Gossamer Ghost (19 page)

The zombie just stared at her, an arrogant hint of a smile on its gray-green face.

Carmela's heart hammered inside her chest. She hadn't expected to be met with this confrontational, almost passive-aggressive attitude. And a smile that seemed to convey, “You're a tasty little morsel and I'd like to eat you up.”

Reaching down, she quickly pulled off her heels. Then, clutching her purse to her side like a running back grasping a football, she broke into a fast trot. Her bare feet pounded hard against the pavement as she raced for home, the zombie right behind her.

Adrenaline coursed through her veins as her legs pumped faster and faster. She covered two blocks before she managed a quick backward glance. The zombie was still pursuing her, but he had fallen behind. Thank goodness. Because even if he wasn't a real teeth-gnashing, flesh-eating zombie, he was certainly a very real person. Who seemed intent on doing her harm!

Feeling real terror now, her heart bumpity-bumping, Carmela dashed past the front door of Juju Voodoo and skidded around the corner. Her foot shot out from beneath her and she slipped on a cobblestone. One knee slammed hard against the pavement and she felt a hot trickle of blood. Then she was up and running, through the porte cochere
and into her courtyard.

Dropping her shoes on her front step, she rifled frantically through her purse.

Keys! Dear Lord, where are my keys?

Her fingertips finally touched metal and she ripped them out of the bottom of her purse. She was fighting to stave off a full-blown panic attack as she fumbled her key in the lock.

Carmela heard pounding footsteps closing in. She glanced back, didn't see anything, but promptly lost her focus and dropped her keys.

No!

The keys bounced once against a cobblestone and flew into the flowerbed. Carmela knelt down, her fingers hastily raking damp dirt. There they were. Vaulting back onto her front step, she jammed the key into the lock, heard a satisfying click, and burst through the door into the safety of her apartment.

Breathing so hard she sounded like an overwrought teakettle, Carmela slammed the door and locked it. She paused, glanced around wildly, and saw two inquisitive doggy faces staring at her. Their gaze seemed to say, “What the heck happened to you?”

“Am I ever glad to see you guys,” Carmela told them. Then she quickly stepped to the window and peered out. Dry leaves blew across the courtyard, tick-ticking against cobblestones. The trees were bathed in moonlight. But no zombie came lurching out of the darkness toward her front door.

What to do now? Dial 911 and try to explain what she'd thought to be a dire situation? Call Babcock and babble for help? She put a hand to her still-thumping chest and forced herself to think straight.

No, calling Babcock would be like detonating a nuclear warhead. He'd freak out and send the SWAT team over. Then he'd stake out her apartment and scrapbook shop night and day. Or, worse yet, he'd keep her sequestered somewhere. Probably in his bedroom.

No, what she had to do was try to get past this nasty little episode. Tell herself, in a keep-calm-carry-on kind of voice, that she was fine, that she'd somehow
handled
the situation. She needed to reassure herself that Boo and Poobah, her faithful fur babies, would stand guard over her all through the night.

That's it. That's what I have to do.

She glanced at the door as if, any minute, a crazed zombie might come crashing through it.

No. That's not going to happen. I dare not let my imagination run wild like this.

She glanced at the door again. Still, it would be nice to drop a drawbridge over a moat teeming with vicious, zombie-snarfing alligators.

C
ARMELA
wasn't all that thrilled to find herself rambling through a cemetery this Wednesday morning. Especially not after last night and especially since this was spooky old St. Louis Cemetery No. 1, just off Basin Street.

But she'd promised poor Mavis that she'd for sure attend Marcus Joubert's memorial service, so here she was. Banged-up knee and all.

This place was a strange choice, really, because there wasn't even a chapel in this particular cemetery. It was just a parking lot of tombstones as far as the eye could see. Row upon row of ancient stone and brick tombs, a few more upscale mausoleums, and various chipped and dinged statues that depicted lambs, angels, and random people who had long since passed.

This was the cemetery where the famous LSD scene from
Easy Rider
had been filmed. And, even now, Carmela could picture the long, lean Peter Fonda curled up in the lap of one of the marble statues, the impassive stone eyes of the statue staring down at him.

Crunching down a gravel passageway edged with a black wrought-iron fence, Carmela found herself in the heart of the cemetery—if that's what you could call it. To her right was a long row of tombs that looked almost like miniature white marble condominiums. They were the famed oven tombs. Once a body had been entombed in them for a year and a day, and the heat and humidity had battered away, the bones were eligible for removal. That is, they could be shoved down a slot to a
lower
level so another body was free to take its place.

Just ahead, Carmela could see a small gathering of people, all dressed in black like a passel of restless crows. Hopefully, this was Mavis's group, not just a gaggle of camera-toting tourists.

Yes, it was. There was Mavis, passing out fluttering sheets of music or prayers or maybe it was an auction notice. Who knew?

As Carmela drew closer, Mavis caught sight of her and waved an enthusiastic arm. “Yoo-hoo,” she whooped. “Over here!”

Carmela started toward the group, what appeared to be a half dozen uninterested-looking people, as Mavis rushed to greet her.

“Oh, Carmela,” said Mavis. She threw her arms around Carmela and gave her a tight squeeze. “I am soooo glad you came.” Mavis was dressed in a shapeless black dress and leather boots. A spill of black lace covered her hair and hung over her eyes. At first glance, Mavis looked like she'd just stepped out of an episode of
American Horror Story
.

Carmela, who was wearing a jaunty red leather moto jacket over a white T-shirt and khaki slacks, suddenly felt a trifle gaudy. But Mavis didn't seem to notice or care.

“You're such a good friend,” Mavis sobbed. “I was hoping to get a full house today for Marcus. He deserved better, but this is all . . .” Her lower lip quivered and fat tears coursed down her face.

Carmela's heart went out to her. “Oh, Mavis, you did your best. And Marcus loved you. So I'm sure he'd understand. That's all that matters.”

Mavis nodded and sniffed deeply, then grabbed Carmela's hand and pulled her toward the small group of men and women who were gathered nearby. They were shifting about nervously, unhappily, glancing at their watches, no doubt counting the seconds until they could make their escape.

Probably, Carmela decided, Mavis had begged and cajoled these few mourners into coming. Probably she had . . .

As Carmela composed herself and gazed directly at the small entourage, her smile literally froze on her face. Excuse me? What on earth was James Stanger, he of Gilded Pheasant Antiques, doing here? And Boyd Bellamy, the nasty landlord that Mavis had complained so bitterly about?

Carmela turned to Mavis, searching her face, looking for some kind of explanation.

“I know,” said Mavis, patting Carmela's hand. “But these are all the people who were the closest to Marcus in the last days of his life.”

Indeed they were, Carmela thought. Not only that, two of them occupied a prominent place on her suspect list!

But Mavis seemed to have her own agenda. She held up her arms and urged everyone to gather around a bronze plaque that commemorated the Battle of New Orleans. How this was apropos, Carmela had no idea. She only hoped that Jekyl would appear. He'd promised to meet her here—be her plus-one, if that's what you even called it at a funeral. Really, she just wanted him for moral support.

“Thank you so much for coming,” said Mavis, addressing the group. “I want you all to know that our dear Marcus was cremated yesterday and that I have his precious ashes here with me.” At that, Mavis bent down and pulled a bronze urn from a black leather tote bag. She held it up, like a prize recently won, and continued. “He would have been in favor of a simple, humble memorial service, it would certainly be in keeping with . . .”

Carmela felt warm fingers press against her arm and turned slightly to see who had just slid in next to her. It was Jekyl. He hadn't let her down. Dressed in a black three-piece suit that was tailored expertly to his slim figure, he beamed a smile her way. Though a pair of John Varvatos sunglasses masked his eyes, she knew they crinkled warmly.

“You made it,” Carmela whispered as Mavis droned on.

“Sorry I'm late,” said Jekyl. “You having fun yet?”

“This is so sad,” she whispered back.

Jekyl looked around. “Not exactly a record turnout.”

“That's what makes it sad,” said Carmela.

But Jekyl wasn't the only latecomer. Just as Mavis was recounting some of the highlights in Joubert's career, a familiar face from last night suddenly appeared—Titus Duval. He glanced her way, gave no hint of recognition, and settled a few feet from Mavis.

Interesting, Carmela thought. But what did it mean? That Duval was here out of duty or guilt? Or that Mavis had strong-armed him?

Mavis continued rattling off the highlights of Joubert's life, finally finishing with the opening of Oddities. Then she smiled at Titus Duval and crooked a finger.

Duval stepped forward and cleared his throat.

Oh my gosh
, thought Carmela.
He's going to speak
.

Duval turned out to be a rather eloquent speaker. He talked about how Marcus Joubert had been a man with a burning curiosity for art and antiquities. He praised his quest for knowledge, his courage for opening his shop, all the while conveniently leaving out any and all references to the stolen death mask or to Joubert's untimely murder.

It was, Carmela thought, a nicely sanitized memorial speech.

When Duval finally finished, he accepted a gracious hug from Mavis and then stepped away.

Mavis drew a deep breath and suddenly broke into a shaky a cappella rendition of “Amazing Grace.” She waved her hands like a manic choir director, encouraging everyone to please sing along. Everyone glanced about nervously and then reluctantly joined in.

When the service, what there was of it, was finally over, Jekyl gave Carmela a nudge. “Whatcha been up to?” he asked.

“This and that, hanging out at Mumbo Gumbo last night, then getting chased by a crazed zombie.”

“A zombie,” said Jekyl. “Did he catch you?”

“Obviously not. I'm still here, aren't I?” Then she gave him the long-story-short version of last night.

“Who do you think it was?” Jekyl asked. “An old boyfriend, somebody who knows you've been investigating, or just some random creep?”

“Not sure,” Carmela said slowly. “But now that you bring up random creep . . .” She inclined her head toward Titus Duval, who was speaking quietly with Mavis.

Jekyl gave a snort. “You think
he
was the zombie? Come on, he's as fat a cat as they come. You don't believe for a minute that Duval would put on full stage makeup and take a sprint through the French Quarter, do you?”

“Maybe not him, but he could certainly
hire
someone to do that.”

“Hmm,” said Jekyl. “You might be right.” Then he cocked his head and said, “Oh rats, will you look at that.”

Carmela followed his gaze and saw Zoe and Raleigh from KBEZ-TV pushing their way toward them. Zoe's face was set in a determined journalistic smile, her microphone was out, and she moved at a fast jog. Raleigh was paddling behind her, struggling to keep up under his heavy equipment.

When the group of mourners saw the reporters bearing down on them, they scattered like zebras in the path of a hungry lion. It was all of two seconds and they were gone, dodging gravestones and disappearing behind crypts.

“Looks like they're camera shy,” Jekyl remarked with a wry smile.

“Who do you think called Zoe and Raleigh?” Carmela asked. “Who would tip them off?”

Jekyl lifted a shoulder. “Your friend Mavis looking for publicity?”

“Doesn't feel right.”

Zoe skidded to a breathless stop directly in front of Carmela and said, “Did we miss it? Is it over?” Her face was pinched and pink and she seemed a little breathless.

“It's over,” said Carmela.

“Where are all the people?” Zoe looked confused.

“Gone,” said Carmela. She snapped her fingers. “Just like that.”

Zoe dropped her microphone as Raleigh chugged up behind her. “Crap, they didn't want to talk to me, did they?”

“Perhaps not,” said Jekyl. “At least that's the feeling I got.”

Zoe fought to recover. She wanted to get something . . . anything. “So was the service at least interesting?”

“Routine,” said Carmela.

“Any surprise guests show up?” Zoe asked.

“Nope.” Carmela was amazed she could give monosyllabic answers with such a straight face.

“Do you know . . . are the cops any closer to solving Joubert's murder?” said Zoe.

“I'm afraid you'll have to ask them,” said Carmela.

Zoe pursed her lips in frustration. “Okay, Carmela. Let me put it this way, are
you
any closer?”

Carmela just shook her head. “Please.” The less said the better.

“I'm gonna keeping coming around,” Zoe warned. “I'm not gonna let this go.”

*   *   *

“Are you looking forward to tonight?” Jekyl asked. They were driving, rag top down, in his bottle-green classic Jaguar, headed for Carmela's shop.

“Oh, absolutely,” said Carmela. “I always love Baby's parties. Especially her Halloween parties. Good food, good people.”

“Rich people,” Jekyl murmured. “The cream of the crop. And so many of them are in need of a knowledgeable art connoisseur.” His car was filled with dozens of half-empty water bottles, a painted coconut that kept rattling around on the floor, and a white clown mask. Carmela didn't ask.

They spun through the French Quarter, crossing Rampart Street and running past the Old Absinthe House. A quick turn onto Royal took them past Court of Two Sisters.

“When are you and I going to do brunch there?” asked Jekyl. “Eggs Benedict, waffles, and hot-boiled shrimp.”

“Anytime you want,” said Carmela. With the sun lasering down and a cool breeze lifting her hair and her spirits, she was starting to lose herself. The sights and smells of the French Quarter were seducing her into a daytime dream state. She smiled to herself as Jekyl zipped around a horse-drawn jitney, then spun past the Click! Gallery, and hooked a left onto Governor Nicholls Street. A few moments later they lurched to a stop in front of Memory Mine.

“Door-to-door service,” said Carmela, smiling. “Thank you.”

But Jekyl turned suddenly serious. “Carmela, as one of your bestest and dearest friends, I have to warn you about getting too involved in this thing with Mavis.”

Carmela was suddenly jerked back to reality. “What are you talking about? You do know I promised to help her.”

“I realize that, and I commend you for your sweet nature and loyalty. But there's a lot of money involved, Carmela.”

Carmela shook her head. “Involved . . . how? What do you mean?”

Jekyl leaned back in his seat, steepled his fingers together, and thought for a few moments. “I don't know how to explain this exactly, but anytime you've got old-line New Orleanians involved in something to do with Napoleon, you're sitting on a powder keg.”

Now Carmela really was puzzled. “Explain please.”

Jekyl smiled. “You don't know about the plot?”

Carmela rolled her eyes. Jekyl loved nothing better than doling out little mysteries, secrets, and innuendos. “Okay, I'll bite. What plot are you referring to?”

“Here's the thing . . . I'm talking about Napoleon. How he had long talked about a
new
French empire.”

“Okay.” Had he really? Carmela had no idea. Her recollection of history, which to her was basically anything before Kennedy and the Beatles, was a little fuzzy.

“And guess where that new
empire
was going to be launched?” Jekyl pronounced the word as
ahm-peer
.

“I'll bite. Where?”