Gilt Trip (18 page)

“I was wondering,” said Carmela, “who else you might have delivered messages to besides Eric Zane?” She glanced off into the dark woods, where she could hear the dogs yipping and yapping at something.

Squirrel thought for a few minutes. He took a swig of beer, then brushed at the back of his hand. Finally he said, “I do remember some guy by the name of Beck.”

“Is Beck his first name or his last?” Carmela asked.

Squirrel cocked his head to one side. “I really can't recall.”

“But this Beck person lived in New Orleans?” Carmela asked.

“Oh no,” said Squirrel. “He lived somewhere up in West Feliciana Parish. Near . . . ah . . . Laurel Hill.” He nodded, sure of himself now. “Yeah, I think that was it.”

Carmela continued her line of questioning. “Can you think of anything else regarding this guy Beck?”

Squirrel shrugged, then finished his beer in one long gulp. He crushed the aluminum can in one hand and tossed it in the corner, where it clanked noisily and joined a half dozen of its equals. “Not really,” he said. “Sorry.”

“Too bad,” Carmela murmured as the three dogs came strolling back and settled in the dust at her feet.

Moony stepped forward and said rather aggressively, “Look, Carmel . . .”

“Carmela,” she said tiredly.

“Carmela,” said Moony. “We just gave you a whole bunch of information for free!”

Carmela gazed at him. “This seems to be an ongoing concern of yours. That you're not getting paid.”

Moony's face flushed bright pink. “That's right!” he said, his voice a cranky scratch. “
I
never got paid and I was supposed to! Jerry Earl even told me he was gonna sell this fancy, antique necklace his old lady had. Something . . . victorious.”

Carmela stared at him. “Wait a minute . . . you mean Victorian? Was it a Victorian necklace?”

“That might have been it, yeah,” said Moony. “Anyway, Jerry Earl even described it to me. It was some kind of elaborate crown with a whole bunch of rubies and emeralds stuck in it.”

“He was going to
sell
it?” Carmela said, her voice rising in a squawk.
Why would Jerry Earl do that? Because he needed money? Or . . .

“I think it was on account of his wife didn't wear it anymore,” said Moony. “She was tired of it, I guess. Rich lady like that, he figured she'd never miss it. Or she didn't care anymore.”

“That's so weird,” said Carmela. “I mean about the necklace.”

“How so?” said Squirrel. He was glancing back and forth between the two of them like a spectator at a tennis match.

“I think it's the same necklace Margo Leland is using to decorate her cake,” said Carmela.

Now Moony looked disbelieving. “A cake? Who puts a necklace on a cake?”

“For the Cakewalk Ball,” Carmela explained. “It's a charity event this Saturday night at the New Orleans Art Institute.”

“A
cake
ball?” said Moony. He lifted a hand and scratched his head. “That sounds like the kind of stupid thing rich people would do!”

“Y
OU'RE
looking a little tuckered out,
cher
,” observed Ava.

“I need to squeeze in a nap to get rid of these bags,” Carmela grumbled. She pressed her fingertips lightly against the skin under her eyes as she examined herself in the glass countertop at Juju Voodoo. Two dead bodies and several late nights in a row had wrecked havoc on her beauty sleep. The Cakewalk Ball was tomorrow night, and Babcock would be back in town. Needless to say, she had to look fabulous.

“I can't believe you took off for Venice last night without me,” Ava said.

Carmela lifted her head. “Where were you anyway? I tried calling a couple of times.”

Ava offered a pussycat grin.

“Was it that guy Charlie?” Carmela asked. “The crime-scene tech?”

Ava nodded. “He is kind of a cutie. I'm thinking I wouldn't mind if he Lewis-and-Clarked my body.”

It was ten o'clock Friday morning and they were waiting for Margo and Beetsie to show up for the tarot card reading. Madame Blavatsky had already arrived and was fussing around in the back of the shop, preparing the reading room and, even more important, brewing up a pot of much-needed chicory coffee.

Ava fingered a purple and gold saint candle that sat on her counter. Saint Christopher, patron saint against floods. She'd sold a lot of those in the past couple of years. Now she always kept them on order.

“So,” Ava said, “were you able to pick up any hot new information?” She pulled her tight glitter skull T-shirt a little lower, the better to show off her assets.

Carmela thought for a minute. Had she? No, not really. “No, not really,” she told Ava. “Well, maybe one thing. Moony took me to meet this guy, Squirrel. And it turns out Squirrel delivered some of Jerry Earl's messages to a guy named Beck somewhere up in West Feliciana Parish.”

“I used to date somebody who was from there,” said Ava. “Nice fella, except he wore his pants a little too short.” She shook her head. “I just don't enjoy seeing a man's ankles.”

“Do you know how picky you sound?” Carmela asked.

“I prefer to think of it as exacting,” said Ava. “Really, sweetie, do you want me to
lower
my standards? And who are you to talk? You spent last evening with two guys named Moony and Squirrel. Give me a break! It sounds like a reality show on the Discovery Channel.”

Footsteps sounded behind them as Madame Blavatsky suddenly whisked out from behind the green velvet draperies that separated the reading room from the shop. She was dressed in a flowing midnight blue skirt, matching peasant blouse, and leather boots. Several long necklaces clanked around her neck, and a red-beaded shawl was wrapped around her slim waist. Best of all, she held a tray with two steaming mugs of high-octane coffee.

Carmela made a one-handed grab, snatching a cup off her tray. “Thank you,” she gasped.

Madame Blavatsky held the tray out to Ava.

“Thanks,” said Ava as she accepted a mug. “But aren't you having any?”

Madame Blavatsky waved a hand. “I'm going to abstain. I find that any sort of caffeine clouds my instincts.”

“Wow,” said Ava. “Even Diet Coke? I couldn't live without a hit of Diet Coke in the morning. Those bubbles really wake you up.”

Carmela took a sip of coffee. “Thank you, that really hits the spot.”

“You had a rough night,” said Madame Blavatsky.

“I did,” said Carmela. “I went on kind of a wild-goose chase.”

“Be careful,” warned Madame Blavatsky.

Carmela was instantly on alert. “What do you mean?”

“It's just a feeling I'm getting from you,” said Madame Blavatsky. She reached over and gently touched Carmela's arm. “A feeling that perhaps you shouldn't stray too far from home.”

Ava pointed a manicured index finger at her fortune-teller. “You. You are
good
.”

At which point the front door squeaked open, and Margo and Beetsie came clattering in.

Margo, true to form, was turned out in a gold brocade jacket, gold chains, and gold bangles. Even her gilded fingertips matched her accessories. She was in full hyperactive mode with hands and arms flapping about and greetings shouted in sharp, shrill tones.

Beetsie, on the other hand, looked like an extra from
Death of a
Salesman.
She wore a dowdy gray dress and carried a sensible, black leather frame bag. Similar to what the Queen of England carried, only nowhere near as stylish.

Once the introductions were over, Margo pounced on Carmela. “Carmela, darling,” she said. “Have you made
any
progress at all in your investigation?”

“It depends,” said Carmela. “Do you know anyone by the name of Beck?”

Margo's lips pursed together and she made a big show of feigning thoughtfulness, her eyes rolling to the back of her head as if searching out an answer.

“Doesn't ring a bell,” Beetsie said.

“No,” Margo agreed. “I don't know anyone by the name of Beck.” She hesitated. “Why? Have you learned something new?”

“It doesn't really look that way,” said Carmela. “Sorry.”

Margo patted her hand. “But you're trying. That's what really counts.”

“That's right,” Beetsie agreed.

“Why don't we get started,” said Ava. She raised both arms as if to herd everyone in the direction of the reading room.

“This is very thrilling,” said Margo as they wound their way through Ava's shop.

“Scintillating,” said Beetsie. She stared thoughtfully at a wooden Day of the Dead ferris wheel that featured tiny pink and purple skeletons snuggled in each dangling car.

Ava's octagonal-shaped reading room was kept cool and dark by voluminous swags of velvet draperies. The only bit of natural light came from a pair of stained glass windows that depicted an angel carrying a small lamb. The windows had been scrounged from a church, and then Ava had scrounged them from the scratch-and-dent room of a local antique shop.

In the center of the room was a low round table covered with a purple paisley shawl. A deck of tarot cards was centered on the table.

Everyone filed in, eyes darting, shoulders hunched, expectations running high.

Madame Blavatsky wasn't about to disappoint them.

“Please, everyone sit down,” she intoned. “Margo, you sit right next to me.”

Margo took her seat, with Carmela sitting on the other side of Madame Blavatsky. Beetsie sat across from Margo. Ava stood by the door and slowly dimmed the lights, creating a moody ambience.

“And now, a few moments of silence,” said Madame Blavatsky.

They all sat in silence and stared expectantly at Madame Blavatsky, who had closed her eyes and was engaged in some kind of rhythmic yogic breathing.

Carmela smiled to herself. She knew that Madame Blavatsky—aka Ellie Black—was centering her energy. But she always imagined this moment as a good opportunity to grab a quick catnap, too. On the other hand, maybe it was just wishful thinking on her part, since she was feeling so dang pooped.

Suddenly, Madame Blavatsky's eyes flew open and her right hand hovered above the deck of tarot cards.

“Margo, I want you to pick up the deck and select five cards,” Madame Blavatsky said in a low voice.

Margo reached out tentatively, her fingers not quite touching the deck. “Any five cards?”

Madame Blavatsky nodded. “That's right.”

Margo picked up the deck, handling it like it was a hot potato just out of the microwave. “Should I shuffle it?”

“If you wish,” said Madame Blavatsky.

Margo did a slow shuffle and plucked out five cards. “Okay, now what?”

“I want you to place the cards in a cross formation,” said Madame Blavatsky. “The first tarot card in the center. Then the second card at the top and the rest going around in a clockwise pattern.”

Margo's necklace and bracelets clanked as she studiously placed the cards facedown in the cross pattern. “Now what do I do?”

“Turn over the center card,” Madame Blavatsky instructed. “This will reveal your present situation.”

Margo flipped the card over and gasped. It was
The Hanged Man
card! Her hands flew instantly to her neck and she shrieked, “What does it mean? What does it mean?”

Carmela and Ava both grimaced at the high-decibel level.

“The card indicates a crossroads,” Madame Blavatsky said quietly. “You find yourself wanting to do
something,
but having no idea what it is or how to do it. Your hands are tied. You feel powerless.”

Margo's eyes grew wide. “Yes, yes, you're so right! That's
exactly
how I feel!” She gazed toward Beetsie for confirmation. “Wasn't I just saying that this morning?”

Beetsie nodded. “That's right, you were in a terrible quandary.”

Madame Blavatsky nodded sagely. “Good, good. Now turn over the top card. This represents potential.”

Margo's hand shook as she flipped over the top card. “The five of wands,” she said. “What does that mean?”

“Competition,” said Madame Blavatsky.

Margo frowned. “Competition? With who?”

Madame Blavatsky shrugged. “It could be in the areas of work or career, or even a romantic rival.”

Margo went a little cross-eyed. “A rival?” she sputtered.

“Now the next card,” Madame Blavatsky said. “That represents the cause.”

“Cause of what?” asked Margo.

Madame Blavatsky's eyes drifted closed. “The cause or reason for the situation in which you find yourself.”

Margo's lips pressed together as she flipped over the card and revealed a reversed four of pentacles.

Madame Blavatsky studied the card. “This one implies that you are holding on to things, people, money, or . . .”

“Greed!” Beetsie suddenly squawked. “That's what it means. Greed!”

Ava raised an eyebrow. “Wow, honey, you really know your stuff.”

Margo looked supremely insulted. “Greed?” she said. “I sincerely doubt
that!
” She hastily flipped over the last two cards. “Please tell me what these are supposed to represent?” Now she sounded petulant and abrupt.

“A recent death as well as anxiety,” said Madame Blavatsky.

Margo stood up suddenly, practically knocking over the table. “You're telling me my life is filled with death and anxiety?” she quavered.

“Don't be upset,” said Madame Blavatsky. “Death is natural, and anxiety is something to guard against.”

Margo reached down and clasped Carmela's hands. “Oh, Carmela,” she cried. “Please help me figure out what happened to Jerry Earl and Eric. As you can see, I won't be able to rest . . . to find peace . . . until I have an answer!”

• • •

“HOW DID YOUR TAROT READING GO?” ASKED
Gabby. She was restocking paper bins when Carmela came cruising into the shop.

“Don't ask.” Carmela tucked her handbag behind the front counter and let loose a heavy sigh.

“Ooh, that bad?”

“You know Margo,” said Carmela. “Frankly, squeezing into my skinny jeans this morning was far more productive than her tarot card reading.”

“The thing is,” said Gabby, “I really
don't
know Margo. But from the little I've seen of her, I have a feeling she's awfully demanding.”

“You have no idea.” Carmela picked up the morning mail and idly sorted through it.

“So you're still working on this . . . thing?” said Gabby.

Carmela looked up. “Go ahead and say it. It's an investigation. I know I shouldn't have gotten involved, but I did. And now everything's in a muddle and I don't seem to be getting anywhere at all.”

“Then you should just quit,” said Gabby, ever the practical one. “Hang it up and let Detective Gallant grapple with it.”

“I would,” said Carmela. “Except . . .”

“Except now it's become a personal challenge,” said Gabby. A smile stole across her face. “I know you, Carmela. “You love a challenge. You're like a cantankerous mule when it comes to a challenge. You won't give in, you won't give up.”

Carmela fingered a packet of floral stickers. “Why do you make tenacity sound like such a bad thing?”

“Because when you obsess over something, like these two murders, it becomes, well, obsessive,” said Gabby. She studied Carmela carefully. “I don't know. You usually come up with
some
thing.”

“But not in this case. I feel absolutely stumped. I feel like . . .” Carmela rubbed a hand through her hair.

“Like you've hit a dead end?” said Gabby.

“Ha-ha, very funny,” said Carmela.

“Maybe you should lock yourself in your office and doodle for a while. Try to clear your head.”

Carmela was nodding in agreement. “Blow out the cobwebs. Yeah, well, I suppose I could give it the old college try.”

“Oh,” said Gabby as Carmela headed for her office. “I put a couple of those little feathered birds on your desk. The ones you wanted for cake toppers.” And under her breath she added, “Maybe they'll put you in a better frame of mind.”

• • •

CARMELA GRASPED A SQUISHY RED MARKER AND
sketched a quick layout for a scrapbook page she was working on for Chart House Antiques. If she put a large photo at the bottom of the page and a smaller photo intersecting the top half of the large one . . . then her copy could go . . .

The marker hit her desk with a clatter. No. Doodling and working weren't putting her in a better frame of mind at all. They were only delaying the inevitable.

Which is . . . what? More investigating?

Carmela spun in her chair and tried to think in a more practical manner. What would be the next step? Talk to Margo again? Try to pry more information out of Bobby Gallant? Or . . .