Tragic Magic (14 page)

“It’s short for computer-generated imagery,” explained Tate, grabbing a silver Toshiba from the table behind him and setting it on the counter. “Pioneered years ago at Industrial Light and Magic on the coast, perfected by some of the best and wackiest minds. There’s lots of ways of using it. To bring dinosaurs to life, simulate outer space, whatever. I’ve already created several special-effects images for Medusa Manor—a howling banshee and a ghostly face, on computer.”

“Okay,” said Carmela.

“Then I project the image, larger than life-size, using
video equipment.” He pushed a couple of buttons and a crone’s face appeared, the eyes glowing like red coals, the tongue waggling like a serpent. “It’s pretty cool. What I was thinking, for the Morgue of Madness, was taking the crematorium thing to the max, creating some very realistic effects with licking flames.” He pushed a couple more buttons, and the image on the screen flickered from the crone’s face to a wall of dancing flames.

“Wow,” said Carmela, amazed and a little in awe, too. “You can really bring that to life? Make it look like it’s really happening?”

Tate nodded. “If you want . . . I can make it crackle and leap like the fires of Hades.”

“T
HEY brought keys for you,” said Gabby, dropping a miniature stack of shiny brass keys into the palm of Carmela’s hand. It was midafternoon and she’d finally made it back to Memory Mine. “Apparently someone jammed the lock with superglue.”

“Yeah?” said Carmela, wondering briefly if Sidney St. Cyr had been the culprit. “So . . . the door’s fixed? Already?”

Gabby raised her eyebrows and glanced at her watch. “You’ve been gone for hours.”

Carmela felt an instant pang of guilt. “Oh no, I have, haven’t I? Was the shop terribly busy? Did I heap everything onto your capable shoulders once again?”

Gabby shook her head and waved a hand. “Nothing I couldn’t handle. Gee, I didn’t mean to lay such a heavy guilt trip on you.”

“Well, I didn’t mean to be gadding all over the French Quarter, either,” said Carmela.

“You’ve got a lot on your plate right now,” said Gabby. “I know how close you were to Melody. Garth, too.”

Carmela glanced around the scrapbooking shop. Two customers were in back, perusing the display of rubber stamps. Another was halfway down the center aisle, picking out various sheets of paper. “Gabby,” said Carmela, “when Garth came in this morning, you didn’t get any sort of, uh,
feeling
about him, did you?”

Gabby, smart girl that she was, cocked her head. “What exactly are you asking, Carmela?”

“I think you probably know.”

Gabby crossed her arms in front of her in an almost protective gesture. “Okay, yes, I suppose I do. And my answer would have to be no. My impression of Garth is that he’s genuinely bereft. He and Melody had a loving and caring marriage and a really good business partnership. He would never . . .” She stopped abruptly, then said, “He would never,” with great finality.

“Okay,” said Carmela. “I was just trying to get a read on things. See if you picked up any weird vibes.”

“It’s your friend Babcock who’s cornered the market on bad vibes,” said Gabby. “If I were you, I’d give him a call and tell him not so politely to back off. Poor Garth has enough to deal with right now without being browbeaten by the NOPD.”

“I think you may be right,” said Carmela. She’d been planning to call Babcock anyway. Not to tell him to back off, but to ask him why he hadn’t bothered mentioning to her last night that Garth had suddenly morphed into a suspect.

She headed back to her office, chatting with customers along the way, then digging out sheets of marbleized paper for one woman. Finally, Carmela sat down at her desk and dialed the phone.

“Hey,” Babcock said to her. “I was wondering if I’d hear from you today.”

Carmela didn’t pull any punches. “How come you didn’t tell me Garth Mayfeldt was suddenly your prime suspect?”

There was a pause, and then Babcock said, “I was wondering how long it would take you to find that out and jump on my case. And the answer is, not very long. You must have a heck of a network, lady.”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“I didn’t tell you because you’re my girlfriend, not the police commissioner. And because it really isn’t any of your business.”

Carmela was taken aback for a moment. By his abruptness and his choice of words. “Your girlfriend? Is that what I am?”

“I guess so,” said Babcock. He let loose a warm, throaty chuckle, then added, “Face it, we weren’t exactly playing tiddlywinks last night.”

“Well, no,” said Carmela. “But
girlfriend
just sounds so formal.”

“Friend?”
suggested Babcock.

“No, no,” said Carmela. “I really do prefer the former.”

“Okay,” said Babcock. “So no hard feelings about what has to remain my professional responsibility?”

Carmela thought for a minute. “Since I’m more than a little involved in Melody’s murder . . . since I was a peripheral witness to . . .”

“Is that what you are?” needled Babcock. “A peripheral witness?”

Carmela ignored him and plunged ahead. “Because Melody was my friend and
you
are my friend, I thought I might be allowed on the inside, so to speak.”

Babcock’s voice was kind when he spoke to her. “You know, Carmela, I don’t just close my eyes and toss darts at a board. And I sure don’t sit cross-legged and consult with mystics or swamis when I put together a solid list of suspects. There
is
a strict methodology.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Suspects are questioned for any number of reasons.”

“Sure, but what possible reason could you have for questioning Garth?”

Babcock exhaled loudly. Carmela was keeping the pressure on. “The money for one thing.”

“You’re talking about the insurance,” said Carmela. “Big deal. Lots of couples take out insurance policies on each other.”

“Let’s just say there were extenuating circumstances,” said Babcock.

Carmela was beginning to feel a tinge of frustration. Arguing with Babcock was like watching Beckett’s play
Waiting for Godot
. The plot was slightly glacial, and there never seemed to be a clear resolution. “What are you talking about?” she demanded.

“For your information,” said Babcock, “and I trust this will go no further, Fire and Ice is perilously close to bankruptcy.”

“What!” said Carmela. Clearly this was news to her.

“The shop is insolvent,” said Babcock.

“No way!” said Carmela, her words coming out as a surprised gasp. And all along she’d figured Garth and Melody were doing so well, thought they’d recovered from Hurricane Katrina and all of the ensuing nonsense with a minimum of pain.

“From what we’ve determined so far,” said Babcock, “unpaid creditors are circling like hungry vultures. So it’s only a matter of time before the shop goes under.”

“But there’s the insurance money,” said Carmela.

“Ah,” said Babcock. “Now we get to the crux of the matter.”

“Garth would never be that desperate,” said Carmela.

“That remains to be seen,” said Babcock.

“Innocent until proven guilty,” said Carmela, trying to
sound tough, but feeling discombobulated by the news that Fire and Ice had been . . . was in . . . dire financial straits.

“So now you know,” said Babcock. He paused. “Happy?”

“Not really,” said Carmela.

“See?” said Babcock. “There’s a lesson there. Be careful what you—”

“Wish for,” murmured Carmela. “I know, I know, I’ve heard it all before. Talk to ya later.” She unceremoniously dumped the receiver onto its cradle.

Feeling out of sorts, tapping her foot nervously against the base of her chair, Carmela checked her e-mail and was rewarded with an answer from the Restless Spirit Society. She and her friend were indeed welcome to participate in their foray at the abandoned Mendelssohn Insane Asylum tonight. The group would meet at their chosen destination at nine. For her convenience, a map was attached.

Carmela snatched up the phone and hit speed dial.

“Juju Voodoo,” came Ava’s voice. “Two-for-one saint candles and seven ninety-nine for our special Cajun love potion that comes with a one hundred percent guarantee.”

“I think I might need some of that love potion,” Carmela told her friend.

Ava recognized her voice instantly. “Not to keep
your
cutie coming back. It’s obvious Edgar Babcock is head over heels for you.”

“Maybe so, but there seems to be a new wrinkle in Melody’s murder investigation,” said Carmela. And even though she’d told Babcock she’d keep quiet about it, she quickly related to Ava how Fire and Ice was close to bankruptcy.

“I had no idea!” exclaimed Ava. “That’s awful.”

“No,” said Carmela, “we haven’t gotten to the awful part yet. Now the police think Garth might have killed Melody out of desperation for the insurance money.”

Carmela expected Ava to say, “No way.” Instead, she just gave a long, drawn out “Hmmm.”

“You think Garth could have been that desperate?” Carmela asked. She hated to even voice the words.

“Possible,” said Ava. “But not probable.”

“Now it sounds like you’re sitting on the fence,” said Carmela.

“I’m a fence-sitter from way back,” said Ava.

“No, you’re not. You’re a lady who’s rarely afraid to take a stand.”

“Honey,” said Ava. “What we saw Monday night, Melody’s poor body cartwheelin’ through the air . . . I’m
still
having scary, jittery nightmares over it. So here’s the thing: if Babcock’s got issues with Garth’s innocence, then I’m willing to reserve judgment. I say let the police have a go at him.”

“Strange how things have unraveled since this morning,” said Carmela. “When I kind of promised Garth I’d look into things for him.” She paused. “He was so anxious to see if I could shake any suspects loose. Does that sound like the kind of request that would come from a guilty man?”

“Don’t know,” said Ava. “But, honey, we live in Louisiana. Down here lots of folks still believe in Napoleonic law.”

“Guilty until proven innocent,” said Carmela.

“Bingo,” said Ava.

Feeling more than a little unsettled, Carmela turned her attention to the flyer she’d been working on for Quigg Brevard, her friend and a local restaurateur. The flyer was supposed to promote the food booth that his restaurant, Mumbo Gumbo, was setting up on Bourbon Street for Galleries and Gourmets. Unfortunately, she’d been late starting the project and now was feeling bad. In fact, the one-page handout should have been finished last week. But then the scrapbook gods had smiled benevolently and Memory Mine had enjoyed a welcome flurry of business. And then, of course, the Medusa Manor job had come up. And so, like a lot of other things, the flyer had been temporarily forgotten.

Carmela frowned and stared at her 8½-by-11-inch layout.
She’d started with a screened-back photo of a French Quarter brick building; superimposed smaller shots of candlesticks, an old painting, and a Tiffany lamp; then added fanciful drawings of Tabasco sauce, an oyster on the half shell, and a bowl of gumbo. Quigg’s flyer for Galleries and Gourmets was looking good, but it needed to be pulled together more. Carmela thought for a minute, then grabbed a handful of oil crayons. Working swiftly for ten minutes, she generously hand-tinted everything, giving it a unified look and theme.

Pleased with her efforts, all she had to do now was decide between plain Helvetica type or the bouncy . . .

Carmela straightened up, suddenly aware of a flurry of activity at the front of her store. And Gabby’s voice saying a friendly “Well, hello there.”

Then, before Carmela could pull herself out of her own personal design marathon, someone was standing behind her. She blinked, turned her head, and found herself staring into the intense dark eyes of Quigg Brevard.

The owner of both Bon Tiempe Restaurant and Mumbo Gumbo, Quigg Brevard was handsome, a shameless flirt, and a bit of a bachelor bon vivant. Tall, olive skinned, and broad shouldered, Quigg had the innate ability to set women’s hearts to racing—and knew it.

“Hey,” said Quigg, his voice almost a chuckle, “you didn’t color inside the lines.”

“No,” said Carmela, “it looks better all squiggly like that.”

He cocked an appraising eye. “At least you’re working on it. I wondered where that thing was.”

A hundred excuses suddenly bubbled up inside Carmela’s head. But instead of plucking one out and trying to run with it, she simply said, “I’m sorry, Quigg. I know I’m really late on this.”

Quigg’s brows knit together. “Galleries and Gourmets
is
just three days away.”

Carmela bit her lower lip. “Yes, and I feel awful. But . . .
your flyer’s almost finished and I promise there’ll be no charge.”

Quigg’s big hand reached past her, and his index finger hovered at the top of the page where the headline read,
Goody, Goody, Gumbo
. “Cute,” he said. Then he quietly studied the rest of the copy, which pretty much listed all of his food items.

Carmela rolled her chair back, forcing Quigg to take a step backward. Then she stood up to face him. “I really am sorry.” She smiled up at him, aware of his presence so close to her.

“You already said that.” Quigg smiled as though he knew he made her slightly nervous.

“I’m just . . . flustered,” she told him. “I figured I could get this flyer done in a snap and then . . . I don’t know . . . things came up. As government bureaucrats are wont to say—mistakes were made.”

“But you do take responsibility,” he said, moving a half step closer to her. “And I appreciate that, seeing as how I came all the way over here to see what the heck was up with my flyers.”

Now Carmela was backed up against her desk. She could feel the edge of it pressing against her hip. “Which is good,” she told him. “Because now you can proof it.”