Gilt Trip (2 page)

Carmela hesitated.
Someone there?

A noise sounded just beyond the green velvet curtains. A kind of scrape, like boot heels on cement. Then a dull clunk, like something metallic.

Was someone outside? Peeking in at her? Or doing . . . what? Had someone been attracted by all this loot?

“Hello?” she called out. “Jerry Earl? Is that you?”

There was nothing save a warm breeze stirring the curtains.

Realizing she shouldn't be in here, feeling guilty and a little discombobulated, Carmela ducked back out and pulled the door closed behind her. She paused for a moment, then took another few steps down the hallway. Placing her hand on a second doorknob, she was about to pull it open when she heard a muffled thump on the other side of the door.

Oh no, what now?

A woman's voice, low and urgent, murmured, “Just one more, please? Just one eensy little line?”

A man's voice, husky and slightly taunting, said, “You sure about that, baby?”

Oh great.
Carmela moved away quickly. She had a pretty good idea what the woman was asking for. She also had a fairly good idea what her boyfriend, Edgar Babcock, would say about that. And just to be clear, he was
Detective
Edgar Babcock of the New Orleans Police Department. Her own personal Dudley Do-Right snuggle bunny.

“He'd tell me to hustle my sweet patootie out of here,” Carmela muttered to herself. “Before I got involved in some kind of drug incident.”

And just as she was about to do exactly that, she heard another thump. Only this was the telltale thump thump thump of a clothes dryer tossing its contents to and fro.

Breathing a sigh of relief, for her errand had somehow turned into a mission, Carmela hurried to the end of the hallway and pushed open a louvered door.

A sizzle of bright fluorescents revealed a tidy, compact laundry room. It was warm, steamy, and noisy, as laundry rooms generally are when there's a load in the washer and one in the dryer.

Probably a bunch of bar towels, Carmela surmised. Or the caterer had thrown in a load of dish towels. But that wasn't quite right, was it? Because the top-loading washing machine was standing open and silent. Casting a quick glance at the loudly thumping dryer, Carmela casually wondered what they'd tossed in that was making such an awful racket.

Her eyes had almost pulled away, ready to grab a clean white towel, when she saw what looked like a leather shoe momentarily flash past the dryer's window.

What. On. Earth? Who would toss shoes in a dryer?

Feeling slightly apprehensive, Carmela took two robotic steps forward. And then, like a warning shot fired across the bow of a ship, something deep in the limbic portion of her brain spit out a cautionary note.

Something's wrong here.
Something's really wrong.

Don't be silly
, she told herself.
There's nothing to be nervous about.

Except . . . there was that shoe.

Carmela's nose tickled. Her temples throbbed. She was suddenly aware that the air around her was redolent with a strange scent. A sweet, sickening, unnerving scent that was definitely not Downy or Fabreze.

Mesmerized, moving as if she were in a trance, Carmela stepped forward, curled her fingers around the handle of the dryer, and yanked open the door.

As the dryer groaned to a sudden halt, Carmela jumped back just in time to see a limp hand flop out. And then watched in horror as the bloody, battered body of Jerry Earl Leland spilled out onto the white-tiled floor.

H
ORRIFIED
and in shock, Carmela inanely spun around the room searching high and low for another witness. On her third, dizzying whirl, the realization finally sank in that she was the only other person in the room. Well, at least the only
living
person.

Swallowing hard, Carmela gaped at the body. Oh dear Lord, could Jerry Earl really have been brutally murdered right in the middle of his own lavish welcome home party? Was that really his limp body sprawled at her feet? Was that the metallic scent of fresh blood stinging her nose?

The angry buzz of fluorescent lights rang in Carmela's ears like a plague of cicadas, and she suddenly found it difficult to breathe in the steamy, claustrophobic room. She spun on her heels, pushed hard on the louvered door, and raced back down the narrow hallway, greedily swallowing great gulps of fresh air and fighting the awful tide of bile that rose in her throat. Because . . .

I have to get help!

The narrow hallway was eerily deserted now and deathly quiet. No waiters, no caterers, no snuggly couple in the powder room. Then finally, gratefully, Carmela burst out onto the patio, where she'd been sitting just a few minutes earlier.

Ava stood alone in the moonlight, nursing her drink. When she saw Carmela, she raised one shoulder in a casual shrug and said, “Apparently, my witty repartee is no match for the lure of a champagne luge. They've all toddled off for a refill.” Then she stared at Carmela, did a double take, and said, “What is it,
cher?
You're shaking like a leaf and . . . good heavens . . . white as a sheet!”

“Jerry Earl is dead!” Carmela blurted out. “Murdered, I think. I went into the laundry room and he . . .” Her right hand made an erratic circling motion. “His body just tumbled out of the clothes dryer!”

Ava's eyes went wide as saucers. She clasped a hand over her mouth, but a soft gasp still escaped. Then she frowned, shook her head, and said in a hoarse voice, “He tumbled out of the
dryer?
”

“Excuse me,” said a clipped male voice from directly behind Carmela. “You say there's a problem with the dryer?”

Carmela spun around to face Eric Zane, Jerry Earl's personal assistant, who'd been pointed out to her earlier that night. Zane was a tall, reed-thin fellow of about thirty, with a pale oval face and a proper, almost brittle, manner.

“I've ordered the staff to keep up with the linens,” said Zane, radiating a cool annoyance.

“It's not the linens,” Carmela rasped out. “It's Jerry Earl. You've got to call the police!”

“Carmela thinks he's been murdered!” Ava added helpfully.

Looking as if he'd just been socked in the gut, Zane took a step backward. “What?” he said in an incredulous tone. “What did you say?”

“Murdered!” said Carmela. “In the laundry room!”

“That can't be!” Zane cried. He seemed to have trouble processing the information. “I just spoke to him.” He glanced at his wristwatch, which hung upside down on his narrow wrist. With a trembling hand, he flipped the gold watch over and stared at the face. “Maybe ten minutes ago.”

“That was then and this is now,” said Carmela. “And now he's lying dead on your laundry room floor!”

• • •

TEN MINUTES LATER, THE PARTY OFFICIALLY
over, the guests officially stunned by the grisly news, Detective Bobby Gallant and his team showed up to take charge of the scene.

First order of business was to round up all the guests and keep them in the living room in a kind of holding pattern. The bar was shut down and the musicians silenced as the guests cast worried glances at one another and muttered quietly among themselves.

Margo Leland, who'd practically swooned at the awful news, had forced her way into the laundry room to view Jerry Earl's body for herself. Now, after having a full court press meltdown, she was huddled in her dead husband's office, bleating out a series of heart-wrenching sobs and weeping onto the shoulder of her dear friend Beetsie Bischof.

Carmela and Ava were huddled at the end of the hallway, watching Bobby Gallant bark orders to his fellow officers and crime-scene team.

“Thank goodness Bobby got the call-out,” Carmela said to Ava. Bobby Gallant worked as an assistant to her sweetie, Edgar Babcock, who was in Washington DC attending a forensics conference.

“Bobby's a smart guy,” agreed Ava. “He'll figure this out.”

“Hopefully,” said Carmela. She knew he was an experienced homicide detective but she still missed having Babcock's calming presence.

“The guest list!” Gallant shouted to a uniformed officer. “See if there's a guest list! And be sure to ask that personal assistant guy if he thinks there are any valuables missing!”

“Who do you think . . .” Ava said in a dry whisper.

“Is the killer?” said Carmela. She shook her head. “Don't know. I suppose it could be anyone.”

“Someone who's still here?” said Ava.

“I guess so. I don't think anyone's left the premises yet.” Zane had phoned the police immediately, put the party in lock-down mode, and jumped all over rumor control. So none of the guests had known there'd been a murder until the police arrived. At least that was the theory.

“So the killer's still here?” said Ava, letting loose a small shudder.

“Unless somebody ducked across the patio while I was inside?”

Ava shook her head. “I don't think anyone did. It was all pretty quiet. I was enjoying my champagne and cherries jubilee . . .” She glanced down sadly at her silk blouse, where the stain had deepened and set.

Carmela bit her lip. “We can get that out later. If not, we'll spill a little more sauce and make a nice pattern.”

Ava tried to laugh but it came out as more of a nervous hiccup.

“Carmela!” called a sharp voice. It was Bobby Gallant, staring down the hallway at her. He was relatively young for a detective, with a full head of dark, curly hair and a smooth olive complexion. Tonight, dressed in a leather bomber jacket and khaki slacks, he looked cool, unflappable, and really quite adorable.

“Detective Gallant,” Carmela responded.

“You shouldn't be back here,” he told her. He looked at one of the uniformed officers and asked, “Why is she here?” But the uniformed officer just shifted nervously.

“But I was the one who . . .” Carmela began. She was shocked by the murder, but certainly intrigued, too. Who would murder a man who'd just been released from prison? And in his own house!

“I know, I know,” said Gallant. “Still . . .” He hooked a thumb and jabbed it in the air, indicating for them to both move away.

“Come on,
cher
,” said Ava. “Let's go wait in that big office.”

They trooped past Gallant, trying to peer into the laundry room as they did, but he carefully blocked their view with his shoulders. “I'll talk to you two later,” he told them.

Margo Leland turned her tearstained face toward Carmela and said, “Why? Why?”

Carmela crossed the room quickly, knelt down next to Margo on the whisper-soft Chinese carpet, and said, “I don't know, honey. But I promise you, the police are going to figure all of this out.”

Beetsie gazed at Carmela, a look of despair on her narrow face. “You seem like you know some of those officers.”

Carmela nodded. “I do. And please believe me when I say that they're really good at what they do. They
will
find out who killed Jerry Earl.”

“Just when I finally got him back!” wailed Margo. “My poor sweetie!”

Beetsie patted her friend's shoulder. “I know, dear, I know.”

Margo twisted a hanky in her hands. “So . . . Carmela. They tell me that you were the one who . . . found him? In the laundry room?”

Carmela nodded. “I'm afraid so.”

“Did you think . . . did it look like he suffered?” Margo asked hopefully.

Carmela thought about all the blood and the horrible bumping around that Jerry Earl's body had sustained, but said without hesitation, “No. I'm pretty sure he didn't suffer.”

“That's a huge relief,” said Margo.

“A blessing,” agreed Beetsie.

A lie
, thought Carmela. But certainly one told out of kindness.

Bobby Gallant suddenly pulled open the door and stepped into the room, causing everyone to immediately stop talking and stare at him. He wiggled his fingers at Carmela and Ava and said, “Okay, now we can have our little confab.”

Carmela gave Margo's hand a final, reassuring pat, then she and Ava joined Bobby Gallant in the hallway.

Gallant pulled the office door closed behind them and said, “Okay, I want the straight poop.”

“Sweet talk will get you everywhere,” said Ava, batting her eyelashes. She'd gone from scared to flirtatious in about ten seconds flat. A new land speed record.

“I'm serious,” said Gallant. He looked at Carmela with hooded brown eyes and said, “Walk me through it.”

So they all went out to the patio and Carmela started from the very beginning.

“We were all right here,” said Carmela.

“Who's we?” said Gallant.

Carmela and Ava started to run through their story. And all the while, Carmela kept wishing she'd never gone looking for a towel. Why didn't she carry one of those detergent sticks in her purse? That would have neatly solved the problem of a stain on Ava's blouse. More important, she and Ava could have finished their cherries jubilee and been long gone before Jerry Earl finished the dewrinkle cycle. Instead, she'd encountered a gruesome laundry room scene that was sure to haunt her nightmares forever!

“So then you went inside to get a towel?” Gallant prompted.

“That's right,” said Carmela. She had to force herself to focus.

“And you were the only one around?” Gallant asked.

“No,” said Carmela. “I saw a waiter in the hallway.”

“Do you remember which one?”

“Are they all still here?” she asked.

Gallant nodded.

“If you line 'em up, I'm pretty sure I can point him out.” Carmela started to say something else, then hesitated.

“What?” said Gallant. “Spit it out. This is no time to be coy.”

“There were also two people in the powder room.”

Gallant cocked an inquisitive eye. “How do you know that?”

“Hey,” said Ava. “If Carmela says there were two people, then there were two people.”

“I'm not questioning her honesty,” said Gallant. “I'm just trying to get the story straight.” He nodded at Carmela. “Go on.”

“I heard voices anyway,” said Carmela. “They were sort of giggling and thumping up against the door. I think . . . well, I think they were doing drugs.”

“You know that for a fact?”

“Kind of. The woman was asking the man if she could do another line.”

“And you think she was referring to a line of cocaine?” asked Gallant.

“I don't think it was a dance line,” said Carmela.

Gallant nodded. “Okay. Where did you go from there?”

Carmela crooked a finger, indicating the laundry room. “In there. But I'd rather not go back.”

Gallant shook his head. “No, no. We can't go in right now. The crime-scene guys are still at work.”

As if on cue, there was a loud clunk, then a metal gurney poked its nose out of the door. It rammed into the opposite wall, then was pulled back inside again.

“Oh my,” said Ava.

There was another clunk and this time the gurney burst through the doorway and halfway out into the hallway. On top of it lay a shiny black body bag that obviously contained the dead body of Jerry Earl Leland.

“Is that him?” asked Ava. “Is that Jerry Earl?” Her tone was hushed but filled with curiosity.

The young man who was pushing the gurney finally muscled it all the way out into the hallway.

“Charlie,” said Gallant. “Are you guys about finished in there?”

“I want to run a few more spatter pattern tests,” said the young man. He was nerdy looking in a pair of oversize blue scrubs with floppy blond hair and serious-looking horn-rimmed glasses that made him look like a young, learned owl.

“Carmela, Ava,” said Gallant. “This is Charlie Preston. He's kind of our crime-scene whiz kid.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Carmela. “Considering the circumstances.”

But Ava was assessing him carefully. “You don't look old enough to run a crime scene,” she told him.

Charlie grinned happily. “That's what everybody says.”

“That means you must be good,” said Ava.

“What was your name again?” asked Charlie, his grin stretching even wider.

“Ava Gruiex,” said Ava.

“Is that your married name?” said Charlie.

“I'm not married,” said Ava, dimpling prettily.

“Good to know,” said Charlie. If he'd been a puppy dog, he'd have wagged his little tail.

“Do either of you know,” said Carmela, her eyes now riveted on the body bag, “how Jerry Earl was really killed? I mean, it wasn't just death by clothes dryer, was it?”

“From preliminary examination, it appears he was stabbed,” said Gallant.

“You mean with a knife?” said Carmela.

“Nooo,” said Charlie, jumping in. “It's actually . . . a little strange. And rather interesting. It appears that the deceased may have been stabbed with a weapon that was long and possibly serrated.”

“Like some kind of butcher knife?” said Carmela.

“More like a knife used to cut sugarcane or stick hogs,” said Charlie.

“Eeyuh!” said Ava. “That sounds awful.”

“It does,” said Charlie happily. “Of course, that's just a guess on my part. Any final determination will have to be made by the medical examiner.”