Gossamer Ghost (11 page)

“I'm just putting the facts out there as best I can,” said the countess as she started to turn away. “Make of them what you will.” She hesitated and frowned. “But, seriously, Carmela, I'm convinced Stanger was willing to do just about
anything
to get his hands on that property.”

“That may be true,” said Carmela. “But it's your property now. So it sounds like
you're
the one who'd better be careful.”

*   *   *

“Is she as crazy as she seems?” asked Ava as they strolled down Governor Nicholls Street.

“Worse,” said Carmela. “I think she's delusional.” On the other hand, maybe the countess was dumb like a fox. Who knew? Who could tell behind her façade of bravura and brashness?

“She strikes me as the worst kind of Eurotrash.”

“I hear you,” said Carmela. “But I'm not even sure she's from Europe. There's something unpleasant and inherently phony about her and her husband and their goofball titles.”

“But she must have some money, right? After all, she is opening a high-end jewelry boutique. I'm guessing that requires some serious cash and inventory.”

As Carmela was about to answer, the white KBEZ-TV van slid to a stop directly in front of them and a door popped open.

“Hey there,” said Zoe. She sprang out of the passenger seat to greet Carmela and Ava.

“What are you guys up to?” Ava asked with a broad smile and a toss of her head. She was never opposed to having her lovely face appear on TV. In fact, she could photo bomb with the best of them.

“Raleigh and I are just cruising the Quarter,” Zoe explained. “Shooting zombies and the parade.” She shrugged. “Human interest stuff.”

“Not human.” Ava chuckled. “
In
human.”

Zoe pointed a finger at her. “Ha, good one. Mind if I use that in my report?”

“Be my guest.”

Zoe switched her focus to Carmela. “What I'd really like is an update on that Marcus Joubert murder.”

“I haven't heard much,” said Carmela. She was reluctant to let too much slip for fear she'd end up a crazy sound bite.

“You're trying to turn KBEZ into a regular disaster channel,” said Ava.

“How about that Napoleon death mask thing?” Zoe pressed.

“Nope.” Carmela decided the safest route was to play innocent.

Zoe studied Carmela with a look of cool appraisal. “Are you sure about that? Because it seems to me you're a fairly skilled investigator in your own right. And being so close to Detective Babcock, you might even pick up some inside information.”

“Who me?” said Carmela. “No, no way. You really think Babcock's going to let me elbow my way into his homicide investigation?”

“Eh,” said Zoe as she flipped a hand. “Whatever. But let me know if you hear anything, okay?” She gestured to Raleigh, who nodded and shouldered his heavy camera with a sigh. “C'mon. Let's go shoot that gang of zombies across the street.”

Ava tugged at Carmela's sleeve as the TV team headed out. “
Cher
, please don't go home just yet. Let's just peek in on the Zom Prom. After all, it's the official kickoff for Halloween week!”

“That's funny,” said Carmela. “And here I thought the murder of Marcus Joubert was the kickoff.”

Ava considered Carmela's words for a moment. “Hmm, I guess it kind of was.”

“You go and have fun,” Carmela urged. “Grab yourself a good-looking zombie dance partner and lurch your little heart out.”

“You sure you don't want to come along?”

“I'm going to run home and grab the dogs. Take them for a quick walk.”

“Okay,” said Ava, spinning on her heels. “See ya later!”

*   *   *

Boo and Poobah were delighted to see Carmela. They were even more thrilled when she clipped leashes to their collars and led them outside. The night air was cool and lush, with moonlight shining down through the live oak tree in the courtyard and creating interesting spatter patterns on the bricks. The small fountain burbled noisily as Boo stopped to take a drink.

Then they walked through the porte cochere and out onto the street.

It was quiet and fairly subdued in this part of the French Quarter. Most of the festivities were going on in the more touristy parts like Jackson Square, Pirate's Alley, and all along Bourbon Street.

Carmela and the dogs loped along, passing Buisson's Deli, a tiny map shop, and Strutt's Bakery. On impulse, she cut over to Conti Street, where she and Babcock had strolled just last night, when he'd taken her to Sparks Pawn Shop.

Johnny Sparks, she thought. She should Google him and see what comes up. See how bad a guy he really . . .

Carmela caught a hint of movement just ahead of her and stopped dead in her tracks. Boo and Poobah stopped, too, realizing in their doggy brains that something was up. She watched as, half a block away, a tall, lean figure loitered outside Sparks Pawn Shop, peering in the window.

Ducking into a doorway, the doorway that led into a camera shop, Carmela yanked the dogs in after her. All the time wondering if the person on the sidewalk might be Johnny Sparks himself.

Of course, she didn't know what Sparks looked like. She'd never even seen a picture of him. Or, if she had, she didn't remember.

So . . . maybe she should try to catch a glimpse of him right now? What could it hurt?

Slowly, methodically, moving in what could only be called extreme slow motion, Carmela stuck her head out. It was dark and the figure had his shoulders hunched forward and was glancing about almost furtively. Then, as the man turned, a sliver of light from the window fell across his face.

Carmela was stunned by the flash of recognition that rocketed through her brain!

That's James Stanger. What on earth is he doing here?

Stanger was fidgeting outside Sparks Pawn Shop, hands shoved deep inside his jacket pockets, peering anxiously through the front window.

What was going on? Was Stanger waiting for some sort of meet-up? Did Johnny Sparks and James Stanger
know
each other?

She turned this notion over and over in her head and decided that Stanger had to be waiting for Sparks. They must be hooking up for some sort of meeting. So . . . was it a
business
meeting?

Carmela's first inclination was to immediately rush home and call Babcock. Tell him exactly what she'd seen and what she thought might be going on.

Then she stepped back into the shadows and considered her actions a little more carefully. Maybe she shouldn't call Babcock. Maybe not just yet. Because she really didn't know
what
was going on.

There was certainly no law against loitering. So maybe, just maybe, she should stand her ground and see if she could figure out if there was a meeting after all?

Carmela stood in the gloom of the doorway as five minutes ticked by, then ten minutes. Meanwhile, Stanger bounced nervously on the balls of his feet, gyrating this way and that. It looked as if he was waiting for something big to happen.

But what? Carmela wondered.

Boo and Poobah tugged at their leashes, restless and bored. The night was growing colder and the lateness of the hour meant this part of the French Quarter was getting more and more deserted.

Finally, when Stanger's back was turned to her, Carmela slipped out of the doorway and hurried away. As she walked along, she came to what she thought were a couple of logical conclusions.

Stanger had something weird going on.

No one seemed to be in any immediate danger.

So . . . she would definitely keep this sighting of him under her hat. That way, she'd be free to follow up on the Stanger-Sparks connection all on her own.

“I
thought you were going to wear a costume today,” said Carmela. It was Monday morning and she and Gabby were at Memory Mine, sipping cups of coffee that Gabby had thoughtfully picked up at the Café du Monde. She'd also grabbed an order of beignets, those legendary little New Orleans pastries that were deep fried, smothered in powdered sugar, and came three to an order. Carmela had eaten one, Gabby had eaten one, and now the third beignet sat between them like a ticking, sugar-coated time bomb.

“Carmela, I
am
wearing a costume.” Gabby smirked. “I'm dressed as a volunteer for the Junior League.”

Carmela pretended to study her assistant carefully. “Let's see. Cashmere twinset, check. Tasteful gold and pearl earrings, check. Pencil skirt and loafers from Talbots . . .”

“Oh you!” Gabby grabbed a package of black crepe paper and pretended to give Carmela a whack.

“Ouch!” said Carmela, jumping up and almost spilling her coffee. “No harassment, please.”

Gabby snorted. “Why? Because you're the boss?”

“Because we don't have time for this stuff,” said Carmela. “We're going to be busy today. Head-spinning busy, in fact, like that poor kid in
The Exorcist
.”

Gabby had to agree. “Just four more days until Halloween means we'll be inundated.”

“Did our shipment of paper and charms arrive?”

“Yes, and you were right, Frisky Creations did release some wonderful new stuff. In fact . . .” Gabby ducked down and pulled a cardboard box out from below the front desk. “You should take a look at some of the charms and paper. Very cool.”

“Let's start unpacking and get everything on display then,” said Carmela.

Gabby pulled out a plastic bag filled with smaller cellophane bags. “These are the Halloween brads and charms. What do you think?”

“Cute. And what about the paper?”

Gabby dug a shrink-wrapped stack of paper out of the box, grabbed a cutting tool, and slit the package open. “Refills on the Halloween stuff we ran out of and then packages of rice paper and some other fibers, all pretty neat stuff.”

“Perfect.”

Gabby narrowed her eyes and peered at Carmela. “Did you know that Mavis is next door packing things up?”

“She is? Already?”

“I think she got to her shop real early. I noticed that the lights were on and that she was working away when I arrived here. And you know I'm kind of an early bird.”

“Ava and I paid a visit to Mavis last night,” said Carmela. “To kind of, you know . . .”

“Pump her with questions?”

“We tried to be a little more polite than that.”

“Did you find out anything new?”

“Not really. Just that Mavis is heartbroken, suffers from low self-esteem, and received an eviction notice from the landlord.”

Gabby made a face. “Every single bit of that is just awful and downright unfair. But all three problems piled one on top of another . . .”

“You can thank Boyd Bellamy for issuing that eviction notice.”

“I hate that he's our landlord, too,” said Gabby.

“I hear you. And he's apparently salivating until he can dump the Oddities merchandise and rent the newly improved space to that crazy countess lady.”

“The whole situation is abhorrent,” said Gabby. “It's always about the money, isn't it? Remember when business used to be conducted in a far more genteel fashion?”

“Not really,” said Carmela. “Ever since I've been in business it's always been dog-eat-dog.” When Gabby gave her a reproachful look, she added, “Well, maybe not for us. We're not driven mad in our scramble for the almighty dollar. Memory Mine keeps humming along because we love scrapping and crafting and helping our customers find a creative outlet.”

Gabby's expression was just this side of dubious. “That sounds awfully altruistic, Carmela.”

“Okay, and we make a buck or two while we're at it.”

“There's the Carmela I know and love.”

Carmela picked up a spool of ribbon and hung it on a display rack. “I think I'm going to run next door before things get too crazy and see how Mavis is doing. See if I can be of any help.”

“Blessings on your head,” said Gabby. “That's very thoughtful of you.”

But as Carmela flew out the front door, she knew she wasn't doing this because she was thoughtful. She was checking on Mavis because this whole murder and death mask situation had stirred an insatiable curiosity within her. Yes, she felt terrible for Mavis Sweet. But, at the same time, she was intrigued. By the murder, by the mask, by pretty much everything that was going on.

Carmela rattled the knob on the front door and found it locked. She knocked on the window and peered in. Through a wavering pane of blue-green glass, she saw Mavis glance up from where she was working at the rolltop desk. Then a flash of recognition registered on the girl's face and she hustled forward to unlock the door.

“Carmela,” said Mavis as she let her into the shop. “I was going to come over and say hello, but I . . .” She gestured at dozens of brown cardboard boxes that were tumbled everywhere. “I have so much packing to do.”

“It all has to be packed up?”

“Lock, stock, and barrel, and as soon as possible. The landlord isn't giving me any grace period at all.”

Carmela followed Mavis to the back of the shop, where a radio played faintly and the faux Tiffany lamp cast a puddle of brightness in the dimly lit shop.

“This is so sad, so awful,” said Carmela. Merchandise that had been painstakingly displayed was scattered haphazardly, and she could literally feel Mavis's pain.

“Closing this shop is like a dagger to my heart,” said Mavis. “But what can I do? I have zero options. And, in the long run, it's probably what Marcus would want. Just pack it all up and dispatch it to . . . wherever.”

Carmela looked around at the cardboard boxes and strapping tape and rolls of bubble wrap. “What
will
happen to all this stuff?” she asked.

Mavis made a grimace so painful it had to be involuntary. “First it'll be packed and stored in a warehouse. And then, when Marcus's estate is finally settled, it will all probably go to an auction house. He has a sister who lives in Pomona, California, who I talked to late last night. It appears she'll be making all the decisions from here on. She'll keep me as an employee until I'm able to empty out the shop. And then, like I said, she'll probably sell everything at auction or to some dealer.”

“You can't carry on with the shop?”

“I
thought
about trying to keep Oddities going,” said Mavis. She grabbed a bronze goblet and a piece of bubble wrap and began wrapping. “In fact, I sort of pitched the idea to his sister. But the more I noodled it around, the idea of carrying on without Marcus was just emotionally crushing. This place wouldn't be the same without him. I'd always feel sad. Like there was a piece missing.”

“You realize,” said Carmela, “there's a chance you have a claim to this shop. I mean, you were formally engaged to Marcus, right?”

Mavis stopped her packing. She balanced a crystal globe in her hand and now she stroked it gently. “I hadn't thought about that angle.”

“There might be a will or some sort of directive.”

“I really don't know,” said Mavis.

“Did Joubert have an attorney? Someone who helped him with business contracts and such?”

“Yes.”

“Then you have to huddle with that attorney and see if you somehow figure into the estate. In fact, you need to go through all the papers that are stashed here in the shop. See if there's some kind of will.” Carmela paused. “You told me you were going to look around and see if you could locate a sales receipt on the death mask. Have you done that yet?”

“No.” Mavis cleared her throat. “What happened was . . . I came in here, felt depressed, and got kind of muddled down. But I'll look, I promise I will.”

“Do it for your own sake,” said Carmela. “For your own peace of mind. Because there's a possibility you really could have some sort of claim.”

“That would be . . . interesting,” said Mavis. “Though I'd still probably have to strike a deal with the sister.”

“Sure,” said Carmela. “But maybe you could try to swing a bridge loan. To buy out her share of the shop and its contents.” She looked around at the beetle collection, stuffed monkey, and old jewelry. “It couldn't be worth that much.”

“But the lease is gone.”

“Relocate,” said Carmela. “There are other spaces for lease around the neighborhood. Or close by in the Faubourg Marigny.”

“Gosh, you're smart,” said Mavis. “How did you learn so much about business?”

“Trial and error,” Carmela told her. “Mostly error.” She shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “I don't suppose . . . well, is there going to be a funeral?”

“Not a funeral per se,” said Mavis. “But I talked to a few of his friends and we're putting together a simple memorial service for this Wednesday in St. Louis Cemetery No. 1. I hope you'll come.”

“Of course I will.”

Looking relieved, Mavis put a hand to her chest. “Thank you. Because I think it's going to be a pretty small group of mourners.”

“Let me ask you something,” said Carmela. “What do you know about James Stanger?”

“You mean . . . ?”

“The man down the block who owns Gilded Pheasant Antiques.”

“Mnn . . . I don't know much of anything,” said Mavis. But the pained expression on her face gave it away. Mavis wasn't a very good liar.

“You know
some
thing,” said Carmela.

Mavis bit her lip. “Okay, I know for a fact that Marcus and James Stanger never got along.”

“Lots of people don't get along,” said Carmela. Case in point, she and her ex-husband, Shamus. The sex had been great, but the “everything else” had been ghastly. Then again, Shamus was a liar, a cheat, and a braggart. A trust fund baby who'd been born with a silver foot in his mouth. Carmela turned her attention back to Mavis.

“Something about the mention of Stanger's name made you feel . . . mmn, uncomfortable.”

“Okay, how about this? You might say that he and Marcus
hated
each other.”

“You mean like sworn enemies?” This was news to Carmela. “Why do you say that? Better yet, do you know what caused this rift?”

“Apparently, they got caught up in some horrible dispute. Way back when.”

“What was it about?” Carmela asked.

“Marcus never did tell me. He just always said that Stanger was a miserable cheat.” She hesitated and her eyes went big. “Wait a minute, why are you asking about Stanger?”

“Just something I'm following up on. A kind of . . . thread.”

But Mavis was no dummy. “Carmela,” she said, practically breathless. “Is that who you think might have come in and stabbed Marcus? I mean, he might have let Stanger in the back door. Might have dropped his guard for a minute.”

“No, no,” Carmela said hastily. “I was really just asking an innocent question.”

“I'll tell you something.” Mavis looked thoughtful. “I never cared for James Stanger. I never trusted the man.”

“Based on a feeling?” Carmela asked. “Or actual working knowledge of something?”

“Let's call it past performance,” said Mavis. “Stanger kind of prided himself on trying to outbid Marcus at the various auctions they found themselves together at. Plus I heard that Stanger had imported some Chinese antiquities and was in big trouble with the Chinese government.”

“Interesting,” said Carmela. “I heard that exact same thing from another source.”

“Which means it must be true,” said Mavis.

“Do you know a guy named Johnny Sparks?” Carmela asked.

Mavis's brows pinched together as if she was thinking hard. “I don't think so.”

“You're sure?”

“Wait a minute, is he the sleazy guy who owns all those pawn shops? And he sometimes does obnoxious TV commercials? There's, like, a jingle.”

Carmela nodded. She'd had that stupid jingle stuck in her head once for an entire day and it had driven her crazy. Made her want to bash her head against a brick wall. Something about
You think it's trash, but it could mean
cash.
“That's the guy,” she told Mavis. “The Pawn Shop Czar of New Orleans.”

“I can't say that I really
know
Sparks.”

“The thing is, did Joubert know him? Do you know if he ever did business with him?”

Mavis looked doubtful. “That I wouldn't know.” Then she rethought her statement. “Well,
maybe
they did know each other. It's kind of a stretch, but they were basically in the same business.”

“Sparks was into antiques? I though he just handled stolen Rolex watches, car stereos, and wedding rings pawned by unhappy divorcées.”