Gilt Trip (17 page)

Carmela could just imagine what they were thinking:
Please, give me
another helping of food and I'll never ask for anything ever again.
And then, when she gave them another serving:
Please, give me another helping of food and I'll never ask for anything ever again.

She tapped her foot while she waited for her shrimp. And wondered—who had been hanging around Commander's Palace today, waiting to pounce? There was Duncan Merriweather, of course. In her mind, he still wasn't off the hook. And good old Beetsie. Had
she
been the one that Eric Zane was trying to blackmail? Because of her supposed relationship with Jerry Earl?

And then there was Eddy Moon down there in Venice, probably drinking Abita beer and poaching alligators.

Or was he?

Moon had been powerfully angry about Jerry Earl owing him money. So could he have snuck into the funeral luncheon? There was always that possibility.

But why would he do that?

To kill Eric Zane? That seemed a little far-fetched. Unless there'd been bad blood between Zane and the Venice gang? She let that thought percolate for a few minutes.

Could Zane have functioned as their go-between? Was his killing some sort of retaliation?

The oven timer dinged so loudly, it made Carmela jump. Still thinking about the Venice-Zane connection, she quickly served herself a portion of baked shrimp. She ate half of it as her mind continued to wander, thinking about all the strange goings-on of the past five days. Feeling anxious and more than a little on edge, Carmela set down her fork, walked into the kitchen, and poured herself a half glass of Chablis.

This should help calm me down. Unless . . .

She hesitated for a moment, then poured the wine into the sink without taking a sip. And decided her restlessness wouldn't be completely quelled until she took another trip down to Venice and had a serious, all-cards-on-the-table talk with Moony.

“Boo? Poobah?” she called out. “You two want to feel the wind in your fur?”

D
RIVING
down to Venice, Carmela had plenty of time to think. About Margo and Beetsie. Jerry Earl's murder. Conrad Falcon. Eric Zane's murder. And about Duncan Merriweather. Lots of egos and lives had intersected. Still, nothing seemed clear; it was like some tricky Chinese puzzle.

As she zoomed along a stretch of bayou, the sky a spectacular pinky-purple backdrop, she considered the foolishness of going back to Venice yet again. After all, what did she really know about Eddy Moon? And what if she couldn't locate him? What if he didn't hang out at Sparky's every night?

What if I start asking too many questions and . . .

Before she could ponder that thought to the fullest, she was bumping across the old one-lane bridge into town. She slowed down and drove through the business section again, passing Boudreau's Rod and Gun Shop, Palermo Pizza, and the used car place, finally pulling into Sparky's parking lot.

Just like the other night, the parking lot was jammed. Carmela figured that Sparky's, such as it was, must be the social center of town.

She parked, pulled out her phone, and tried to call Ava. Nothing. Her call just went to voice mail. Okay, then she'd send her a quick text. The thought that she could disappear into the bayou with no one knowing where to search for her sent a chill up her spine.

After sending the text, Carmela steeled herself and fought to dismiss any and all irrational fears. She was here to get a few answers and that was all. There would be no spooky disappearance in a bottomless swamp. No murky figure who . . .

A vision of a shish-kebob suddenly wafted through her brain!

Carmela grimaced and shook her head to dispel the image. No. There would be no blood, no trocar, no lethal skewers, or anything else that was threatening or grisly.

“You guys stay here and hold down the fort,” she told Boo and Poobah. They were both wagging their tails like mad, ready to jump out and enjoy a romp down main street with the local mutts. “Be good. Try not to bark your furry little heads off.”

Carmela slithered out of the front seat as paws and muzzles strove to wedge their way into her exit. She closed the car door carefully, crossed a dusty expanse, and pulled open the front door of Sparky's.

The place smelled like stale beer, burned cheeseburgers, and last month's cooking oil. Music blared from a jukebox in the corner, and lights were dim except for a galaxy of neon beer signs. A crowd was ponied up to the bar, and most of the tables were occupied.

Oh dear.

Carmela headed directly for the bar. Maybe if she talked to a friendly bartender?

The bartender saw her coming and gave a perfunctory swipe of his dirty rag at the expanse of bar in front of her. He was late fifties with a long, thin ponytail, a gold earring, and one wonky eye. He looked like one of Jean Lafitte's pirates who had somehow managed to hang on through the last two centuries.

“Help you, miss?” the bartender asked.

Carmela pushed closer to the bar. “I'm looking for a guy by the name of Eddy Moon. Can you help me? Can you tell me if he's here tonight?”

The bartender looked suddenly bored. “
Who
are you?”

She touched a finger to her chest. “Carmela. I was here last night? For the crawfish boil?”

“You were?” said the bartender.

Carmela nodded. “Sure. With my friend Ava.”

A man on the bar stool next to her turned and smiled a gap-toothed grin. “Ava! I remember her. Seems to me we danced together.”

“You probably did,” said Carmela. “She's quite the dancer.”

“Quite the looker, too,” said the man.

The bartender interrupted. “If you want to talk to Moony, he's in the back room. Got himself a card game going.”

“High stakes?” said the guy at the bar, looking interested.

“Penny-anty,” said the bartender.

“In the back?” said Carmela. She gazed toward the rear of the smoke-filled bar. Two guys in leather vests were playing pool. Her nervousness suddenly returned.

“That's right.” The bartender hooked a thumb and gestured toward the back of the bar, where two curtains hung limply in a narrow doorway.

Feeling self-conscious, Carmela walked the length of the room and paused when she got to the curtains. Then she stuck out a hand and parted them.

Moony was there all right. He was seated at a dilapidated round table with three other men. They all held cards and had small stacks of poker chips in front of them. Nobody looked particularly happy . . . or flush.

Carmela cleared her throat. “Um . . . Moony?”

Moony tilted back in his chair and took his own sweet time in looking over at her. When he finally did, he said, “You again?”

“That's right,” said Carmela. “I wonder if we could have a word.”

Moony made a rude sound that caused the other men to snigger. Then he said, “Go ahead and have your word.”

“Look, do you mind if we step outside?”

The player seated next to Moony, a man in a camo-printed trucker cap, said, “Some guys have all the luck.”

Moony tossed his cards facedown onto the table. “Not me. I'm out.” He shuffled his feet and rose from his chair. “This better be good,” he told Carmela.

They walked back through the bar together and out the front door. In the fading darkness, they faced each other under a yellow streetlamp. The minute Boo and Poobah spotted Carmela, they started barking and yipping with joy. They stuck their noses out of the top of the window that Carmela had cracked open and snorted happily.

Moony saw their antics and managed a sardonic laugh. “Are those your dogs?”

“How on earth did you ever guess?”

“Can they hunt?”

“They can dig through the pillows on my sofa for treats, yes.”

“No,” said Moony. “I mean really hunt. Flush out game. You know, like partridge and wild boar.”

Carmela chuckled. “Not hardly. Boo is basically a lapdog, and Poobah is . . . well, he's a little lazy and prefers not to get his paws wet. But he's very sweet.”

“Now that we've established you've got dogs,” said Moony, “what exactly did you get me out here for?”

“I've got a few more questions for you,” said Carmela.

Moony's lips formed a straight line and he grumbled, “Now what's bugging you?”

“Unfortunately, there's been another death connected to Jerry Earl Leland.”

Moony frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“Eric Zane, Jerry Earl's assistant, was murdered today.”

Moony looked surprised. “The prissy guy?”

“You knew him?” Carmela asked. Now it was her turn to be surprised.

Moony shrugged. “Met him a couple of times.”

“Where?” Carmela asked.

“At Leland's house.”

“Really,” said Carmela.
So Moony's been there. He knows exactly where Jerry Earl called home. Isn't that interesting!

Moony stared at her. “So what was your question?”

“Hmm?” Carmela was still processing this new information.

“You said you had a couple of questions for me. So . . . shoot. Time's a-wastin'.”

“Did you, um, deliver some of Jerry Earl's messages to Eric Zane?” Carmela asked.

Suddenly Moony seemed fascinated by his shoes. He scuffed up some dirt and studied the sole of his boot. After a moment, he said, “Maybe a couple, yeah.”

“So where else were messages delivered?” Carmela asked.

Moony stiffened. “I'm not sure. I don't keep no notebooks or records or anything like that. And I already told you, I had some of my guys working on that stuff, too.”

“Which guys?” Carmela asked. “Could I talk to them?”

“Lady, you are way too cuckoo for words. What do you want, huh? You want me to take you to meet 'em?”

“Well,” said Carmela. “I guess I do.” Her heart caught in her throat. What was she getting into?

Moony took a step back and considered her words. “You really are crazy. But heck, if you want to take a ride . . .”

Carmela looked at him expectantly.

“What can I say?” said Moony. “I've always had a soft spot for the ladies. Come on, I'll drive. You can leave your car here; it'll be safe enough.” He sauntered toward a dusty red Jeep Wrangler that was parked haphazardly on the street. In fact, half of the Jeep rested on the curb.

Carmela reconsidered the idea of Moony taking her anywhere. Even if he didn't have malicious plans for her, she could wind up dead or maimed just because he was a terrible driver.

Moony glared at Carmela. “Come on. The longer you make me wait, the easier it is to change my mind.”

That was enough for Carmela. She hopped into the passenger side of Moony's Jeep while Boo and Poobah whined from her car.

“Oh man,” she worried. “I really hate leaving them behind.”

“Get 'em,” Moony said. “That's okay with me.”

Carmela jumped from the Jeep and ran to her car. When she pulled open the door, Boo and Poobah spilled out happily. “Come on, guys. We're going for a little ride.”

Carmela hefted the dogs into the back of the Jeep, then climbed in herself.

“Buckle up,” said Moony as they lurched forward. “We're about to navigate some real Louisiana back roads!” As they tore down the main street, two bearded men in camo gear were just coming out of Boudreau's. They lifted their hands in a knowing wave as Moony's Jeep shot down the street.

At least, if I disappear, there'll be a couple of witnesses
, Carmela thought grimly to herself.
And I do have the dogs for protection.
She glanced back at the dogs, who were slobbering on the upholstery and couldn't have cared less.

They crossed the rickety bridge, a tide of dark water swirling below as Boo and Poobah danced with excitement. Soon they hung a left turn onto a dirt road that was rugged with grooves and treacherous dips. Branches swept against the sides of the Jeep and scratched overhead as they hurtled down a dark tunnel of foliage, swaying from side to side as if they were on a roller coaster.

At one point the bayou closed in so tightly that the road was just a puddle of muck in Moony's headlights. Carmela figured they'd get stuck for sure, but Moony navigated the muck and ruts like an expert, like someone who knew this road like the back of his hand.

As if reading Carmela's mind, Moony said, “I go hog hunting out here all the time.”

The narrow road rose a bit as they approached a fork. Without hesitating, Mooney downshifted and turned down the right fork. They wove their way past stands of bald cypress and tupelo, eventually ending up at a ramshackle camp house.

“This here is Jake Ebson's house,” Moony said as they rocked to a stop in a patch of hardpan dirt. “But most everybody around here just calls him Squirrel.”

Carmela gazed around. Under a dim yard light, the camp house was a weathered silver-gray with a corrugated metal roof and an array of animal hides and antique traps nailed to the outside walls. A yellow bug light glowed on the porch and a man in cut-off jeans and a T-shirt with three days' worth of growth on his face lounged in a hand-made rocking chair. Next to him was an old blue cooler with a rip down one of its seams.

Moony climbed out of his Jeep. “Come on. You can let those dogs stretch their legs, too.”

“You think?” said Carmela. What if they wandered off, never to be seen again?

“They'll be fine,” Moony assured her.

Carmela let the dogs scramble out, just as a brown and white hound came bounding over to inspect the newcomers. In about two seconds flat, the dogs were playing and jumping around together. Fast friends already.

When the man on the porch caught sight of Moony, he dipped a hand into his cooler and fished out a can of Dixie Beer. “Hey, Moony,” he called out. “How's about a cold one?”

“Don't mind if I do, Squirrel,” said Moony as he stomped over and accepted the beer.

“Whatcha doin' out this way?” Squirrel asked. Then he turned his curious gaze on Carmela, who had followed closely behind Moony. “And who's the lady you brought along?”

Moony pulled back on the tab and said, “Aw, I got this lady nagging on my butt.”

Squirrel tipped his bushy head back and laughed. Then he scratched at his belly. “Well, she's a very pretty lady. I'd sure enough let her nag at me if she wanted.”

Moony held up a cautionary hand. “Don't say that. She'll start right in.”

Carmela laughed good-naturedly, then stuck out her hand. “Hi, I'm Carmela Bertrand.”

Squirrel shook hands with her politely. “How do. Nice to meet you.”

“And I hope you don't mind,” said Carmela, “but I have a few questions to ask you.”

Moony snorted. “Here she goes.”

“As you can see,” Carmela continued, “Mr. Moony was kind enough to drive me out here.”

Squirrel, ever the gentleman, reached in and grabbed another can of beer and held it out to Carmela. When she declined, he shrugged and opened the beer for himself. “Questions about what?” he finally asked.

“Jerry Earl Leland was murdered last Sunday,” Carmela began.

Squirrel watched her intently. “So I heard.”

“And now,” Carmela continued, “his assistant, Eric Zane, was killed right after his funeral this morning.”

Squirrel sat up straighter. “You don't say.”

“So I'm trying to figure a few things out,” said Carmela. “Kind of . . . well, I guess you'd call it investigating.”

Squirrel narrowed his eyes. “Are you some kind of cop?”

“No,” Carmela said. “No way. I'm just looking into things for Jerry Earl's widow. She's pretty broken up about things.” She hesitated. “So Moony told me you did some deliveries for Jerry Earl when he was in prison?”

“I might have,” said Squirrel.