Gilt Trip (16 page)

The bird's nest would hold the necklace nicely. And for added color and interest she could add a few of the miniature feathered birds she had in the shop.

Yes, I like that a lot. Better yet, I think it's something I can actually pull off. It's kind of cake décor slash memory box.

As she continued to sketch, a light blinked on her phone. She steadfastly ignored it, hoping Gabby would take care of whoever was calling. Then she heard footsteps and Gabby's light knock on the wall outside her office.

Carmela spun around in her chair. “Yes?”

“Bobby Gallant is on the phone.”

“Okay, thanks.”

Gabby paused. “Carmela. Please be careful.”

People keep telling me that
, she thought to herself as she picked up the phone.
Maybe I should start listening to them.

• • •

“I SHOULDN'T BE TELLING YOU THIS,” WERE GALLANT'S
opening words.

“What?” said Carmela, practically pouncing on him.

“You were one hundred percent correct. It was a metal skewer.”

“From one of the shish-kabobs,” said Carmela.

“The chef confirmed it, so yes.”

“What do you think? Was it the same killer who stabbed Jerry Earl?”

“That possibility certainly exists.”

“Then it had to be someone who was at the funeral luncheon,” Carmela said.

“Or someone from the kitchen staff,” said Gallant. “But that's kind of a stretch.”

“Not if they were also on the catering staff from the other night.”

“I thought of that,” said Gallant. “And we're checking it out.”

“Do you have a guest list of who attended the services and luncheon today?” Carmela asked.

“That, of course, was Eric Zane's job,” said Gallant.

“Oh.”

“And Margo was still pretty weepy, but her friend managed to pull together a list for me.”

“You mean Beetsie?”

“That's the one.” He paused. “Then I asked Margo if she thought Zane might have been trying to blackmail someone.”

“What did Margo say?”

“Basically, nothing. Margo was stunned; she didn't have a single idea in her head.”

“She never does,” said Carmela. “Which is starting to make me a little suspicious.”

“Are you telling me you suspect the grieving widow?”

“I don't know what to think,” said Carmela. “For one thing, I'm not even sure about motive anymore. I can understand if someone hated Jerry Earl and wanted him dead. But then to kill his assistant? What's that all about?”

“But if Zane was trying to blackmail somebody . . .”

“Blackmail them over what?” Carmela asked. “Zane was basically a flunky.”

“But maybe he knew something,” said Gallant.

“Because he spent so much time hanging around the Lelands' home?”

“That's right,” said Gallant. “So I need to keep asking questions.”

“Did you talk to Duncan Merriweather?”

“Yes, I did. After you told me about Duncan Merriweather's background, I spoke to him and he did admit to having a number of antique mortuary items in his possession. But here's where it gets a little crazy. Merriweather also told me that several of them were stolen from his house when it was burglarized a few months ago.”

“What? Do you believe him?”

“I pulled the police report and there was indeed a burglary,” said Gallant.

Carmela sighed loudly. “Don't tell me a trocar was stolen.”

“A trocar was listed among the stolen contents.”

“Dang!” said Carmela. “I still think you've got to look at him hard. Because you know why? He could be Margo's next-in-line!”

“What are you talking about?”

“I didn't think it was strange at the time, but Merriweather escorted Margo to my shop last Monday. And he hangs around her house all the time. And he was comforting her at the funeral this morning . . .”

“That's what friends do,” said Gallant.

“Or he could have another motive.”

“Which is?”

“What if Merriweather is angling to marry Margo, get her money, then dump her for Beetsie!”

Gallant was shocked “That sounds like a storyline on
Days of Our Lives
, not a motive for a murder!”

“What if it's both?”

“Then God help us,” said Gallant. He was quiet for a few moments, then he said, “No, you've got to be overthinking this. It has to be business related.”

“What makes you say that?” said Carmela.

“Because Merriweather still strikes me as a nice old guy. Kindly and sweet.”

“So was John Wayne Gacy,” said Carmela. “He dressed up as Pogo the Clown to entertain kids, yet turned out to be one of the worst serial killers of all time!”

“Point taken,” said Gallant.

• • •

CARMELA WORKED FOR ANOTHER TWENTY MINUTES
until she was interrupted again. Her realtor, Miranda Jackson.

“Hey there,” said Miranda, “I've got some good news for you.”

“You finally sold the house!”

“Noooo, but I've got an offer I'd like to present.”

“When?” asked Carmela.

“What are you doing in thirty minutes?”

“Oh,” said Carmela. “That soon?”

“You're the one who wanted a quick sale,” said Miranda. “And it is a buyer's market out there.”

“Good point,” said Carmela. “So . . . where do you want to meet?”

“At the property, of course.”

“The Garden District house,” Carmela said slowly. She wasn't all that keen on going back there. Too many bad memories.

“There are a few contingencies we need to go over,” Miranda said breezily.

“Okay,” said Carmela. “I'll see you there.”

N
EW
Orleans's Garden District is considered to be one of the best-preserved collections of historic Southern mansions in the United States. Greek Revival, Italianate, and Moorish-designed homes stand shoulder to shoulder amid lush foliage and abundant flowers. Authors such as Anne Rice and Truman Capote have found inspiration among all these white columns and louvered shutters, and dozens of novels and movies have been set here. The Garden District is, to put it mildly, utterly enchanting.

With tentative movements, Carmela pushed open the front door of her soon-to-be-former home. She stood in the marble-tiled entry, breathed in the scent of sweet jasmine mingled with dust bunnies, and called out, “I'm home, dear.”

The voice of Miranda Jackson, her realtor, floated back to her.

“I'm in the dining room.”

Carmela stepped into the living room, or Grand Salon as she'd once jokingly referred to it. She took in the marble fireplace, cove ceilings, arched windows, and magnificent chandelier. Even unlit and unlived in, the home was definitely a beauty. And deep inside her chest she felt a small flutter of . . . what?

Is it regret?

No, she knew she was far better off with her life firmly rooted in the here and now. With her cozy apartment, wacky friends, and chugging-along-fairly-well business. Not to mention her hot cop boyfriend. Carmela tamped down her feelings and ghosted through the house, following the clicking sounds that were coming from the dining room. She found Miranda seated at the expansive pecan table, pecking away on her tablet computer.

Miranda looked up and smiled. She was a pretty woman in her midforties with a mane of curly blond hair and a pair of pink half-glasses perched on her pert nose. Her worn leather briefcase was puddled on the table, and sheets of paper covered every inch of fine polished wood.

“Your new office,” said Carmela.

Miranda shoved a pencil into her hair. “Don't I wish. This is such a grand old place.”

“Maybe
you
should buy it.”

“Can't,” said Miranda. “I just closed on two duplexes over by Tulane. Rental properties, you know.”

“You think I should invest in another home? A
smaller
home?”

“Couldn't hurt,” said Miranda. “Now's the time to make your move. Before all the homeowner tax loopholes get closed by those greedy Feds.”

Carmela wandered absently over to the bay window and gazed out into the back garden. It was lush and beautiful, the low afternoon sun casting a soft glow on the crepe myrtle and azaleas that were in bloom.

“Don't look out at that magnificent view,” Miranda warned. “I don't want you getting cold feet.”

Carmela chuckled. “I won't.” She took a deep breath. “So you brought me an offer?”

Miranda pulled the pencil out of her hair and tapped at a legal-size sheet of paper. Then she indicated the chair next to her.

Carmela came over, sat down, and stared at the paper. It was filled with numbers and line after line of small print. Weasel words, as she liked to call them.

“It's an impressive offer,” said Miranda. “Not full price, but close enough for jazz.”

“Hmm.” Carmela wasn't sure how to respond, she was so dazzled by all the zeroes that danced before her eyes.

So this is it?

She would sign on the dotted line and be free of the massive home and the nagging memory of Shamus? She suddenly felt a strange hollowness deep in the pit of her stomach.

Probably just need something to eat!

Miranda's phone buzzed.

“Where do I sign?” Carmela asked.

Miranda fumbled with her phone and sent the call into voice mail. “Not so fast.” She held up a hand. “Your buyers are asking for a few sweeteners.”

“Sweeteners?”

Miranda sighed. “They walked in and absolutely went gaga over your furniture. So they're asking you to throw in a few pieces.”

“How few?” Carmela asked.

“This dining room table and chairs, as well as the mahogany secretary and side table from the living room.”

Carmela drummed her fingers on the table, thinking.

“We can always counter,” said Miranda. “Remember, this is all about negotiation.”

“No,” said Carmela. “I want to get this done. So . . . they can have the furniture.” She didn't really want to deal with it and had already talked to Jekyl about selling whatever pieces seemed worthwhile. He'd promised to place them on consignment in various antique shops up and down Royal Street.

“All right,” said Miranda, surprised by Carmela's decisiveness. “We'll include those few pieces.” She made a few notations on the document. “Oh, and one more thing.”

“What's that?”

“The buyers also want you to share in the closing costs.”

Carmela frowned. “How much would that be?”

“They usually run a couple thousand dollars. Maybe three at the most.”

“So I'd pay half?”

“Yes.”

Carmela pulled a pen from her purse. She was almost ready to agree, but then caught herself. “Anything else?”

Miranda smiled. “No. They love the house and they're good solid buyers. We should have a quick escrow.”

“I'm willing to concede on those two points just to make this sale happen,” Carmela told her.

“Excellent.” Miranda's phone buzzed again and she sent another caller into voice mail. She tapped a manicured finger against the paper. “Then all you have to do is sign right here.”

Carmela signed.

“Good,” said Miranda. “Perfect.”

“Now you have to relocate your office,” Carmela said, hiding a smile.

Miranda gathered up all her papers and shuffled them into a tidy little stack. “Not a problem. I'd do just about anything to make this sale happen.”

Carmela nodded. “Me, too.”

• • •

AFTER SIGNING THE PAPERWORK, CARMELA
floated out of the mansion, feeling surprisingly free and light. As if a very heavy weight, namely a hulking mansion, had been lifted from her slender shoulders. Now she had a nice tidy bit of cash to invest or use to buy another house. Whatever. She didn't have to decide today or even tomorrow.

It was early evening as she climbed into her car, the sky a darkening blue behind a parade of just-lit streetlamps that stretched, block after block, like a glowing rosary.

Carmela started her engine and slowly cruised around her old neighborhood, gazing at the enormous homes and enjoying her mingled feelings of awe and relief. Selling the home meant marking a decisive end to one very strange chapter of her life!

One door closes, another door opens
, she reminded herself.
That's the
way it usually works.

She drove slowly past her friend Baby's huge Italianate home. Everything looked quiet there tonight. Baby was probably enjoying a leisurely dinner with her husband, Del. Or maybe she was off on a play date with the grandkids.

Turning the corner onto Prytania, Carmela came up on Margo Leland's home. With both outside and inside lights ablaze, Margo's home was lit up like party central.

I wonder what Margo's up to right now?

Was she still in hysterics? Or lying in bed all conked out on bourbon and Xanax? Or was she crazy like a fox and had really wanted Jerry Earl dead and buried? And Eric Zane, too? Was a second murder just way too much of a stretch? Or was it icing on the cake?

Carmela decided that Margo could probably manage one murder. But two seemed to be pushing it. Somehow she just didn't see Margo luring Zane into the ladies' room for a whispered conference, then jamming a shish-kebob skewer into his ear.

That kind of cold-blooded murder required . . . what? A cold-blooded killer, she supposed. But also a certain steely nerve and decisiveness. It was one thing to grab a gun and pop somebody from a distance. But to get up close, look them in the eye, and watch them die . . . that was indicative of a dangerous psychopath.

So who?

Who indeed.

Carmela drove down the block and hooked a right turn. A large, black Range Rover had just pulled into a driveway, and Carmela was amazed when she saw Conrad Falcon scramble out of the vehicle.

Falcon! He lives across the back alley from Margo?

Why hadn't Margo ever told her about this?

Carmela thought for a moment, then realized that Margo
had
mentioned to her that Falcon lived in the neighborhood. She just hadn't said how close he was!

Carmela pulled to a stop across the street and killed her headlights. She watched as Falcon stalked up to a side door and disappeared inside his house. Two minutes later, the light in his front room snapped on.

So he was probably home by himself . . .

Carmela waited a few minutes, then slipped out of her car. She glanced up and down the street, feeling guilty and pulsing with nervousness. No cars were coming; no pedestrians or dog walkers were in sight.
Okay, good
, she thought as she crossed hurriedly.

Carmela chided herself about feeling guilty. After all, she was only trying to get a closer look at his property, right?

Gosh, I love a good rationalization
, she told herself as she dashed past Falcon's car and slid around the side of his house.

The backyard was a veritable jungle of magnolias, oleander, and gardenias with a few pecan and sweet olive trees tossed in for good measure. She had just waded through a spongy flowerbed and was tiptoeing across the lawn when a yard light flashed on. She heard the back door snick open. Then her breath caught in the back of her throat as she heard a disgruntled mumble followed by the loud bark of a dog!

Nerves fizzing, Carmela flattened herself against a tree.

What would she tell Falcon if he stormed out and caught her? If he accused her of trespassing and called the police?

She heard grunts and sniffles and knew the dog was heading right for her.

Oh no!

Carmela peeked around the tree, ready to confront a hulking Doberman or German shepherd and saw . . . a fluffy little bichon! Who trotted right up to her and happily wagged its tail.

Carmela bent down and let the little cutie sniff her hand.

“Are you going to give me away?” she whispered.

The dog rubbed his head against her hand as she stroked him between the ears. He chuffed and sniffed and his hind end shook happily.

Carmela stood up and whispered to him, “Now you be good and stay here.” She stepped quietly down the garden walk toward a wooden gate that had an arch overhead. She pressed her hand to the gate, grimacing as it creaked loudly, then pushed it open.

The gate led out to a narrow cobblestone alley bordered by a tall hedge of prickly junipers. Carmela stepped forward, rose up on her tiptoes, and peeked through the hedge.

And found herself looking directly into Jerry Earl's office!

Wow. So close. And so easy to access, especially if you know the neighborhood.

Carmela wondered if Conrad Falcon had stolen across the alley on the evening of Jerry Earl's big party. Had he stood in the shadows waiting and watching with murder in his heart? Then snuck into Jerry Earl's office and stabbed him? And stuffed his body into the clothes dryer?

Maybe. It could have happened that way.

Carmela ducked back across the alley into Falcon's backyard. She looked around for the little bichon, but it had disappeared and the yard light had gone off.

Good. Lucky.

But as she rounded the corner of the house, poised for a clean getaway, a light inside snapped on!

As light from the window suddenly spilled out to illuminate part of the garden, Carmela flattened herself against the outside wall. She felt cool bricks press against her and heard a muffled voice.

It was Falcon's voice. Talking low but with great intensity.

Taking a chance, Carmela leaned in and peered through the window. She could see the back of Falcon's head as he sat at his desk in a wood-paneled office. A Siamese cat was curled languidly in his lap. Probably the prize-winning cat from two nights ago.

Suddenly, he spoke loud enough for Carmela to hear.

“That's right,” Falcon said, his voice booming. “We can move our equipment in there first thing Monday.” There were a few moments of silence, then he added, “Yes, I'll have all the paperwork signed and sent over.”

Where were they moving equipment to? Carmela wondered. Another construction job that he'd stolen from Jerry Earl? Or something else entirely?

Falcon hung up the phone and dumped the cat onto his desk. Then he stood up and stretched, arms above his head, neck lolling from side to side.

Carmela ducked down hurriedly, deciding she couldn't make a move until his office light went off.

Several minutes passed, and she was starting to get a nasty cramp in her calves from crouching in the oleander.

What on earth is he doing in there?

As she waited, her paranoia began to get the best of her. Had Falcon seen her? Did he know she was hiding and was planning to . . .

The light winked out, leaving Carmela in the relative safety of darkness. She stood up, unkinked herself, and thanking her lucky stars that she hadn't been caught, quickly scurried away.

• • •

ONCE SHE GOT HOME, STILL THANKFUL SHE
hadn't been caught, Carmela scrounged around the kitchen for dinner. She wasn't terribly hungry, but finally decided on some baked shrimp. It was a simple, one-pan dish with shrimp, butter, lemon juice, seasonings, and parsley. She usually served it over pasta or rice, but tonight she'd have to make do with toast.

While her shrimp concoction bubbled and baked, Carmela poured a cup of kibbles into each of Boo's and Poobah's dishes. Five seconds later, their dinners inhaled, they were looking at her once again with pleading brown eyes.