Gossamer Ghost (26 page)

“You think?”

I hope.
“Of course.”

“So I shouldn't call Miguel and beg him to come in immediately?”

“Not at all,” Carmela told her. “We'll get this sorted out so you can be open tomorrow at nine on the dot.” Carmela wiggled her nose and sneezed again. “In the meantime, prop open the doors, will you?” She waved a hand in front of her face. “And a couple of windows?”

“What a friend you are!” exclaimed Ava.

“Tell you what,” said Carmela, kneeling down. “I'll gather up all the broken stuff while you dig in your stockroom for replacement candles and things.”

“You're really going to help?” Ava was deeply touched.

“Sure,” said Carmela. “I bet we can knock this off in an hour.” She sneezed again. “Or two or three at the most.”

C
ARMELA
yawned as she gazed bleary-eyed around Memory Mine this Friday morning. Halloween morning.

The shop was officially closed, but Carmela was there anyway. She had to finish the shrouds to go with her and Ava's ghost dresses. Only problem was, she'd only had about six hours' sleep.

The cleanup at Ava's shop hadn't been that bad. Mostly things had been overturned, spilled, and smashed. Still, Carmela's brain had been up late, working overtime. Trying to puzzle out who was behind all these nasty warnings.

Someone obviously thought she was getting too close to solving Joubert's murder. But who? And just how close was she? She'd shown her cell-phone photo to Ava—the one of the green alien's backside—but Ava hadn't recognized him. Then again, the creep had been in costume.

Carmela shook her head as she patted the fabric that she'd dampened and sprayed with a stiffening agent. It was half dry, on its way to crisp. Now all she had to do was crumple it up a bit and form it into a shawl that would drape nicely around their shoulders.

She pinched and tucked, forming both shawls into a distinct U shape. When they were dry and really quite hard, she hit them with a couple coats of gray paint. There. Almost good to go.

Just as Carmela was wiping her hands on a damp towel, the phone rang. It was Ava.

“How are things at your shop?” Carmela asked her.

“Things are hoppin',” said Ava. She sounded in high spirits. “We've got at least a dozen customers wandering around. Buying stuff, too!”

“See?”

“You were right. Last night was only a small burp in the scheme of things. Or more like a stinky belch.”

“But we got it done,” said Carmela. “And now you're open for business.”

“Thanks to you. How are the shrouds coming?”

“Great. I'm gonna dab on some more paint and be done with them.”

“So I should pick you up around one? We're still going to the Zombie Chase, right?”

“How could we not?” said Carmela. “Oh, Ava, and when you come by? Bring some food, okay?”

“Gotcha.”

Carmela was just sewing tiny, tinkling beads on the hems of their ghost dresses when she heard a pounding at the front door.

Can't they read? Don't they see the sign that says
Closed
?

Carmela set her needle and thread down and hurried to the front door. The words,
Sorry we're closed
, were forming on her lips when she skidded to a halt and gaped at the face that peered in through the glass.

Boyd Bellamy.

Oh no.

But Bellamy was attacking the door with his fist, demanding to be let in.

Against her good judgment, Carmela unlocked the door.

“Hi,” she said, sounding brittle and overly chirpy. “What's up?”

Bellamy flashed a cheesy smile and said, “I see your neighbor finally moved out.”

“Not because she wanted to,” said Carmela. “Really, Mr. Bellamy, you could have given Mavis a longer grace period than just one week.”

Bellamy beetled his brows. “I got a real estate company to run. Time is money and the sooner I get a paying tenant in there the better off I am.”

“You think the Countess Saint-Marche is going to be a good tenant?”

“I got no reason to think otherwise,” said Bellamy. He glanced around, pretending to look interested.

“That's great,” said Carmela. “That you're such a keen judge of people, I mean.”

Bellamy moved a step closer to her. “What are you getting at?”

Carmela moved a step backward. “Nothing.” Carmela was listening to the inflections in Bellamy's voice, trying to decide if he was the one who'd threatened her last night. Wondering if he was the green alien. Or could he have been the one who broke into Ava's shop? Maybe he was trying to take over that space, too!

But Bellamy wasn't all that interested in her or her shop. He rocked back on his heels and said, “You've been a good tenant, Carmela. Always pay your rent on time. I like that.”

“I imagine you would.”

He sucked air through his front teeth. “Commercial real estate is a crazy business. You have no idea.”

“I suppose not.” Actually, she did, since Shamus's division at the bank managed several commercial properties.

“Ah well, have yourself a good day. Be sure to lock up tight. There's going to be Halloween mischief afoot for sure tonight.”

“I'll be careful,” she said, as she let Bellamy out the door. He turned around and gave a perfunctory smile as she made a big show of turning the dead bolt.

When he was gone, Carmela let loose a shudder.

What was that all about? Was Bellamy trying to scare her into moving? Or was he just a lousy conversationalist? Who knew? But somehow, she had an inkling that, sooner or later, she was going to get to the bottom of this whole entire mess.

Carmela had just finished spraying a final hit of gray paint on her shrouds when there was another knock at the door. But this one was totally expected. Ava. And she'd brought along sandwiches. Po-boys, to be exact.

“I got you the fried oysters that you like,” Ava bubbled. “And meatballs for me.”

“Perfect,” said Carmela as she led Ava to the back table. “Oh, and take a look at our dresses. And shrouds.” She lifted a shroud up and draped it around a dress.

“Just fabulous,” Ava proclaimed. “And I like that you really stiffened them up.”

They cleared off the table and snarfed down their sandwiches. Ava had brought bottles of Diet Coke, too, and they drank those, suppressing burps as best they could.

“I love those little tinkling beads you sewed around the hems,” said Ava, leaning back and relaxing. “And the gray and green paint you spattered on the dresses and shrouds is fabulous. Very Jackson Pollock.” She chuckled. “We're going to make quite the pair.”

“Doppelgangers,” agreed Carmela.

*   *   *

The Zombie Chase was a charity event sponsored by the New Orleans Police Department. Held at City Park, it was basically a paintball game where contestants attempted to run through an enormous field filled with lurching zombies. Contestants were given a paintball gun, and, if they tagged a zombie, that zombie was considered dead. On the other hand, if a zombie tagged a contestant with a paint stick, you were dead. Or infected. Or undead, as the case may be.

“What are Babcock and his brothers in blue trying to raise money for?” Ava asked. She and Carmela were waiting in line, waiting to sign releases and get their guns.

“I think they want to buy new computers or something,” said Carmela. She was standing on tiptoes, trying to get Babcock's attention, but he was busy with other things.

“We're gonna have to kill a lot of zombies, then,” said Ava. She craned her neck around. A circus atmosphere prevailed throughout the entire park, with food booths, games for the kids, face painting, and musicians.

“Isn't this interesting,” said a man as he bumped up against Carmela. “We meet again.”

Carmela turned her head and stared into the wary eyes of Johnny Sparks.

“What are you doing here?” were the first words that flew from her mouth.

Sparks smirked. “You might say I'm keeping a watchful eye on the police.”

“That's funny,” said Carmela, “I figured you were here trying to buy one off.”

“That's some sense of humor you got, girlie,” snarled Sparks as he shambled off.

“Who was that?” asked Ava. “The guy with the constipated look on his face.”

“That was that pawn shop guy again,” Carmela told Ava. What she didn't tell her was that Sparks could very well have been the jerk who broke into Juju Voodoo last night. But why spoil the day when Ava was just beginning to regain her good humor?

Carmela and Ava shuffled ahead with the crowd and were finally herded into a paddock with twenty other gamers. There they signed releases and were issued protective vests and paint guns.

“How does this work?” Ava asked as she aimed her gun at the face of one of the police officers.

The officer touched the barrel and pushed it aside, away from his face. “You pull the trigger,” he told her.

“Sounds easy enough,” said Ava. “And how many zombies are out in that field?”

“About a hundred.”

“That doesn't seem fair,” said Ava. “Aren't the odds stacked against us?”

“Remember,” said the officer. “They're zombies. They can only shuffle along slowly and moan. And they have to physically touch you with their paint stick to tag you out.”

Carmela leaned forward. “What do we win if we make it through the field without getting zombified?”

The officer smiled. “You get a gift certificate for dinner at Dufresne's Oyster House.”

“Okay,” said Ava. “Let's do it!”

The officer got on his walkie-talkie and called to another officer across the field. There was loud static and an exchange of 10-4s. Then their gate swung open and Carmela and Ava and the rest of their group were released into the park.

Ava, with her longer legs, led the charge, striking out into the field of zombies. “Take that,” she cried, firing right and left.

Ava's gun exploded to Carmela's right just as she caught up.

Boom!

A burst of yellow paint spattered dead center on one of the stumbling zombies.

Splat!

“I got him!” Ava chortled. “Dead center.”

“Nice shot,” said Carmela, as a group of six zombies started to close in on them.

“You take the three on our right flank, I'll handle the ones on our left,” ordered Ava. She was totally into it.

Boom, boom, splat, splat splat!

More zombies were forced to take a knee.

“We're doin' it!” Ava yelled. “Gettin' it done!”

They ran along, giggling like crazy as they shot at zombies, their guns making rapid-fire
pop-pop-pops
.

Ava spun and fired. “That one's mine. And that one, too. Man, this is my kind of game.” She lifted her paintball gun and blew at the barrel. “Nailed another two of those suckers. Just like Maggie on
The
Walking Dead
!”

As more zombies shuffled and moaned toward them, Carmela cranked her gun, dropped in more paint pellets, and took aim. This time red paint spattered across her zombie's chest. “Another one bites the dust,” she crowed.

“Come on,” said Ava, plucking at her sleeve. “Let's split up, take out a whole bunch more, and meet up at the finish line.”

“You got it,” said Carmela.

They sprinted off in high spirits.

But as Carmela was closing in on the finish line, the zombie just ahead of her turned around, stared straight at her, and raised his right arm.

A warning blip in her brain told her something was wrong.

A zombie shooting at me? What's wrong with this picture?

Zombies weren't supposed to have guns; they carried paint sticks. But this zombie suddenly knelt down, laid his gun across one arm, combat style, and fired at her.

Holy crap! That zombie is shooting at me!

Carmela felt something zing by her head! A bullet? Whatever it was, it smashed into a nearby tree, causing splinters to fly everywhere.

Kicking it into high gear, Carmela zigged and zagged her way across the field, heading for the safety of the exit. She looked over her shoulder once, expecting the killer zombie to be in hot pursuit, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Panting, gasping for breath, Carmela pulled up short at the finish line. Ava was just coming in, too, face animated, her cheeks high with color, tousled hair flying everywhere.

“Ava, get over here,” Carmela called.

“Did you see . . . ?” Ava cried as she rushed up. Then she stopped abruptly. “What's wrong?”

“I think a zombie shot at me!”

Ava gazed at her. “No, Carmela,
we
shoot. The zombies have these . . .” Her words trailed off. “Oh my gosh, you're serious, aren't you?”

Carmela nodded.

“Tell me,” breathed Ava.

Carmela told her, and, halfway through her story, started to get hopping mad.

“We've got to find Babcock,” said Ava. “This is major.”

But when they found him—and Carmela told him her story—he was incredulous.

“Are you serious?” said Babcock. “There no
way
that could have happened.” Then, when he saw Carmela's face darken, he put his arms around her and pulled her close. “Are you sure you didn't get into the spirit of the game a little too much?” he asked.

“She said he had a gun,” Ava said in a very deliberate tone. “She said he
shot
at her.”

“But it was probably a paint gun,” said Babcock. “Or, at the very least, a beanbag gun, don't you see?”

“It
looked
like a real
gun,” said Carmela.