Keepsake Crimes (3 page)

“Dead, living in the bayou . . . same thing,” Tandy said with an offhand shrug.

“Pardon?” said Gabby. She peered at Tandy as a frown creased her forehead. She was never quite sure when Tandy was serious or just teasing her.

“A few years back,” said Tandy, “my husband’s uncle, Freddy Tucker, moved to the bayou out near Des Alle mands. He had some romantic notion about living in harmony with nature, if you can call alligators and snakes nature. Anyway, after a while the poor fellow went sort of feral.” Tandy glanced up to find a half circle of startled faces. “You know,” she explained, “Uncle Freddy started picking fights whenever the relations got together for weddings or funerals.”

“Sounds normal to me,” said Baby. She had cousins who hailed from down in Terrebonne Parish, also hardcore bayou country, so nothing surprised her.

“Eventually, Uncle Freddy just stopped coming to town,” said Tandy. “We never saw him again.”

Gabby stared at Tandy, fascinated. She was the only one in the group “from not here,” as they say in New Orleans. Which meant Gabby hadn’t been born and bred in New Orleans and was sometimes overwhelmed by their offbeat brand of humor.

“You never saw him again?” asked Gabby, looking unsettled.

“Nope,” cooed Tandy happily. “We don’t really know what happened to Uncle Freddy. I suppose the old coot could still be out there, unless he got bit by a cottonmouth or something.”

“Do you think that’ll be the case with Shamus?” Gabby asked Carmela. “That he’ll continue to live out at his camp house, I mean. Not get bit by a cottonmouth.”

Carmela frowned as she snipped a piece of powder-blue gingham-patterned paper with her wavy-edged scissors. “No,” she said. “No such luck.”

 

 

AVA GRIEUX SWEPT THROUGH THE FRONT
door of Memory Mine with her red opera cape trailing grandly behind her and a king cake clutched in her hands.

“Afternoon, ladies,” she greeted them. Ava Grieux was tall and sinewy, with a tousled mane of auburn hair and porcelain skin. Ava Grieux, formerly Marianne Som mersby and first runner-up in the Mobile, Alabama, Miss Teen Sparkle Pageant, had been brought up to believe that a lady should never set foot in the sun without benefit of hat or parasol. That Southern notion, instilled by her mother and grandmother, had stuck with her, and now, at age thirty, Ava still had a flawless if not somewhat luminous complexion. Never mind that she’d changed her name and now ran a slightly tacky voodoo shop that catered shamelessly to tourists with its overpriced candles and herbal love spells stuffed into little silk bags and tied with ribbon.

“Have a piece of king cake, Gabby,” urged Ava as she set the goody in the middle of the table. “You can afford the calories.”

King cake, to the uninitiated, is basically braided coffee cake topped with frosting and liberally sprinkled with purple and green granulated sugar. It’s a de rigueur Mardi Gras treat and always features a plastic Mardi Gras baby baked inside. Whatever lucky person chomps a molar down on the tiny plastic toy is then beholden to provide the
next
king cake.

“Just who are the Pluvius queen candidates this year?” asked Tandy, breaking off a piece of king cake and suddenly getting swept up in the Mardi Gras spirit.

“Swan Dumaine and Shelby Clayton are the front-runners,” said Baby with a knowing smile. “The other four girls are all very pretty and sweet, but they don’t count. They’re not
seriously
in the running.” Baby was well versed in the social intricacies and political strata of Mardi Gras. Back in their debutante days, both her daughters had been queen candidates as well as reigning Mardi Gras queens for the Societé Avignon.

Ava Grieux flashed a broad smile at Carmela. “Just for you, my dear . . . batteries.” She tossed a small brown paper sack onto the table.

“Batteries,” exclaimed Carmela. “Thank you, Ava, you’re my saving angel!” Carmela tore the batteries out of their blister pack, then quickly inserted them in the digital camera she’d promised to lend Gabby.

“Honey, you’re not eating any king cake,” said Tandy to Ava.

Ava made a face, held out one of her arms. “I think I’m gettin’ crepey.”

“You’re what?” said Baby.

“You know those little dingle bags that hang down from the inside of your upper arms?” asked Ava. “I think I’m gettin’ those.”

Carmela glanced at Ava’s arms. They were as sleek and toned as ever.

“Do you-all have any barbells I can borrow?” Ava asked Carmela.

“Soup cans,” pronounced Baby.

“Pardon?” said Ava.

“You can use cans of soup instead of barbells. To do arm curls,” said Baby. She pantomimed the exercise.

“Then, once you’ve worked up a real appetite, you can heat up the soup and really chow down,” laughed Tandy.

“Listen,” Ava said to Carmela, rapidly losing interest in her dingle bags, “I have to head back to my shop. I’ve got two customers stopping by to pick up masks.”

In the past year, Ava had taken up the ancient art of mask making. She was hoping to eventually go legit and convert her store from a voodoo trinket shop to an upscale
atelier
that offered custom leather mask making. And she was off to a rousing good start. Ava already had more than two dozen customers who’d ordered custom masks for this year’s Mardi Gras festivities.

“You come bang on the door when you’re ready, honey, okay?” said Ava. “Then we’ll head on down to the parade.”

“Gotcha,” nodded Carmela as Ava slipped out in a flurry of red fabric. The two women were going to the Pluvius parade later tonight and had plans to hopefully meet up with friends and watch the parade over near the French Market.

Carmela turned back to her group. “Remember, after today, we won’t have any formal classes. Until Mardi Gras is over, that is.”

They nodded sagely. They knew that from now until next Tuesday, Fat Tuesday, which was still a week away, there’d be a parade almost every night and the entire French Quarter would be clogged with revelers.

“And we’ll be closed all day Fat Tuesday,” Carmela added.

 

 

JOSTLING DOWN RAMPART STREET TWO HOURS
later, Carmela was amazed by the hordes of revelers, most of whom were clutching little plastic
geaux
cups, or togo cups, purchased from the various bars. They were still five blocks from the parade route, and already it was impossible to walk on the sidewalk.

“Come on!” Ava grabbed Carmela’s hand and tried to speed her along. “If we cut down Cabildo, then hook a right into Pirate’s Alley, we can pop out near Jackson Square,” she suggested.

Carmela was still wearing her black denim outfit, but Ava had changed into red hip-hugger snakeskin slacks, a skintight black nylon T-shirt emblazoned with a glitter skull, and what appeared to be a spring-loaded bra. Her ensemble would have drawn stares in any other part of the country, but it was arguably a tad conservative for Mardi Gras. Because, as the two women jostled their way through the French Quarter, the costumes worn by the myriad revelers and sightseers were amazing to behold.

Venetian lords and ladies clad in elegant velvets and brocades sported gilded bird masks with hooked beaks. A man in a swirling black Phantom of the Opera cape had somehow engineered an enormous crystal chandelier to hang above his head. Drag queens in full costume and makeup were trying to outshine the leather bondage aficionados, and a man wearing a suede spotted dog costume walked a real spotted dog on a leash.

These costumed and coiffed revelers were accompanied by legions of Peking Opera performers, swashbuckling pirates, hooded monks, knights in armor, and even a cardinal in a mitered hat. They all jostled together, funneling down the narrow avenues of the French Quarter toward the parade route, their glittery costumes sparkling under neon lights.

Carmela stopped nearly a dozen times to snap pictures, using her little auto-focus Leica, since she had lent her digital camera to Gabby. She was determined to create three or four scrapbook pages that would showcase tonight’s parade and serve as a knockout window display. Hopefully, her pages would inspire others to seek out her scrapbooking know-how and help fuel a demand for all the special green and purple paper, gold lettering, and Mardi Gras stamps and stickers she’d stocked up on.

“Over here, Carmela. Quick!” Ava beckoned to her from a spot she’d commandeered directly in front of two young men who were perched atop a twelve-foot-high stepladder, with a homemade viewing platform.

Carmela slipped into place just as the first marching band blared its way down Decatur Street, the brass section prancing and strutting in true Mardi Gras style.

Behind them, two dozen flambeaus twirled their flaming naphtha-fueled torches, dancing for coins, as has been the tradition for almost a hundred years.

Then, as the first floats rolled by, strands of purple and gold beads began to sail overhead. These were traditional Mardi Gras throws being tossed to the eager crowd by Pluvius krewe members who rode atop the floats. It wasn’t long before ordinarily decorous women were shouting at each other and elbowing one another out of the way, getting embroiled in heated disputes over exactly
who
a strand of colored beads had been intended for.

Cries of “Throw me somethin’, mistuh!” rang out as a starfish-themed float and a giant dolphin float glided by. The soft Cajun dialects mingled with the flat, nasal sound of tourists from up North, and lilting tones of African Americans blended with the soft, easy strains that were distinctly Baton Rouge.

It’s a gumbo of dialects,
thought Carmela, as the parade seemed to kick into high gear and the night became a whirlwind of bright colors, loud music, and frenzied activity. Giant heads with gaping grins loomed from prows of floats that sparkled with thousands of tiny lights.

Carmela executed a deft leap and a one-handed catch and settled another strand of Mardi Gras beads around her neck. “Look,” she nudged Ava, “there’s the sea serpent float Jekyl Hardy mentioned.”

Plumes of smoke from the carefully concealed dry ice machine billowed into the night air, and a motorized head and tail wagged from side to side as the enormous green and yellow sea monster suddenly dominated the street. The scene was kitchy, totally over the top, and truly awe-some to behold. All Carmela could do was grin from ear to ear as more strands of plastic beads rained down around her.

Then, just when the massive sea serpent float was directly in front of them, it shuddered to a stop.

Taken aback, the crowd stared curiously up the steep sides of the float. Twenty feet above them, some kind of disturbance seemed to be taking place. Men in white silk robes and white plastic masks milled about, talking in urgent voices and bending down over something.

Carmela’s first thought was that there might be a mechanical problem with the sea serpent. Or that the crew had run short of beads or coins.

But, suddenly, the
whoop whoop
of a police siren sliced through the din of the parade noise. A murmur rose from the crowd, and people pressed closer to the float, craning their necks upward. It was obvious something more serious in nature was taking place up top. But what?

A police cruiser, its blue and red lights pulsing, wove its way between a marching band and group of flag twirlers. With a squeal of brakes, the cruiser pulled in front of the float, and two police officers jumped out. They rushed immediately to the side of the float and extended their arms upward.

Suddenly, from high above, a body was dangled over the side.

“Someone’s ill,” Carmela said to Ava. “I think they’re trying to get him down off the float.”

The crowd, sensing a defining moment, suddenly hushed.

Ava nodded. “Must have drunk too much or took sick.”

The men atop the float seemed hesitant in their attempt to pass the body down to the two police officers. The sick krewe member, still clad in his fluttering white tunic and mask, hung uncertainly over the side of the float. From street level, the police continued to stretch their arms upward, ready to catch him.

A dozen hands seemed to release the body all at once, and it appeared to hang in midair for a split second. Then the police below grappled to catch the falling man. They fumbled for a brief moment, then got purchase on the body. Gently lifting the man down, they laid him on the pavement.

Carmela edged forward to see what was going on.

One of the police officers knelt down and carefully peeled the plastic mask from the face of the injured krewe member.

A gasp went up from everyone nearby. The poor man’s eyes had rolled back in his head, and only the whites of his eyes were showing. His face was literally blue.

“His breathing must have stopped,” said Ava. “Or he choked on something.”

“My God,” said Carmela, squinting at the downed man. “I think I know that poor soul. I think it’s Jimmy Earl Clayton!”

“He might be gone,” Ava pronounced in a matter-of-fact tone.

“Don’t say that,” admonished Carmela as two more sirens pierced the night with boisterous whoops. “Here come the paramedics now. Maybe he just had too much to drink.” It was no secret that krewe members riding on floats often drank to the point of complete inebriation.

“He’s sure feelin’ poorly,” said Ava in a classic understatement.

A second police car, as well as a red and white ambulance, pulled up alongside the float.

Two paramedics, looking very polished and professional in their crisp white uniforms, hopped from the ambulance and sprinted for the man who lay sprawled in the street. The two newly arrived police officers pulled open the back door of the ambulance and unloaded a metal gurney. It jittered across the uneven road surface as they wheeled it over, stopping just short of the body.

Both paramedics were on their knees, crouched over the inert man.

Carmela strained to hear what was being said but could only catch fragments of conversation.