Skeleton Letters (33 page)

“We weren't,” said Carmela. “We just returned from that wine-tasting event I honchoed.”

“Huh,” said Babcock. His handsome face looked tired and drawn. With genuine worry thrown in for good measure.

“I
told
you about that,” said Carmela. “Umpteen times.”

“Still,” said Babcock, “you've been snooping around, obviously ruffling more feathers. You know it and I know it.”

“Looks to me,” said Ava, “as if Carmela got to someone.”

“You think so?” asked Babcock. His words sounded just this side of sarcastic.

Ava gave a vigorous bob of her head. “Somebody's worried. Probably the somebody who wrote that note.”

“Who have you been bothering?” Babcock asked Carmela again.

Carmela's brows shot up. “I don't know!” she cried.

“Think,” said Babcock. “Think really hard. And, this time, I would really like an answer from you.”

Carmela gazed at Ava. A what-do-you-think? gaze.

“Rain?” said Ava, in a small voice.

“Rain Monroe?” said Babcock. “The lady with all the crucifixes?”

“Yeah,” said Carmela. “That would be my first guess.”

“You're not hurling accusations at Crowley anymore?” asked Babcock.

“Could be him,” said Carmela.

“Not likely,” said Babcock. He let loose a deep and mournful sigh.

“The question is,” said Carmela, “what do we do now? I mean ...does this note imply that . . . um ...someone might ...?”

“Come back and harm you?” finished Babcock.

“I wasn't going to make it sound quite so dire,” said Carmela.

“Maybe we are in danger,” said Ava. “So we should sit tight and lock our doors.”

Babcock looked undecided for a few moments. He stood with his fists thrust into his pockets, jingling change, rocking back on his heels. Finally he said, “Is there someplace you two can go where you'll be safe?”

“How about your place?” asked Carmela. Babcock lived in a renovated brownstone town house just south of the CBD, or Central Business District.

“Ha ha,” said Babcock, “very funny.”

“Why not?” asked Ava.

“Here's why not,” said Babcock. “When somebody spills their Type A blood all over a note, it generally indicates they mean business. And if this sick, twisted someone knows precisely where you live, they've probably figured out that we're involved.”

“Is that what we are?” asked Carmela. “Involved?”

Babcock put both hands on Carmela's shoulders. “Sometimes a little too involved,” he murmured.

“You can tell from just looking at that note that it's Type A blood?” asked Ava.

“No,” said Babcock, “but I'm afraid the next blood spilled could be yours.” He turned to gaze solemnly at Carmela. “Or yours.”

Ava hovered nervously on the balls of her feet. Then she grimaced and said, “Um ...maybe we should tell him about the car last night?”

The question ripped from Babcock's mouth. “What car?”

Ava ducked her head, looking flustered. “The one that tried to run us off the road?”

“Carmela!” said Babcock. “This isn't the first time someone's come after you?”

“I didn't view it quite that way,” Carmela said, contriteness in her voice.

“So you think somebody is seriously after us?” asked Ava.

Babcock exhaled slowly. “It would seem that way. So it's probably best if you stay at a hotel or something for the night. I need to get my team together and see what we can figure out.”

“How about going back to the hotel we were just at?” asked Ava. “We could probably wangle a good deal. Heck, maybe they'd even comp us a room.”

“Not with the dogs,” said Carmela, her mind clicking along at a dizzying speed. “But that's okay, I know a better place to hide out.”

“And it can't be your Garden District house,” said Babcock. “With multiple entrance points, it wouldn't be secure enough.”

“Now you're really scaring me,” said Ava.

“I meant to,” said Babcock. “So I want you two to pack a few things and go, okay?” He glanced at Ava. “You run across the courtyard while I stand guard right here in the doorway. I'll keep an eye on the both of you.”

“Okay,” said Ava. She ducked her head and scurried out across the courtyard into the rain.

Carmela just stood there, staring at Babcock, looking nervous, scared, and more than a little baffled.

“Go ahead,” he told her, in a kinder, gentle tone of voice. “Get your things.”

 

 

“What are we going to do about the dogs?” Ava asked as they drove down Rampart Street. Carmela's little Mercedes was packed to the gills. The two of them sat in the front seat with overnight bags jammed between their knees; the dogs were scrunched into the back of the car, where there wasn't really a seat but a shelf. Boo and Poobah were panting and snorting with excitement at being out so late, steaming up the windows like crazy. Smelling up the car a little, too.

“I'm gonna drop Boo and Poobah with Shamus,” said Carmela.

“Think he'll take them?” asked Ava.

“Oh yeah,” said Carmela. “He's crazy over them; they're his little darlings.”

One quick phone call and five minutes later they were parked in front of Shamus's condo. He'd been waiting for them on the sidewalk and dashed eagerly up to the car to greet them.

“Oh, Boo doo doo,” Shamus cooed to Boo, tapping the back window. “Woof you, woof you, fur babies.”

“Is that an actual language?” Ava asked, as she pushed open her door and climbed out.

“Dog language,” said Shamus. “Can't you see how much they love it? Really eat it up?”

Shamus helped Carmela out, then reached back and snapped a leash on a somewhat bored Boo, then a second leash on Poobah. When the dogs had jumped out and were happily sniffing about the boulevard, he said, “Come on, kids, let's go watch TV and snarf some pizza.”

“No pizza,” said Carmela.

“Aw, gee,” said Shamus, frowning at her. “You're no fun.” He bent down and kissed Boo on the top of her furry head. “Mommy's no fun, is she? Mommy's never any fun.”

“No pizza,” Carmela said again.

“Yeah, yeah,” Shamus muttered. Then a grin stole across his handsome face. “Where are you girls off to? Some late-night wild party out in the bayou? Gonna have yourselves a little ...heh-heh ...overnight?” Shamus suddenly looked a little wistful. As if he wanted to grab a bottle of Wild Turkey and head out with them.

“That's the other thing I wanted to talk to you about,” said Carmela. “We're in a ...I guess you could call it a spot of trouble.”

“Sounds familiar,” Shamus snorted. “Does it have something to do with that church murder?”

“And the one at Storyville Outreach Center,” said Carmela. “Yes, I'm afraid so. The thing is, Ava and I need to stay out of sight for a while. So I was wondering if we could use your camp house?” The Meechum family owned a small camp house in the Baritaria Bayou that they used for hunting and fishing. Sometimes it even served as home base for Shamus's occasional photography projects.

“It's okay with me,” said Shamus, “but, jeez, nobody's been out there in a coon's age. There's probably an inch of dust covering everything.” He suddenly looked agitated, like he had a bad taste in his mouth. “And spiderwebs. Those doggone wolf spiders are all over the darn place.”

Carmela stifled a grin. Shamus had a real phobia about spiders. She was pleased to see it still bothered him.

“And you're gonna have to fire up the generator and prime the pump,” he reminded her. “You remember how to work the pump?”

“Of course, I do,” said Carmela. “It's not exactly the same degree of difficulty as disarming a nuclear warhead.”

“I'm just sayin',” said Shamus. He dug into his pocket and came up with a Gucci key chain. He worked a small brass key off it, then pressed the key into Carmela's open palm.

“Okay,” said Carmela, deciding it was better to remain peaceable. Especially since he'd agreed to dog-sit. “Okay, thanks.”

Shamus fixed her with a crooked smile and a wistful gaze. “Those were the good old days, huh, babe? You and me hanging out at the camp house?” He nodded to himself as a look of fond regret crept across his face. “Sleeping late, catching a bucket of mudbugs, drinking beer, and crawling into ...”

“Shamus,” Carmela snapped, “I'm afraid you have a very selective memory.”

Shamus gave a knowing grin. “I'm like a computer, sweetheart.” He tapped an index finger against the side of his head. “It's all up here in my hard drive.”

“Maybe,” said Carmela, “it's time to hit the Delete button.”

 

 

They barreled down Highway 23 toward the Baritaria Bayou, passing through the small, sleeping towns of Port Nickel, Jesuit Bent, and Naomi.

“Whoa,” Ava remarked, as Carmela edged the needle up to seventy, “you've got yourself a lead foot tonight.”

“Just blowing out the carbon,” said Carmela, finally slowing as she came upon Myrtle Grove. It wouldn't do to have the local constable issue a speeding ticket. When she reached a well-lit stretch of road, Carmela pulled in at an all-night Save Mart.

“I hope some peckerwood doesn't decide to rob this joint while we're shopping,” said Ava, as they picked up milk, eggs, bread, butter, coffee, and a few other essentials. As an afterthought, Ava tossed in a couple of MoonPies and a Zagnut bar.

Just before they started up again, Carmela checked her phone for messages. One missed call. And she recognized the number. Babcock. She scrolled down to his name and hit the button to return his call. Maybe he'd found something out?

“Who you calling?” asked Ava. She was already unwrapping one of the MoonPies.

“Babcock. But he's not answering.”

“Have a MoonPie,” said Ava.

“Ah,” said Carmela, disappointed at not reaching him, “maybe later.”

“Zagnut bar?” Ava offered. When Carmela shook her head, Ava plopped the candy bar into her handbag. “I wonder if you can make candy bar pie out of Zagnut bars? You think?”

“I think,” said Carmela, “you can make candy bar pie using
any
kind of candy bar and it will probably turn out just grand.”

From Myrtle Grove it was a twisting fifteen miles of seashell roads through dark swampland and the occasional dark, piney forest until they arrived at the tiny village of Baptiste Creek.

“This looks more like a fish camp,” said Ava, peering out the window as they slid down the main drag.

“Some of it is,” said Carmela. Many of the inhabitants were fishermen or trappers by trade, and the buildings, which had withstood floods, hurricanes, salt air, high humidity, and the march of time, looked a little ramshackle. Add in a stilt building or two that had your basic fishnet, alligator hide, or tin sign nailed to the outside, and you had yourself a picturesque little place with wide appeal to sportsmen.

“This is where you usually pick up a boat,” said Ava, as they bumped along.

“At Toler Boat and Bait,” said Carmela. Ned Toler, the proprietor, was a crackerjack fishing guide who owned a passel of brown-spotted hounds.

“But tonight we're going to
drive
in,” said Ava. She sounded edgy and nervous. “I always thought the only way in was by boat.”

“That's the fun way in,” said Carmela, “but there's a back way, too. The road's kind of muddy and rutty, but I think we can make it.”

“You
think
we can?”

“I know we can,” said Carmela. “I've done it a couple of times.”

“But it's been raining. Don't you think we need a fourwheel-drive vehicle?”

“It helps,” said Carmela. Then she saw the look of concern on Ava's face and said, “Really, we'll be fine.”

They clattered across a narrow, one-lane wooden bridge. Underneath, the water looked sluggish, dark, and ominous. Like maybe an alligator or two might be lurking. Then, two hundred yards beyond, the road dwindled to a muddy rut and the bayou closed in on them.

Carmela crept along steadily as swamp privet and buttonbush whispered against her windshield and caressed the sides of her car. She knew if she kept a steady pace, didn't accelerate and spin her wheels, didn't slow down and get bogged, she'd be fine. After all, she'd done this before. Just never at night.

“Doggone, this is creepy,” said Ava. She was clutching the dashboard, her knuckles gone white, gazing out at brackish water populated by stands of black gum and bald cypress.

“It's primordial,” said Carmela. “An exotic tangle of swamp, jungle, saltwater intrusion from the Gulf of Mexico, and waterlogged trees.”

“And critters,” added Ava.

“Opossum, nutria, heron, bald eagles, loggerhead turtles, and alligators,” said Carmela. “As well as redfish, black drum, speckled trout, and black bass, if you happen to be into fishing.”

“Fishing, no. Fashion, yes,” said Ava. “Um ...how close are we?”

“It's not too far now, we just have to ...oh, man.” Carmela took her foot off the accelerator and let her car coast to a stop.

“Why are we stopping!” Ava shrilled.

Carmela lifted a hand from the steering wheel and pointed. Ten feet ahead, the road turned into a quagmire.

“Can we make it through that?” asked Ava.

“Hope so,” said Carmela. She put her car into reverse, spun it back a good fifty feet or so, then double-clutched into second. “Hang on!” She sped forward at a good clip. Ten, twenty, now thirty miles an hour. Hitting the mud, Carmela felt her tires sink in and her engine rev higher as it fought its way through. Chunks of mud flew past them as they ground away. And then, just when Carmela could see dry land again, just like that she was stuck.