“Seems to me we have our choice of loonies these days,” said Carmela, sitting down to face her. “Which roughly translates to suspects in Melody’s murder.”
“There’s Garth,” said Ava. “Melody’s strange-and-gettin’stranger husband. And Sidney St. Cyr, who, as we all know, adores tromping around cemeteries at night.”
“And Sawyer Barnes,” said Carmela. “The developer who still seems to be on the hunt for Medusa Manor.” She blew on her own cocoa and took a sip. “And, bizarre as this sounds, I can’t stop thinking about Olivia Wainwright. She was pretty much the only one who knew we were going out there tonight to take molds.”
“But even if Olivia murdered Melody,” said Ava, “why would she come after us? Wouldn’t she figure an incident like a flaming tomb would just goad us into digging deeper? Into going to the police?”
“You’d think so,” said Carmela.
“And we
are
going to the police, aren’t we?” asked Ava.
Carmela reached out and stroked Boo’s furry head. Her little dog was still staring at Ava as if mesmerized. “I’ll talk to Babcock,” Carmela promised. “See if he can have the contents of our baggie analyzed.”
“Run it through the trusty police-o-matic clue analyzer,” said Ava.
“If it were only that easy,” said Carmela.
“You know Babcock’s gonna be all grumpy and crabby about this,” said Ava.
“Like his service revolver, he’s on a hair trigger,” said Carmela. “He upsets easily. There’s a reason I’ve laid in a good supply of Tums, Rolaids, and various antacids.”
“Ah,” said Ava, “the touchy tummy syndrome.”
“What I’m thinking,” said Carmela, “is that the residue from tonight’s fiery tomb may possibly match up with the residue from the fire at Medusa Manor.”
“Whoa,” breathed Ava. “I never thought of that. So that would mean . . . uh . . . what exactly?”
“It would mean that whoever murdered Melody was right there in the cemetery with us tonight, sending a rather firm warning.”
“That scares the bejeebers out of me,” said Ava.
“Me, too,” said Carmela. She stood up, grabbed a book of matches off the fireplace mantel, then leaned down and lit
the six rose-colored pillar candles that were arranged on a wrought-iron rack inside her fireplace.
“That’s nice,” said Ava. “Cozy.”
“Mmm,” said Carmela.
They watched the miniature flames leap and dance, each thinking about their earlier scare. Finally Carmela said, “You want something to eat?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” said Ava.
Padding barefoot into the kitchen, Carmela pulled open the refrigerator door and rummaged around. “I’ve got cheese and crackers. Actually some really ripe Brie cheese.”
“Perfect,” called Ava.
“Okay, give me a minute,” said Carmela.
“Say,” said Ava, “if I owe you, like, a bazillion dollars for food, just let me know, will you? I don’t want to be known as a freeloader.”
“You’re not,” said Ava. “You’re more like an appreciative snacker.”
“You think?” said Ava, pleased.
“Believe me,” said Carmela, “it’s not an issue.”
Ava continued to stare into the fireplace. “This is gonna sound like a real wild card,
cher
, but do you think that special-effects guy had anything to do with this?”
Carmela came in carrying the snacks on a tray. “Tate Mackie?”
“Yeah.”
“Why would he try to scare us? What would be his motivation?”
Ava shrugged. “Maybe trying to impress us? Impress you?” She grabbed a small silver knife and spread the creamy Brie on her cracker.
“No,” said Carmela. “I don’t think so.”
Ava took a big bite. “So whoya um realuh shushpec?”
“Huh?”
Ava chewed faster, then swallowed hard. “Who do you really suspect?”
“At this point,” said Carmela, “I don’t have a clue. But I have to say, Garth is not looking pristine any more.”
“Do tell,” said Ava.
“At lunch today, Babcock said something about Garth being at the top of his list because of the insurance money as well as a few other things he couldn’t go into.”
“Really?” said Ava. “Then you gotta grill him. Find out what those other things are.”
“I think you’re right.”
They dropped the subject then, finished their cheese and crackers, and chatted about Medusa Manor. Although, with Olivia’s warning that the project could be put on ice, their hearts weren’t completely in it anymore.
“I’ve been sorting through those prom dresses at my office,” said Ava, “and there are a couple dozen that are truly ghastly. All torn and dirty, really the dregs.”
“Then we should just toss them,” said Carmela.
“I had another idea,” said Ava. “What if we hauled ’em over to Medusa Manor and used them in some creepy display? You know, do a
Bride of Frankenstein
or
Bride of Chucky
thing in that fourth upstairs bedroom?”
“That’s a wonderful idea,” enthused Carmela. “We’ll fix some veils to float above the tattered dresses and arrange bouquets of dead flowers. I love it!”
“I thought you might,” said Ava. “I thought, considering your divorce and all, dead brides would really cheer you up!”
After Ava took off, Carmela decided to call Edgar Babcock. She slipped into a terry cloth robe, lay down on her bed, and dialed his cell phone.
Nada. He wasn’t answering. Which meant he wasn’t at home.
Okay
, she decided,
next best thing. Call the precinct station.
She called, but they weren’t exactly cordial about rousing
him on his car radio and putting a message through, but finally they did.
Ten minutes later Edgar Babcock called back.
“You called.” There was the faint sound of police chatter in the background.
“I was wondering if you could stop over here.”
“Man,” he said, yawning, “I’m really—”
“It’s important,” said Carmela, a slight urgency in her voice.
That was enough to trip his cop’s instinct and make him immediately suspicious. “What?” he asked. “Did something happen?”
“You could say that,” said Carmela.
“What now?”
Carmela drew a deep breath. “Here’s the thing,” she told him. “Ava and I went to Lafayette Cemetery tonight—”
“You what!” screeched Babcock.
“We went to—”
“I don’t believe you!”
“Do we have a bad connection or something?” asked Carmela. “Because I can hear you just fine, but you seem to be having trouble.”
“Just tell me what happened,” demanded Babcock. Carmela could hear faint clicking sounds and was pretty sure it was Babcock grinding his teeth.
“As I was saying, Ava and I went back to Lafayette Cemetery to take some tomb molds.”
“Some what?”
“Are you going to let me tell this or not?” she asked.
“Sorry. Just spit it out and try to talk a little faster, okay?”
“I’m trying,” said Carmela. “Anyway, just as we removed a large piece of plastic from a perfectly lovely Medusa head, there was this enormous burst of fire, and flames shot up from the top of a tomb.”
Now Carmela seemed to detect a strange gurgling sound coming through her phone.
Finally, Babcock said, “A flaming
tomb
?” His voice was just this side of disbelief.
“You know what?” said Carmela. “I think you should just come over here and let me tell this in person. Otherwise I’d hate to think you were slouched over in your car somewhere having a heart attack.”
“Ten minutes,” he told her through clenched teeth.
Babcock made it in nine.
“Hello,” Carmela said, holding open the door.
“You’re crazy, you know that?” he huffed.
“Nice to see you, too.” Carmela grabbed the sleeve of his jacket and pulled him into her apartment. Across the courtyard, she saw a curtain move in the upstairs window. Ava. Carmela grinned to herself as she pressed against Babcock and gently nuzzled him.
But after getting his welcome kiss, Babcock quickly grasped Carmela’s shoulders and held her at arm’s length. “Tell me the whole story,” he said, peering at her with burning curiosity, “and don’t leave anything out.”
“Better sit down, then,” Carmela told him. “And let me get you something to drink.” She shooed the dogs off the chaise longue so Babcock could flop down there, then went into the kitchen and whipped up yet another cup of cocoa. Just as she was about to slide the steaming black mug onto a small silver tray, Carmela snicked open a cupboard door and grabbed a bottle of peppermint schnapps that she’d had forever. Uncapping the bottle, she poured a hefty shot into Babcock’s cocoa, and stirred it around.
“Here you go.” She handed the cocoa to Babcock, sat down at his feet, and proceeded to tell her story. Babcock sipped, listened, and sipped some more. Ten minutes later he seemed considerably more relaxed.
“So,” he said, “you and Ava stirred up a hornet’s nest. You’ve got someone very worried.”
“That’s what I think, too,” said Carmela, “but I have no
idea who.” She frowned and stared at him, as if hoping he could shed some light.
Babcock remained thoughtful. “And you took scrapings of this mysterious fire residue?”
Carmela reached into her pocket, then presented him with the little baggie of soot. “Could you have it analyzed?”
Accepting the bag, he held it up to eye level and shook it. “Probably.”
Carmela smiled. “You seem much more relaxed now.”
Babcock tilted his empty mug toward her. “Must be your delicious cocoa. Chocolate with a minty flavor. Kind of tastes like Girl Scout cookies.”
“Something like that,” said Carmela. She took the empty mug from his hand and set it on the floor. “At lunch today, you mentioned something about Garth being your number one suspect because of the insurance money as well as a couple of things you couldn’t go into. Can you go into them now?”
Babcock focused on her as he shifted in his chair. He seemed to be pondering something. “There’s a witness,” he finally said. “We have a witness, a woman who works in the business across the alley from Fire and Ice, who thinks she saw Garth get into his car around the time of the murder.”
“Oh no!” said Carmela. “Really?”
Babcock nodded.
“Did you confront Garth about this?”
“Not a confrontation per se,” said Babcock, “but we put it to him a number of different ways.”
“And did he have an explanation?”
“He had a rather convenient alibi that’s almost impossible to check,” said Babcock. “Garth told us he went out to his car to grab a package. Said that’s probably what she saw.”
“So the witness could have been mistaken?” said Carmela.
“Possibly,” said Babcock. “Or she could be helping us build a case against him.”
Carmela slumped in her chair. “I was hoping it wasn’t Garth.”
Babcock stared at her patiently. “I didn’t say it was.”
“But you just said—”
“There’s more,” said Babcock. “But you’ve really got to keep this quiet.”
Carmela nodded vigorously.
“I mean
really
.”
“Yes,” she said. “Of course, I will.”
“We’ve been digging in city records and it turns out your buddy Sawyer Barnes . . . ?”
Carmela peered at Babcock sharply.
“It seems Mr. Barnes owned a property, a somewhat dilapidated triplex over in Algiers that he wasn’t able to unload when the real estate market flattened out and then took a nosedive. And somehow, magically, that property met with a fiery demise. So, of course, he was able to collect on the insurance.”
“Are you serious?” said Carmela. Now he had her undivided attention.
“There’s more,” said Babcock, pausing for effect.
She stared at him.
“Sawyer Barnes served in the military.”
“I heard that,” said Carmela. It was one of the little factoids Baby’s husband had uncovered for her.
“He was a Navy SEAL.”
Carmela stared at Babcock for a long minute. “Wait a minute,” she finally said. “Aren’t those the guys who are trained in demolition? The guys who deal with explosives and incendiary devices?”
Both pairs of eyes were suddenly focused on the little baggie that lay limply on the chaise.
Babcock gave the briefest of nods. “You got that right.”
Chapter 21
“W
HAT did you think about the new settlement offer we put on the table?”
“Hmm?” said Carmela. She’d just arrived at Memory Mine five minutes earlier, and Shamus’s call was the first phone call of the morning. “There’s a new offer?” Shaking her head to clear away the cobwebs, Carmela took another sip of coffee from the cup she’d just purchased at Pirate’s Alley Deli.
“Hell, yes,” snarled Shamus. “The darned papers should have been messengered to you first thing this morning. You didn’t get them?”
“I don’t know,” said Carmela. And now she could hear him yelling in the background at some poor woman named Maxine. “Your envelope probably got mixed in with the morning mail. I haven’t sorted through everything yet. I just got here.” It wouldn’t pay to tell him that Edgar Babcock, police lieutenant extraordinaire, had kept her up well past her usual bedtime last night.
“Go look, will you?” Shamus was cranky, crankier than usual.
“Call you back,” said Carmela, dropping the receiver abruptly. “Hey, Gabby,” she called to her assistant, who was in the back of the store restocking racks of paper, “did I get a delivery this morning? Like a really large envelope?”
“Um . . . yeah,” said Gabby, balancing stacks of paper. “Quicksilver Messenger Service dropped something off. I figured it was probably photos or something.”
“Okay, thanks,” said Carmela. She took another sip of coffee, decided she should have ordered a
grande
instead of a regular, and began pawing through the stack of envelopes, flyers, and bills on the front counter. When her fingertips touched a large manila envelope, she pulled it out and glanced at the return address. Willis B. Mortimer, Esquire. Yup, this was it. Ripping open the envelope, Carmela quickly scanned the ten-page document. When she was finished, she set the stapled pages down, touched a hand to her heart, and exhaled slowly. Because Carmela suddenly felt like the weight of the world had been lifted from her shoulders. Glory had somehow, crazily, miraculously, agreed to a modest cash settlement as well as the deed to Shamus’s Garden District home. Hallelujah!