Gilt Trip (15 page)

F
IVE
minutes later, the front door flew open and Bobby Gallant blew in like an ill wind. His mouth was pulled tight, his brow was deeply furrowed, and his jaw was in locked position.

By that time, all hell had broken loose. A crowd had gathered, and Margo and Beetsie were toddling around like a pair of hysterical zombies. Only Ava seemed to have recovered fairly well from her fright and was sipping a hibiscus martini given to her by a passing waiter.

Gallant thundered down the hallway, two uniformed officers and a full paramedic crew in tow.

“Out of the way, let us through,” he barked as waiters and looky-loos scattered like bowling pins.

When Gallant saw Carmela, he said, “You! I should have known.”

“I didn't do anything!” Carmela bleated.

“You found him,” said Gallant. “That's bad enough.”

“I didn't mean to,” said Carmela. “We just sort of . . . stumbled upon him.”

Gallant stood off to one side while the uniformed officers grappled with screwdrivers and crowbars and pried the entire door off its hinges. Then he pulled on a pair of latex gloves, ducked into the room, and knelt down next to Zane. He studied him for a couple of minutes, then said, “The personal assistant, right?”

“That's right,” said Carmela. “Eric Zane.”

“Been dead for what?” said Gallant. “Maybe twenty minutes or so?”

One of the blue-suited paramedics nodded. He seemed to concur.

“But how?” Carmela asked. She continued to hover in the hallway just outside the ladies' room. “What happened to him? I don't see a gunshot wound or anything.”

Ava had edged down the hallway, the better to be in on the action. “We didn't
hear
a gunshot.”

Gallant was grim. “Another stabbing.”

“Oh dear Lord,” said Ava. “Don't tell me it was one of those trocar things again.”

“No, but I'd say this is equally strange,” said Gallant. He reached down and gently pointed to a thin trickle of blood on one side of Zane's head. “It appears that someone jammed a thin piece of metal into his ear. Like a metal skewer or something.”

“Oh no!” said Carmela. “You mean a skewer from one of the shish-kabobs?”

“The
what?
” said Gallant. He looked up at them, half-angry, half-surprised.

“They served mini shish-kabobs at the luncheon,” Carmela explained. She was suddenly feeling queasy in her stomach.

“Fillet mignon and pearl onions,” Ava said helpfully.

“How long were the skewers?” Gallant asked.

“You haven't pulled it out yet?” asked Ava. “Gack.”

“It's part of the crime scene,” said Gallant. He sounded irritated. “So we have to leave it in place and let the ME deal with it.” He looked at Carmela again, waiting for an answer.

Carmela held her hands a few inches apart. “Maybe . . . seven or eight inches long?”

“Enough to do the job,” said Gallant.

“You mean enough to kill him?” asked Carmela.

“You pierce the central cortex,” said Gallant, “you're talking instant death.” He shook his head. “Who would do this? And why?”

“I think I might know something about that,” said Carmela. “At the cemetery, just before I ran into you, I . . . I heard Zane arguing with someone.”

“Arguing? Arguing with who?”

“I have no idea. If I knew that, I'd tell you.”

“Was it a male? A female?”

“Now that you ask, I'm not totally sure.”

“Do you think it might have been Duncan Merriweather?” Gallant asked.

Carmela stared at him. Maybe he had taken her seriously.

“I suppose it could have been him,” she said.
Then again, it could have been anyone
.
It could have even been Beetsie.
Carmela tried to shake the feeling of helplessness that had suddenly engulfed her.

“Did Zane sound like he was being intimidated?” Gallant asked.

“Not at all,” said Carmela. “In fact, I got the distinct impression that he was the one who had the upper hand. That he might even be trying to blackmail someone.”

“Blackmail? Blackmail over what?” Gallant demanded.

“No idea,” said Carmela. “Maybe . . . maybe you should try to ask Margo?”

Gallant glanced down the hallway, where Margo was crouched and babbling. “I don't know, she's pretty hysterical right now.”

“You have to try,” said Carmela.

Gallant shrugged and walked down the hallway. He had a short conversation with Margo, the upshot being she started blubbering and waving her arms around in a spectacular fanning motion.

“I'm guessing Margo's not making a whole lot of sense,” said Ava.

“I think you might be right,” Carmela agreed.

Gallant rejoined them. “No rational answers to be found there.”

“What did you expect?” said Carmela. “Margo's had a bad shock.” Heck,
she'd
had a bad shock.

“Why don't—” Gallant caught himself before he said another word.

“What?” Carmela said.

He grimaced and shook his head. He didn't look happy. “I can't believe I'm about to ask you this.”

“What?” Carmela said again.

Gallant gazed at her and said, “Why don't you try to talk to Margo? She might respond more positively to a woman. A friend.”

“A friendly woman,” said Ava.

Carmela was mildly amused. “Me? I thought you wanted me to stay out of this.”

“Well, you're in it up to your armpits now,” said Gallant. “So could you at least try? Talking to her, I mean?”

“Sure she will,” said Ava. “We'll both try!”

• • •

CARMELA AND AVA LED MARGO INTO THE MANAGER'S
office and sat her down on a plush blue love seat.

“Honey,” said Carmela. “Can we get you anything?”

“Maybe a drink,” said Margo. She was sniffling like crazy and had black rings around her eyes where her makeup had run. She looked like a raccoon with a head cold.

“Water?” said Ava. “Maybe an Evian?”

“Bourbon,” said Margo.

Once Margo had sucked down two fingers of good Kentucky bourbon, she seemed to relax a little bit.

“I just want to ask you a couple of quick questions,” said Carmela. “Take your time and try to answer them as best you can.”

Margo took another long pull on her drink. “Okay.”

“Do you know who could have done this?” Carmela asked. “To Eric?”

“I don't know,” Margo blubbered. “First Jerry Earl, now poor Eric.” Her lower lip began to quiver and she hiccupped abruptly. “It feels like some kind of
curse
has descended upon me.”

“A curse?” said Ava. She sounded interested for the first time.

Margo gripped Carmela's arm tightly. “That's it! There must be a terrible curse on my head!” she hissed. “A curse that latches on to everyone around me. On everything I touch!” Her voice rose and cracked, and she pinched Carmela's arm so hard that Carmela winced.

“Oh no,” said Carmela. “There's no such—”

“The psychic,” Margo said, her eyes big and fearful. “I've got to talk to her. Please! You have to get me an appointment with that tarot card reader!”

Carmela glanced at Ava.

“We can surely do that, darlin',” said Ava.

“Soon,” said Margo. “We have to do it soon! I have to know what's going to happen!”

“How about tomorrow morning?” said Ava. “I'll call Madame Blavatsky and set everything up.”

Margo released her death grip on Carmela's arm and gazed at Ava. “Thank you, Eva, thank you so much!”

Ava pursed her lips, but didn't bother to correct her.

Carmela tried to ask a couple more questions, but Margo wasn't having it. Finally she left Margo sitting in the office, having a second drink and commiserating with Beetsie.

“Nothing?” said Gallant.

“She thinks there's a curse on her head,” said Carmela.

“Well,
that's
real helpful,” said Gallant. “Maybe I should consult a witch doctor?”

“Sorry,” said Carmela. “We tried; we gave it a shot.” She paused. “Is Duncan Merriweather still around?”

“Yes, he's sitting in the dining room with the rest of the guests who've been stunned into silence.” Gallant rolled his eyes. “Now I have to conduct more interviews.”

“Too bad,” said Ava.

After muttering a few more words to Gallant, apologizing for not getting any useful information out of Margo, Carmela tried to steer Ava toward the door.

“Let's blow this pop stand, Ava. Before something else happens!”

A look of shock crossed Ava's face. “Wait a minute, we're leaving now? But we didn't even get a chance to sample the bread pudding!”

• • •

CARMELA FELT A WAVE OF RELIEF WASH OVER
her the minute she entered Memory Mine. She was finally back in familiar territory, her safety net, her home away from home with its racks of colored paper and rubber stamps and rolls of ribbon. Gabby was, as usual, expertly holding down the fort as she rang up one customer while she demonstrated to another how to make a crepe paper rosette.

When both customers had made substantial purchases and finally exited the shop, Carmela grabbed Gabby's hands in hers and said, “You'll never guess what happened after the funeral!”

Gabby frowned. “Margo freaked out and tried to jump into her husband's grave?”

Carmela shook her head. “Close but no cigar. Rather than putting Jerry Earl's coffin in the ground, they stuck it inside the family mausoleum.”

“Then what are you talking about?”

“After the graveside service, right smack in the middle of the funeral luncheon, Eric Zane was murdered in the ladies' room at Commander's Palace!”

Gabby frowned. “Zane? What on earth was he doing in the ladies' room?”

“I don't
know!
” said Carmela. “Dying, I guess.”

“Oh my gosh,” said Gabby, her eyes going big. “You're not kidding, are you? You're absolutely serious!”

“Hey,” said Carmela. “You can't make this stuff up.” She paused and thought for a moment. “Well, maybe you could if you were a really bad sitcom writer.”

“I think you better start from the beginning and tell me everything!” said Gabby.

Carmela gave Gabby a quick rundown on the entire morning. She gave her the
Reader's Digest
version of the funeral and graveside service, and ended with her account of Eric Zane's bizarre murder.

“Holy frijoles!” said Gabby. “And you say Bobby Gallant did a complete switcheroo and
asked
you to talk to Margo? That's pretty bizarre.”

“Isn't it?” said Carmela. “Who would've thought that he'd ask for my help?”

“But maybe you shouldn't be looking into this at all, Carmela. There's a killer out there who doesn't seem to be afraid to take down anyone who gets in his way.” Gabby glanced furtively at the shop's front door. “Which means you might not be safe anywhere.”

“I hear you,” said Carmela. “Which is why I can hardly wait for Babcock to get back.”

“Were you able to pry anything at all out of Margo?”

Carmela shook her head. “Nope. Margo was in the advanced stages of hysterics. She's also convinced herself that there's some sort of evil curse hanging over her head. And that it can be transferred to anything or anyone she touches.”

“Wow,” said Gabby. “That's kapow crazy!”

“Isn't it? Anyway, to calm her down, Ava and I had to schedule a tarot card reading for her tomorrow.”

“A lot of good that's going to do,” said Gabby. “I don't think you'll find any real answers in
those
cards.”

“Margo's convinced we will.”

“But what about suspects?” said Gabby. “You must have some ideas on possible suspects.”

“I'm guessing it had to be someone who was at the funeral luncheon,” said Carmela.

“But who?”

“I don't know,” said Carmela. “The two people closest to Margo seem to be Beetsie Bischoff and Duncan Merriweather, but . . .” She debated telling Gabby about Merriweather's background as a funeral director, then decided not to. She'd spooked poor Gabby enough for one day. Instead she said, “Beetsie always seems to be around whenever someone gets killed.”

“That's nothing,” said Gabby. “So are you.”

“Thanks a lot,” said Carmela. She slipped her jacket off. “You know what? I suddenly have a splitting headache. So I think I'm gonna take refuge in my office for a while. Maybe work on a scrapbook page or start that history scrapbook I promised the French Quarter Association.”

“Let everything percolate for a while,” said Gabby.

“That's right,” said Carmela. “But if we get super busy, give me a holler.”

• • •

CARMELA SANK INTO HER CHAIR AND KICKED OFF
her shoes. There. Much better. It felt comforting to be surrounded by all her familiar things. Even if they were just drawings pinned to the wall, some brocade pillow boxes she'd created, and a handful of decoupaged boxes. She pulled out her sketch pad and turned to a clean sheet.

I should work on a few ideas for Shamus's cake. Not leave it to the last minute like I usually do.

But what could she do for a cake topper? How to incorporate the great little necklace that was still dangling around Ava's slim neck. Carmela thought for a few minutes, then picked up a fat, squishy pencil and started sketching.

What if she did a cake decorated with twigs and branches that were made out of frosting? What if they swirled their way up the side and around the cake? And what if, at the very top, was a lovely little bird's nest made out of frosting?