Gilt Trip (21 page)

“I
WAS
also wondering,” said Carmela, “if we could look around your husband's office.”

Margo's eyebrows were double apostrophes above her sunken eyes. “What on earth for?”

“Perhaps he had some information about that land deal or his proposed project in his files or on his computer,” said Carmela. It was a shot in the dark, but certainly one worth taking.

“That's not such a terrible idea,” said Margo. She got to her feet and padded down the hallway, listing like a sinking ocean liner. “You know where his office is, so help yourself. I'm just going to, um, run into the kitchen and grab myself a refresher.”

So Carmela and Ava trooped into Jerry Earl's office once again. It hadn't changed one iota as far as Carmela could tell. Same black-and-persimmon-colored carpet, same bookshelves dotted with fossils and gold trinkets, same French doors that led out to the secluded backyard.

Carmela peeked out the French doors. Across the alley, on Conrad Falcon's second floor, a light shone. Was he up there right now, watching their comings and goings? Or was she just being paranoid? And when was paranoia really just your brain warning you to be careful?

“This house feels so empty,” said Ava.

“Without Eric Zane around? Yes,” said Carmela.

“Do you think Margo feels responsible for his death?”

“No idea,” said Carmela.

“You think she's going to plan his funeral?”

“Are you serious?” said Carmela. “She didn't even plan her own husband's funeral.” She slipped into Jerry Earl's chair and ran her fingertips across the keyboard of his computer. “Time to get to work.”

“Is his computer password protected?” Ava asked.

As if in answer, his desktop files suddenly appeared.

“Nope,” said Carmela.

“So what do you see?” asked Ava. She leaned forward and studied the screen along with Carmela. They hunted and searched for a few minutes but came up with nothing. Just files of blueprints that had been digitized and boring notes on several past projects.

The clatter of Margo's fresh ice cubes heralded her return. “Did you find anything?” she asked as she flopped down into a chair.

“Not yet,” said Ava. “But we're still working on it.”

Carmela pulled open the file drawer on the right side of Jerry Earl's desk. There were maybe a dozen folders there, all neatly arranged in Pendaflex hanging files. She scooped them all out and stacked them on top of the desk. “Maybe we should each take a couple of these files and go through them?” she suggested.

Margo pursed her lips. “Honestly, I can never make head nor tails out of any of that stuff. Not unless I get my reading glasses and . . .” She took a sip of her drink and crossed her legs. “You know, I haven't the foggiest idea where they could be.”

“Don't worry,” Ava told her. “Carmela and I can whip through these pretty fast. She grabbed a stack and settled into the leather armchair next to Margo.

Margo sipped more bourbon. “Jerry Earl was always so interested in geology. I imagine you'll come across quite a few plot maps and topography maps. Different charts, too.”

Ava held up a sheet. “You mean like this one?” It was a map illustrating rainfall averages in Louisiana.

Margo nodded. “That's my Jerry Earl. He liked to keep on top of things.”

“Do you know anything about this?” Carmela asked. She held up a handful of papers that she'd been reading. “They look like some kind of laboratory report.”

“A lab report?” Ava asked. “Was Jerry Earl on some sort of medication?”

“Not that I know of,” said Margo. “Although he did have bunions and a nasty hammer toe. What report do you exactly have there, dear? You're starting to worry me. Was it blood work?”

“No, nothing like that,” said Carmela, studying the pages. “These look more like results from a land sample.”

“Ah,” said Margo. “It's probably an analysis on the age of some soil.” She nodded, half to herself. “Jerry Earl was always taking soil samples. And he was crazed about finding fossils.”

Carmela shook her head as she pored over them. “I don't really know what they are. I'm no whiz kid when it comes to science, and these reports look like they're written in a foreign language.”

Ava stood up and leaned across the desk. “Let me see whatcha got there.”

Carmela spun the pages around for Ava to see.

Ava scanned them. “This looks like some kind of mineral content analysis,” she said. “Wait a minute, hold everything . . .”

“What?” said Carmela.

She tapped a finger against one of the sheets. “This one's a geological survey. And it's for . . .” She looked up, her eyes suddenly wide and questioning.

“What?” Carmela repeated.

“It's for West Feliciana Parish,” said Ava.

Their eyes locked together. Now it was Carmela's turn to jump up. “What else is here?”

“Looks like receipts,” said Ava, fingering a few more pages.

“Jerry Earl was always buying me jewelry,” sang Margo. “He was generous to a fault.”

“I don't think you'd want to wear this,” said Ava. She squinted, trying to make out the fine print. “This receipt is for some pieces of heavy equipment. A trammel and a power sluicer.”

“A juicer?” said Margo.

“Sluicer,” said Carmela. “What on earth would that be used for? It doesn't sound like something you'd use for digging up ancient dinosaur bones.”

“It sounds more like it would rip them apart,” said Ava.

“Let me go online and look that up,” said Carmela. She sat down at the computer again, brought up a search engine, and typed in “power sluicer.” Watched a few hits spin out.

“Here we go,” said Ava.

“‘A power sluicer, sometimes called a highbanker,” Carmela read out loud, “is a piece of gold-prospecting equipment that uses a pump to force water through a sluice box to mimic the natural flow of a stream.'” Carmela looked up and stared at Ava. “Apparently a power sluicer is used for separating gold particles from sand and gravel.”

“Gold?” said Ava.

“Gold!” said Margo.

Three sets of eyes suddenly focused on the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that were crammed with boxed sets of shimmering gold coins, glass tubes filled with gold nuggets, and gold-encrusted statuary.

“Holy Coupe de Ville!” said Carmela. “Jerry Earl was going to hunt for gold on that property!”

“Wait a minute,” said Ava. “There are gold deposits there? Really?” She sounded skeptical. “I thought you only got gold from . . . um . . . maybe the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Or is it the Superstition Mountains in Arizona?”

Carmela turned back to the computer. “Let's just see about that.” She executed another search. And then another. After a few minutes she had some of the information clear in her head. “It turns out,” she said, “there were small deposits of gold found in West Feliciana Parish some hundred and twenty-five years ago.”

Margo squinted at Carmela. “You can tell all that from the computer?”

Carmela smiled. “It's just a search engine.”

“But aren't you a whiz,” Margo marveled. “Almost better than a tarot card reading!”

Ava frowned. “The computer can spit out facts and information about the past, but it can't see into the future.”

Fearing that insurrection was about to break out, Carmela interrupted with, “It says here, ladies, that the price of gold is well over sixteen hundred dollars an ounce!”

Margo gasped. “Holy Hannah!”

“But is there any gold still to be found in northern Louisiana?” asked Ava. “That's the real question, right?”

“Who knows?” said Carmela. “But the information I'm getting here is that lots of old mines and gold deposits are being given a careful second look. Especially now that there are new ways of extracting gold.”

The three women stared at each other again.

“So who is Spangler Enterprises?” asked Ava. “And why did they buy that exact parcel of land?”

“The land that Jerry Earl first spotted!” put in Margo.

“I don't know,” said Carmela. “Maybe they're also . . . prospecting for gold?”

“Ask that thing again,” Margo instructed. “See if that rat Conrad Falcon is involved.”

Carmela did a quick search on Spangler Enterprises cross-referenced with Conrad Falcon. And came up empty-handed. “Nothing,” she said.

“Agh,” said Margo. “That thing's not so smart after all.”

• • •

ON THEIR WAY OUT THE DOOR, AVA MUTTERED,
“She could be a real Lady Macbeth.”

“You mean Margo?” said Carmela. “Yeah, she's still on my suspect list.”

“What about the guy she got all frothed up about? He lives next door, right?”

“Conrad Falcon?” said Carmela. “His house is kind of around the block. But backed up to this place.”

Ava lifted one shoulder delicately. “Maybe we should . . .”

“Pay him a visit?” said Carmela.
What if he's the killer?
she thought.
What if he's . . .

“Come on,” said Ava. “What are you waiting for? Let's take a chance.”

Conrad Falcon answered the door wearing an elegant navy cashmere sweater with a dark paisley ascot tucked in the neck and dove gray slacks. He looked, Carmela thought, like Sean Connery if he starred in an updated version of
Gone with the Wind.

“Yes?” said Falcon. His face registered nothing. They could have been there to sell Girl Scout cookies. But, of course, they weren't.

“I'm sorry to interrupt,” said Carmela.

“Me, too,” said Ava.

“Do I know you ladies?” Falcon asked. He seemed ready to close the door on them.

“We met the other night,” said Carmela. “At the Star of the South Cat Show?”

Falcon's eyes were cold and flat. Then he said, “Yes, now I remember you. You were the impertinent one.”

“And I'm the sweet one,” said Ava, offering her most dazzling smile.

“What is it you ladies want?” asked Falcon, clearly ruffled by their presence.

“The answer to a question,” said Carmela.

“And what might that be?” said Falcon.

Carmela gave him a tight smile. “Why did you buy the parcel of land up by Laurel Hill?”

Now Falcon looked even more confused. “What? Laurel Hill?” If he was acting, it was masterful. Worthy of the Actor's Studio.

“In West Feliciana Parish,” said Carmela. “Thirty acres.”

Falcon frowned. “I didn't buy any land in West Feliciana Parish.”

“Sure you did,” said Carmela. “Under the guise of building a discount shopping mall. But instead of stores that sell tube socks and tennis shoes, you're really going to mine for gold!”

“That's right,” said Ava. “You somehow got wind that Jerry Earl was looking there and you stepped right in and bought the land out from under him.”

“Right after you blew the whistle on him,” Carmela added.

“Are you crazy?” said Falcon. “Get out of here. Stop bothering me before I call the police.” He started to shut the door.

“That's a great idea!” said Carmela. “In fact, I'm going to call the police myself!”

At that, the door slammed with a resounding bang.

“Good girl,” said Ava. “You've got him running scared now.”

Carmela gave her a sideways glance. “You think? He didn't look all that scared to me. He mostly looked ticked off.”

“He's compensating,” said Ava. “With all that bravo and machismo.”

“Maybe so,” said Carmela. “But if he's really the killer, we just tipped our hand.”

Ava thought for a second. “Maybe you should call Bobby Gallant,” she suggested. “Kind of fill him in on what's happened. What you figured out so far.”

“Maybe tomorrow morning,” said Carmela as they walked to her car in darkness.

“Okay,” said Ava. “But make sure your lock your door tonight.”

“Will do. You, too.”

E
VEN
kisses from Boo and Poobah couldn't rouse Carmela from her dreams this Saturday morning. In fact, it wasn't until the insistent ringing of the phone finally insinuated itself into the far recesses of her brain that Carmela finally pried one eye open.

She sighed, sat halfway up in bed, and fumbled for her phone. “Hello?”

“Turn on your TV right now!” Ava shrieked.

This uncalled-for, noisy intrusion prompted Carmela to open both eyes. “Why?” she said. “What's going on?” Was there a fire in the building? Had another hurricane swept through town?

“There's a news alert,” said Ava.

“So?” Carmela yawned.

“Duncan Merriweather has been apprehended and taken in for questioning in the murder of Jerry Earl Leland!”

Carmela sat straight up in bed. She was wide awake now. “What?” she blurted. “Why?”

“Because a trocar was found in the garbage can just down the block from Merriweather's house!” cried Ava.

“Dear Lord!” Carmela exclaimed. “You're telling me that Duncan Merriweather is the killer?”

“Looks like. Isn't that something? He was right under our noses all along. And, of course, you knew about his background as an undertaker.”

“Beetsie told us,” said Carmela. “She was the one who really pointed the finger at him.”

“But you were smart enough to put it all together and tell the police,” said Ava. “And now . . . the case is solved!”

Carmela was still brushing sleep crusties from her eyes. “I guess.”

“Gotta go, kid. Lots going on. But I'll be over this afternoon with some gowns for us to try!”

Carmela crawled out of bed and padded into the living room. Boo and Poobah followed her, relentlessly wagging their tails and grumbling to be let out.

“Just a minute, sweeties, your momma has to figure out what's happening.”

Plunking herself down onto the chaise lounge, Carmela flipped on the TV and found the typical mindless Saturday morning programming. Cartoons, infomercials for tummy toners, infomercials for pimple products. Needing none of it, she flipped to KBEZ-TV, their local station, and caught the tail end of the big news story. There was a grainy photograph of Duncan Merriweather looking dapper in a tuxedo. Choppy red letters across the photo screamed
APPREHENDED!
The morning news anchor, a chirpy twenty-five-year-old, was saying, “. . . and now it looks as though we may finally have some answers in the gruesome slaying of Garden District resident Jerry Earl Leland.”

As the anchor happily switched to sports highlights, Carmela grabbed her phone and punched in Gallant's office number from memory. She fidgeted nervously as it rang.

Gallant could be talking to Duncan Merriweather at this very moment, she thought.

But he wasn't. After bluffing her way through two different gatekeepers, Carmela finally got him on the line.

“What?” Gallant said. His tone was hurried and quiet.

“I just heard that Duncan Merriweather was picked up,” said Carmela.

“That's right. He's being questioned right now, even as we speak.”

Carmela was still confused. “But how did you know . . . how did you locate the murder weapon? The trocar?”

“We got a tip,” said Gallant.

“Anonymously?”

“Is there any other kind?”

“I don't know,” said Carmela. “That seems awfully convenient to me. Maybe you were getting too close to the truth and—”

“Hey,” said Gallant. “It's what we got.”

“But what if it's classic misdirection? What if somebody planted the trocar and then called in the tip?”

“It's possible, anything's possible,” said Gallant.

“Was there blood residue on the weapon?”

“We're working on DNA right now.”

“But you're still going to hold Merriweather.”

“Absolutely. For as long as it takes.”

“Listen,” said Carmela. “I have some information that may or may not impact this case.”

“Now what?” said Gallant. He didn't sound happy.

Carmela hastily told him about the land deal and Spangler Enterprises and her theory that Conrad Falcon stole the land right out from under Jerry Earl.

“Are you sure about all this?” Gallant said in a tone dripping with skepticism. “That Falcon is behind Spangler Enterprises?”

“I'm . . . well, it's all a
theory
,” said Carmela. “Which is why I need your help. I need you to please muster your resources and dig into this! See if it's true.”

“Why are you so bent out of shape about this investigation?” Gallant asked. “When we probably already have our man?”

“I'm worried you might have the
wrong
man! And that Conrad Falcon will get off scot-free!”

“I can
try
to find a connection, but I can't promise anything. It's crazy around here. Really . . . I have to go.”

“If you find out anything at all, call me!”

But Gallant had already hung up.

• • •

CARMELA CHANGED INTO JEANS, A SWEATER, AND
tennis shoes, and headed off on a morning walk with Boo and Poobah. They skipped down Dauphine Street and cut down Conti Street, going past the Pharmacy Museum and the Historic New Orleans Collection, skirting close to the Voodoo Museum.

A lot of museums here, Carmela thought. A lot of history. But what was the history behind prospecting for gold? Or digging up old dinosaur bones? Somehow, those things had to tie in with Jerry Earl's murder, right? And with the murder of Eric Zane?

She kicked it into high gear then as she jogged along with the dogs. Of course, they were doing an easy lope while she was rattling her fillings loose, sweating profusely, and chugging along like the little engine that could. Or at least was trying very hard.

As they came flying through the porte cochere and into the inner courtyard, Carmela found a delivery boy standing at her door. He was shifting about uncomfortably, looking uncertain, while he tried to balance an enormous white cake box.

“My cake!” Carmela called out. She'd almost forgotten about it!

The delivery boy turned. “Are you Carmela Bertrand?” He looked supremely hopeful.

“That's right. Are you from Duvall's Bakery?”

He nodded.

“Let me put the dogs inside then I'll give you a hand with that cake.”

So, of course, Boo and Poobah got tangled up in their leashes and almost tripped the delivery boy. But Carmela finally got everything straightened out. The large white cake box was deposited safely on her dining room table, the delivery boy was tipped, and the dogs were . . . well, they were definitely eyeing the large box, their pink tongues hanging out.

“No,” Carmela told them. “This cake is totally off-limits. There will be no begging, sniffing, or nibbling at frosting. There will be no
accidentally
knocking this cake over. This cake is for an important charity event tonight. Now, do you understand? Please nod if you understand.”

That said, Carmela gingerly opened the box and peered inside. The intoxicating smell of sugar, butter, chocolate cream, and fondant wafted up at her. She closed her eyes and inhaled.

Boo and Poobah edged dangerously close to the cake.

Carmela held up an index finger and glared at them.

They hunched their shoulders and slunk back.

Carmela smiled to herself as she feasted her eyes upon the cake. It was a four-tiered beauty, iced in vanilla frosting and each layer edged with small bouquets of pink and yellow flowers. Bands of fondant pearls coursed down the sides of the cake. Gorgeous. On the bottom layer, Crescent City Bank had been grandly spelled out in poufy fondant. Not so gorgeous, but it was what she had to work with. That was the trouble with a commercial project like this. It was . . . well, commercial.

Carmela headed for her kitchen. “First coffee and kibbles, then we'll whip up our frosting.” Boo and Poobah followed her, watching as she measured out a nice strong ration of coffee, set it to brew, and then portioned out food for them.

While the coffee brewed and the dogs snarfed their breakfasts, Carmela whipped together batches of chocolate frosting and buttercream frosting. When both frostings were thick and ready to work with, she poured them into plastic pastry bags.

Now came the tricky part.

Squeezing gently, Carmela formed a crooked twig-like line of frosting on top of a sheet of waxed paper. She went over it a couple of times until it took on the appearance of nubby bark. Then she squeezed out another six crooked twigs.

She surveyed her handiwork. Pretty good. Using a silver knife, she carefully lifted one of the twigs, carried it over to the cake, and placed it across the top tier. It looked good. Very realistic, in fact. The other five twigs followed.

Changing to a smaller tip on her pastry bag, Carmela began the painstaking process of creating the bird's nest. She basically squirted out five skinny lines of chocolate frosting, then crosshatched over them with lines of buttercream frosting. Then she repeated that process three more times. Since the frosting was still sticky and pliable, it was fairly easy to join the four sides together, round them out a little bit, and fashion them into a nest.

“It's working,” she told the dogs. “It's really working.”

She carried the nest to her cake and, holding her breath, carefully placed it on top. Again, it looked pretty good.

Now she took her miniature feathered birds and placed two on either side of the nest and three more birds on the tier below. Because of her careful placement, the birds looked as if they were perched on her twigs.

Carmela didn't want the necklace to get lost in the nest, so she fashioned a piece of pink silk around a puff ball of cotton and stitched it closed on the bottom. The pink silk pillow went into the nest, and the beautiful diamond pendant puddled right on top of it.

Easy to admire, easy to bid on.

“Ta-da!” she sang out, with Boo barking her approval. “We did it.”

She glanced at the clock, stunned that it was already past one o'clock.

“Holy mackerel.” She looked at the dogs. “Did you guys forget? You're supposed to be packed!”

The words were barely out of her mouth when there was a sharp knock at the door.

“Daddy!” said Carmela. She pulled open the door and let the dogs launch their assault on Shamus.

“Jeez!” he cried out. “Take it easy. We've got all weekend to party, kids.” He glanced at Carmela, then dug his hand into the bag of Fritos he was carrying. “Did the cake get here? Did you decorate it?”

“Nice to see you, too, Shamus. Yes, I decorated the cake. Just finished it, as a matter of fact.”

Shamus sauntered over to the table and took a peek at it. “Hey, it looks good! You do nice work, kid. I knew I could count on you.” He stuck a finger out to grab a bit of frosting.

Carmela slapped his hand and said, “Frosting and Fritos? Give me a break.”

“Hey, the Fritos are organic, right?” He rolled up the bag, tossed it toward the trash can, and missed. He made an “Aaaaah” sound.

“You want to take the cake with you?” Carmela asked.

Shamus rolled his eyes. “It's hard enough to stuff two dogs with all their beds and toys into a Porsche.”

“You could always get a more sensible car,” Carmela pointed out.

“Please. That would be so bad for my image.”

Carmela smiled. “I can see that. You wouldn't want to look
too
sensible.”

“Huh?” Shamus said. Then he made a kind of gangling motion toward her, which Carmela deftly sidestepped. “So I understand you sold the old homestead?”

“That's right. It's over and done with.”

“What a pity.”

“You didn't really want it, Shamus. In fact, you didn't particularly want to live there with me.”

“Still, that house had been in my family for years.”

“Yet nobody stepped up to buy it.”

Shamus glared at her. “Tell me, do you have the buyer's check in your hot little hand?”

“No, not yet.”

“Then the sale's not complete,” said Shamus. “It's not technically final until you sign the papers and
deposit
the check!”

“Whatever,” said Carmela.

“I suppose I'll see you at the Cakewalk Ball tonight,” said Shamus.

“Wait,” said Carmela. “You're going?”

Shamus nodded. “Of course. Crescent City Bank needs to be properly represented.”

“But what about the dogs? I thought you were going to spend time with them tonight.”

“They'll be just fine,” said Shamus. He bent down, grabbed a dog bed, and tucked it under one arm. He struggled to grab the second one. Hunched over like Quasimodo, he headed for the door and said, “Okay, kids, let's haul anchor.”

“Wait!” said Carmela. “You can't forget their toys.”

“They've got plenty of toys at my place,” Shamus growled.

“You can't forget Boo's little red gingerbread doll. She can't go to sleep without it.”

“Aw crap,” said Shamus. He sighed and dropped the beds. “Where is it?”

Carmela looked around. “I'm not sure.” She gazed at Boo. “Boo Boo, where's your dolly?”

Boo lay down and proceeded to lick her front paws, seemingly unconcerned.

“Come on, Boo, I don't have all day,” said Shamus. He glanced sharply at Carmela. “Do we
really
need the darn thing?”

“What do you think?”

They finally found it under the bed.