Tragic Magic (6 page)

“But what about the fire in the tower room?” asked Carmela. “Isn’t there a lot of damage?”

“I’m told there was no real structural damage,” said Olivia. “Nothing that can’t be repaired.”

“It’s not really our cup of tea,” Carmela protested weakly.

“Frankly, I think you’re absolutely perfect,” said Olivia. She leaned forward in her chair. “I know what you’re thinking, Carmela. Bad luck, bad timing, bad karma, the whole ball of wax. The thing of it is, Medusa Manor is really half done, but it needs a couple of smart, organized people who have a slight sense of the absurd to pull it all together.”

Carmela was about to launch another protest when Olivia raised a hand.

“Hear me out. Please. There’s a major horror convention happening in New Orleans next month. DiscordaCon. No doubt you’ve heard of it?”

Carmela nodded. She had.

“I wanted the grand opening of Medusa Manor to coincide with DiscordaCon. Still want it to. Which means I’m willing to pay you and your friend a considerable sum of money to make this happen.”

“Money,” repeated Carmela.

“Thirty thousand dollars,” said Olivia. “That’s double what you were offered before. Plus you’d have almost a carte blanche budget to purchase props and theatricals.”

“Thirty thousand,” said Carmela.

“Fifteen thousand for each of you,” said Olivia.

Carmela nodded. That was quite a chunk of change Olivia had just dangled in front of her. Enough money to pay off all her suppliers, pay the rent on Memory Mine for three months, and still have money left over for a shopping spree at The Latest Wrinkle, her favorite consignment shop on Magazine Street. Maybe even get that tweed Chanel jacket she’d had her eye on. Nothing like the cult of Chanel to get a girl’s heart beating faster.

“I’d have to run this by Ava,” said Carmela. She knew she was weakening. Like a wet noodle being stretched to the breaking point.

“Of course you would,” said Olivia. She dug inside her oversized Gucci bag. “And please . . .” She pulled out a stack
of papers. “Take a look at these, too.” She handed them to Carmela. “When you see how much has been done already, it might make your decision a little easier.”

“What exactly are . . . ?”

“Floor plans,” said Olivia. “Along with an outline of proposed design and decorating ideas, and technical specs for the special effects that have already been installed.” She smiled. “You have to know what’s already in place in case you . . .
when
you start working on Medusa Manor.”

Carmela quickly flipped through the top pages and found that a lot of the decorating and design work had been done or at least started, just as Olivia said.

“Melody purchased quite a few props,” said Olivia. “So there’s already a collection of antiques, furniture, paintings, and old carpets stashed inside the old house. Nothing particularly valuable, of course, but fun items to add to its haunted persona.”

“Okay,” said Carmela. She was still hesitant to take on the project, but the money beckoned.

“And finally,” said Olivia, “you’re going to need this.” She pressed a large brass key into Carmela’s hand. “The key to Medusa Manor.”

Carmela gave a slight frown as she stared at the shiny key that seemed to wink enticingly in the low light of her office. “Who else has one of these keys?” she asked. “Besides you?”

Olivia gazed at her, a little startled. “Well . . . nobody. You and I have the only keys.”

“What about Melody’s key?”

“I suppose the police have that.” Olivia stood up, ready to leave, her errand completed.

Carmela leaned back in her chair and thought about the front door standing open last night. About someone creeping around inside Medusa Manor, stalking Melody, then finally getting the best of her.

Somehow, Carmela wasn’t entirely sure she and Olivia possessed the only keys.

Just as Carmela was about to dash out the back door, the phone on her desk buzzed loudly.

“What?” she called to Gabby, who was at the counter up front.

Gabby made a rapid series of hand signals that looked like untranslatable hieroglyphics, so Carmela ducked back into her office and snatched the receiver off the hook.

“Carmela Bertrand, how may I help you?”

“Were you on TV again?” an indignant male voice demanded.

Carmela sighed deeply, instantly recognizing the voice as that of her rat-fink, used-to-be-charming, soon-to-be ex. She could picture his lazy grin, languid pose, and handsome face. Then she was jerked back to reality remembering his stupid, boyish ways.

“I don’t know, Shamus, why would you think I was on TV?” Carmela responded.

“Hell, I don’t know,” snorted Shamus. “But Glory said she saw you on the news last night.” Glory was Shamus’s older sister, a parsimonious sourpuss who’d always detested Carmela and was now bizarrely gleeful that they were in the final, gasping throes of divorce.

“Glory said it was the TV station that’s got that really smokin’ hot babe reporter,” chuckled Shamus. “Well, she didn’t phrase it
quite
like that. I’m editorializing here.”

“Kimber Breeze,” Carmela muttered under her breath.

But Shamus instantly heard her. “That’s the one! The sexy babe from KBEZ.”

“It probably wasn’t me that Glory saw,” said Carmela, trying to ward off any potential trouble. “Just someone who looked like me. You know, choppy blond hair, really cute.” She glanced up, saw Gabby hovering in the doorway, accepted the large manila envelope Gabby held out to her. Carmela mouthed
Shamus
to Gabby, who nodded back.

“Glory was pretty sure it was you,” Shamus continued.
Now he paused to gather himself into a nice, tight ball of indignation. “Please don’t tell me you’re involved in some wacky murder investigation again!”

“Shamus, sweetie,” Carmela purred into the phone. “You don’t get to tell me what to do anymore. In fact, you’re not even allowed to drop so much as a lousy suggestion. You, my friend, have been dumped, discarded, and practically divorced. You are no longer necessary to my survival or my happiness. In other words, Shamus, you’re obsolete.”

Gabby grinned at her. “Don’t sugarcoat it,” she said in a stage whisper. “Just tell Shamus how you really feel.”

But Shamus had already assumed the personality of a whipped puppy. “Jeez, Carmela,” he whimpered. “You don’t have to be so snarky. I don’t deserve
that
!”

“Snarky’s my new middle name,” said Carmela. “So getting back to the gestalt of our conversation, kindly tell your sister, Glory, to stuff it.”

“Don’t try that shit with me, Carmela,” sneered Shamus. “I went to college; I can toss big words around, too.”

“Shamus,” said Carmela, beginning to feel slightly worn down, “what do you want? Why did you call me, really?” She was pretty sure she knew why Shamus was gibbering away like a crazed chimpanzee. The envelope in her hand carried the return address of Willis B. Mortimer, Esquire, Shamus’s divorce lawyer.

“Oh,” said Shamus. “Yeah. I wanted to tell you my attorney is messengering over a new offer to you. For the divorce settlement.”

“Is that so?”

“It’s so,” said Shamus.

“But is it what I asked for?” said Carmela.

Shamus snapped right back at her. “You’ll just have to read it and see, Carmela.”

Carmela slammed the phone down and gazed at Gabby. “Ewww,” she said.

Gabby gave her a sympathetic look. “Don’t let him drive you bonkers.”

“Believe me, I won’t,” said Carmela. “Not when I’m so close to a clean getaway.”

“Things have calmed down in the shop,” said Gabby. “Are you still thinking about running out to buy flowers? To drop off at Fire and Ice?”

“Uh-huh. That’s where I was headed just as Shamus called.”

Gabby tapped a finger on the manila envelope. “Are you going to open this?”

Carmela shook her head and sighed. “Not right now. Why let Shamus spoil my entire afternoon?”

“L
ILIES, asters, iris, cosmos,” murmured Carmela as she eased her way through the walk-in cooler at French Bouquet Florals. Shaggy heads on delicate stems bobbed gracefully at her while some tightly curled buds seemed to huddle in the chill air. The aroma was a symphony of heady and sweet, mingled with grasses and moist earth, a veritable flower buffet that appealed to the eyes as well as the nose.

“See anything you like?” asked Cora Lou Connor, one of the owners. She was a tidy, middle-aged woman who wore a long denim apron over her clothes and green Wellington boots, the clumpy rubber ones favored by English gardeners.

“Still working on it,” said Carmela, wondering how she could peruse thousands of paper designs and make smart inventory decisions, and then not be able to pick out a few flowers?

After a few false starts, Carmela finally settled on a bouquet of asters, dahlias, and irises. As Cora Lou rang up her
purchase and carefully wrapped the flowers in purple tissue, then again in purple plastic, Carmela jotted a short condolence note, signing her name and Gabby’s. Then she added Ava’s name, too.

“You want these delivered?” Cora Lou asked.

“Thanks, but I’m gonna take ’em myself,” said Carmela.

With flowers in hand, she dashed to her car, which was double-parked out front on Ursuline Street, thanked the merciful heavens above that the parking Nazis who haunted the French Quarter hadn’t ticketed or towed her, then whipped around the corner and down the alley to Fire and Ice Jewelers.

Luckily, Fire and Ice had three reserved customer parking spaces in the rear of the building, and one of those spaces stood empty. Carmela offered another whispered prayer to the heavens, because parking spaces were a precious commodity in the French Quarter.

Pressing the buzzer at the back door, Carmela shifted from one foot to the other, hoping one of Garth’s employees was there today, holding down the fort. Luck was with her, because the electronic door suddenly rasped then clicked loudly, gaining her admittance. But when Carmela pushed her way into the elegant little jewelry shop, she was stunned to find none other than Garth Mayfeldt himself!

“Garth!” exclaimed Carmela, crossing a whisper of dove-gray carpeting to greet him. “I had no idea you’d be here.” She leaned forward and they gently exchanged double air kisses.

“Neither did I,” said Garth, “but here I am anyway.” He smiled faintly, brushing the back of his hand against the five o’clock shadow that shaded his cheeks. Garth was five feet ten with the slight, somewhat underfed build of a long distance runner, which he was, and possessed a crooked smile and slightly egg-shaped head with sparse bits of blond hair. He also had kind gray eyes that corresponded to a gentle personality. When you were a customer in his shop, Garth
had the ability to focus his attention completely on you, as though you were the only one who mattered.

“Well . . . here,” said Carmela, thrusting the bouquet of flowers into his hands. “These are for you.”

Garth looked genuinely touched. “You are such a sweetheart,” he cooed. “Thank you!” He peeled back the purple wrappings, saw the note, and took a few seconds to read it. “You’re just too dear, all of you,” he told her, and now his voice was heavy with emotion.

Carmela walked slowly to the main counter with Garth as he cradled the flowers. “I really didn’t expect to see you,” she told him, repeating herself.

Garth sighed deeply. “Ginny Hunsucker, my regular manager, is moving to a new house this week. Had the move planned for the last three months. So . . .” He shrugged.

“When it rains it pours,” offered Carmela.

“Something like that.” Garth laid the flowers down on the counter and fixed her with a wan smile. “I want to thank you again for being at Medusa Manor last night.”

Carmela frowned and shook her head. “I wish I could have done something. But it was just . . . too late.”

“I know that,” said Garth. He reached over and patted her hand. “But you did do something. You were
there
.”

Carmela tried to give an encouraging smile, but the effort felt frozen on her face.

“I understand from Olivia that you and Ava are going to continue working on Medusa Manor,” said Garth.

“That’s still up for discussion,” said Carmela, deciding the two must have talked together within the last half hour. And judging from the gold bangles that had glittered on Olivia’s wrists, the woman must be an awfully good customer, too.

“Melody would have appreciated your hanging in there,” said Garth, tears forming in his eyes.

“Uh . . . thank you,” said Carmela, suddenly feeling more than a gentle amount of pressure being exerted.

“Of course,” said Garth, “dear, dear Olivia has been an absolute rock through all of this. While I’ve turned into an emotional wet rag.”

“You have good reason to be upset,” said Carmela.

Garth shrugged. “Look at me, standing here like a lump when these lovely flowers probably need water.” He sniffled loudly then said, “I’ll go grab a vase.”