Postcards from the Dead (10 page)

“Progressing, I’m told.”

“But such strange circumstances,” said Carmela. She decided it was time to lob a hardball question at Durrell. “Can you think of any reason why someone would have targeted Kimber?”

“No idea,” said Durrell. “Although my own theory is that someone had her in their sights because she was such a big deal here.”

“You think?”

“Absolutely,” said Durrell. “She had men swooning over her and women wanting to look like her. As you know, Kimber was extremely high profile. She was constantly being invited to walk in fashion shows, judge talent contests, and offer her personal opinion on just about everything.”

“She was a big fish in a small pond,” said Carmela. She wondered if that was the reason Durrell had dated Kimber. Had it given him access to people with money? Or had the two of them enjoyed a genuine relationship?

“She is greatly missed,” said Durrell. He composed his face into a sad expression, though Carmela thought he looked slightly more watchful than sad.

“What about the investigative reporting Kimber was doing for the station?” asked Carmela. “Do you think she could have uncovered something that led to her being targeted?” In other words, had she poked her nose into a hornet’s nest and gotten stung?

A flicker of surprise showed on Durrell’s face. As if Carmela had caught him off guard. “Kimber liked to throw herself into every project one hundred and fifty percent.”

“But as far as this investigative reporting,” Carmela continued, “do you know what she was working on?”

Durrell reached out, touched his index finger to a fat Montblanc pen that sat on his desk, and carefully aligned it with a red leather notebook. “No idea.”

Chapter 10

J
UJU
Voodoo boasted a high-gloss red front door where fat, bouncy black letters spelled out Juju Voodoo. A multipaned front window held a neon sign that glowed bright red and cool blue, illustrating an open palm with its basic head, heart, and life lines. A wooden shake roof, slightly reminiscent of a Hansel and Gretel cottage, dipped down in front.

“Ava?” Carmela called, as she pushed her way into the dark interior and was immediately greeted by flickering red votive candles and the fragrant aromas of sandalwood and patchouli oil.

Juju Voodoo was, of course, the premier voodoo shop in New Orleans. If you had your heart set on a life-size (death-size?) jangling skeleton, Ava could hook you up. Same went for voodoo dolls, evil eye necklaces, love charms wrapped in netting and lace, saint candles, incense, shrunken heads, and necklaces hung with carved teeth and bones. Inventory was key here, and Ava prided herself on having the perfect juju magic for whatever ailed you. Of course, most of the love charms were really herbs and spices, and the rest were fun tourist souvenirs.

But Ava did a land-office business and even offered a reading room in back, where, should you wish to commune with spirits from the great beyond, you could enjoy a tarot card reading, the
I Ching
, an astrology chart, or any other popular form of divination.

“
Cher
,” said Ava, popping out from behind a colorful display of Indonesian masks. “I had no idea you were going to drop by. Hang on.” She aimed her phone at one of the masks and snapped a photo, probably so she could send it to one of her customers. Since Ava had begun sending out photos of her merchandise, not only had she increased her customer base, but sales had nearly doubled.

“I was running around the neighborhood,” said Carmela, “and thought I’d drop in.”

Ava touched a finger to the side of her head. “Oh, right. You had your meeting with Durdle this morning.”

“Durrell,” said Carmela.

“Whatever,” said Ava. She reached out and brushed aside an errant strand of gray goat hair that decorated a second mask. “How did that meeting go?”

“Pretty much the way I thought it would. Like pulling teeth to get any concrete information.”

“Was he dodging your questions, or is the guy just a numbskull?” asked Ava.

“I think he’s scared and nervous,” said Carmela.

Ava’s brows shot up. “Nervous over what? You think he killed Kimber?”

“It’s possible,” said Carmela. “But there was another vibe, too.”

“Like what?”

“Hard to put my finger on it,” said Carmela. “But it just
felt
like something else was going on.”

“Huh.” Ava turned to watch as Miguel, her assistant, pulled out a Day of the Dead Ferris wheel and did his spiel for a customer.

“Also,” said Carmela, touching a hand to her hobo bag, “I have something weird to show you.”

Ava, smart cookie that she was, seemed to instinctively know what little goodie Carmela had brought. “Don’t tell me,” she groaned. “You got another one?”

“Another postcard,” said Carmela. “Yes.” She pulled it out and handed it to Ava. “I found it on my desk first thing this morning.”

Ava accepted it with some trepidation. “Are you telling me somebody broke into your shop and left this?”

Carmela grimaced. “We’re having new locks installed even as we speak.”

“Oh wow,” said Ava. “Wow, wow, wow.”

Carmela wasn’t sure if Ava was bothered by the break-in or by the fact that a second postcard had turned up. Or both. She tried to dispel her friend’s fear by turning flippant. “Isn’t that a great little item to bring to show-and-tell?”

“Not really,” said Ava. She set the postcard on the counter and stared at the offending object as if it carried traces of the bubonic plague. “Are you going to tell Babcock?”

“I don’t know. The jury’s still out.” Carmela really didn’t want to tell him. She knew he’d go ballistic.

“Let’s pretend I’m foreman of the jury,” said Ava.

“Okay,” said Carmela.

“I vote you definitely show this miserable thing to Babcock. After all, he’s a good guy, a smart guy. And, most importantly, he’ll have your safety at heart.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” said Carmela. “I’m afraid he’ll want to . . . oh, I don’t know . . . lock me in a glass cage or something.”

“Which wouldn’t be half bad if it were filled with bouquets of red roses and a case of fine champagne.”

They stared at the postcard as if it were some strange talisman, dredged up from antiquity. Finally, Ava stretched a hand out and tapped it with a shellacked red fingernail. “Another graveyard scene. Do you think these cards are supposed to be clues for something?”

“Clues for what? Death? Eternity? A warning?”

“I don’t know,” said Ava, shaking her head. “That’s the tricky thing about clues; you have to figure them out.”

There was a faint tinkle of bells and a suck of cool air. Overhead, a white wooden skeleton moved in a slow click-clacking jig.

“Huh?” said Carmela, jerking her head toward the back of Ava’s shop.

Then footsteps sounded and Madame Eldora Blavatsky, whose real name was Ellie Black, came walking in. She was Ava’s resident fortune-teller and psychic.

“Hey, Ellie,” called Ava.

Madame Blavatsky stopped abruptly and gave a little wave. “Hello, ladies.” Then she said to Ava, “I’m a little early; hope you don’t mind.” She was dressed in a floor-length purple skirt, red blouse with puffy sleeves, and a paisley shawl draped around her shoulders. Beads hung around her neck and large agate and opal rings flashed on her fingers. Standard fortune-teller garb.

“No problem,” said Ava. She made meaningful eye contact with Carmela and said, in a low voice, “
Cher
, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

Carmela shrugged. “Why not? What would be the harm?” Carmela wasn’t a huge believer in tarot cards, astrology, or even the
I Ching
. But when you had a genuine psychic in the house, who wouldn’t want to see if you could tap the keg, so to speak?

“Do you have a minute?” Ava called to Madame Blavatsky. “We’d like you to look at something that we think is kind of creepy. Maybe get your read on it.”

“Of course,” said Madame Blavatsky. She walked slowly toward them.

Carmela handed her postcard number one, then postcard number two.

Madame Blavatsky studied the postcards, then gazed directly at Carmela. “These came to you.”

“Yes,” said Carmela.

“After you witnessed the hanging.” Ava had obviously filled her in on Kimber’s murder.

“I didn’t actually witness it,” said Carmela. “I found Kimber Breeze after the fact.”

“But she was still hanging there,” said Madame Blavatsky. “Her body had not yet been recovered.”

“I’m afraid that’s true,” said Carmela, recalling the horror of the scene, the utter helplessness she’d felt.

Ava spoke up. “We thought perhaps you could try to glean some sort of essence or aura from the postcards. Help us figure out who sent them and why. You know, pierce the membrane into the unknown.”

Madame Blavatsky nodded. “I can give it a try.”

They all trooped toward the back of Ava’s shop and into the small octagonal-shaped reading room. The room was cool and dark and swagged with dark-green velvet draperies. Backlit by two small lights were a pair of stained-glass windows that had been salvaged from an old orphanage that had been torn down in the late forties. They depicted two angels, each carrying a small lamb, and Ava had discovered them in the back room of an antique store. Ava found them meaningful and loved them. Carmela had reserved judgment. She thought they came from an unhappy place and might exude a touch of bad karma.

Carmela and Madame Blavatsky sat down at a round table covered with a purple paisley shawl, while Ava dimmed the lights.

“I think the spirits prefer it dim,” Ava whispered to Carmela.

“Couldn’t hurt,” said Madame Blavatsky, as Carmela placed the two postcards in the middle of the table.

They sat for a few minutes, Madame Blavatsky with her eyes closed, and Carmela and Ava eyeing Madame Blavatsky, who seemed to be either focusing intensely or grabbing a quick catnap. Then her eyes suddenly flew open and she spat out one word. “Trickery.”

“Pardon?” said Carmela. Had she heard the woman correctly?

“You mean someone’s playing a trick on Carmela?” said Ava. “Well, we kind of knew . . .”

“No,” said Madame Blavatsky. “It’s not that simple. I’m picking up another energy field. Something that’s black and amorphous, probably because it deals with deceit, deception, or illusion.”

Now Ava’s eyes widened and she grabbed Carmela’s hand. “Well
that
doesn’t sound good.”

“Do you know who’s doing the deceiving?” asked Carmela, feeling a prickle of unease. “Can you see anything more?”

“I’m sorry,” said Madame Blavatsky, “but that part is rather unclear. You see . . .”

Carmela and Ava leaned forward.

Madame Blavatsky drew a decisive breath. “There are
multiple
deceptions.”

“Can you elaborate?” Ava asked.

Madame Blavatsky focused on Carmela. “I’m also getting strange images concerning the murder the other night.”

“Really,” said Carmela. “Do you get any feeling about the crime scene itself? The balcony?”

Madame Blavatsky’s eyes closed again. “Small, a very tight space.”

“That’s it!” said Ava.

“But I’m seeing an image from a different vantage point,” said Madame Blavatsky.

“Are you looking up?” asked Carmela. “From where the parade was happening below?”

Madame Blavatsky shook her head. “No, it seems to be a more . . . level perspective.”

Maybe those adjoining balconies?
Carmela wondered. And on the heels of that,
Doggone, maybe I should stop by the Hotel Tremain and take another look.

Madame Blavatsky’s eyes popped open and she let loose a long sigh. “Did that help? Any of it?”

“You know,” said Carmela, “I think it might.”

* * *

ON HER WAY DOWN DAUPHINE STREET, CARMELA
pulled out her cell phone and called Raleigh.

“Hey,” she said, when she finally got him on the line. “I took a look at that DVD you gave me.”

“Yeah?” said Raleigh. “What did you think?”

“The only thing that really jumped out at me,” said Carmela, “was the clown.”

“Huh,” said Raleigh. “That struck me as strange, too.”

“He’s there one second,” said Carmela, “then gone the next. Anyway, I found it a little creepy.”

“You think I should give a copy of that video to the police?”

“I think you pretty much have to,” said Carmela.

“Okay,” said Raleigh. “Thanks.”

“Listen,” said Carmela, “were you always teamed with Kimber? As her cameraman?”

“The last few months, anyway.”

“Including those investigative reports she’d just started working on?”

“That’s right,” said Raleigh.

“Without betraying any confidences, can you tell me a little about those reports?”

“We hadn’t shot much footage yet,” said Raleigh. “Maybe, like, five minutes of B-roll.”

“What’s B-roll?”

“Ah, just crap you stick in to pad a story. Location shots, stuff that helps to establish where you are or what you’re talking about.”

“So you’re saying that Kimber was still basically in the research stage?”

There was a full ten seconds of dead air and then Raleigh said, “I can tell you a little about what I know, which isn’t all that much. One investigation centered on a big-shot real estate developer named Whitney Geiger. Kimber had stumbled on some evidence that he might be running some kind of mortgage fraud scam.”

“Well, shoot,” said Carmela, sounding a little disappointed, “everybody and his brother is doing that these days. Was there anything else?”

“Yeah,” said Raleigh. “The other thing Kimber was working on had something to do with a drug dealer. Kimber was moving a little more cautiously on that one.”

“What kind of drugs?”

“Um . . . cocaine, I think.”

“Dangerous,” said Carmela. “Do you know who she was talking to?” In other words, did Raleigh know who the drug dealer was? If Kimber had actually made contact?

“I have no idea.”

“So you don’t know if Kimber made any inroads?”

“Not that I know of,” said Raleigh. He cleared his throat and said, “Wait a minute, are you thinking Kimber might have been murdered by a drug dealer?”

“I don’t know what to think,” said Carmela. “But I suppose it’s possible.”

“Possible or probable?” asked Raleigh.

“Again,” said Carmela, frustration welling up inside, “I don’t really know.”

* * *

IT WAS A SNAP GETTING BACK INTO THE BONAPARTE
Suite. Carmela just told the harried desk clerk at the Hotel Tremain that she was with KBEZ-TV and needed to double-check to ensure that none of their equipment had been left behind. The desk clerk, who was in the middle of checking two couples in, just nodded and slid the key across the counter to her.

Once Carmela entered the suite, she looked around cautiously. It was an oversized hospitality suite, done in a sort of thirties style in colors of celadon green and faded plum. The first room, a very large sitting room, consisted of two sofas, six matching easy chairs, a dining room table and chairs that could easily accommodate sixteen people, plus a long oak credenza that had doubled as a bar when she was here two nights ago.

Walking across an acre of carpet, Carmela stepped into the adjacent bedroom. It, too, was large, comfortable, and plush, done in the same green and plum shades, with a bathroom en suite. The entire place had obviously been carefully cleaned and straightened, since a collection of hotel placards was now scattered about. Room service menus, instructions for ordering in-room movies, ads for limousine services. Like that.

Walking back into the sitting room, Carmela glanced at the filmy draperies. She knew what lay beyond them. The balcony.

Drawing a deep breath, she pushed the draperies aside, cranked the door open, and stepped outside.

Sunshine sparkled down and a cool breeze whispered gently. From this fourth-floor perch, the bird’s-eye view of the French Quarter was dazzling. Blocks spread out below filled with green and blue Creole cottages, yellow brick buildings, rooftops of gray slate, and narrow cobblestone streets. Carmela was also afforded a peek into a dozen or so lush interior courtyards that were walled and completely hidden to passersby on the street.