Postcards from the Dead (6 page)

“Enhancing how?” asked Baby.

“Drizzle on some strands of gold paint,” said Carmela, “sort of Jackson Pollock–style. Or use a sponge and just dab some paint on and smear it gently, so the effect is slightly cloudlike.”

“Love it,” said Tandy. She was suddenly up and out of her chair, scouting for paper.

“And we’re off and running,” grinned Carmela.

“Aren’t you going to make one, too?” asked Baby.

“I’m going to hide in my office and try to finish my own project,” said Carmela.

“What if we get stuck?” asked Baby.

“Gabby will keep an eye out, or you can holler for me,” said Carmela. She smiled at Baby. “Really, you’ll be fine.”

Two minutes later, tucked into her office at the back of the shop, Carmela turned on her computer and brought up an image of an ad layout she’d been working on. She was ready (finally and for sure!) to put her Garden District home on the market. She knew Shamus would blow a gasket, to say nothing of his nasty big sister Glory, but the home was hers fair and square. It had been part of her divorce settlement and now it was hers to do with as she wanted. Rip it down, turn it into a bawdy burlesque house, or sell it.

Selling seemed like the best option.

The layout she’d blocked out so far was good. Her headline said
Garden District Greek Revival
. And farther down the page she’d put a short bulleted list of the home’s features: grand facade with double galleries, magnificent gardens, eight bedrooms, five bathrooms, two parlors, white elephant. She smiled, then carefully deleted that last point. She really did want to sell the place, after all.

She’d also left room in her layout for three good photos. One exterior shot for sure and probably two interior shots. Carmela had already scheduled her ad to appear in the next issue of
New Orleans Home
. Now all she had to do was schedule a photo shoot. Her good friend Jekyl Hardy had already recommended a top-notch interior photographer, so that was settled.

Now if Jekyl would show up to help art-direct the shoot, all would be right with the world.

Grabbing her phone, Carmela punched in Jekyl’s number. She listened for a couple of seconds, and then it went to voice mail.

“Call me,” she said, “about the shots of the house. Thanks. Oh, it’s Carmela.”

She stretched an arm up and grabbed a sample cigar box purse off a shelf. The sides were covered in a peach-colored paper, then collaged with images of hearts, flowers, and butterflies. As a focal point, she’d glued an inexpensive cameo on one side. The bamboo handles had been painted with gold paint and wrapped with peach chiffon. She’d carried it once to a chamber orchestra concert, and at least a dozen people had asked where she’d bought it. So . . . a grand success.

Carmela knew her customers were going to have a ball using their imaginations to make their own cigar box purses. The purses were a fun amalgamation of scrapping, collage, and graphic design. She thought about how to kick off her upcoming class, decided she pretty much had it figured out, then leaned back in her chair and let her mind wander.

Back to the murder, of course. Which got her wondering if there was anything worth seeing on the DVD that Raleigh so urgently wanted her to look at.

And she thought about the man, Dusty or Duncan or whoever, that Kimber had eaten dinner with last evening. Might Kimber’s assistant know who he was? Hmm. Maybe. What was the assistant’s name again?

“Zoe,” Carmela murmured to herself. “Her name was Zoe.”

Chapter 6

C
ARMELA
pushed her way through the double glass doors into the lobby of KBEZ-TV. It was sleek, done mostly in white laminates, and super contemporary in design, like the deck of the starship
Enterprise
. In contrast, a slate-gray receptionist desk loomed like a twenty-first-century Stonehenge. Hung on the wall behind the desk was an enormous piece of contemporary art. Done in moody blues and purples, the oil painting depicted two slavering dogs amid some sort of wreckage. To Carmela, it looked like two unlucky creatures who’d barely survived a nuclear holocaust.

“You have some very interesting art,” Carmela said to the dark-haired young lady who sat behind the desk and was dressed, interestingly enough, in black and white. “Who’s the artist?”

“Sullivan Finch,” said the receptionist. “He’s very hot right now.
Art Now
magazine hailed him as the new Damien Hirst.”

“What would you call a piece like that?” asked Carmela, gesturing to the dog painting.
Besides depressing?

The receptionist assumed a serious look. “According to his brochure, Mr. Finch specializes in postapocalyptic and dystopian subject matter.”

Now there’s a line of mumbo jumbo.

“No kidding,” said Carmela. “And he’s from here?”

“He hails from Slidell, but has a studio in the Faubourg Marigny.” The Faubourg Marigny was an up-and-coming bohemian neighborhood filled with rehabbed buildings and directly adjacent to the French Quarter. In recent years it had become a mecca for new restaurants, bars, and galleries.

“Cool,” said Carmela. She didn’t know what else to say; the Finch painting was so dreary.

The receptionist smiled, revealing a bit of coral lipstick on her teeth. “I have a brochure if you’d like. In fact, Mr. Finch has an upcoming opening.”

Carmela accepted the brochure out of pure politeness.

“And whom may I buzz for you?” asked the receptionist.

“Um . . . Raleigh,” said Carmela.

“He’s expecting you?” asked the receptionist.

“Should be,” said Carmela. “I’m Carmela Bertrand. I did an interview last night with him and Zoe.”

“Oh my gosh!” exclaimed the receptionist. “You were . . .”

“I was there,” said Carmela. “At the Hotel Tremain.”

“Must have been awful,” said the woman, giving a little shudder.

“Trust me,” said Carmela, “it wasn’t good.”

The receptionist pushed a couple of buttons and spoke into her headset. “Carmela Bertrand to . . . yes, all right.” She looked up with a somber expression, as if she were having a difficult time processing Kimber’s death. “Raleigh will be right out.”

Two minutes later, Raleigh appeared in the lobby. He crooked an index finger and said, “Glad you could make it. C’mon back.”

Carmela followed Raleigh down a white corridor hung with more strange paintings. Then they took a hard left and she suddenly found herself in a dark room filled with an acre of consoles festooned with blipping lights and dials, and an overhead green screen.

“This is your office?” Carmela asked. “This is where you put it all together?”

“Editing suite,” said Raleigh. “I don’t have an office. Only the bigwigs have offices.”

“So where do you hang out?”

“There’s a kind of bullpen for camera guys and reporters. Think shared desks, burned coffee, and stale air.”

“I always figured this business was glamorous,” said Carmela, realizing that TV, like so many other industries, existed behind a thin veneer of bewitchery. “So . . . you made a DVD?”

Raleigh grabbed a silver disk and handed it to her.

“Thanks.” Carmela smiled warmly at him, since he looked like he was still in a blue funk.

“I appreciate your doing this,” said Raleigh.

“I haven’t done anything yet,” said Carmela.

Raleigh made a grimace. “I know lots of folks thought Kimber was a real pain, but we always got along just fine.”

Carmela wanted to say,
That’s because you were one of her minions and followed her every move with a camera. Because you always made her look good.
But she didn’t say it. Raleigh was feeling bad enough. There was no reason to take a cheap shot and make matters worse.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” said Carmela. Raleigh seemed to be taking Kimber’s death exceedingly hard.

“Thanks. You coming to the funeral? I hear it’s planned for Saturday.”

“Well . . . maybe,” said Carmela.

“It’s gonna be a big deal,” said Raleigh. “Mr. Banister is personally supervising all the details.”

“Kind of him,” said Carmela.
Perhaps because he’s afraid of a wrongful-death lawsuit?
Carmela turned to leave, then said, “I’d like to have a quick word with Zoe. Do you know, is she here right now?”

“Zoe’s probably in Kimber’s office,” said Raleigh. “Trying to . . . I don’t know . . . pick up the pieces?”

They walked down another corridor and stopped in front of an office with a bright red door. The Plexiglas sign to the left of the door read
Kimber Breeze
. Raleigh gave a perfunctory knock and pushed the door open.

Zoe was standing next to a credenza, sorting through a stack of papers. The office was spacious and open, with a large blond-colored wooden desk, potted bamboo plants, colorful posters on the wall, and a bunch of photos that all prominently featured Kimber.

“Oh, hey,” said Zoe, when she recognized Carmela. “What are you doing here?”

Carmela made a vague gesture. “Just finishing up a spot of business.” She turned to Raleigh and said, “Thanks so much; I’ll be sure to let you know.” Raleigh gave a sad nod and loped back down the corridor.

“Got a minute?” Carmela asked as she slipped into the office.

“Sure,” said Zoe. “You were meeting with Raleigh?”

“I was,” said Carmela. And that was all she was going to reveal.

“I suppose there’s lots going on with the investigation,” said Zoe. The girl looked bright, chipper, and ready to conquer the world.

Carmela nodded. “I’m afraid there is.”

“You seemed like you were pretty close to that detective last night.” Zoe tilted her head. “The cute one who seemed to be in charge. Are you two dating?” Zoe had a way of turning an impertinent question into chatty banter. Carmela figured that was probably the sign of a good reporter.

“Lieutenant Babcock,” said Carmela. “And we are dating. Have been for a while.”

“That’s great,” said Zoe. “Because then you’ll have an inside track on the investigation, won’t you?” She smiled and gestured toward a coffeepot that sat on a window ledge. “Can I offer you a cup of coffee?”

“Actually,” said Carmela, “I was wondering if I could ask you a couple of questions.”

“Sure,” said Zoe. She walked around Kimber’s desk and settled into her chair.

“Do you know anyone named Dusty or Duncan? He would have been quite close to Kimber.” Carmela slid into the chair across from her.

Zoe peered at her. “Are you sure you don’t mean Durrell? Kimber’s boyfriend?”

“No,” said Carmela. “I think there was someone else in Kimber’s life who had a name similar to that. Someone she had dinner with last night, just before she went to the Hotel Tremain.”

Zoe stared at her, then her face clouded. “Oh, man!”

“What?” said Carmela, instantly on alert.

“Could it have been Dingus?”

Carmela frowned. “Maybe. Why? Who’s Dingus?”

“He’s her kid brother.”

“Kimber has a brother?” This was news to Carmela. Then again, she didn’t know all that much about Kimber Breeze. Other than the fact that Kimber had been mean-spirited and always seemed to be jostling for a news scoop.

“Well, I guess Dingus is just his nickname. His real name is Billy. He lives somewhere southwest of here. I think maybe near Theriot.” Zoe lowered her voice “Nobody knows this, and Kimber kept it under extremely tight wraps, but she actually came from very humble beginnings. I’m guessing now, but I think she grew up dirt poor, even though she always put on airs like crazy.”

“So how do you know about her brother?”

“Through bits and snatches of stuff I picked up over the last couple of years. Plus, he called here a few days ago. I didn’t hear the whole conversation because Kimber was forever shooing me away. But from the way things sounded, I think he was asking her for money.”

“Really,” said Carmela. This was a new development. A ne’er-do-well brother asking his wildly successful sister to float a loan?

“From what I could gather,” said Zoe, “Kimber’s brother was fairly desperate. He was afraid his farm might be foreclosed on.”

“Do you know,” said Carmela, “did Kimber help him?”

Zoe shrugged. “I have no idea. But the idea of Kimber bailing somebody out? Definitely not her style.”

“Even her own brother?”

Zoe shrugged.

“Do you have any idea how I might contact this brother? Like I said, Kimber had dinner with a young man last night and . . .” Carmela hesitated as Zoe’s eyes got big.

“She was with him?”

Carmela nodded. “It looks that way.”

Zoe made a wild leap to the notion that was starting to percolate in Carmela’s brain. “Do you think her brother might have had something to do with Kimber’s death?”

“Doubtful,” said Carmela, with far more conviction than she actually felt. “But I’d sure like to talk to him.”

Zoe picked up a pen and scratched a quick note to herself. “I bet the police would, too.”

“I know they would,” said Carmela.

The wheels continued to turn in Zoe’s brain for a few moments. Then she said, “Actually, I think Mr. Banister, the station owner, already contacted her brother. I guess he was pretty upset.”

“Who was upset?” asked Carmela. “The station owner or the brother?”

“Both,” said Zoe.

“You know,” said Carmela, “I think I’d like that coffee after all.”

Zoe slid open a desk drawer, grabbed a clean mug, and went over to the coffeepot. She poured out a cup of coffee for Carmela, then refilled her own mug and brought them back to the desk.

“There was something else going on, too,” said Zoe. “That might relate to all this.”

Carmela took a sip of coffee and winced. It was hot and strong. “What’s that?”

The corners of Zoe’s mouth twitched. “Kimber had a stalker.”

“Seriously?” Carmela almost spilled her coffee.

“Oh yeah,” said Zoe. “Of course, there were lots of guys who saw Kimber on TV and wanted to date her. She was forever receiving fan letters and e-mails. Some guys even fantasized they were in love with her.” Zoe paused. “But there was one guy in particular who
really
scared the poop out of her.”

“How so?” asked Carmela. “Did he threaten her?”

Zoe wrinkled her nose. “Not in so many words, but he did ugly things.”

“Like what?”

“Think dead animals on your doorstep or blood spattered all over your car.”

“He found out where she lived?” said Carmela. That would have been terrifying.

Zoe nodded.

“Were the police informed?”

“I believe so,” said Zoe. “And I think there were a few untraceable phone calls in the middle of the night.”

Carmela took a deep breath. “Did Kimber ever receive any weird postcards?”

“Postcards?” said Zoe.

“Specifically of cemeteries,” said Carmela.

Zoe looked confused. “I don’t think so. Why?”

Carmela quickly told Zoe about the postcard she’d received.

Zoe’s reaction was one of surprise and horror. “Whoa . . . that’s crazy!” She shook her head, definitely looking a little freaked. “Do you think Kimber’s stalker is . . . um . . . that now he’s targeting you?”

“Please don’t say that,” said Carmela. “I’m sure it was just a prank.”

“Maybe,” said Zoe, but she didn’t look convinced.

They sat there for a few moments, each lost in thought.

Then Carmela glanced around Kimber’s office and said, “What’s going to happen now? Who’s going to take her place?”

“I am,” said Zoe.

Carmela gazed at Zoe with renewed interest. “I thought you were Kimber’s assistant.”

“Assistant, understudy, backup, call it whatever you like,” said Zoe. “The truth of the matter is, I’ve been shadowing her and learning the ropes. So, when the time comes, I can go on air.”

“And be a reporter? Like you were last night?”

“That’s always been the job description, yes,” said Zoe. She gave an unhappy grimace. “I thought landing a job as Kimber’s assistant would be my ticket to a big TV career. Except Kimber turned out to be a greedy camera hog. She wanted to do every single report, feature story, station ID, and promo piece herself.” Zoe looked nonplussed. “There wasn’t much room for me, except for serving as her gofer. You know, go fer coffee, go fer her dry cleaning, that sort of crap.”

“That must have been extremely disappointing,” said Carmela.

“It was,” said Zoe. “The only saving grace was that Kimber wanted to quit doing fluff pieces, like cat shows and ribbon cuttings at malls, and move into hard-edged investigative reporting. In fact, she was already working on a couple of things.”

“So who was going to do the fluff pieces? You?”

“That was the plan. That
is
the plan.”

“So working for Kimber wasn’t exactly a bed of roses,” said Carmela.

Zoe shook her head. “She tried to cut me out of everything.”

“How did that make you feel?” asked Carmela.

“Awful,” said Zoe. “Like a second-class citizen.”

Carmela thought for a moment. “And now?”

“Truthfully?” A grin split Zoe’s face. “I’m on top of the world.”