Gossamer Ghost (18 page)

“Who's that?” asked Ava, looking interested.

Quigg pointed to the distinguished-looking gentleman at the head of the table. “This is Titus Duval, one of New Orleans's major bankers and a collector of fine art.”

“Oh crap,” Carmela muttered under her breath as Quigg continued to rhapsodize.

“What?” whispered Ava.

“That's the guy who supposedly already owns two death masks,” Carmela told her.

“Oops,” said Ava. “Now what do we do?”

“I don't know,” she said slowly. “Talk to him? Maybe try to figure out if he was in the market for a third death mask?”

Q
UIGG
waved a hand in Carmela's direction. He was ebullient and had no doubt been nipping at his own wine. “If you like my menu design, folks, Carmela here is the super talented lady who did all the graphics. She's also the owner of Memory Mine Scrapbook Shop over on Governor Nicholls Street.” There were smiles and a spatter of applause, and then he added, “Right next to the shop where that very strange man was murdered a few nights ago. The one who stole the death mask.”

“Allegedly stole,” said Carmela.

Duval peered at Carmela, suddenly looking interested. “Your shop is adjacent to Marcus Joubert's?” he asked.

Carmela nodded across the booth at him. “I take it you knew him?” She was stammering a bit, knowing full well that Mavis Sweet had sworn on a stack of dusty books that Joubert had an appointment with Duval the very same day the mask was stolen.

“I was a sometime customer,” replied Duval.

“Interesting,” said Carmela, smiling faintly. She figured that, with the kind of money Duval had, he would be frequenting New York art galleries, buying first-class paintings by David Hockney or Damien Hirst. Not poking through dusty odd-lot merchandise at Oddities.

Duval turned his attention back to his table, while Carmela continued to gaze at him. He was tall and slim, white-haired, and carried himself with a cool, patrician attitude. And he looked rich. Fat and sassy rich. From his manicured nails and hundred-dollar haircut, right down to the cut of his suit and the silk tie he wore.

Silk tie
, thought Carmela, her eyes going to it.
And look at the pattern. It's a bee motif.
But not just any type of bee.

Carmela recognized this design as the Napoleonic bee, the one the great French general had elevated to his own personal symbol and had artisans emblazon on everything from his dinnerware to his horse blankets.

“You favor the Napoleonic bee,” Carmela called to Duval.

He turned sharply. “Excuse me?”

“Your tie,” she said. “It's the Napoleonic bee.”

He gave her a steady gaze and then said, “Clever girl.”

Ava punched Carmela. “Did I just miss something?” she hissed. “What's going on?”

Carmela dropped her voice and hastily explained the bee symbol to Ava as Duval focused on his dinner guests.

“Oh jeez,” said Ava. “You don't think . . .”

“I don't know what to think,” said Carmela. “But I do know that man is so rich, he could buy and sell us a few thousand times.”

“What's he . . . wait, is he one of those tech billionaires?”

“Duval heads CBD Orleans Bank.”

“Ah,” said Ava. “So he's a competitor of Shamus's bank.”

“Yes, and Duval recently led the fund-raising campaign for the New Orleans Art Institute.”

“Sounds like he's got money to burn,” said Ava, glancing over at him. “Oh yeah, he must have. Look. Now he's pouring Cristal champagne for his entire table. Very impressive.”

“Uh-uh,” said Carmela, sensing Ava's interest. “Look but do not touch.”

“Killjoy,” murmured Ava.

They ordered steaming bowls of gumbo—crab gumbo for Carmela, oyster gumbo for Ava—and when dinner arrived, they tucked into it with gusto.

“Hot,” said Ava, waving her spoon. “But good.” She dabbed gently at her forehead with her napkin. “I gotta go easy, I almost beaded up.”

“Must be all those secret Cajun spices,” said Carmela. She reached for the champagne bottle. “More wine?”

Ava nodded. “I don't care if my glass is half empty or half full, as long as it's got champagne.”

“I hear you.”

Ava took a sip and gazed around the restaurant. “You know what's weird?”

“What's
not
weird?” said Carmela.

“Look around. Everybody's paired up. It's mostly couples here tonight.”

“Okay.”

“Why is that?” said Ava.

“Because all these people enjoy being unhappy?” Carmela snorted. “Just kidding. Bad joke.”

“No, really,” said Ava. “What
is
the deal with relationships? My single friends complain that all the good men are taken. But then all the married women complain about their husbands! What's a girl supposed to do?”

“Look who you're asking. I have no idea.”

“I guess you're not rushing to get married again?” asked Ava.

Carmela tilted her head. “I wouldn't rule it out, but I can't say I'm anxious to tie the knot anytime soon.”

“That's because you've got Babcock. A good, steady guy.”

“You make him sound like a pack mule.”

“Sorry,” said Ava. “But for me . . . I mean, I
like
male attention. And lots of it.”

“And you could use more?”

Ava nodded. “Even the bag boy at Broussard's Deli is starting to look good.”

“Eeyuuu. The one who looks like Joe Pesci?”

“Does he? I always thought he looked more like Matt Damon.”

“I guess you have to catch him in just the right light,” said Carmela.

“Or the produce section,” said Ava.

“You do need to find a man. And fast.”

“What I'm thinking,” said Ava, “is that I'm going to put in an application to Millionaire Matchmaker.”

Carmela opened her mouth to tell her what a terrible idea that was, but Ava's phone suddenly shrilled.

Ava raised a finger, snatched her phone off the table, and said, in dulcet tones, “Hello?” She listened for a few seconds and then giggled. “It's Charlie, my sweet little pupu platter.”

“Charlie . . .” said Carmela. She couldn't remember Ava mentioning anyone named Charlie. On the other hand, Ava was a serial dater, so she couldn't be expected to amass a database on each and every eligible (or not-so-eligible) man.

“Just a minute,” Ava said into the phone. She turned toward Carmela and rolled her eyes. “You know who . . .
Charlie
.”

“I really don't. Give me a hint.”

“That cute crime-scene guy?”

“The tech?” said Carmela. “The one Babcock refers to as a wunderkind, because he's basically twelve years old, wears his cap backward, and probably still tears around town on a skateboard?”

“Charlie's endearing,” said Ava. “And he's maybe two years younger than I am at most.”

“How old are you?”

Ava spoke into the phone. “Hang on a minute, sugar.” Then she turned her attention on Carmela. “You mean this year? Or next year?”

“Right now, at this very moment in time and space.”

“Okay, okay, you got me. So Charlie's maybe three or four years younger than I am. Whatever. The only time I really quibble about numbers is when it comes to my weight. Anyway, my little cupcake wants me to meet him for a drink at Dr. Boogie's.”

“He's going to need a fake ID to get in there.”

Ava mimed
Ha, ha, ha.

“In fact, your invitation sounds more like a booty call,” said Carmela.

“It's not,” said Ava, trying to sound prim. “It's a last-minute date.”

“Booty call,” said Carmela.

“It's not
technically
a booty call unless someone calls after midnight.”

“That's your cutoff time?”

“It's as good a marker as anything else.”

“Okay,” said Carmela, glancing at her watch. “Have it your way. Who am I to stand in the way of true romance?”

“I'll see you there in a couple of shakes,” Ava said into her phone. She hung up and said, “Walk me over there?”

“Sure, then maybe Charlie's dad can give me a ride home. Of course, he'll have to move Charlie's car seat.” Carmela raised a hand. “Check please.”

Their waitress hastened over. “It's all been taken care of.”

“Neat,” said Ava as she grabbed Carmela's hand and pulled her out of the booth.

Quigg accosted them as they passed the hostess stand. “Ladies, I hope you enjoyed your dinner.”

“You can't keep doing this, you know,” Carmela told him.

“What?” said Quigg. He was eyeing her as if she were a tasty hors d'oeuvre. “Being hospitable, showing my appreciation for good customers?”

“No,” said Carmela. “I mean feeding us for free and constantly flirting with me.”

Quigg laughed soundlessly. “Who's flirting?”

“You are,” said Carmela. “Anytime I come within twenty feet of you.”

Quigg leaned forward and whispered in her ear, “Maybe because I'm fascinated by you.”

“You're not.”

“I could be.”

“Quigg, you're a rogue and a womanizer,” said Carmela.

Quigg raised an eyebrow and smiled at her. “Just like your ex-husband?”

“Ouch,” said Ava, grabbing Carmela's arm and swiftly propelling her toward the front door. “We're outta here!”

“He's impossible!” Carmela sputtered, glancing over her shoulder at Quigg, who was still laughing softly.

“He's adorable.” said Ava. “Tall, dark, handsome, owns a fancy restaurant and a winery. If he wasn't so madly in love with you I'd go after him myself.”

“Quigg's not in love with me.”

“Oh,
cher
,” said Ava. “What you don't know about men sometimes.”

*   *   *

The crowds were still thick in the French Quarter as Carmela and Ava strolled along. When they got to Dr. Boogie's, a large group of people stood outside, drinking and smoking below the hot pink neon sign. Inside, music twanged, men bellowed, and women shrieked.

“You gonna be okay?” Carmela asked as she peered in the door. “It looks awfully raucous in there.” A garbled high-pitched scream pierced the night. “Out here, too.”

“Raucous is my middle name,” said Ava. She fluffed her hair, tugged her T-shirt lower in front, and basically chomped at the bit.

“Just remember, honey, you know you're in big trouble when the bartender knows your first and last name.”

“And friends you on Facebook,” said Ava, giggling.

“Yeah, well, all I'm saying is be careful, okay?” Carmela hugged Ava and started down the street.

“It's not a booty call,” Ava called behind her.

*   *   *

Carmela continued down the street, glancing occasionally into the front windows of various galleries and antique shops. She was happy from the champagne, sated by the food, and delighted to be heading home. Pushing her hand into the pocket of her tweed jacket, Carmela decided she just might give Babcock a call. See what was new in the wonderful world of crime fighting. Especially since she wasn't exactly making any huge advances herself.

Glancing into the window of Barnard's Booksellers, she noticed a clock and was surprised to see how late it was. Eleven o'clock already? Where had the evening gone? No wonder the crowds had thinned out considerably.

Crossing in front of an alleyway, Carmela quickened her pace. Maybe she should have grabbed a cab for safety's sake, even though she was enjoying the quiet and the cool wind that whooshed like a jet stream off the nearby Mississippi.

A car crunched behind her and headlights splashed across her, illuminating her in the glare. Then it swept past and she was alone again.

Scruff, scruff.

Carmela frowned. What was that? It almost sounded like . . . footsteps? Footsteps behind her? She spun around, hoping to see who it was. But no one was there.

I heard something.

She hurried across the street against the red light. She had her phone with her, so she could definitely call for a cab. But that would mean waiting here. In the dark. Not such a good option.

Scruff. Scrick. Scrape.

There it was again. Spinning fast on her heels, Carmela turned around, half expecting to be faked out again.

Half a block behind her was a lone zombie, walking steadily in her direction.

She froze for a moment, then tried to relax. Of course there's someone in a costume, she told herself. It's the week before Halloween. This poor guy probably ran the race tonight, which would even account for the slight limp. Still, the way the zombie had looked at her was slightly disconcerting. His eyes had drilled into her as if he knew her. She certainly didn't recognize the zombie. Then again, he was wearing green makeup and tattered clothes.

Carmela's heels beat a rapid tap-tap-tap against the sidewalk. But as her pace increased, so did the zombie's! She felt her heart flipping madly, like a trout out of water. What was going on? And why had she found herself in this more deserted part of the French Quarter where the shops were closed and the orange gaslights seemed to fade and falter?

The zombie continued to draw closer to her.

What was he thinking? No matter, Carmela was angry at what she perceived as harassment, and decided to handle it right then and there.

Spinning around, Carmela stood her ground and said, “Do you mind? It's really not very amusing to pull this creepy routine of yours.”