Gilt Trip (8 page)

“Precious metals,” said Carmela. “Always a tricky thing.”

“Given this economy,” said Zane, “Mr. Leland thought it was the
only
thing.”

• • •

HER HEAD SPINNING WITH MORE QUESTIONS
than answers, Carmela decided to make a quick detour to Ava's voodoo shop.

With its wooden shake roof, multipaned front window, and glossy red front door, Juju Voodoo always reminded Carmela of a quaint little Hansel and Gretel cottage. Of course, that's where the fairy-tale image ended. Because when you looked closer in the window, you saw purple bottles filled with potions, Day of the Dead characters with snarky grins, and a bright blue neon sign in the shape of an outstretched palm—complete with head, heart, and life lines.

Carmela pushed open the heavy front door and stepped into the dark, cool interior. Candles flickered; flute music wafted in the air. While she waited for her eyes to adjust, her nose was greeted by the mingled aromas of sandalwood oil, sweet patchouli, and burned coffee.

“Ava?” she called out.

Ava, dressed in a leopard print corset top with skintight leather pants and strappy high-heel sandals, came scurrying from the back reading room. Her mass of dark hair fanned out about her fine-boned face, and her heels clicked like castanets. She looked, Carmela thought, like a cross between a Vegas showgirl and a bondage queen.

“Cher?”
said Ava, clearly surprised. “I wasn't expecting you!”

“Some psychic you are,” Carmela quipped.

Ava shrugged. “I'm just having a weird day. For some reason Tuesday morning feels like Monday morning.” She touched a hand to her forehead. “Also, I'm nursing a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup hangover.”

“It's that late-night snacking that does it every time,” said Carmela.

“Miss Gruiex?” a voice called. Then a diminutive Japanese man emerged from the back reading room. He wore big round glasses, a brown sport coat, and tan slacks, and clutched a black messenger bag.

Ava winked at Carmela. “Give me a minute.” She quickly rang up a saint candle (Saint Peter, patron saint of longevity), a small wax voodoo doll with a packet of red pins, and a shrunken head. “That all comes to thirty-nine fifty, darlin'.”

The man seemed pathetically grateful as he cheerfully handed over his Visa card to Ava, and Carmela wondered if he was happy with his bizarre souvenirs or just thrilled to be waited on by a bombshell like Ava. All dolled up in leather to boot.

“Don't forget,” Ava told him, “that special on love potion runs until Saturday. And it comes with a thirty-day guarantee!”

When her customer had finally put his tongue back in his mouth and departed, Ava turned her attention to Carmela. “So how'd it go with Margo?”

“Eh, Margo seems to run hot and cold. One minute she's sniffling about Jerry Earl, the next she's giggling with her buddy Beetsie.”

“You mean that dreary-looking skinny gal who talks without moving her jaw?”

“That's the one,” said Carmela. “In fact, Margo says Beetsie was the one who urged her to commission a death portrait. Said they did it on a lark.”

“Do you believe her?”

“I think so,” said Carmela. “I mean, what crazy woman would get all excited over a death portrait and then murder her husband?”

“Crazy like a fox?” said Ava. “A rich woman who'd like to be even richer?”

Carmela shrugged. “Maybe.” She fingered one of the evil eye necklaces hanging on a rack on the counter. “The big news is that Detective Gallant called while I was there and freaked Margo out in a major way.”

“How so?”

“Apparently the ME discovered prison tattoos on Jerry Earl's body.”

Ava let loose a low whistle. “Tats on old Jerry Earl? Maybe underneath those stuffy Brooks Brothers suits, he was a biker boy at heart.”

“More like somebody worked him over with a ballpoint pen,” said Carmela.

“What were the tats? A skull and crossbones? Screaming eagle?” Ava smirked. “A cupid heart?”

“No idea.”

“Better call up Bobby Gallant and pump him for information, girlfriend. This could be a serious clue!”

“Oh,” said Carmela. “And I ended up hustling some business for you, too. Margo's all worked up about having a tarot reading.”

“We can arrange that. I'm sure Madame Blavatsky will be happy to accommodate us.” Madame Blavatsky was really Ellie Black, a tarot and
I Ching
reader that Ava had found working the tourist crowds over in Jackson Square.

“Great,” said Carmela as she turned to leave. “I'll set it up.”

“And be sure to call Gallant,” said Ava. “Get the scoop and tell me all about it tonight!”

Carmela stopped in her tracks. “Tonight?”

Ava stared at her. “Please don't tell me you forgot!”

“I didn't,” said Carmela. Of course she'd forgotten.

“You know darned well the Star of the South Cat Show is tonight!” cried Ava. “It's Isis's big opportunity to shine!” Isis was Ava's elegant black Persian cat that she'd inherited a couple of years back after the death of a friend.

“I've been looking forward to it,” Carmela lied.

“Me, too!” said Ava, practically delirious with excitement. “In fact, Isis is at the groomer right now.”

Carmela nodded, trying to rally a little inner excitement. “Getting all prettied up.”

“Getting a pet-icure!” said Ava.

A
S
soon as Carmela got back to Memory Mine, she made a beeline for her office.

“Hello to you, too,” Gabby said as Carmela sailed past.

“Hi. Hi. Sorry I'm in such a crazy rush. I gotta make a quick phone call to Bobby Gallant.”

“What's in the envelope?” Gabby asked as she snipped a length of lavender velvet ribbon for an invitation she was working on.

“Shadow box project for Margo Leland,” Carmela called over her shoulder.

Gabby nodded. “You'll have to fill me in.”

Carmela plunked herself down in her chair and spun around. Because, honestly, that was how she felt. As if her world was spinning out of control and she was able to glimpse only the briefest hints of truth. Then she took a deep breath, picked up the phone, and dialed Gallant. While she waited, she studied a book of paper swatches from Kingston Paper, one of her premier paper vendors. Though they offered several varieties of parchment and parchment look-alikes, there was nothing of the same high quality as was found in Jerry Earl's little notebook.

When Gallant came on the phone, the first thing he said was, “Babcock warned me this might happen.”

“Nothing's happening,” said Carmela. “I just want to confirm some information I got from Margo.”

“She didn't ask you to call me?”

“Nope. I'm just a private citizen making a simple inquiry.”

“Not so simple,” Gallant grumbled.

“Sure it is,” said Carmela. “Just tell me about the tattoos.”

“You know I can't do that.”

“Sure you can. Look I already
know
about them. It's not like they're a deep, dark secret.”

“I'll tell you one thing and one thing only,” said Gallant. “The tats were crude drawings of a sailboat, a tiny map, and a constellation of stars. Possibly done by a group of prisoners that belonged to something called the End of the World Gang.”

“A gang?” said Carmela. “What do you make of that?”

“Not a whole lot,” said Gallant. “There are gangs that call themselves the Hell Whompers, the Walking Zombies, the Bounty Hunters, the Killer Boyz, you name it.”

“But End of the World,” said Carmela. “That sounds kind of . . . fatalistic.”

“Yes it does. It sounds like crazies who'd drink strychnine-laced Kool-Aid or believe in doomsday predictions by Nostradamus.”

“Your kind of customer,” said Carmela.

Gallant sighed deeply. “Unfortunately, the New Orleans PD has way too many customers like that!”

• • •

“WHAT?” SAID GABBY, ONCE CARMELA WAS OFF
the phone. She'd managed to hang in the doorway and listen in on part of the conversation. “What's going on? What's this about a gang? Please don't tell me Ava's hanging out with those motorcycle guys again!”

“It's nothing like that,” said Carmela. “But here's the thing—the medical examiner found prison tattoos on Jerry Earl's body. And they were apparently done by some group called the End of the World Gang.”

“That sounds awfully creepy,” said Gabby.

“Gallant thought so, too,” said Carmela.

“Do you think it means, like, the
real
end of the world? Like the Rapture or something?”

“Somehow I'm guessing these guys aren't exactly into religion.” She'd been turning that particular phrase over and over when, suddenly, in the back of her mind, something blipped quietly on her radar.

“What do
you
think End of the World Gang means?” asked Gabby, just as the front door opened and two customers rushed in.

“Not sure,” said Carmela. “Until I check on something.”

• • •

WHILE GABBY WAITED ON THEIR CUSTOMERS,
Carmela sat at her desk mulling things over. And came to a number of conclusions: Margo was crazy as a hoot owl, Beetsie had a nasty, sinister side, and Eric Zane was either a dedicated employee or a scheming traitor. She spun around in her chair again and gazed at some of the scrapbook ideas she had pinned to her wall. A torn tissue paper heart, some recycled fabric, and some vintage photos with buttons sewn around the border.

But all the while, she was thinking,
I gotta call Shamus. I gotta ask him about this.

It was just after three, so she figured he'd probably still be at the bank. Unless he'd ducked over to Galatoire's for an afternoon bump at the bar. Shamus, so tall and good-looking, with his languid smile and casual arrogance, could undoubtedly pick up a sexy blonde in about two seconds flat.

Carmela hit her speed dial, figuring she'd probably get Shamus's voice mail. Instead, she got the real deal Shamus.

He came on the line all hearty and upbeat. “Babe! I was just thinking about you.”

“Favorably, I hope.”

“Always good times, babe.”

Carmela snorted. “Except for our marriage.”

“We had our moments,” said Shamus, trying hard to sound philosophical. “But look at the bright side—we're in a good place now.”

“That's right, we're divorced.”

“I'm just happy we're still in each other's lives.”

Carmela smiled to herself. Such a sweet thought. And just when her heart seemed to thaw a tiny bit, Shamus asked, “What's going on with my Garden District house?”

Which helped Carmela remember why she'd divorced the rat fink in the first place. “It's my house now, remember? I got it as part of the settlement.”

“Settlement? I'd call it highway robbery.”

“No, I wangled it fair and square,” said Carmela.
Or at least my smart-as-a-whip lawyer
did.
“Besides, if you and Glory had gotten your way, I would have ended up with fifty bucks and a used Ping-Pong table.” Glory was Shamus's older sister, a parsimonious crab who'd always despised Carmela. She'd made no bones about the fact that Carmela was too blue collar to be part of their family.

“I hear you put the house on the market for two point three million,” said Shamus. He may have been an indolent, do-nothing member of the Meechum banking family, but he somehow managed to get his facts and figures straight.

“Something like that,” said Carmela.

“Big number.”

“I didn't price it, Shamus, my realtor did. Anyway, I wasn't calling for real estate advice. I wanted to ask you a question.”

“Is it about that little incident at Pappy's Brewhouse last weekend?” said Shamus. “Because the manager dropped the charges and I already paid to replace the ceiling fan.”

“No,” said Carmela. “It's not about that because I don't even
know
about that.”

“Then what?” said Shamus.

“I wanted to know what
end of the world
means to you?”

Shamus was instantly on alert. “Is this a trick question?”

“No, it's just a standard Q and A question.”

“Because if this is some kind of stupid pet trick, don't think I'll be amused.”

“You're rarely amused, Shamus. Now, please, just answer the question. In fact, just give me the first thing that pops into your head.”

“End of the world . . . end of the world,” said Shamus. “Okay, let me get this straight. If I'm not mistaken, it's how the people in Venice refer to their unincorporated town.” Venice, Louisiana, was the last stop on the Great River Road and located in Plaquemines Parish right on the edge of the Baptiste Collette Bayou. It had been almost completely destroyed by Hurricane Katrina in 2005 and hadn't fared well with Hurricane Isaac in 2012.

“You're sure about that?” said Carmela.

“Sure I'm sure. They call it that because it's kind of the last bit of civilization. Yeah,” Shamus rhapsodized, “I had me some excellent fishing trips down that way. Good game fish: wahoo, marlin, snapper, you name it. I don't think there's a prettier place on earth.”

“Yes,” Carmela said softly. The memory of all the nights they'd spent together at Shamus's little camp house in the nearby Baritaria Bayou came flooding back to her. The rain pattering gently on the corrugated tin roof, a crackling fire, fresh grilled snapper. Those were good times, better times. “Thank you, Shamus,” she murmured.

“Hey, did I get it right?”

“This time, Shamus, I think you might have.”

• • •

CARMELA HUNG UP THE PHONE AND THOUGHT
about that isolated little spit of land south of New Orleans. What would Venice, Louisiana, have to do with Jerry Earl's murder? It was all bayous and bars and swamp rats. How on earth would the little down-on-its-heels town of Venice intersect with the gilded life of Jerry Earl and Margo Leland?

Is this where the prison gang hailed from?

If so, why would they be after Jerry Earl? Could things have gone terribly wrong in prison? Had Jerry Earl violated some sort of prison code?

On the other hand, maybe she was coming at this the wrong way. What if, instead of looking at people, she viewed the murder from a completely different angle entirely? Such as . . . trying to find out more about the grisly murder weapon?

The trocar.

Even the name sounded alien to her. Spooky and threatening and old-fashioned. Still, Ava had called Charlie the crime-scene guy and that's what he'd confided to her. Murder via trocar.

How could she find out more about a trocar? Whom could she call? Who might know?

Like the proverbial lightbulb popping on above her head, Carmela suddenly remembered Oddities, the little shop next door.

Little Shop of Horrors is what Gabby calls it.

Still, talking to Marcus Joubert, the owner of Oddities, might give her a smattering of insight.

“I'm running next door for a second.” Carmela told Gabby as she breezed past her yet again.

“Ugh.” Gabby made the appropriate face to accompany her remark.

“Don't worry, I'll be back in two shakes.”

“I
do
worry,” Gabby called after her.

But Carmela was already out the door. From there it was a quick ten steps to the front door of Oddities. She pushed her way in and was instantly struck by the extremely bizarre inventory. There were Victorian-era top hats, stuffed bats, leather riding crops, animal skulls, butterfly and beetle collections, tribal masks, a real-life sarcophagus, and so much more. The narrow brick walls and strange objects seemed to close in on her as she walked through the store.

“Carmela!” Marcus Joubert looked up from a glass case and smiled his toothy grin. He was tall and slightly stooped with a bold lantern jaw. If he were a few years younger, he could have been mistaken for Lurch in the Addams Family. “What can I do for you?” he asked, wiggling bushy gray eyebrows at her.

Carmela glanced around at the knickknacks in his shop. “Something's different.”

Joubert waved a thin, bony hand. “Aren't you the observant one. Yes, I've changed up the merchandise somewhat. The stuffed monkeys and toads weren't selling all that well. Now steam punk is the hot new thing!”

“What's steam punk?” Carmela asked. She'd heard the term, but wasn't sure what it meant.

“It's a sci-fi or fantasy subgenre,” Joubert explained. “A sort of mash-up of nineteenth-century industrialized looks with Victorian flourishes.” He held up a black leather fitted top with multiple lacings and studs. “See?”

“OMG,” said Carmela. “Do
not
show that to Ava!”

Joubert peered expectantly at Carmela, one bushy eyebrow arched up, the other slanted downward. “Would she like it?”

“Like it? She's a pushover for Goth and Victorian. It's got sexy vamp written all over it. Of course she'd love it.”

“Bring her by!”

Carmela groaned inwardly. The last thing she needed was Ava prancing around town looking like an extra in the movie
Edward Scissorhands.
No, she'd come here for information and she was going to get it. Even if she had to wiggle into that top herself.

“This is going to sound a little strange,” Carmela said. She dropped her voice and leaned toward Joubert, as if pulling him into her confidence. “But do you know anything about trocars? I mean, some of your inventory here includes old medical instruments, correct?”

“Ah, trocars,” said Joubert, his face lighting up. “The mortician's trusty friend.”

Carmela made her lemon face.

“I might even have some photos here,” said Joubert. “Hold on.” He rummaged around behind a counter and pulled out a handful of dog-eared catalogs. After leafing through several, he smiled and spread the pages out for Carmela to see. “Here are some fairly good illustrations for a number of antique medical instruments. And this particular one . . .” He pointed a bony finger to a drawing of a long, serrated tube with a wooden handle. “This one is a turn-of-the century trocar.”

Carmela swallowed hard. “Dare I ask what it was used for?”

“Oh my,” said Joubert. “You really don't know?”

Carmela shook her head.
Do I really want to know?

“In the embalming process,” said Joubert, “it is quite necessary to remove most of the internal organs. The trocar merely facilities this.”

“So it . . .” Carmela was grasping for words.

“Macerates them for easy removal,” Joubert supplied helpfully. “Of course, that basic design is still in use today for laparoscopic surgeries. But now the modern ones come with an autolock mechanism and ergonomic grip.”

Carmela raised a hand to stop Joubert. If she listened to any more grisly details, she'd probably want to forget the entire investigation.

“Interesting, no?” said Joubert.

No
, thought Carmela. Because now she understood that someone had sliced into Jerry Earl as if he were undergoing open-heart surgery. Only he hadn't had the benefit of anesthesia. Or a doctor for that matter.