Postcards from the Dead (4 page)

“Dear Lord,” said Misty. Now she looked like she was on the verge of tears. “That’s bizarre!”

“Yeah,” said Ava. “Bizarre that it would happen right during Mardi Gras in one of the murder capitals of the world.”

“The name?” said Carmela, trying to get back to the question at hand. “If you could possibly remember her companion’s name?”

Misty cocked her head as she thought for a few moments, then said, “She called him something . . . like Dusty or Duncan. That’s not quite right, but it was like that.”

“You’re sure it wasn’t Durrell?” Carmela asked. “Davis Durrell?”

Misty shook her head. “Nope. It was something a little more unusual.”

“Does that help?” asked Quigg.

“Maybe,” said Carmela. “I think so.”

“Have some food,” said Quigg. “It’s on me. Order whatever you want.” He handed them two multipage accordion menus that Carmela had designed for him a couple of years ago. Back when they’d been dating . . . or not dating.

Ava didn’t waste any time in perusing the menu. “I still can’t believe all the gumbo variations!” she exclaimed.

“Quigg’s got a thing for gumbo,” agreed Carmela. Indeed, the menu listed chicken andouille gumbo, seafood okra gumbo, crab and oyster gumbo, and even lobster gumbo. Of course, there were also traditional New Orleans dishes such as crawfish pie, red beans and rice, alligator piquant, and chicken jambalaya.

Ava ordered seafood okra gumbo, while Carmela opted for a crab étouffée. And when the food arrived, along with a complimentary stuffed artichoke appetizer, Carmela found that she was, indeed, hungry.

“See?” said Ava, as she gobbled her gumbo, “I knew you could eat a little something.”

“I think I could eat a lot of something.”

“Good for you,” said Ava, patting Carmela’s hand. “Here, have some more wine.” Ava topped off Carmela’s glass as well as her own. Then she said, “Are you gonna stop by the TV station tomorrow and pick up that DVD?”

“I suppose,” said Carmela. She knew Babcock would hate it if she got involved. Then again, that line had already been blurred. Like it or not, she’d been pulled into the murder by dint of just
being
there.

“We’ll take a look,” Ava said, giving a wink, “and see what we can see.”

“Even though we don’t know what we’re looking for,” said Carmela.

“You’ll figure something out,” Ava said, knowingly. “You always do.”

Chapter 4

A
ROSY
dawn peeped through the gauze curtains in Carmela’s bedroom as she stretched languidly and rolled over to try to catch another ten minutes of sleep.

Then the memory of Kimber’s murder flooded back to her and she sat bolt upright in bed.

Kimber. Was she really killed last night? Was I really there?

“Yes,” Carmela said out loud. “Kimber’s dead.”

Boo, her wrinkly little fawn-colored Shar-Pei, who’d abandoned her cushy dog bed for Carmela’s cushy people bed, let loose a wet, rumbly snore.

“What are you doing up here, sweetie?” asked Carmela.

Boo, who was lying with her back to Carmela, pretended not to hear.

“I know you can hear me,” said Carmela.

Boo’s tiny triangle-shaped ears twitched and her eyelashes fluttered lightly.

“Get down, Boo Boo,” said Carmela. “You know you’re not supposed to be up here.”

Now Poobah, her other dog, a spotted mongrel that had been rescued from the streets, was staring at her with rapt attention. He rested his muzzle on the edge of the bed and rolled his eyes as if to say,
Can anyone join this pajama party?

“No, you little stinker,” Carmela cautioned him. “You stay off the bed. There’s a reason you guys have your own special overpriced dog beds.” Carmela swung around and slid her legs out from under the covers, then brushed the soles of her bare feet across the white flokati rug. “You guys are incorrigible,” she said. “Always pushing the envelope.” She knew darned well that once they’d eaten breakfast, had their morning constitutional, and watched her latch the door and leave for work, they’d jump right back on her bed for a doggy slumber party. And sometimes even a pillow fight.

But what could she do? Lay down one of those nail grids the police used for stopping car chases? Huh, a lot of good that would do. Boo and Poobah were so smart they’d probably figure a way around it.

“Coffee,” said Carmela. She pulled on a white terry cloth robe and shucked her feet into a pair of furry slippers. Then, her mind slipping back to the disastrous events of last night, she walked out into the living room of her cozy little apartment. “And not just any coffee. This morning I feel the need for French roast.”

She stumbled past her dining room table and over to her small galley kitchen. Once, back when she was married to Shamus Meechum, of the Crescent City Bank Meechums, Carmela had lived in an enormous mansion in the Garden District. Once she’d had a housekeeper who set out bone china cups for her. Once she’d owned a six-hundred-dollar DeLonghi Lattissima coffee maker from Italy that had steamed, frothed, and au laited like a personal barista. But that was then and this was now. Her unsuccessful marriage had finally been dissolved and Carmela was infinitely happier, her soul delightfully at peace. And now her Mr. Coffee and dollar ninety-nine ceramic mugs were more than adequate. In fact, they were just dandy.

After measuring out a nice strong ration of coffee, she set it to brewing and plodded to the front door to get the morning paper.

What kind of front-page article would there be about Kimber’s death? Carmela wondered.

Something lurid? No, that was more KBEZ’s style. That and . . .

Carmela nudged open her front door and bent down to grab the paper. And noticed that a postcard, what people used to refer to as a penny postcard, was centered on top of this morning’s
Times-Picayune
.

She snatched up both, assuming the postcard was some sort of advertising gimmick, and went back to the kitchen. A few years ago, just before she’d opened Memory Mine, Carmela had worked for a small design firm where she’d created print ads and newspaper inserts for Splendide Baked Goods and before that, package labels for Bayou Bob’s Chunked-Up Chili. So she was more than familiar with the constant churn of advertising clutter.

Slapping everything on the counter, Carmela reached for her coffee mug. And suddenly stopped dead. Because a glance at the postcard revealed that it wasn’t an advertising postcard at all. It was a picture postcard of a cemetery.

Huh?

She blinked in disbelief, picked the card up, and stared at it. It was sepia-toned with delicately scalloped edges, like something from an earlier era. The photograph—she was pretty sure it was a photo—depicted whitewashed tombstones against a tangle of black wrought-iron fence.

Turning it over, Carmela felt her heart do a sickening flip-flop. Because there was writing, too. A scrawl of black ink that looked like it had been written today, just this morning. It read
Why didn’t you help me?

And it was signed
Kimber
.

* * *

FIVE SECONDS LATER, CARMELA WAS ON THE PHONE
to Ava. “This isn’t your idea of a joke, is it?” she asked. Ava lived directly across the courtyard in a funky second-floor studio apartment, directly above her Juju Voodoo shop.

Ava yawned into the phone. “What are you talking about?” Another yawn followed. “Uh, jeez, it feels like I’ve got the entire Gobi Desert stuck in my eyes. Awful. How many glasses of wine did I have last night? Do you remember? ’Cause I sure don’t.”

Carmela’s voice carried no trace of sleepiness anymore. “I just found a very creepy postcard stuck to my morning paper.”

“Um . . . what?” Clearly, Ava had just rolled out of bed.

“And the postcard is signed
Kimber Breeze
,” said Carmela. “Well, actually just
Kimber
.”

There was dead air for a few seconds, and then Ava said, “Seriously? Give me a minute, I’m coming over.”

Two minutes later, Ava came flouncing across the courtyard wearing a full-length red peignoir trimmed in purple marabou.

“You look like a refugee from Madame Kitty’s old-time bordello,” said Carmela. She had to smile in spite of herself. In spite of the ugly postcard that had left her feeling more than a little shaken.

“Can I help it if I’m a gal with a taste for the exotic and the louche?” said Ava. She grabbed the matching marabou stole that dangled down the front of her filmy robe and flung it over her shoulder. “Now . . . let me see that postcard.”

Carmela handed it to her.

Ava took it, turned a speculative gaze on the photo, then flipped the postcard over and read the message. “Well, kiss my adorable sweet booty,” she said in a quiet drawl, “somebody’s sure got a sick sense of humor.”

“Don’t they?”

“Who would do a crappy thing like this?” wondered Ava.

“I don’t know,” said Carmela, “but I’d sure like to find out.”

Ava looked askance at Carmela, as if she were studying her. “This isn’t some kind of stupid-pet-trick joke, is it? Designed to freak out the upstairs neighbor?”

“I wouldn’t do that to you,” said Carmela. She smiled. “Not like this anyway.”

“And I know I didn’t fall fast asleep for six weeks and wake up on April Fool’s Day.” Ava lifted a hand to scratch her mass of dark curly hair. “Well, jeez. This is just plain weird.”

“Yes, it is.”

“I hate to think that somebody’s been creepy-crawling around our courtyard,” said Ava, glancing over her shoulder. Water pattered in the three-tiered fountain, and colorful bougainvillea spilled from giant terra-cotta pots. But the courtyard’s essence seemed to have been disrupted. Somehow, it didn’t feel quite so cozy and safe anymore.

“But someone slipped in,” said Carmela.

“And the dogs didn’t hear anything?”

“There was nary a bark, grunt, or growl all night.”

Ava handed the card back to Carmela, gingerly, like she was disposing of a dead mouse. “I gotta hustle my bustle and get ready for work,” said Ava, “’cause Mardi Gras’s my second-busiest season next to Halloween. But let’s try to put our heads together tonight. See if we can figure this shit out. See if anything . . . relates.”

“Come over for dinner,” said Carmela. “We’ll take a look at that DVD I’m supposed to pick up from Raleigh.”

Ava cocked an index finger at her. “There’s a plan.”

* * *

BY THE TIME CARMELA WALKED IN THE FRONT DOOR
of Memory Mine, she was ready to blow off the whole postcard mystery. The sun was shining, any number of Mardi Gras parties would be in full swing this weekend, and she knew she was quite possibly the luckiest girl in the world. The fact that she owned her own scrapbook shop made it possible for her to be amazingly inventive with paper, photos, and other fun crafty items, as well as hang out with other crafty women. In other words, Carmela earned her living doing what she loved most. And, really, how many people could genuinely claim that?

Those warm, fuzzy feelings lasted for about thirty seconds. Until she stepped inside her shop and was stopped by the worried face of Gabby Mercer-Morris, her assistant.

“You saw the news,” said Carmela. It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes, I did,” said Gabby, making nervous gestures with her hands. Gabby possessed a sincere, caring manner and an open, demure face with guileless eyes. She reminded Carmela of a sweet-natured sorority sister. In fact, Gabby also dressed in twinsets and today wore a peppermint-green cashmere sweater set teamed with a soft dove-gray wool skirt. Gabby’s dark hair was shoulder length and she continued to brush it back nervously, still not wanting to believe the news about Kimber Breeze.

“The whole thing was pretty awful,” said Carmela. Now she felt guilty for feeling so upbeat just a few moments earlier.

“I can’t believe you were there,” said Gabby. “I mean, you show up to do an innocent little interview and find yourself smack-dab in the thick of things.”

“Luck of the draw,” said Carmela.

“I’d call it bad luck,” said Gabby, shaking her head with regret. “Why does something like that have to happen right in the middle of Mardi Gras? Lord knows, New Orleans gets enough negative press for all the drinking and carousing that goes on here.” Gabby was suddenly fired up and rolling. “And let’s not forget the immodest women who shake their beads and everything else up there on those second-floor balconies.”

“You realize,” said Carmela, “that last year’s Mardi Gras brought more than three hundred fifty million dollars into the city.”

“True,” Gabby admitted. “It does contribute to our economy.”

“And lots of visitors find their way to us,” Carmela pointed out.

“I understand that,” said Gabby. “And I’m sure we’ll be crazy busy over the next few days. In fact, I’m
thankful
we’ll be busy.”

“Me, too,” said Carmela. “A good spurt of business could really fluff this month’s bottom line.” Business could always be better. But that was pretty much the story all over New Orleans.

“But have you seen the paper?” asked Gabby. She waved a copy of the
Times-Picayune
in front of Carmela. “I mean . . . it isn’t good.”

A sick feeling lodged in the pit of Carmela’s stomach. “Uh . . . no. I didn’t get around to actually reading it yet.”

“Your name is mentioned.”

“Oops,” said Carmela. Her ex-husband, Shamus Meechum, was sure to spot it and call to register his disapproval. She could always count on Shamus for a negative vote or sarcastic comment. Except where his own drinking, free spending, and carousing were concerned. Then the blinders went on big-time.

“But you were mentioned only in passing,” said Gabby. “As a kind of witness.” She glanced at the paper and furrowed her brow. “But it also says there’d been something like forty different witnesses and that most of them ducked out before they could be questioned.” She glanced up. “Is that true?”

“They fled like rats from a sinking ship,” said Carmela.

“That’s terrible,” said Gabby. She picked up a spool of purple gossamer ribbon and fiddled with it. “I hope you called Detective Babcock?” Gabby was a big booster of Edgar Babcock. In fact, she had her fingers crossed that Carmela and Babcock would get married someday. She even prayed to St. Valentine, the patron saint of love, and had purchased a few ubiquitous saint candles from Ava’s shop to hopefully spur things along. Her good intentions hadn’t paid off thus far, but Gabby had faith.

“First Bobby Gallant showed up and then Babcock,” Carmela explained. “So we have two intrepid homicide detectives working the case.”

“That’s good,” said Gabby. “Two heads are always better than one.”

“Just like us,” said Carmela.

But Gabby wasn’t finished discussing the murder. “Even though Kimber was a real pill,” said Gabby, “her death is a genuine tragedy.”

Carmela grabbed a pack of silk flowers and slit it open with her thumbnail. “I guess,” she said.

* * *

CARMELA GOT TO WORK THEN. HANGING BATCHES OF
teacup stickers on a rack, experimenting with some new rub-on tape, and arranging a new collection of card stock frames. Since Memory Mine was located in an old brick building in the French Quarter, the shop itself boasted tons of charm. Longer than it was wide, the shop featured high ceilings, planked wooden floors, lovely arched front windows, and brick walls.

On the longest brick wall, Carmela had placed wire paper racks that held thousands of sheets of paper. Because, no secret here, Carmela was a paper addict. She loved mulberry paper with its infusion of fibers, as well as linenlike Egyptian papyrus and the botanical vellums that were embedded with real flower petals.

Once Carmela lined up scissors, punches, and rulers on the large back table, the one they’d dubbed Craft Central, she glanced around and smiled to herself. This was what it was all about, of course. Owning your own business so you could be supreme allied commander in charge of your own destiny. Like lots of women, Carmela didn’t aspire to be the crazed CEO of a Fortune 500 company, giving orders, hiring and firing, dashing about the country and eating airline food. But she did relish being an entrepreneur. She found it exciting and challenging to build, grow, and nurture her own business. And if financial rewards blossomed along the way, then so much the better!

“Carmela!” called Gabby. “Telephone. It’s Babcock.”

Carmela dashed into her little office at the back of the shop and snatched up the receiver. “What?” she said.