Tragic Magic (20 page)

“Right,” said Baby. “Del said pretty much the same thing you mentioned earlier. That Sawyer Barnes is a real estate developer with a penchant for turning grand old mansions and unique properties into condos.”

“Okay,” said Carmela.

“Del also mentioned that Barnes is a member of the Pluvius krewe.”

“Shamus’s krewe,” said Carmela. That was an interesting factoid.

Baby nodded. “And that Barnes was in the military at one time and probably served in the Gulf War.”

“Thanks,” said Carmela. She thought for a few moments.

“Not a huge amount to go on.”

“No, it’s not,” said Baby, patting Carmela’s shoulder, “but it’s what we’ve got. And since you’re a very smart lady, I assume you’ll figure out how to put it all together.”

E
DGAR Babcock lounged at a table in the back courtyard ofof Bistro Rouge. Potted palms encircled the brick-studded patio, a corrugated tin roof lent partial shade, and across the way a large stone pizza oven glowed with red-hot embers. Two tall glasses of sweet tea, coated with beads of condensation, sat on the small wrought-iron table in front of him.

“You read my mind,” said Carmela, slipping into a green wooden chair across from him.

“Lunch will be served shortly,” Babcock told her with a lazy smile. “I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of ordering for you. For us.” He glanced at his watch, a heavy-looking Tag Heuer replete with multiple dials. “I don’t have a whole lot of time.”

“I hope you realize I’m counting carbs,” sang Carmela.

She grabbed her sweet tea and took a long sip, appreciating its cool deliciousness.

“Then you’ll probably be adding up triple digits today,” Babcock told her mildly.

Carmela set her glass down and smiled sweetly at him. “Nice to see you. Nice change from the day I’ve had so far.”

“You’re talking about Melody’s funeral?” He gazed at her, then reached across the table and took her hand. “I would have been there if I could.”

“What kept you . . . ?” Her voice trailed off as the waitress arrived at their table, a large silver tray propped against one hip. Babcock relinquished her hand as Carmela’s eyes surveyed the offerings. There was a plate of cornmeal-crusted oysters for her. Perfect and golden, dusted with ancho powder, and perched atop a salad of mixed greens and sliced avocado, then drizzled with Creole mustard dressing.

Babcock’s lunch was an oyster po’boy. More fried oysters artfully arranged on grilled French bread along with the requisite toppings of shredded lettuce and sliced tomatoes dripping with spicy rémoulade. Side dishes of red beans and dirty rice were placed between them.

“Just what I had in mind,” Carmela giggled, “a nice light lunch.”

“But I can tell you like it,” said Babcock, grinning and trying to wiggle his eyebrows comically.

“No,” said Carmela, unfurling her napkin into her lap and digging in, “I
love
it.”

“So,” said Babcock, “you going to share details about this morning?” He dug his spoon into the red beans.

“Depends,” said Carmela.

“On what?”

“On how much you’re willing to share with me.”

Babcock set his spoon down. “Come on, Carmela. You know I can’t make you privy to police matters. Besides, the last thing I want is for you to get involved.”

She shrugged. “I’m already involved.”

“You know what I mean,” Babcock sighed.

“Okay, okay,” Carmela muttered under her breath. “As you might imagine, there was a good-sized crowd at Melody’s service.”

“Uh-huh. Keep going.”

“Maybe I should have just videotaped the whole thing.”

“Maybe you should take it easy. You’re as spicy as this food.”

“Mmm,” said Carmela, taking a large gulp of sweet tea.

Dang, those oysters delivered a kick! “All right, there were quite a few shopkeepers from the French Quarter and a lot of women from the Demilune krewe.”

“To be expected,” said Babcock, in an encouraging tone.

“Basically a lot of friends and acquaintances of Melody’s.”

“So no real surprises?” said Babcock. “Nothing out of the ordinary?”

“Not unless you count the poem Garth read,” said Carmela, reaching for a scoop of dirty rice.

“Something he wrote himself?” asked Babcock.

Carmela pushed away a few strands of hair that had slipped into her eyes. “No, it was your basic creepy poem by Edgar Allan Poe.”

“Poe?” Babcock paused. “That seems like an unusual choice for a memorial service.”

“Trust me,” said Carmela. “It was. The poem Garth read spoke about fire as well as a burning blush.”

“So?” said Babcock.

Carmela frowned. “It just seemed like bad taste, considering how Melody died.”

“You’re saying there was some sort of subtext?”

“Probably not,” Carmela said slowly. “At least I don’t think so.” She gazed at Babcock, who seemed to be genuinely weighing her words. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Now Garth is going to shoot straight to the top of your suspect list again.”

“No, he won’t,” said Babcock. “Because he’s already there.”

“Because of the insurance money,” said Carmela.

Babcock nodded. “That and a few other things I can’t go into.”

“Did you ever consider,” said Carmela, “that you’re not digging deep enough? That the real murderer is walking around out there, chortling to himself, assuming he got away scot-free?”

Babcock favored her with a tired smile. “If you can think of anyone like that, feel free to pass his name along.”

Carmela stared at him. Actually there
was
someone who partially filled the bill. Should she mention him to Babcock? Well, why on earth not? “Okay, smart guy,” she said. “What about Sawyer Barnes?”

Babcock’s right hand jerked spasmodically, sending his glass of sweet tea crashing into his water glass and spilling both glasses across the white linen tablecloth. A sudden silence engulfed them as diners all around turned to stare. Brandishing a towel, their waitress clucked and scurried over.

When order had finally been restored, Carmela said, “Looks like I touched a nerve.”

“How did you know Sawyer Barnes was on our suspect list?”

“Excuse me?” said Carmela. “Maybe because Barnes bid against Melody for the Medusa Manor property? Because he comes across like a sore loser?”

“Do you think Sawyer Barnes is still interested in that property?”

“It’s possible,” said Carmela, remembering Barnes’s whispered chitchat with Olivia Wainwright this morning. “He was at the service this morning and ended up having a rather cozy conversation with Olivia Wainwright. I suppose Barnes could have been asking her if she was interested in selling.”

“Is she?” asked Babcock.

“Doubtful,” said Carmela, “since she was so hot to have Ava and me finish the project. But I can certainly ask Olivia. I’m supposed to meet her later today.”

“You know,” said Babcock, “Garth Mayfeldt has been trying his darnedest to nudge me in the direction of Sawyer Barnes.”

“So he has his suspicions, too,” said Carmela.

“But then,” said Babcock, “Garth
would
want to deflect suspicion from himself.”

“Who wouldn’t?” said Carmela, giving him a pussycat smile. “You’re a formidable investigator. You’ve probably got lots of people running scared.”

Babcock fixed his gaze on her. “You know, Carmela, I’m not always sure when you’re kidding or not.”

“Neither am I,” said Carmela. She stared across the patio, where two pizzas were being pulled from the wood-fired oven. “You know who else sort of freaks me out?”

“Who?” asked Babcock.

“Sidney St. Cyr.”

“That ghost walk guy?” said Babcock.

“Do you realize,” said Carmela, “that Sidney practically has a license to creep around the French Quarter? He’s leading ghost tours at all hours of the day and night, scurrying up and down every back alley and through every courtyard and byway. I know he looks mild-mannered, but you never know about people.”

“I hear you,” said Babcock. Which Carmela knew, in Babcock-ese, translated to
I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re talking about
.

“The French Quarter’s always been a hotbed of crime,” said Carmela. “What if Sidney’s ghost walks are really a cover-up for something else?”

Babcock shrugged. “Petty crime’s a way of life here. Tourists are forever reporting pickpockets and muggers, while residents file theft and peeping Tom reports on a daily basis.”

“Maybe you should stay on Sidney’s butt,” suggested Carmela. “He was hanging around Medusa Manor the night after Melody was killed.”

“An investigator always has to look for serious motive,” Babcock told her. “If you think Sidney St. Cyr was involved in Melody’s death, what was his motive?”

Carmela thought for a few moments. “Maybe Sidney was jealous of Melody? Maybe he thought the opening of Medusa Manor would siphon business away from his ghost walks?”

“That’s a pretty big stretch,” said Babcock.

“Still,” said Carmela. “Could you keep an eye on him?”

“I thought you were already doing that.”

“Well, yeah, I am. Kind of,” said Carmela. “Someone has to do your job,” she teased. “But, face it, you’re the one with an entire police force at your disposal.”

“Hardly,” sniffed Babcock. “I’ve got maybe six detectives. And two of them aren’t even that good.”

“All the more reason to deputize me,” said Carmela.

Babcock looked askance at her. “Sweetheart, I’ve got enough problems without tossing you into the mix.”

 

Carmela was showing a customer how to sponge-paint onto cardstock, then use a screen to create an additional pattern, when Jekyl Hardy walked through her door. Because Mardi Gras was still many months away, Jekyl was busily dealing and appraising antiques, while making plans to lead an art tour to New York City.

Jekyl was also one of Carmela’s dearest friends. They both volunteered with the Children’s Art Association and hung out at French Quarter clubs like Dr. Boogie’s and Moon Glow.

“You see where I’m going with this?” Carmela asked her customer. “Sponge the yellow paint first, add a tinge of pink for contrast, then oh-so-carefully place the screen on top of your paint job and daub on your mauve-colored paint to create a sort of beehive effect.” When she saw that her customer had mastered the technique, Carmela pulled herself away to greet Jekyl.

“What brings you into my territory?” she asked him. Jekyl Hardy was rail thin, with long dark hair pulled into a sleek ponytail, and even darker eyes. He had a penchant for
dressing in black from head to toe and was always pleased when people likened him to Lestat, the vampire in Anne Rice’s novel.

Jekyl made a big show of administering double air kisses to Carmela, then grinned impishly. “It’s
my
territory this weekend, darling,” he told her. “NOMA has jumped on the Galleries and Gourmets bandwagon with a vengeance, which turns out to be fortuitous for me. They’ve decided to set up an appraisal booth in Jackson Square and staff it with yours truly as chief appraiser, arbiter of good taste, and art critic par excellence.”

“So . . . an appraisal booth like
Antiques Roadshow,
” said Carmela.

“Hopefully, something of that ilk,” said Jekyl, rolling his eyes. “And hopefully people will actually bring their objets d’art to me for careful consideration.”

“That should be a great addition to the event,” said Carmela. “And lots of fun, too.”

Jekyl’s gaze turned serious. “KBEZ-TV is even going to cover some of the appraisals. So hopefully, I’ll make the ten o’clock news.”

“It should be wonderful publicity for your business,” said Carmela, knowing Jekyl’s business hadn’t exactly been gangbusters lately.

“Only if people don’t lug in junky fruit jars and nineteen fifties tobacco tins, expecting them to be worth a fortune!” said Jekyl.

Carmela grinned and shook her head. “You’re such a snob, Jekyl.”

Jekyl held an index finger to his lips. “Shh. Kindly don’t tell anyone.”

 

 

Back in her office, Carmela hit speed dial.

Ava answered on the first ring. “Juju Voodoo. If it’s haunted, you want it.”

“Ava?” said Carmela. “It’s me.”

“
Cher!
I was just thinking about you. We received the most marvelous shipment today of love potions in funky little blue pharmaceutical bottles. They look like the
Drink Me
bottles in
Alice in Wonderland
.”

“You think it could help me work a spell?” asked Carmela.

“Couldn’t hurt,” said Ava. “Plus I got a new shipment of jewelry. Earrings, to be exact. Really cool, dangly black crow earrings and green luna moth earrings.”

“Luna moths,” said Carmela. “Nice.”

“So,” said Ava. “What’s up?”

“I just had lunch with Babcock, and guess who’s
not
on his list?”

“Uh, the redheaded guy in the zoot suit who does sketches of tourists down in the French Market?”

“You’re close,” said Carmela. “Babcock pretty much snickered when I brought up Sidney St. Cyr’s name.”

“You’re telling me Babcock is still stuck on Melody’s husband as the prime suspect?” said Ava.

“Yup. On the plus side, he acted a little hinky when I brought up Sawyer Barnes’s name.”

“The slum landlord.”

“Barnes may have started out with rat-infested buildings,” said Carmela, “but he’s turned them into fancy condos.”

“Same thing,” said Ava. “But,
cher
, I gotta tell you, Sidney’s the one who’s starting to send shivers up my spine.”

“Why do you say that?” asked Carmela. She wasn’t crazy about Sidney, either, and tended to put faith in Ava’s gut instincts.

“Sidney just feels . . . involved,” said Ava. “I know we don’t have any evidence against the guy, but he creeps me out.”