Tragic Magic (26 page)

“You’ll need a key,” said Carmela, digging in her bag, hoping Tate Mackie really was on the up-and-up. That he hadn’t been involved in Melody’s demise.

“When these flames are projected on the wall it’ll look like the gates of hell yawned open,” said Tate. “Pretty terrifying stuff, huh?”

“Sure is,” said Carmela, deciding the final product did seem a little too real for comfort.

Tate grinned at her and winked. “The magic of movies.”

“W
HY isn’t my hair drying?” Carmela shrilled, ripping pink Velcro rollers from her hair and tossing them about frantically. One landed behind Poobah’s ear and stuck tight like a burr; another landed on Boo’s tail. “Is it me or do I have humidity-challenged hair tonight?” Scampering from her bedroom to the living room, she leaped over a reclining dog and grabbed for the phone. A serious intervention was required.

“Ah-yes?” said Ava, picking up on the first ring.

“Do you have a hair dryer with, like, megawatts?”

Ava was ready to meet the challenge. “Honey, I’ve got a hair dryer with more turbo power than a jet engine.”

“Get it over here, will you?”

“You’re all whacked out ’cause you’re having dinner with your cutie tonight,” chuckled Ava.

“Not with sopping hair I’m not.”

Two minutes later, Ava came flying through the front door brandishing a silver high-tech, high-wattage hair dryer.

“Is this gonna work?” asked a frantic Carmela, grabbing it from her.

“Are you kidding?” said Ava, following her into the bathroom. “This thing could defrost the combined cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul during a January blizzard.”

Carmela plugged in the hair dryer, turned it on, and grabbed for the towel rack as she staggered under the thrust of the power. “Yowza.”

“See?” said Ava. “Told ya.” She lounged in the doorway, looking chic and casual in black jeans and a tight pink T-shirt that said,
You want breakfast in bed? Then sleep in the kitchen
. “Now use a fat brush and really pouf it to get some lift,” encouraged Ava. “Then we’ll gel you up. Nothing like a little hair gel to finish things off.”

Carmela checked herself in the mirror. After only a few minutes, Ava’s hair dryer had done the trick. Her blond hair had dried into a chunky, piecey ’do that was, amazingly, very high fashion.

“Now let’s tackle your makeup,” said Ava, eyeing her.

“I don’t really use that much,” said Carmela. “A little eye shadow and some mascara.”

Ava held out a little square box.

“What’s that?” asked Carmela.

“False eyelashes. Gotta go for that Amy Winehouse smoky eye look. Then let’s arch those brows with a little brow gel.”

“What are you, the local Mary Kay rep?”

Ava gazed at her placidly.

“Sorry, not a speck of brow gel in the house,” Carmela told her. She reached down and snatched a pink roller from Boo’s mouth.

Ava was not to be deterred. “Then we’ll smoosh a dab of hair gel on a Q-tip,” advised Ava. “Works like a charm.”

Ava worked her magic then, helping Carmela with the false eyelashes, coaxing Carmela’s brows into a lovely arch. As a finishing touch, she lined Carmela’s lips with a
dark cocoa lip liner, then filled in with reddish-brown lip gloss.

“I feel like I’m ready to walk the red carpet,” exclaimed Carmela, appraising herself in the mirror. “Whew, what a change!”

“Change is inevitable,” said Ava, “except from a vending machine.”

“You are so off the hook,” laughed Carmela.

“So,
darlin’
,” drawled Ava. “Where’s pretty boy taking you tonight?”

“That new restaurant, Yellow Bird,” said Carmela.

“Mmm, fancy. What are you planning to wear?”

“Maybe my tweed jacket and a pair of cream-colored slacks?”

“Ewww.” Ava grimaced.

“Not good?”

“Very good if you’re attending a Junior League meeting or chairing a committee to save the spotted owl and want to look straightlaced and conservative. But if you’re gonna party at Yellow Bird, the hippest, trendiest new restaurant in the French Quarter?” Ava shook her head. “No,
cher
, I think not.”

“Then what?” asked Carmela, glancing at her watch. Babcock was going to be here in twenty minutes. She had to seriously shake her booty!

“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” advised Ava. “I’ll be right back!”

Carmela dashed back into her bathroom, spritzed on some extra hair spray, and added a little blusher for good measure. By the time she emerged, Ava was back, holding up a slinky black dress for her to admire.

“Very sexy,” admitted Carmela. “But will it fit?”

“No problem,” said Ava. “As long as we grease you up and use a shoehorn.”

But it wasn’t the squeezing into the dress that bothered Carmela. While she inhaled mightily and Ava slowly
cranked the zipper up the back, she studied herself in the mirror. “One shoulder. I can’t remember when I wore a one-shouldered dress.”

“This is vintage Lanvin,” Ava told her with pride. “Snatched from the racks of The Latest Wrinkle. And for a little added glitz . . .” Ava produced a jeweled spider pin and pinned it on carefully.

“Shoes,” said Carmela, starting to panic at the late hour.

“Stiletto heels,” advised Ava. “The more teetery the better.”

Carmela scrounged in her closet and produced a pair of sequined black mules. “Will these work?”

“Perfect,” pronounced Ava. “Have a fabulous evening, but be sure to get to my shop a little after ten. We want to get it all set up for Sidney!”

 

Yellow Bird was indeed hip, hot, and trendy. The line to get in jostled out the door and stretched partway down Toulouse Street. But Edgar Babcock either had greased the skids or knew someone. Because when they arrived they were immediately escorted to the main dining room and given a table at one of the prime banquettes against the wall.

“Very nice,” commented Carmela. “Where we can see and be seen.” She glanced around the elegant, subdued room that was dimly lit. Cream-colored walls wore a sheer glaze of yellow and gold, tablecloths were creamy linen, bountiful bouquets of fresh yellow roses were everywhere, and elegant little yellow birds hopped to and fro in gilded cages.

The other customers were all trendy restaurant- and clubgoers in their twenties, thirties, and forties. Not a lot of tourists had found the place yet.

“In that dress, you undoubtedly want to be seen,” said Babcock as he snuggled closer to her. “I love it. It’s so . . . not quite you.” He threw her a rakish grin.

“You can say that again,” murmured Carmela.

“And your eye makeup is much more dramatic than usual.”

“You like it?” asked Carmela. She was afraid it would start melting on her face and turn her into the Joker.

“I do,” said Babcock. “Although it might take some getting used to.”

“My stylist really wanted me to rock it tonight.”

Babcock grinned as their waiter presented them with an oversized cardboard folio. A drink menu.

“We have a drink menu,” said Carmela, keeping up her light banter. “Remember the days when a drink menu consisted of a few standard cocktails, red or white wine, and light or dark beer?”

“A lot of the guys down at the precinct think you can judge a woman’s personality by the drink she orders,” said Babcock, peering at her, a mischievous smile on his face.

“Is that so?” said Carmela. “Then kindly stun me with your insight.”

Babcock grinned an easy grin. “Okay. How about this . . . a woman who orders a Dixie Beer is probably going to be fun-loving and fairly low maintenance.”

“That’s a slam dunk,” said Carmela. “How about a woman who orders a martini?”

“Ooh, that would definitely be your high maintenance lady,” said Babcock. “A woman with a high quotient for pearls, serious gold jewelry, and designer duds.” He held up a finger. “But a woman who orders shots or maybe an upside-down margarita . . .”

“Yes?” giggled Carmela.

“She’s . . . how shall I put this? . . .
easy
.”

“What about wine?” asked Carmela. “What about a woman who likes a good vintage wine?”

“Like you,” said Babcock.

“Like me,” said Carmela.

Babcock reached over and grabbed Carmela’s hand. “I’d
say a woman who prefers wine tends to be classy, creative, and smart.”

“I think you’re the smart one,” said Carmela. “To have such a snappy answer.”

Yellow Bird’s menu was New Orleans contemporary and offered such delights as tuna tartare, bing cherry and blue cheese microgreens salad, white truffle tortellini, salmon with raspberry coulis, and blackened catfish with red pepper purée.

Carmela choose a strawberry and feta cheese salad as a starter and chicken piccata for her entrée. Babcock went with oysters casino and a pork chop infused with maple brine. They decided to split a bottle of Moët & Chandon White Star Champagne.

“I think you’ve showed remarkable restraint,” said Babcock.

“What?” said Carmela. “In ordering?”

“No, in not asking about the baggie of ashes I sent to the crime lab.”

Carmela raised her newly gelled brows. “Since you brought it up . . .”

“The lab found residue of potassium nitrate, aluminum powder, and shellac,” Babcock told her. “Frankly, it’s all pretty basic stuff you can find anywhere. A hardware store, a building supply store.”

“But is it lethal?” asked Carmela.

Babcock shook his head. “No, just flammable when mixed together in the correct amounts. Which probably means that whoever followed you into that cemetery last night was trying to scare you rather than harm you.”

“Good to know,” said Carmela, “but the real question is, how did that particular residue compare with the residue you scraped up at Medusa Manor after Melody was murdered?”

Babcock wrinkled his nose. “It’s similar, but not exactly the same.”

“But the bombs or explosions or whatever they were could have been engineered by the same person?”

“Possibly,” said Babcock.

“So we didn’t crack the case,” said Carmela. She sounded disappointed.

“We will,” said Babcock, taking a sip of champagne. “In fact . . .” He looked around, as if to make sure no one was listening. “This afternoon we moved one step closer.”

Carmela peered at him. “You know something. What?” she demanded. “Tell me.”

“You sure you want to know?” asked Babcock. “Because this has to do with your buddy Garth Mayfeldt.” He picked up the basket of dinner rolls and passed it to her.

Carmela selected a French roll. “Tell me. Please.”

“We discovered that Garth Mayfeldt is a member of the New Orleans Fireworks Club.”

Carmela’s eyes went wide. “Holy shit. So Garth had access . . .”

“To all the components that went into making last night’s fiery little surprise,” said Babcock. “Because Garth Mayfeldt knows how to make his own fireworks.”

Carmela suddenly felt sick to her stomach. “I’m not sure I’m going to be able to eat now,” she told Babcock.

“If I thought you were going to lose your appetite, I wouldn’t have told you about Garth,” said Babcock. “This place is expensive!”

Carmela set her butter knife down. “No, seriously.”

“Seriously,” said Babcock, “I don’t have the case sewn up yet. But if I had to make an educated guess, I’d say we’re a day or two away.”

“Hmm,” said Carmela.
Garth? Really?

“On the other hand,” said Babcock, “we’re still talking to Sawyer Barnes, trying to figure out how badly he wanted to get his hands on Medusa Manor.”

“What about Sidney St. Cyr?” asked Carmela. She was
wondering if the setup she and Ava had planned for later tonight might just be an exercise in futility.

“What about Sidney?” asked Babcock.

“Is he on your suspect list?”

“Yes and no,” said Babcock. “No, because we haven’t found any real connection or evidence. And yes, he’s on my
personal
suspect list because you seem to have a strong feeling about him.”

“Thank you,” said Carmela.

“But let’s not talk about the investigation,” suggested Babcock. “Let’s just focus on us.” He gazed deeply into her eyes. “Or, better yet, on you. How’s your settlement coming? Are you even close to being extricated?”

“Closer than you think. I’m supposed to meet with Shamus and his lawyer tomorrow morning.”

“Seriously?” said Babcock. “That’s good news. Great news, in fact!”

“I’m just praying the meeting will go off without a hitch.”

“By
hitch
, you mean his family interfering.”

“Or Shamus changing his mind,” said Carmela. “Lord knows, he’s done it before.”

“You just have to hang tough,” advised Babcock. “Keep a positive attitude that it will all work out.”

“I did that in my marriage and look where it got me.”

“Hey,” said Babcock. “That chapter is closed; you’ve got your whole life ahead of you.”

“Minus a few years,” said Carmela. She grinned at him and suddenly felt part of her false eyelash pop loose.

“Everybody has a few wasted years,” said Babcock. “Or thinks they do.”

“Do you?” She poked at her eyelash. Nothing doing. That sucker just kept flipping every time she blinked.

He stared at her intently. “I’ll tell you about it some time. Just not tonight. Tonight I want to hear about you. Are
you still plugging away on the Medusa Manor project? Still hanging bats and propping open coffins?”

“Even better,” said Carmela, sliding out of her chair to go to the ladies’ room. “We’ve got a guy creating video projections of lurching zombies and writhing snakes.”

Hurrying past all the coveted tables, heading toward the back of the restaurant, Carmela passed the bar. It was loud and smoke-filled and featured a sort of stainless steel monkey-bar apparatus where couples could actually climb up and perch at various levels.