Tragic Magic (11 page)

“I don’t know. I missed dinner, so anything is good. Even a doughnut if you’ve got it.”

“A cop who likes doughnuts,” said Carmela. “How original.”

“Or, rather, a beignet,” said Babcock, referring to the tasty deep-fried pastries served at Café du Monde in the French Market. “Far better than any garden-variety cake doughnut.”

Carmela walked over to her refrigerator and peered inside. “How about some monkey bread?” she asked him.

“What?” he called out.

Carmela grabbed two cans of refrigerated biscuits, a stick of butter, a bag of pecans, and a jar of maple syrup. “It’s this quick-bread thing I sometimes make. Not from scratch, but still good.”

“Honey,” he said, “if you make it I know it’s gonna be wonderful.”

Thirty minutes later Babcock was singing the praises of Carmela’s monkey bread. “This is
so
good,” he told her. “And you seriously made this from refrigerated biscuits?”

Carmela nodded.

“Tastes like it’s from scratch.”

“That’s the general idea,” she told him. “Want another piece?”

He nodded.

Carmela cut him another hunk of monkey bread, slathered it with butter, and put it on his plate.

“Thanks.”

“Got a question,” she said.

Chewing contentedly, Babcock smiled at her. “Shoot.”

“About the fire up in the tower room . . .”

“Wasn’t really a fire,” said Babcock.

“But the walls looked all charred.”

Babcock nodded, still chewing. “Best-guess scenario we have right now is an incendiary device.”

“Explain please,” said Carmela.

He tore off a bite of monkey bread and swirled it in the butter that had slid onto the plate. “Bomb, grenade, that type of thing.”

“So it suggests someone with military training?” Offhand, Carmela couldn’t think of anyone with that type of background.

“Or just access to that kind of stuff,” said Babcock. “These days, you can buy that shit everywhere. Get it on the Internet or from crazies who sell it out of the backs of their trucks or set up gun garage sales at public storage lockers.”

“Gun garage sales?” said Carmela. It was interesting what you learned hanging around with a cop.

When Babcock finally claimed to be stuffed, Carmela cleaned up, slid the dirty dishes into the dishwasher, and wandered back to the leather chair, where Babcock was leafing through one of her fashion magazines.

“Ladies really like this stuff, huh?” he asked.

She nodded and sat down beside him. He dropped the magazine. She snuggled in next to him and he tipped his head down and kissed her on the eyebrow.

“Tickles,” she told him.

“I saw a packet from a lawyer sitting over there,” he told her. “Everything okay?”

She nodded. “Just settlement papers.”

“The ex files,” said Babcock.

“Hah,” said Carmela. “Good one.”

Finally they started to kiss and neck a little more seriously. Which, of course, meant a move into the bedroom and lighting the candles in the silver candelabra that Carmela had pinched from Shamus’s house.

Boo and Poobah, respecting Carmela and Babcock’s privacy, remained in the living room.

As they were drifting off to sleep, Carmela finally asked the question she’d been dying to ask all night. “Any suspects?”

“Mmm,” said Babcock, rolling over onto his side and snuggling in contentedly. “One or two.”

Carmela’s ears perked up, but she let a couple of beats go by. Then she asked, “Who?”

When nothing was forthcoming from the other side of the bed, she asked “Who?” once again. But for all the good it did her, she may as well have been a barred owl, hunkered in a tree, solitary in the night, listening hard for the scuffle of unsuspecting mice.

G
ARTH Mayfeldt came sailing into Memory Mine just as Gabby was turning on lights and Carmela was trying to coax their ailing coffee maker into spitting out a few turgid cups of chicory coffee.

“Now I’m a suspect!” were the first words out of Garth’s mouth.

“What?” said Gabby, whirling about, looking suddenly stricken. “Are you serious?”

Doggone
, thought Carmela. Why hadn’t Babcock shared this with her last night when he was sharing her bed? She let that notion rumble through her brain for a few seconds. Probably, she decided, because if he’d told her that he was looking hard at Garth, he wouldn’t have gotten an ounce of shut-eye. Or any monkey bread, either.

Gabby led Garth to the back table, then sat down beside him in a commiserating gesture. She was a frequent customer at Fire and Ice and pretty much thought the world of Garth. Especially since he’d helped persuade her husband to
buy a glamour-girl three-carat marquise-cut diamond ring for her last anniversary.

After their coffee maker finally oozed forth a single cup, Carmela carried a red ceramic mug to the table and slid it toward Garth. “Okay,” she said. “What’s up? Why have the police suddenly turned their beady little eyes on you?”

Garth took a quick sip of coffee and shook his head angrily. Color flared in his cheeks and his sparse hair stuck up slightly, as though even his scalp were outraged. “A couple of things,” he told them. “One, because Melody and I had taken out fairly substantial insurance policies on each other.”

“A lot of couples do that,” said Gabby. She turned wide, questioning eyes on Carmela. “Don’t they?”

Garth cleared his throat nervously. “Yes, they do. But I can see where it might
appear
suspicious.”

Carmela took a deep breath. “What else?” she asked Garth.

Garth pursed his lips and assumed an unhappy face. “That story Kimber Breeze did last night on funeral jewelry made me look like some kind of death cult creep. Nasty calls started pouring in and, this morning, when I arrived at Fire and Ice, two detectives were waiting for me.” He sighed. “They asked lots more questions. Nothing new about that, except for the fact that their attitude has suddenly gone from deep concern to all-out interrogation.”

“Any other reason you think you’ve been added to the suspect list?” asked Carmela.

Garth rubbed his hands across his face and gave them a baleful look. “Probably because they don’t seem to have anyone else!”

“That’s absolutely unfair!” declared Gabby.

“Shameful,” sniffed Garth.

Carmela thought for a few moments. “You were alone at Fire and Ice on Monday evening.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes,” said Garth. “So, of course, in the minds of the police the timing works perfectly.”

“Timing?” said Gabby.

Carmela filled in the blanks. “The police think Garth might have had adequate time to drive to Medusa Manor, kill Melody, then run back to the shop.”

“But he wouldn’t do that!” exclaimed Gabby. She was gung-ho for Garth’s innocence. So was Carmela. Sort of.

The three of them sat staring at each other for a minute, and then Garth swallowed hard a couple of times. “Listen,” he said, gazing directly at Carmela. “I understand you’re kind of an amateur investigator.”

Carmela raised her eyebrows.

Garth continued. “In fact, I hear you’re remarkably adept at solving mysteries.”

“Who told you that?” asked Carmela.

Garth gave a tentative smile. “Jekyl Hardy.”

“Aiii,” said Carmela. Jekyl Hardy was a dear friend who spent one crazed month each year designing and building spectacular Mardi Gras floats. The other eleven months he focused on art consulting and antiques appraisals.

Buoyed by Jekyl’s words regarding Carmela, Gabby added, “Carmela’s not just good at solving mysteries, she’s almost a pro.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” protested Carmela.

“No,” said Gabby, “you have a very good head for tracking down clues and figuring stuff out. Remember when Shamus’s Uncle Henry was murdered? When Shamus was kidnapped? You were the one with the smarts to follow the trail.”

“Carmela,” said Garth. He swallowed, grimaced, then stared at her plaintively. “Would you help?”

Would she help? There it was. Carmela supposed she’d been on a collision course with this request ever since she’d witnessed poor Melody tumbling from that tower window. However, if the police were now looking hard at Garth,
should she be doing the same? Was he . . . could he be . . . a suspect? A killer?

“Carmela,” said Gabby. “Will you help him?”

Carmela shook her head, realizing she’d drifted off for a few moments.

“Will you?” Garth asked again. “Please?”

Carmela stared at him, still thinking.

“The thing of it is,” said Garth, “you’ve agreed to continue decorating Medusa Manor. So you’re already in the thick of things.”

“He’s right,” said Gabby, as the bell over the front door dinged and two customers pushed their way in. “So what have you got to lose?” She stood, gave Carmela a pleading look, then headed for the front counter.

Carmela drummed her fingers on the battered wooden table. “I’m not sure where I’d start,” she told Garth.

He gazed back at her with a hopeful, encouraging smile.

“Okay,” said Carmela, gesturing with her fingers. “Talk to me. Tell me what Melody had been up to lately.”

“Mostly Medusa Manor,” said Garth.

“Any problems with that business?”

“None that I know of,” said Garth.

“Let’s start from the beginning, then,” said Carmela. “Melody was the one who located the property?”

“Oh sure,” said Garth. “The place had been in foreclosure. When Melody heard about it and took a quick tour, she thought it’d work perfectly for her haunted-house concept.”

“And then Melody talked Olivia Wainwright into putting up the money?”

“Something like that,” said Garth. “I know there were a couple of other groups interested in the building, but in the end it came down to sealed bids. Melody and Olivia emerged as high bidders.”

“Do you know who the other bidders were?” asked Carmela.

Garth started to shake his head, then said, “Wait a minute.
Melody did mention something about Sawyer Barnes trying to get his hands on the property.”

“And he is . . . ?” asked Carmela. The name sounded familiar, but she couldn’t attach it to anything concrete.

“Sawyer Barnes is a developer,” said Garth. “A guy that Melody was pretty scornful of. Apparently he buys historic old homes, cuts them up, and turns them into overpriced, overdesigned condos.”

“Just what New Orleans needs right now,” said Carmela. “Another real estate developer bent on eradicating history.”

“I hear you,” said Garth.

“Do you think there might have been bad blood between Melody and this Sawyer Barnes?”

Garth’s front teeth nibbled his bottom lip. “Don’t know. But from what I hear, he’s a carpetbagger type. From not here.”
From not here
was how folks in New Orleans described people who hadn’t been born and bred in the area.

“Just a minute,” said Carmela. She slipped into her office, grabbed a spiral notebook and a squishy black pen, then returned to the table. Flipping open to a fresh page, she jotted down the name
Sawyer Barnes
.

“Are you going to check him out?” asked Garth.

“Maybe,” said Carmela. “We’ll see.” She tapped her pen against the notebook. “How close was Melody to Sidney St. Cyr?”

Garth peered at her sharply. “Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering,” said Carmela. “My friend and I ran into him last night outside Medusa Manor.”

“Well,” said Garth, “they were friends, certainly.”

“Melody never mentioned any professional rivalry between the two of them?”

Garth shook his head. “Not that I can recall. Why? You think Sidney had something to do with her death?” He looked fairly stunned.

“Doubtful,” said Carmela. “I’m just trying to look at all the angles.”

Garth put a hand over his heart. “You scared me there.” “Sorry,” said Carmela.

“No,” said Garth, “now I see what Jekyl was talking about. And Gabby, too. You have a real knack for this stuff.”

“I haven’t done anything yet,” said Carmela. She tapped her pen again. “Do you have a claim on Medusa Manor? Are you part owner now?”

“Not really,” said Garth. “Olivia was bankrolling it, so she’s the real owner. Melody did quite a bit of antiques scouting, so reimbursements will have to be made. But I doubt it’ll amount to all that much.”

“How much did Melody buy?” asked Carmela, even though she pretty much knew the answer to that question.

Garth cocked his head, thinking. “I know she picked up a pine highboy to house the sound system, some gigantic brass candlesticks from a church, and a metal slab from a funeral home.” He shook his head. “Sounds a little crazy, doesn’t it?”

“What else?” asked Carmela. She was well aware of the hearse and the huge pile of stuff in the basement.

“I know Melody poked through the scratch-and-dent rooms of quite a few Royal Street antiques shops,” said Garth.

“Do you know which ones?”

“Mmm . . . probably Dulcimer’s Antiques, Metcalf and Meador, and maybe Peacock Alley. There were probably more, but those are the only ones I remember her mentioning.” Garth looked puzzled. “You think there’s a connection there?”

Carmela didn’t think so, but she dutifully wrote down the names anyway. “The designer who quit,” said Carmela. “Know anything about him?” Carmela didn’t know his name.

Garth squeezed his eyes shut, thinking. Then they popped open suddenly and he said, “Henry Tynes.”

“That’s his name?” asked Carmela. She thought it sounded
like the name of a prep school. Or an English shoe manufacturer. “Any idea why Tynes quit?”

Garth shrugged. “Melody said it was because he had other commitments.”

Carmela knew that could be code for a better job, a desire to jet off for a spring vacation, or just loss of interest.