of words. Far too lightweight considering the terrible scene she’d just witnessed.

“Do you think . . . ?” began Durrell. He licked his lips and fought to keep from falling apart. “Do you think she suffered?” His voice was an anguished whisper.

Carmela thought about Kimber’s purple puffed face, her body twisting helplessly, the lifeless pose, the dangling shoe. And did what she thought was best. Lied through her teeth. “No, I don’t think she suffered.”

* * *

TWENTY MINUTES LATER THE CRIME-SCENE INVESTIGATORS
arrived with cameras and lights and gear stowed in black leather cases. And Carmela and Ava were pretty much hustled out of the suite.

But not before Babcock asked Carmela a few more questions. “Do you know him?” Babcock inclined his head toward Kimber’s boyfriend. “Durrell?”

“I’ve never met him before,” said Carmela. “Why?”

“You just seemed . . . friendly toward him.”

“No,” she said, “that was compassion. Sympathy. The same as I’d show to anyone who’d just suffered a traumatic loss.” Carmela thought for a moment. His question seemed strange. “Why do you ask?” Was Babcock jealous, she wondered? Was there a little green monster perched on his shoulder? Or did he see Durrell as a suspect?

“No reason,” said Babcock. His eyes slid over to Durrell again.

“But you know him,” said Carmela. “Don’t you? This isn’t your first meeting.” Something was going on, only she didn’t know what.

“I know him only by reputation,” said Babcock. He stepped away as Ava shuffled up, clutching a drink in her hand.

“That poor man,” said Ava, indicating Durrell. “You can just feel his pain. It’s
visceral
.”

“What a mess,” said Carmela. She meant it as a blanket comment, referring to Kimber’s murder, the mob that had fled, the bombshell broadcast, and any evidence the police were left to sort through.

Ava nudged Carmela with her shoulder. “C’mon,
cher
, let’s blow this pop stand. Let’s head over to Mumbo Gumbo and get something to eat. Maybe a nice stiff drink, too. Do us both a world of good.”

“I don’t think I could swallow a single bite,” said Carmela. Still fresh in her memory was the image of Kimber’s purple face.

“Then you can have a little chuglet of wine,” urged Ava. “As for me, I can always manage to choke something down. Especially when it’s shrimp jambalaya or crab étouffée.”

“You do have the ability to eat through any crisis,” said Carmela. “But what I can’t figure out is how you stay so skinny.”

“Nerves,” said Ava. “I’m just a bundle of frazzled nerves.”

“You seem pretty relaxed to me.”

“I hide it well,” said Ava, grabbing Carmela’s hand and giving a tug.

But just as Carmela and Ava stepped out into the hallway, Raleigh came charging after them.

“Hang on,” said Raleigh. He gave a furtive glance to make sure nobody was watching. “I want to give you something.” He pulled a small black square out of his pocket and slipped it into Carmela’s hand.

“What’s this?” Carmela asked. It looked like a cartridge of some kind.

“A CF card,” said Raleigh. “Compact flash. You know, a memory card. It’s the digital recording I made of all the people milling around. Before . . . you know . . . the murder.”

“You don’t by any chance have a recording of what happened on the balcony, do you?” asked Ava.

Raleigh shook his head. “Afraid not.” He still looked shaken as he turned his attention back to Carmela. “I don’t know if I captured anything important or not, but I wanted you to have a copy. Just in case.”

“Why me?” asked Carmela.

Raleigh pursed his lips. “Because you’re good at what you do.”

“Scrapbooking?” said Ava, puzzled.

Raleigh lasered his eyes on Carmela. “No, investigating.” He drew a deep breath, then said, “This may come as a surprise to you, but Kimber admired you, in a grudging sort of way.”

“What are you talking about?” said Carmela.

“Kimber didn’t
like
you,” Raleigh continued. “Not in the conventional sense. But she thought you were plenty smart.”

“Really,” said Carmela. His words pretty much dumbfounded her. Kimber had always projected an attitude of disdain. And now Raleigh was telling her that, underneath it all, there’d been grudging admiration? This was almost too much to absorb. Something did not compute.

“The video,” said Raleigh, pointing at the digital card. “I’d appreciate it if you take a look at it.”

“The police have a copy?” said Carmela.

“They haven’t asked for one yet,” said Raleigh.

“Then why give one to me?” asked Carmela.

“Like I said, because you’re good at investigating,” said Raleigh. “I know you’ve helped Babcock crack a couple of cases.”

“I got lucky,” said Carmela.

“No, you got good,” said Raleigh. “Remember, I work in a newsroom, so I get the inside poop on what goes down in this town. I know how you helped with that murder at the church.” He paused. “Just look at it, will you? As a favor to me. See if you can spot anything or anyone that’s out of place. Something you think looks a little hinky.”

“I can’t play this,” said Carmela, turning the card over. “I don’t have your kind of equipment.”

“Then come by the station tomorrow,” said Raleigh. “I’ll transfer it to a DVD.”

Carmela thought for a long moment. “Okay, I guess I can do that.”

* * *

MUMBO GUMBO WAS A COZY LITTLE RESTAURANT
located in the old Westminster Gallery space. Crumbling brick crept halfway up the interior walls, and then the ensuing smooth walls were painted a cream-and-gold harlequin pattern. A large bar, the color of a ripe eggplant, dominated a side wall. Above the bar, glass shelves displayed hundreds of sparkling bottles. Heavy wooden tables with black leather club chairs were snugged next to antique oak barrels that held glass and brass lamps. Large bumper-car booths were arranged in the back. Potted palms and slowly spinning wicker ceiling fans added to the slightly exotic atmosphere of the place.

The music tonight was blaring zydeco interspersed with haunting Cajun ballads, while about fifty people seemed to be jostling at the hostess stand, trying to get a table. But Carmela had an in. She’d once dated Quigg Brevard, the owner. Not seriously, but not frivolously either. They’d had a couple of fun dates, though nothing had sparked. Only now that she was involved with Babcock, Quigg seemed to think she was primo dating material again. So when Quigg spotted Carmela across the proverbial crowded room, he hurried over.

All broad shoulders in a sleekly tailored Italian suit, Quigg was dangerous looking with his olive complexion, dark eyes, and sensuous mouth. And with his big-cat way of moving, he could almost take a girl’s breath away. Almost.

“Hello, sweetheart,” Quigg growled at Carmela. He kissed her on the cheek, but landed only a half inch from her mouth.

“Hey, sugar,” said Ava.

Quigg’s eyes never left Carmela. “Hello, Ava.” Then he snapped his fingers and, like a magician’s attentive assistant, the hostess quickly appeared at his elbow.

“Booth six,” said Quigg.

The hostess, a tall dark-haired woman in a sleek black jumpsuit, looked suddenly discombobulated. “The Duvall party’s been waiting over an hour for that booth!”

“They’ll have to wait a little longer,” said Quigg.

Carmela, Ava, Quigg, and the unhappy hostess caravanned to the booth, where menus were produced and a bottle of wine was brought out.

“This is new from my vineyard,” said Quigg. “Something I call Ruby Revelry.” He filled gigantic Riedel glasses with the lush red wine, then squeezed into the booth alongside them. Quigg was your basic obsessive-compulsive oenophile, dying to know what they thought of his new St. Tammany vintage.

Ava immediately took a gulp and pronounced it superb. Carmela took a demure sip and smiled.

Appeased, confident in the quality of his new wine, Quigg leaned back and said, “What trouble have you two been in tonight?”

Carmela sighed and said, “Oh, not much. We just witnessed a murder.”

Quigg’s dark brows arched. “Seriously. Who? Where?”

“Remember Kimber Breeze?” said Ava. “From KBEZ-TV?”

“The hot blonde?” said Quigg.

“Bingo,” said Ava.

“She’s dead?” said Quigg. He looked surprised.

Carmela and Ava quickly filled him in.

“Ah, man,” said Quigg, when they’d finished their tale. He looked shaken and genuinely shocked. “She comes in here all the time.”

“Came,” said Ava. “Kimber’s in the past tense now.”

Quigg shook his head in disbelief and squinted at them. “I think she might have been in here earlier tonight.”

“Really?” said Carmela, her ears perking up.

“Seriously?” said Ava. “Wow, that’s some crazy coincidence.”

“Can you pin that down for sure?” asked Carmela.

“I can try,” said Quigg. He jumped up from the booth and loped over toward the hostess stand. He was back a minute later with one of his servers in tow, a young blond woman with a pert pixie cut named Misty.

Quigg made hasty introductions, then said, “Misty says she waited on Kimber earlier. Around . . . what do you think? Five o’clock?”

“That’s right,” said Misty, nodding.

“You’re positive it was her?” asked Carmela.

“The lady from the TV station?” said Misty. “Oh sure, it was her.”

“Do you still have the credit card slip?” Carmela asked. She wanted actual confirmation.

“They paid cash,” said Misty. “But I’m one hundred percent positive it was her.” Misty was nervous and fidgeting now, as if she’d been called to the school principal’s office. “You want to know what she ate?” Misty asked.

“Actually,” said Carmela, “I want to know if she was with anyone.”

“Um . . . yeah she was,” said Misty. “A guy.”

“What kind of guy?” asked Carmela.

“He was decent looking,” said Misty, giving up a little smile. “But his clothes were a little shabby.”

“Do you think it could have been the guy we saw tonight?” Carmela asked Ava. “Her boyfriend, Durrell?”

Ava shook her head. “No way. Durrell had that fat cat look. Nothin’ shabby about him.”

“What does a fat cat look like?” asked Quigg. He was slightly bemused.

“Like you,” said Ava. “Zegna suit, big honkin’ Rolex. Lots of snap and attitude. Like . . . rich.”

“I’m not rich,” said Quigg.

Ava snorted. Quigg owned two restaurants and a winery. That amounted to a significant net worth.

“So,” said Carmela, interested now, “it doesn’t sound like the same guy at all.”

“Maybe Kimber had another boyfriend.” Ava smirked. “Maybe she liked to go slumming once in a while. I wouldn’t put it past her.”

Misty shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Did you by any chance catch the dinner companion’s name?” asked Carmela.

“She called him
something
,” said Misty. “As I recall, it was kind of an unusual name.”

“Try to remember,” urged Carmela. “It would be very helpful.”

“It’s important,” said Quigg, trying to add emphasis, “because Kimber Breeze was murdered tonight.”

“Murdered!” Misty was suddenly shocked. She clapped a hand to her chest as if her heart had just constricted with pain. “That’s awful! How was she . . . ?”

“Hanged,” said Ava, casually taking a sip of wine. “Off the roof of the Hotel Tremain.”