Postcards from the Dead (7 page)

Chapter 7

B
ACK
at Memory Mine, afternoon business was brisk. Gabby was showing off their new line of leather-bound albums to a couple of customers, three women were happily browsing the floor-to-ceiling paper racks, two were oohing and aahing over their selection of silk and gossamer ribbon. But one woman, an older lady with a Snooki-type beehive, looked distinctly perturbed as she wandered about muttering to herself.

“Can I help you?” Carmela asked the perturbed-looking woman.

“I want to decorate some tags to use as place cards for a Mardi Gras dinner party I’m having, but I’m just not finding a single thing that works,” said the woman.

“Actually,” said Carmela, “we have some rather nice pre-cut tags.”

“You do?” said the woman. Her penciled eyebrows rose in twin arcs.

Carmela grabbed a packet of tags to show her. “Let’s see . . . these tags come in gold, cream, and green.”

“I do like that Mardi Gras green,” allowed the woman. “But then what? What do I do with them?”

Sensing this woman needed some serious hand-holding, Carmela said, “What about using a deckle-edged scissors to trim the edges and make them a little more interesting? Then you can print your guests’ names on purple paper, cut that out, and center it on the tags.”

“Okay.” The woman still looked hesitant.

“You could also add a few frills,” said Carmela. “To really punch things up. For example, maybe use gold ink and rubber-stamp a fleur-de-lis motif? Then stamp on a double image using silver ink.”

“I hear what you’re saying,” said the woman, “and I’m liking it.” Her good humor was beginning to shine through.

“You could also take some gossamer ribbon and thread it through the hole in the tag,” said Carmela.

“Sold,” said the woman. “I’ll take all of the items you just mentioned.”

Carmela grabbed the tags, colored paper, rubber stamp, ink pads, and ribbon, and put it all in a brown kraft bag, then added her crack-and-peel sticker. “If you need more ideas,” she told the woman, “stop by any time.”

Since Baby and Tandy had long since departed, Carmela hustled back to straighten up the craft table. She wondered how their angel notebooks had turned out, then figured they’d for sure show her tomorrow when they came back to make cigar box purses.

The ribbon rolls also needed organizing, and then her FedEx guy came clumping in to deliver a huge box of rubber stamps. Carmela lovingly unwrapped her new goods, marveling over the designs—some wonderful ballet and music images—and calculated just how she could incorporate the images into upcoming craft projects.

And all the while Carmela’s hands were working, she was also noodling around ideas. Or, to get real about it, she was noodling around suspects.

She wondered if Zoe could be considered a legitimate suspect? After all, the girl had been coveting Kimber’s job for a couple of years. Perhaps the frustration and pressure had gotten to be too much?

And what about Kimber’s mysterious stalker? Carmela certainly wanted to quiz Babcock about him. There had to be police reports on file, right?

Then there was Kimber’s brother, Billy. Where exactly did he figure in all of this? Had Kimber lent him money or had she turned him down cold? If she’d turned him down and the brother had been angry and upset, had he hung around? Or did he hotfoot it back to . . . where was he from? Somewhere out near Theriot.

And what about Davis Durrell? Was he a suspect or just a sad bystander? As a financial manager, could he have somehow mishandled Kimber’s funds and then been stuck with trying to get rid of a furious client/girlfriend?

Carmela was fairly quivering with ideas when she called Babcock’s cell phone.

“Carmela,” he said, by way of a greeting.

“Hey,” she said, trying to be upbeat and cheery without sounding wheedling, “I’m just checking in.”

“You’re calling because I interviewed Durrell this morning,” said Babcock. He was no fool. He had her number, for sure.

“Well . . . yes. I wondered how that went.”

“Durrell seemed subdued. Emotionally exhausted. Pretty much what you’d expect.”

“Not upset?” asked Carmela.

“I’d say he was that, too.”

“Did Durrell offer any ideas?”

“Nothing in particular,” said Babcock. “He talked about Kimber being a high-profile celebrity, which he thought placed an inevitable target on her back.”

“Kimber was a celebrity?” Carmela found that moniker a little preposterous.

Babcock heard the skepticism in her voice. “A minor celebrity, okay?”

Carmela thought back to her conversation with Zoe and decided to mention the stalker.

“Were you aware Kimber had a stalker?”

“How would you know that?” Babcock sounded on edge.

“Uh . . . I think somebody from the TV station mentioned it. Anyway, you knew about this?”

“Of course,” said Babcock, “I’m not without substantial resources.”

“What does that mean, exactly?” asked Carmela.

“It means I walked down the hall and asked someone in records if there were any arrests or reports concerning Kimber Breeze.”

“And that’s when the stalker thing came up?”

“Yes. Obviously.”

“Well . . . ?”

“Well nothing,” said Babcock. “The last stalker report was something like eighteen months ago. There hasn’t been an incident since.”

Carmela thought about that. “I wonder why not?”

“Could be anything,” said Babcock, sounding unconcerned. “The stalker might be obsessed with someone else, he might have conquered his compulsivity with medication, or he could even be incarcerated.”

“Jeez,” said Carmela. “Everything you just mentioned, it all sounds very . . . creepy.”

“The nature of police work,” said Babcock, “is to deal with unsettling people and situations. You realize, my dear, a homicide investigation isn’t about exciting car chases, flashing lights, TV interviews, and receiving the thanks of a grateful city.”

“I know that,” said Carmela. “It’s just . . .” She stopped midsentence. “Do you know . . . was Durrell’s relationship with Kimber purely girlfriend-boyfriend? Or did he manage her money, too?”

“I asked him about that,” said Babcock. “He said they were a couple only.”

“So she wasn’t his client?”

“Not unless he’s lying. And I have no reason to believe that he is.”

“What about Kimber’s brother?” said Carmela. “Billy . . .”

“Laforge,” said Babcock. “Billy Laforge.”

“Have you found out anything about him?”

“Gallant drove out to his farm this morning, but the brother wasn’t at home. When Gallant spoke with a neighbor, a guy who worked as a kind of occasional hired hand, the man said he hadn’t seen Billy for a few days.”

“You think the brother is on the run?”

“No, because I know Ed Banister at KBEZ talked to him about funeral arrangements. We just haven’t connected yet. But we will.”

Carmela digested all that Babcock had told her. It seemed like the investigation was going nowhere fast.

“Okay,” she said, “what about Zoe? That young TV reporter you talked to last night?”

Now Babcock sounded tired. “What about her?”

“She’s been waiting in the wings for a long time.”

“Waiting for what?” asked Babcock.

“Do we have a bad connection?” asked Carmela, “or are you just being obtuse?”

“
Excuse
me?”

“Zoe Carmichael’s been waiting to step into Kimber’s job,” Carmela said in a rush. “Waiting to jump into her four-inch stilettos and leap onto the TV screen. Zoe’s been counting the hours.”

“How would you know that?” asked Babcock.

“Because I just talked to her.”

“Carmela! You
are
meddling!”

Carmela played dumb. “Can I help it if I just find things out?”

“You’re going above and beyond just finding things out. You’re on the hunt.”

And it’s exciting!

She was bursting to say that, but didn’t.

Instead, Carmela said, “Apologies. I’ll pull back. I promise.”

“Why do I not believe you,” said Babcock, as the connection went dead.

Carmela spun her chair around in a lazy circle, thinking about Kimber’s murder. And her list of sort-of suspects. And wondered who she could talk to next.

The person I really want to talk to is Durrell. But that’s not going to happen.

She spun around again, catching quick images of a Jasper Johns print, the Eiffel Tower, ballet dancers, and old maps that were tacked on her office wall. All there to hopefully inspire a megawatt brainstorm.

Why can’t I talk to Durrell?

Because I would need a very good excuse or reason.

Carmela was enjoying this little conversation with herself.

So make one up.

Two minutes later, Carmela had an appointment with Davis Durrell for first thing tomorrow morning. She’d told his secretary, a nice older-sounding woman named Mavis, that she wanted to drop by for a couple of minutes to personally offer her condolences. Mavis, trusting soul, had bought it.

Happy now, Carmela sauntered out into her shop.

“Need some help?” she asked Gabby, who was standing at the cash register ringing up a customer.

Gabby shook her head. All seemed under control. In fact, they were edging toward closing time. So there probably wouldn’t be . . .

Another customer?

The front door opened and a waft of cool air whooshed in, shepherding in a tall man in a long, dark coat. He was lantern-jawed with a long horsy face and piercing eyes that peered out from beneath bushy gray eyebrows. The man glanced around with what felt like a hint of merriment, spotted Carmela staring at him, and immediately stuck out a bony hand. “Marcus Joubert,” he said, smiling and revealing large, almost pointed teeth. “Your new neighbor.”

“Oh, my gosh,” said Carmela, shaking off a strange feeling of unease and stepping forward to shake his hand. “You opened the new shop next door, you’re the proprietor of . . .”

“Oddities,” said Joubert.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” said Carmela. “I’m sorry I haven’t been over to formally welcome you to the neighborhood. It’s been so crazy here and I . . .”

Joubert flapped a hand to dispel her concern. “Don’t be silly. Of course you’re busy, it’s Mardi Gras.” He gave a wolfish grin. “But I think when you find time to visit, you’ll find I’ve orchestrated a rather unusual shop.”

“I’ve heard rumbles to that effect,” said Carmela. “Hence the name Oddities.”

Joubert nodded. “But I understand, Ms. Bertrand, that you sometimes deal in strange things, too.”

Carmela wasn’t following him. “Excuse me?”

“This morning’s
Times-Picayune
said you witnessed a rather gruesome murder.” Joubert seemed to take a strange satisfaction in mentioning Kimber’s murder.

Carmela thought it a little odd but reminded herself there were lots of crime groupies. Babcock had told her all about it. There were people who were forensics freaks as well as cop wannabes who followed all the action on police scanners and radios.

“I wasn’t really a witness,” she told him. “I was just sort of
there
. Along with a quite a few other people.”

“Still,” said Joubert, “the French Quarter has a well-deserved reputation for strange goings-on. Where else does one find voodoo shops, strip clubs, absinthe bars, haunted hotels, and shops filled with priceless antiques nestled shoulder to shoulder?”

“Point well taken,” said Carmela. “I guess we’re just a patchwork of craziness.”

Joubert reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small black envelope. “An invitation to my open house,” he told her. “This Saturday evening.”

“Thank you,” said Carmela, accepting the envelope.

Joubert gave a thin smile, then lifted his hat and tipped it at Carmela. “I’d love it if you could come.” He glanced over at Gabby. “You, too, ma’am.”

“We’ll certainly try,” said Carmela, following him to the door and then waving good-bye.

When the door had closed behind him, Gabby said, in a low voice, “He makes me nervous.”

“Seriously?” said Carmela, even though she’d felt a little tickle, too. “I think he’s just an odd duck who forgot to mail his invitations.”

“Have you seen what’s on display in his front window?”

“I haven’t really had time to look,” Carmela admitted.

“Well, when you do,” said Gabby, “I’d love to hear your reaction.”

* * *

CARMELA SPENT TEN MORE MINUTES STRAIGHTENING
up Memory Mine. Then she turned off her computer, latched the back door, and bid good night to Gabby, who waved a hurried good-bye as she slipped out the front door. Alone now, Carmela moved to the front counter, enjoying the peace and quiet that came with the close of day. Grabbing a pen, she quickly scrawled out a grocery list. Ava was coming over tonight for dinner and she wanted to fix a nice pot of shrimp and tomato stew. And if she could find fresh pecans at Mason’s Market, she might even whip up a tin of her strawberry pecan biscuits.

And what else? Oh, wine. Except she had plenty of that, compliments of Quigg, who had gifted her with two full cases.

The streetlights in the French Quarter were just coming on, spilling little puddles of light onto the sidewalk, as Carmela exited her shop. Across the street, Glisande’s Courtyard Restaurant looked cozy and enticing with small white lights twinkling in the palmetto trees that fronted the restaurant. Upstairs, through the black wrought-iron grillwork, Carmela could see a tuxedo-clad waiter setting up for what was probably a private dinner party. Probably a pre–Mardi Gras gala.

As she turned and cruised past Oddities, Carmela slowed, then stopped to stare in the front window. The shop, she decided, was aptly named. Because what she saw struck her as very odd indeed. There was a strange arrangement that featured a stuffed capuchin monkey, antique medical devices of indeterminate usage, old black-and-white photos of conjoined twins, an apparatus that looked suspiciously like a thumbscrew, and any number of bleached white animal skulls and bones.

Carmela stood in the fading light and wondered,
Is there even a market for items this bizarre?