“A ligature snapped around the throat from behind,” murmured Carmela. “Terrifying. You'd really have no way of fighting back.”

Ava sat up straight. “Remember in that movie, The Godfather, when that fat guy, Luca Brasi, got strangled in the bar?”

“Yes,” said Carmela, wondering where Ava was going with this.

“Creepy,” said Ava. “Oh, and I think they stuck a knife through his hand, too. Pinned him to the bar with his eyes all bugged out.” She set her empty glass down. “I'm rambling. Time to switch to RC Cola.”

“I'll get you one,” offered Carmela.

“Hey,” said Ava. “I brought my Demilune costume along. Can you give me a little help?”

“Sure,” said Carmela, as Ava reached for her Gucci tote bag and dumped it upside down. Her costume spilled out, along with keys, wallet, three lipsticks, a box of false eyelashes, and a glossy gossip magazine.

“Oh, I gotta show you this really cool dress I'm in love with.” Ava grabbed her magazine and thumbed through it quickly. Gossip magazines were one of her guilty pleasures. “I love this section where they show all the celebrities dressed to the nines and walking the red carpet. Here it is! Chanel couture. I'd sell a kidney to get a dress like that.” She passed her magazine over to Carmela in exchange for the cola.“Oh yeah,” agreed Carmela. “To die for. Well, at least to limp around for.” Carmela suddenly looked around. “Where's Boo?” It was quiet in her apartment. Too quiet.

“She was just here,” said Ava.

There was the faint sound of lapping coming from the bathroom.

“Having a quick drink,” laughed Ava.

“Eeyew,” said Carmela.

 

AVA WAS CLOSE TO FINISHING HER DEMILUNE krewe costume. Designed to match the twenty-foot float with its elaborate gold moon and silver star motif, Ava was determined to sew tiny moons and stars onto the bodice. Carmela wasn't sure that, in a screaming French Quarter throng of fifty thousand people crazed for grabbing strands of beads, the little doodads would even be noticed, but Ava was insistent. She had to match.

“Is this right, cher? Is this how you do a running stitch?”

Carmela studied Ava's efforts. A little ragged, but she had to admit the tiny charms did look cute. “Almost perfect.”

“I can't wait to wear this thing,” said Ava as the phone suddenly rang. She reached out an arm and snagged the phone off the hook. “Carmela's House of Earthly Delights. We accept Visa, MasterCard, and good old greenbacks.”

There was a slight hesitation, then a male caller said, “Ava?”

Ava made a face. “Shamus?”

“Yes, it's Shamus.” Now he sounded cranky.

“In that case, I meant Carmela's House of Pancakes.” Ava erupted with shrill laughter.

“You're twisted, you know that?” snapped Shamus. “You're a terrible influence on Carmela. Always have been.”

“Thanks for your vote of confidence, you sack of shit,” said Ava. “You think you're the paradigm of virtue? You're out prancing around with a new, barely legal floozy every night. Your floozy dujour.” Ava was rolling now, enjoying her verbal joust with Shamus. “And tell me this, Mr. Shamus Allan Meechum. Why is it you don't want to give Carmela a reasonable divorce settlement, when she's put up with all your various and sundry crap?”

Carmela mouthed Good one at Ava, then took the phone. “What's up?” she asked him.

“That's a fine way to greet your husband,” grumped Shamus.

“Soon-to-be ex-husband,” corrected Carmela.

Shamus let loose a deep sigh.

Uh-oh, thought Carmela. A deep sigh was always Shamus's preamble to bad news.

“Babe,” said Shamus, “we're workin' on all that legal stuff. But my lawyers are still hung up on a few logistical points.”

“And what exactly would those points be, Shamus?”

“Well, uh, actually, a number of things. Nothing big, mind you, but still details that need to be hammered out.”

“Hammered out?” said Carmela. “Listen, Shamus, I deserve a decent settlement. Compensation for all the heartache you put me through. The walking out on me, the cheating, the walking out again, the humiliation. You hear me, Shamus? Reasonable alimony for the next three years. And child support for Boo and Poobah. After that, I don't care what happens. I'll be on my own. I think that's more than fair.”

“It's just a darn shame we didn't sign a prenuptial agreement,” lamented Shamus. “Then we wouldn't be having these problems.”

“Because you didn't want a prenuptial,” said Carmela. “Your loony sister, Glory, pushed for one and, in an unprecedented show of independence against your family fortune, you chose to ignore her suggestion.”

“You know what, Carmela?” said Shamus. “You've got a mind like a computer hard drive. Every sticky little thing is lodged in there just waiting to be retrieved.”

“Then retrieve this, Shamus: please don't call again until we have an agreement.”

“I have to see Boo and Poobah. I have parental rights, you know.”

“Not when things are at a stalemate.”

“Visitation at least,” whined Shamus.

“I'll have to get back to you on that,” said Carmela. And she hung up before he could reply.

TODAY was rubber stamping day at Memory Mine. Carmela had declared it so, and Tandy, Baby, and Byrle had readily agreed. But to change things up a bit, Carmela wasn't having them do traditional stamping on paper. No, today the creative challenge was to stamp designs on ready-made black velvet bags.

“They're evening bags, really,” said Tandy, gazing at the eight-by-eight-inch square bag that lay flat on the table and fingering the long woven cord handle. “Especially if you use fancier stamps along with metallic inks.”

“Who wanted the butterfly stamp?” asked Gabby. She had enthusiastically dug through their trove of rubber stamps and pulled out the ones she thought would lend themselves to more elegant designs.

“Me,” said Baby, raising her hand. “I want to create a border of vines and then put a couple butterflies smack-dab in the middle.”

“Lovely,” said Carmela. “And if you over stamp your vine design with a number of color-coordinated inks, you'll create a much more dimensional look.”

“Dimensional,” said Tandy. “You use that word a lot.”

“That's because it makes the difference between a so-so project and a killer project,” said Carmela. “The more layers you can build up, whether we're talking about colored inks, different papers, or decals and stickers, the more pizzazz your project's going to have.”

“So I could add even more dimensionality by sewing on tiny pearls,” said Baby.

“Exactly,” said Carmela. “Or you could even try some of those colorful glass Czech beads we just got in.”

“Now I have to ask,” said Byrle. “Would this work for a velvet pillow, too?”

“Sure,” said Carmela. “Really, you can rubber stamp on almost anything. I've stamped designs on white terry cloth towels and given them away as shower gifts.” Last October she'd even rubber stamped a T-shirt for Ava. She had taken an assortment of Halloween-themed rubber stamps—bats, jack-o'-lanterns, and historic-looking gravestones—and stamped them in purple, gold, and rose-gold ink onto a black T-shirt. Carmela had been thrilled when her creation turned out to be one of Ava's favorites.

Gabby laid out another assortment of stamps. “This is a grouping of angel and rose designs,” she explained. “From the Rose Cottage Romance Collection.”

Baby reached a hand out tentatively. “Ooh! May I?”

“Please do,” said Gabby, pushing the stamp set toward her and grabbing another boxed set of rubber stamps. “And these little gems have wonderful Parisian poster and landmark designs.”

* * *

 

WHEN ALL THE QUESTIONS CEASED, WHEN HER customers were working away contentedly and Gabby was up at the front counter helping customers, Carmela slipped into her small office at the back of the shop. She was eager to take another look at Archie's phone directory and check out his appointment book. Maybe, buried in there somewhere was a tiny clue that would shed some light onto why he'd been murdered.

Unfortunately, Carmela didn't find much to go on. The directory was mostly blank pages, and Carmela wondered if Archie hadn't stored his phone numbers either on his computer or in his cell phone. She'd have to look into that. Or ask Babcock to.

So, okay, that left Archie's appointment calendar. A small, thin, black book that also didn't look like it had been used much.

Carmela thumbed through the month of January. A few notations had been scrawled in. But most of them pertained to business meetings. Sure, there he'd noted a meeting with Jekyl and the Pluvius krewe. Getting the ball rolling on the floats, probably.

Turning to this week, the current week, Carmela found only one notation. Archie had scheduled a meeting for tomorrow morning at ten o'clock with a person by the name of Robert Tallant.

Carmela closed the book and leaned back in her chair. Where had she heard that name before? Why did it sound so familiar?

Grabbing the phone book, she thumbed through the Ts. There was a Robert Tallant listed. His address was 1815 Calhoun Street. If Carmela's memory served her correctly, that was over near Tulane University. Near Audubon Park.

An address didn't tell her much, though.

Idly, Carmela turned to the business listings, ran her finger down the column of Ts. There was Talent Scouts Modeling Agency, Tall and Big Men's Clothing, and, lo and behold, Tallant, Robert—Rare Coins and Curios.

A rare coin dealer. Hmm.

Carmela's left hand crawled up to the back of her neck as she let her mind wander. She ran her fingers through her hair, rubbing her scalp briskly, then spiking her hair slightly. She hoped the scalp massage would activate her brain cells. Send them into hyper drive.

Maybe, she decided, Archie was simply planning to buy more coins from Robert Tallant. On the other hand, maybe he was going to sell coins. Maybe he'd gotten himself into some sort of trouble and needed to make some fast money.

Trouble, she thought. Yeah, he'd gotten himself in trouble, all right.

Swiveling in her chair, Carmela's fingers sought out her keyboard. There was something else she wanted to check out. A few taps, and she was on the Internet, doing a Google search on barbed wire.

She was stunned when more than a thousand hits came back.

Barbed wire was that popular?

Turns out it was.

There were barbed wire collectors, barbed wire museums, barbed wire historians, and barbed wire manufacturers.

Interestingly enough, barbed wire was also referred to as devil's wire. Carmela gave a shudder. An appropriately nasty name.

“Carmela?”

In her Web surfing trance, Gabby's voice sounded faraway. And then Carmela's chair snapped forward, both her feet hit the floor, and she was hustling toward the front of the store where a gaggle of customers had seemingly appeared from nowhere to blot out the sun.

“A little help, Carmela?” Gabby asked again, but Carmela was right there.

“Absolutely,” said Carmela, putting on a bright, hopefully helpful-looking smile. “Who's next?”

“I am,” said a lady with slightly rose-tinted glasses and a waft of gray hair. “I'm looking for a calligraphy pen.”

“Got those,” said Carmela, plucking one from a display.

“And,” said the woman, pulling an old ledger from her tote bag, “I need your advice. I found this old ledger and was wondering if I could use it to create a family history album. I've got tons of old pictures, but I'm not sure how to incorporate them.”

Carmela took the ledger in her hands. It was a handsome brown fabric-covered book with a 1920s Deco design on the front and tan leather binding and corners. “This is gorgeous,” she told the woman. “And, yes, I think it will make a lovely album.”

“But how do I put it all together?” asked the woman.

“Do you have old papers besides your photos?” asked Carmela. “What scrappers call ephemera?”

The woman nodded. “Quite a lot. I have some old birth certificates, wedding announcements, newspaper clippings, and even some old bus tokens and gas rationing stamps from World War II.”

“What you do,” said Carmela, “is create a sort of time line. Here . . .” She reached for some Roman numerical rubber stamps. “Use these to establish a time frame for your earliest photos, then use them to highlight every decade. For example, if you're starting in the 1920s, stamp 1920 at the top of the page, arrange your photos and memorabilia, and then maybe add a few highlights.”

“Such as?” asked the woman.

“Maybe make a piece of tag art, using one of our vintage rubber stamps. Add an old button or two, and maybe a piece of sheet music from that era.”

“I get it,” nodded the woman. “I like it.”

“Maybe use brown leather corners to mount your photographs in keeping with the book's cover. And then, when you get it all put together,” said Carmela, turning toward her display of ribbon, “finish it off by wrapping some ribbon around your ledger to give it the feel of an old, historic album. Here.” Carmela pulled off a yard and a half of fawn-colored velvet ribbon with antiqued edges. “Tie it all up with this.”

“Perfect,” declared the woman.

“Carmela,” called Gabby, still looking a little frantic, “we've got some customers who are asking about our new classes. You do have those finalized, don't you?”

I do now, thought Carmela.

“We'll be starting two new classes,” she told the group as they crowded around her, “in three weeks' time. The first will be a class called Scrapping Sew Easy. This is a class that focuses on how to incorporate fibers, fiber art, hand sewing, and machine stitching onto scrapbook pages and cards.”

“Hand sewing?” asked one of the women. “That works?”

“Sure,” said Carmela. “Of course, you can also create amazing looks using your sewing machine to stitch fabric onto paper.”

There was a murmur of approval as Carmela continued. “My second class is called Asian Accents. In that class we'll learn how to create Asian-themed scrapbook pages using rice paper, wax seals, calligraphy, origami, Chinese symbols, Japanese washi papers, blue and white beads, and bits of cinnabar.”

“Wow,” said one of the women, “where do we sign up?”

“Right here,” said Gabby from behind the front desk. “Classes are limited to the first fourteen people, so you do need to make a reservation.”

Carmela and Gabby remained frantically busy for the next hour, pulling sheets of paper for customers, demonstrating uses for some new metal tags, showing off new crackle paper. So of course Edgar Babcock chose that time to show up. He pushed his way through the crowd at the front of the store and only stopped when he was within six inches of Carmela.

Pushy, she thought, gazing into his bright brown eyes. Cute, but pushy.

Babcock aimed for her right ear. “Tell me about the illegal absinthe.”

Carmela stared at him quizzically. “What?” she whispered back. “And please keep your voice down. I don't want you upsetting my customers.” She pulled him back toward her office. “I don't know anything about illegal absinthe.”

Babcock narrowed his eyes. “You're telling me that you and your crazy friend ...”

“Wait a minute,” said Carmela. “Hold everything. Are you referring to Ava? Calling her crazy?”

“Well, yeah,” said Babcock. “She always struck me as being a little wild.”

“Well, she's not,” said Carmela. “Far from it. In fact, she's one of the most levelheaded people I know.” Carmela dared not glance at the sky for fear a bolt of lightning would shoot down and strike her. Cook her like a baked potato in a blast furnace. “And for your information,” she continued, “we do not drink absinthe. Wine, yes. Now and then a Sazerac or a mint julep. But definitely not absinthe.” Carmela had to force herself to take a breath. A cleansing breath. “Why are you asking about this anyway?”

“Because traces of thujone just happened to show up in Archie Baudier's toxicology report,” said Babcock. “I find that a little strange.” Thujone was the toxic substance that made old-fashioned absinthe so dangerous.

Carmela stared back at him. “It's not like absinthe hasn't reared its head here before.” Absinthe had a long and storied history in New Orleans. In fact, a historic building still standing in the French Quarter and dubbed the Old Absinthe House dated back to the early eighteen hundreds. The plaque on the outside of the building listed the names of Oscar Wilde, Sarah Bernhardt, and Walt Whitman as former customers who'd bellied up to the bar for the now-outlawed drink.

“Tell me about it.” Babcock sighed. “There are even two legal versions of absinthe now.”

The look on Babcock's face told Carmela that this could have been the thing Jekyl hedged on when she asked about drugs.

“You must have found a better clue than that,” prodded Carmela.

Babcock narrowed his eyes. “There were also flecks of gold paint found on Archie's shoes. You know anything about gold paint?” He glanced around Carmela's store, his eyes taking in the ink pads as well as the jars, tubes, bottles, and cans of paint. “I guess you do. I'd say you have about twenty different kinds here.”

“Maybe thirty,” said Carmela. “Does that mean I'm on your suspect list now?”

His frown morphed into a reluctant smile. “Probably not.” He hesitated. “Do you know you get this tiny little line right between your eyebrows when you're mad?” He lifted a finger to her forehead, not quite touching her, but Carmela could feel the warmth of his nearness.

“Maybe I missed my Botox shot last month.” She laughed.

“You're too young for that,” he told her.

Carmela brightened. “You think so?” Then, realizing he was flirting with her and that she was flirting back, she quickly tried to change the subject. “What can you tell me about your suspects so far?”

“I can't tell you anything,” said Babcock pleasantly.

“I don't mean a name,” said Carmela. Watching him carefully, she noticed a slight flinch. “Wait a minute, you do have a name, don't you? You have something!”

Babcock remained curiously silent.

“No,” she said, sounding a little self-satisfied. “You don't. Okay then, have you developed any sort of profile?”

Babcock looked around. “You've got to keep this under your hat.”

“Please,” said Carmela. “Who would I tell?”

Babcock glanced around again. “Just about everybody.”

“Well, I won't,” said Carmela. “I promise.”

He drew a deep breath. “Male. Probably with a history of violence. Possibly someone fascinated with knots and cords.”

“Really,” breathed Carmela. When an actual homicide detective worded it that way, the profile sounded awfully plausible.

“Take my word for it,” added Babcock, “this guy's a real squirrel.”

“You're sure it's a he?”

“I'm sure.”

“But it has to be someone Archie knew,” said Carmela. “Someone who was able to infiltrate the party and get close to him.”

Babcock looked unhappy. “Probably. Why are you so all-fired interested in this? Because you happened to be there? Because Jekyl asked for your help?”

Carmela shrugged. “Could be.” She hesitated. “Listen, speaking of Jekyl. . .”

“Yes?” said Babcock.

“I was at his place last night ...”

“Yes,” said Babcock again.

“And he kind of let it slip . . . that is, he showed me something . . .”

“What are you trying to tell me?”

Carmela decided to just blurt it out. “There's a secret passageway.”

“What!” Edgar Babcock's expression changed from curiosity into anger.

“It leads from Jekyl's apartment into Archie's place.”

“How is it you know this stuff?” hissed Babcock.

“Because I was there,” said Carmela. “Jekyl gave me the grand tour. And ... I guess he just trusts me.” What was left unspoken was that Jekyl didn't trust the police.

“But if it makes you feel any better,” continued Carmela, “I was the one who urged Jekyl to call you. I'm just sorry he didn't. No. Actually, I'm darned upset that he didn't call.”

“Oh, he called all right,” said Babcock. “His number showed up on my cell phone. I've just been chasing all over the city this morning so I haven't gotten around to responding to that particular message. Frankly, I assumed he was calling to gripe, not deliver a key piece of information.” “So he really did call,” said Carmela. “Well. . . good.” Babcock grimaced. “So I suppose I've got to head over there now. And I'll have to call in my crime-scene guys again. Not what I need right now.”

 

CARMELA'S BUSY MORNING WASN'T OVER. FIVE minutes after Edgar Babcock stepped out the door, Federal Express arrived with a huge box.

“Wow,” said Gabby. “Is that for us?”

Carmela checked the label. “For my Demilune krewe.”

“What on earth is in that ginormous box?” asked Tandy, who had drifted toward the front of the shop.

“Beads,” said Carmela, as she grabbed an X-Acto knife and slit open the top. “Throws.”

Inside were literally thousands of strands of beads, held together in packs of fifty by paper bands.

“They're gorgeous,” said Tandy.

Carmela broke open one of the packs and held a few strands up to the light. The beads were shimmering purple pearls with a single gold crescent moon, hung like a medallion.

“I see purple and gold,” said Gabby. “But no green.”

Carmela dug deep within the box, pulled out gobs of green beads with the same gold crescent moon.

“Excellent,” said Tandy, as they spilled onto the counter. “The colors of Mardi Gras, which haven't varied since 1872 when the Russian Grand Duke Alexis Romanoff came for Mardi Gras, and our fair city adopted his royal colors.”

“Purple for justice, green for faith, and gold for power,” said Gabby.

“Don't you just love Mardi Gras?” said Tandy. “Don't you just love all the different throws?”

“When I first moved here,” said Gabby, “I couldn't quite believe that the krewes actually tossed out beads, cups, mirrors, stuffed animals, Moon Pies, doubloons, combs, and even ladies' panties!”

“Maybe that's why they call us the Big Easy,” mused Tandy, a mischievous grin on her face.

Gabby decided to let that remark slide by. “Ladies,” she said, calling to Baby and Byrle, who were still in back. “I'm ordering lunch from the Pirate's Alley Deli. Does anybody want to put in their order for a po'boy?”

Hands immediately flew up.

THE po'boys were a huge hit. The favored sandwich that became a New Orleans signature consisted of a long French roll stuffed with a huge variety of fillings. Po'boys could be ordered bursting with meats and cheeses, filled with fried shrimp or oysters, and even stuffed with roast beef and gravy. Pickles and lettuce were usually piled on, so was plenty of mayonnaise.

Carmela cleared away the remains of the sandwich wrappers as well as empty coffee mugs. Baby and Byrle had taken off a short while ago; Tandy was still firmly ensconced. Carmela had promised her a special lesson.

“You can really stamp on candles?” asked Tandy as she pulled three large white pillar candles from her tote bag.

“Works like a charm,” said Carmela.

Tandy set her candles in front of her, then picked through the rubber stamps Carmela had set out. “So I just use my ink pad?” she asked.

“Nope,” said Carmela. “You have to use paint. That will make your design permanent and give better color saturation.”

“Interesting,” said Tandy. “Why don't you just go ahead and do one. That way you can show me what technique to use.” She pushed a rubber stamp toward her. “Here, maybe use this sun stamp.”

Carmela nodded as she squirted a gob of dark blue acrylic paint into a shallow tin pan. Then, using a small roller, she ran it through the paint, then applied the blue paint to the rubber sun stamp.

“Ah,” said Tandy.

“Once your rubber stamp has enough paint on it,” said Carmela, “you place one edge of the stamp on the candle, then roll the stamp gently across until you've completely transferred the motif. Then you simply repeat your motif all around the candle.” She worked quietly for a few minutes. “In this case, I stamped five sun images.”

“It looks good already,” remarked Tandy.

“And once the paint is dry,” said Carmela, pushing the candle toward Tandy, “you can over stamp an image. In this case, I'd recommend a smaller, complementary stamp.” She rummaged among the rubber stamps. “Say this image of a star. Maybe use gold acrylic paint and stamp the stars right on top of the suns. Then, when your second images are dry, you can tie a cord or ribbon around your candle and even add a charm if you want.”

“Love it,” said Tandy. She held up her candle for Gabby to see. “See how great this looks already!”

“Very pretty,” said Gabby. She turned her focus on Carmela. “Were you going to do something with this extra sandwich?” She held up a brown paper bag. “It's starting to leak.”

“I'm going to run it over to Ava,” said Carmela. Her eyes roved quickly about the shop. “In fact, can you spare me right now?”

“Go ahead,” said Gabby. “Just please come back.”

 

CARMELA WAS OUT THE BACK DOOR, DOWN THE alley, and pushing through the front door of the Juju Voodoo Shop in a matter of minutes.

Overhead, a mobile of bare, white bones clacked together to announce her arrival. Shelves filled with plastic skulls, charms, candles, amulets, and decks of tarot cards filled the little store. Incense, an intoxicating blend of sandalwood and cardamom, hung in the air.

Ava's head suddenly bobbed up from behind the counter and a grin split her gorgeous face. “Carmela! What brings you over here?”

Carmela dangled the paper bag in front of her. “Lunch.”

“Bless you,” said Ava. She slipped out from behind the counter, looking slinky and lithe in a black jersey wrap dress. “Mmm,” she exclaimed, grabbing the leaky bag and peering into it. “A po'boy. Always one of my faves. Thanks loads.”

“I have an ulterior motive,” said Carmela.

“Okay,” said Ava.

“A major question to ask,” said Carmela.

Ava set the bag on the counter, safely out of the way of her display of soft-sculpture voodoo dolls. “Shoot.”

“Do you know any absinthe dealers? The kind that sell the illegal stuff?”

Ava's eyebrows shot up. “That is a major question. Are you thinking of, how shall I phrase this? Indulging?”

“Not really,” said Carmela. “But here's the thing. Detective Babcock dropped by Memory Mine just before lunch. He was all freaky about the fact that traces of heavy duty absinthe turned up in Archie's toxicology report.”

“The green fairy,” mused Ava, using the intriguing phrase that was part of the vernacular surrounding absinthe. “Interesting. And always a little dangerous.”

“A little taboo,” agreed Carmela.

“So Archie was drinking the illegal version the night of Jekyl's party, not just the Purple Haze?”

“Looks like,” said Carmela.

“This guy was edgier than I thought he was,” said Ava.

“So what I'm wondering,” said Carmela, “is if you know anybody who might have a connection to selling that kind of absinthe? If we can get a handle on Archie's provider, maybe we can take a small step forward in this investigation. Not that we've made all that much progress as yet.”

“You think Archie was murdered over absinthe?”

“I have no idea,” said Carmela. “But if he was buying illegal absinthe, he might have been mixed up with some seriously dangerous people.”

Ava looked thoughtful. “Come to think of it, I know a guy who might know a guy.”

“Can you call him? Maybe press him a little on this?”

One of Ava's brows arced a little higher. “You mean flirt?”

“Give it all you've got,” urged Carmela.

Ava glanced around. One customer was studying the ingredients list on her love charms, another was checking out her new rack of amulets. “Okay, but I'm gonna have to go in my office, cher. Close the door and keep this little matter confidential.”

“Sure.”

“Hey,” said Ava, grabbing a leather cord and handing it to Carmela. “Check out my new evil eye charms. Just got 'em in. The blue ones are from Turkey, and the red ones are from Romania. Pretty cool, huh?”

“Delightful,” said Carmela, staring at the strange red ceramic bauble with the wonky, staring eye.

“And they work, too,” said Ava. “Hey, Miguel,” she yelled to a young man who was balancing atop a stepladder, hanging bright red Chinese Fu Manchu masks from the ceiling. “Watch the counter, will you? And don't you dare put your mitts on my sandwich!”

While Ava was in her office, whispering into her phone, Carmela poked around Ava's shop. It was a quaint shop, literally filled to the rafters with crazy and slightly spooky merchandise. Once tourists found their way into Juju Voodoo, they were usually enchanted beyond belief, figuring they'd discovered the real New Orleans. In actuality, most of Ava's stuff was imported from the Far East.

Five minutes later, Ava came hurrying out of her office, high heels clicking like castanets. “Okay, I've got something for you,” she told Carmela. “But I really had to twist my guy's arm. Kinda promised I'd go out with him.”

“But you got a name,” said Carmela, excitement pinging in her chest. “Or a phone number.”

“Both,” said Ava. “A cell phone number that belongs to a guy named Miguez. He's supposed to be some sort of crazy Cajun.”

“What's the prefix for the number?”

Ava showed her a scrap of paper. “Do you know where this is?”

“No,” said Carmela, studying it. “Do you?”

Ava shook her head. “Nope. Still think I should make the call?”

“There's a chance it could lead to something,” said Carmela. “So yes, why not? What have we got to lose?”

Ava looked a little hesitant. “So I should call and . . . what?”

“Try to set up a meeting,” said Carmela. “For tonight, if possible. Then we'll just take things one step at a time, see where they lead.”

“Okay,” agreed Ava, “I'll take care of it.”

 

AS SHE WAS HURRYING BACK TO HER SCRAPBOOK shop, Carmela made an impulse decision. She would detour down Dumaine Street and make a quick stop at the Vieux Carre Historical Society. Jekyl had mentioned that it was where Archie had spent a lot of his time doing research. So maybe, just maybe, if she paid them a visit, she could learn a little more.

Housed in an old brick building with tall, shuttered windows and coach lamps hung to either side of its well-worn wooden door, the Vieux Carre Historical Society seemed as charming as its name. Inside, the pegged wooden floor looked like the building's original, and brick walls were hung with antique etchings and prints that depicted a rough-and-tumble French Quarter filled with bars, warehouses, and apartments. It was no wonder that, by 1810, New Orleans had been the fifth largest city in the United States.

Carmela went to the front desk, a circular affair straight out of the forties, and introduced herself. She was immediately directed to Margot Destrehan, the society's curator.

Margot was open, friendly, and looked the part of a museum curator. Although she was still in her mid-thirties, scholarly wire-rimmed glasses perched on the tip of her nose, and she wore a long, black skirt and a simple, black cowl-necked sweater that was accented by a large sterling silver free-form pin. Carmela couldn't decide if the design was supposed to be a star or a flamingo.

“Oh, you're Mrs. Meechum!” exclaimed Margot.

Not for long, thought Carmela.

“Your sister-in-law, Glory Meechum, sits on our board of directors,” said Margot with great enthusiasm. “In fact, she's been responsible for a good percentage of our funding.”

“Wonderful that's she been so generous,” remarked Carmela in a neutral tone. Glory, who she always thought of as she of the tight fist and great stone face, had never been particularly generous to her.

“Are you thinking of getting involved with the Meechum Family Foundation?” asked Margot.

Dodging that question deftly, Carmela said, “Actually, I'm sort of looking into the murder of a friend. I'm sure you know him. Archie Baudier?”

Margot's smile collapsed, and her brown eyes immediately welled up with tears. “A shock,” she whispered as she hastily dug in the folds of her skirt for a Kleenex tissue.

“I take it you knew Archie quite well?” said Carmela.

Margot nodded as she dabbed at her eyes, then blew her nose. “Oh my, yes. Archie was one of our Honor Circle members.”

“Honor Circle,” said Carmela. “What exactly does that mean?”

“Archie took part in any number of symposiums and panel discussions here,” explained Margot, giving a final honk. “And he did a good deal of just plain volunteer work. You know, cataloguing books and things. He was a lovely man. We miss him already. So charming and interesting . . . and imbued with a true love of history. There's not so many people like that anymore.”

Carmela decided to take a chance. “Did you know that one of Archie's hobbies was trying to locate Jean Lafitte's treasure?”

“Oh, absolutely,” said Margot with a wistful smile. “Treasure and ancient coins were Archie's absolute passion. I don't think a week went by that he didn't pop in here to do a little bit of research or pour over some of our old maps.”

“You have a lot of old maps?” asked Carmela.

“Come take a look,” invited Margot. She pushed open a swinging door and led Carmela into a much larger, brighter back room. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases, jam-packed with books, lined the walls. A row of filing cabinets sat bunkered in the middle of the room. In front of those were three antique library tables surrounded with comfortable-looking leather-covered chairs, the kind of chairs with nubby brass nails that held the leather in place. The ceiling had a partial skylight, which afforded plenty of natural light.

Margot led the way in. “Besides books, photographs, maps, and historic documents that pertain to the French Quarter, we also have a good deal of material on the Louisiana Purchase, the Battle of New Orleans, the Baratarians, and, of course, Jean Lafitte himself.”

“This is a wonderful little historical society,” marveled Carmela. In all her time in the French Quarter, she'd never once poked her head in here. Now she felt a pang of regret. This place was a little gem.

“We're very proud of our collection,” said Margot.

“Tell me,” said Carmela. “The Lafitte treasure ... do you believe in it? Do you think it exists?”

Margot fixed her with a sad smile. “No. I'd like to believe in it—much the same way I'd like to believe in unicorns and leprechauns. But there doesn't seem to be much documented evidence that any such treasure ever really existed.”

Carmela shifted from one foot to the other. “What about undocumented evidence?”

“Now you're talking legends and lore,” said Margot. “Folk stories and apocryphal tales. Crazy newspaper stories from eighty, ninety years ago.” She peered at Carmela, as if checking to see if she was still interested. “That we have a little on.”

Carmela was interested. “May I see it?” asked Carmela.

Margot shrugged. “Sure, why not? I have to warn you, though, it's a mess downstairs.”

Margot led Carmela through a narrow back hallway and down an even narrower flight of stairs. “This is our basement archive,” said Margot. “And I use that term loosely.”

Carmela gazed about the dark, musty space and tried not to sneeze. Rusty file cabinets leaned against damp walls, dusty books comprised uneven piles. Cardboard boxes, many of which seemed to be deconstructing in the moldering dampness, were stacked everywhere.

“Most of this stuff has been de-acquisitioned,” said Margot, leading the way through the jumble. “Problem is, I can't seem to let myself throw it away.” She looked a little embarrassed by the mess and clutter. “Anyway, if you're looking for legends and lore, this is pretty much the mother lode, most of it being old newspaper accounts.” Margot pushed her glasses up on her nose, frowned, stopped in front of a battered file cabinet. She slid open the top drawer, studied the peeling labels on the files, then pulled out a file crammed full of slightly yellowing paper. “This might be of interest to you. Letters, maps, and a packet of clippings from defunct newspapers. If you ask me, I think most of those old swashbuckling stories about Lafitte were written with the sole intention of selling newspapers.”

Carmela accepted the file, considered the heft of it. “May I take this home?”

Margot was suddenly hesitant. “I really shouldn't let anything out of the building. If our executive director, Mr. McCuen, ever found out ...”

“I'd be very discreet,” promised Carmela. “And I know for a fact that Glory is thrilled with all the great work you do.”

Margot suddenly looked a lot less hesitant. “If you could get the file back in a day or two?”

“A day or two,” said Carmela. “Of course.” She knew she could scan anything she wanted rather quickly once she got back to Memory Mine. Then she'd have her own master set.

Carmela tucked the file folder into her shoulder bag as they climbed the stairs. Margot walked her to the door and held it open.

“If there's anything I can do,” said Margot, “please don't hesitate to call. Truly.”

“Thanks so much,” said Carmela, clutching the file and hurrying away before Margot Destrehan changed her mind.

“CHER,” said Ava, as she sprawled languidly at Carmela's dining room table. “I swear you are one of the best cooks in all of New Orleans.”

“Hardly,” said Carmela. Tonight she'd served Ava her famous Crab Cakes Carmela: tender lump crab generously seasoned with herbs and drizzled with a cream sauce. Side salads were a mixture of endive, beets, and goat cheese.

“I'm serious,” said Ava. “Emeril's got the name and all the fancy cookbooks, and K-Paul's got the serious reputation, but you, my dear, have the magic touch.”

“Thank you, darlin',” said Carmela, as she tried her darndest to keep Boo and Poobah from snatching food directly from the table. They'd definitely turned into a couple of wild kitchen dogs, much more focused on people food than their own humble dog food. Only last week, Poobah had somehow crawled on top of the counter and helped himself to a piece of steak that had been sitting there defrosting. He'd mangled it so badly it had looked like steak tartare.

Ava reached for the bottle of pinot noir that sat between them. “We still have plenty of time, right?”

Carmela glanced at the clock in her kitchen, a black and white Kit-Cat clock complete with moving eyes and tail. “It's only eight. We're meeting this guy, Miguez, at ten?”

“That's it,” said Ava, picking up the wine bottle and topping off her glass. “Hey, you mind if I undo the snap on my jeans?”

“Unsnap away,” said Carmela.

“Whew,” said Ava. “I should know better than to wear my skinny jeans when you're cooking.”

“The only time I can get into my skinny jeans,” said Carmela, “is after a good bout of stomach flu.”

“It's food poisoning that generally helps me,” said Ava, tipping the bottle to top off Carmela's wineglass, too.

“You sure you've got the directions?” asked Carmela. Now that the meeting was on with the mysterious Miguez tonight, she was feeling jittery and on edge.

“No problem,” Ava assured her. “I've got everything covered.”

“Got something to show you,” said Carmela. She stood, picked up their empty plates, and carried them into the kitchen. When she came back, she was carrying the Jean Lafitte file that Margot Destrehan had given her. “Take a look at this.” Carmela plopped the fat file down onto the table.

Always curious, Ava stuck a lethal-looking fingernail between a couple of pages and pulled out a folded newspaper page. “This is about Jean Lafitte,” she said, her voice tinged with curiosity.

“Archie's historical love and favorite fascination,” said Carmela. “According to Margot Destrehan, the curator at the Vieux Carre Historical Society.”

Ava gazed at her. “That pretty much confirms what Jekyl said, too.”

“As bizarre and anachronistic as it all sounds,” said Carmela, “I think Archie might have been hunting for Lafitte's treasure.”

“If you ask me,” said Ava as she turned over more pages and scanned them quickly, “Archie is beginning to sound a tad wacky. Cher, how'd you get this stuff, anyhow?”

“Margot Destrehan was kind enough to let me unofficially spirit it out,” said Carmela. “As long as I promised to return everything in a couple of days.”

“Listen to this,” said Ava, reading from one of the old articles. “'Deep in the southwest corner of Louisiana, in what is today Calcasieu and Cameron parishes, is an area once known as the Neutral Strip. Comprised of wilderness and marshland, this mysterious tract of land was notorious for being a safe harbor for pirates, buccaneers, and lawless social outcasts.'“ She put down the sheet of paper and wrinkled her nose. “Phew. This paper smells moldy.”

“That's because it is,” said Carmela. “What paper is that article from?”

Ava glanced at the top of the crinkled, yellowing page. “Lake Charles Chronicle. Dated April 18, 1885.” Slightly intrigued now, she shuffled through a few more papers. “Here's something from an even earlier date, 1856.”

“What's that one say?” asked Carmela.

Ava's eyes roved down the sheet as she mumbled to herself. Finally, she said, “Ah, this is pretty interesting stuff. It says, and I quote, 'an island in the Contraband Bayou, a tributary of the Calcasieu River, served as a well-known hiding place for the celebrated pirate, Jean Lafitte. A nearby elevation, known to this day as Money Hill, is the reputed spot where Lafitte buried his vast sums of treasure.'“

“But those are old legends,” said Carmela, thinking about what Margot Destrehan had said. She'd referred to the Lafitte treasure stories as legends and lore. Stuff you'd like to believe in because it was romantic and fanciful and smacked of derring-do.

Ava closed the file. “You're right. They're just old stories. Probably told and retold by old guys who sit on front porches and drink Wild Turkey and brag about their hound dogs. Frankly, I don't see much connection with poor Archie Baudier getting strangled to death with that hunk of barbed wire.”

“Unless he was seriously looking for the treasure,” said Carmela. “Unless Archie had a bead on where that treasure might be.”

“That's a pretty big unless” said Ava.

“Yeah it is,” agreed Carmela.

“I think,” said Ava, looking thoughtful now, “that if there really was a treasure, if Lafitte and his merry men didn't squander their buckets of gold on rum and loose women, some smart, enterprising party would have found it by now.”

“Mmm,” said Carmela. “Maybe. But I still want to pursue that treasure angle a little more. And I just happen to have found a source who might know a good deal about treasure and doubloons,” said Carmela.

“Who's that?” asked Ava, closing the file.

“Robert Tallant,” said Carmela.

Ava thought for a minute. “Tallant. Isn't that the name of that coin shop down on Royal Street? The one with the gold coin jewelry in the front window?”

Carmela nodded. “Archie had scheduled an appointment with Robert Tallant for ten o'clock tomorrow morning.”

“Let me guess,” said Ava. “You're going to keep that appointment for him.”

“Tallant is one guy I definitely want to talk to.”

“So ... an information-gathering meeting,” said Ava.

“Hopefully,” said Carmela.

“Good luck to you then,” said Ava. “But I still think your idea of following the absinthe connection is a stronger angle. From what I understand, the high-test version is a hot underground commodity these days. Which probably means a lot of dangerous people have eased themselves into the business.”

“Probably good money to be made,” said Carmela. “Things that are illegal always possess a certain amount of allure.”

“Which in turn creates a demand,” said Ava. “Funny, isn't it, how money always seems to go hand in hand with greed and danger?” She glanced at her watch. “Still got a little time.”

“We could open another bottle of wine,” suggested Carmela.

“Cher, I was afraid you'd never ask.” Boo rubbed up against Ava and presented her fat muzzle for scratching. Ava, of course, complied. “Maybe a red wine?”

They settled in Carmela's living room with their second bottle of wine, a shiraz from Napa's Rutherford region.

Ava stretched out on the leather chaise and pulled one of her gossip magazines from her oversized purple leather purse. “Got somethin' to show you.” She thumbed through a few pages, then tapped one of the glossy pages with her index finger. “You see how thin these women are?”

Carmela glanced at the photos. “Awful. You can see every node in their collarbones.”

“You know how they get so skinny?”

“Enlighten me,” said Carmela.

“They use some kind of horse asthma drug.”

“Weird,” said Carmela. “And so not good for you.”

“Ah,” said Ava. “Here's something better.” She held up her magazine. “Photos of those hot new Chanel bubble purses.”

“Now those are hot,” agreed Carmela.

Ava closed her magazine, extended one leg, and studied her pink painted toenails. “Can you believe it? Two gorgeous gals like us sitting at home on the weekend? And not a date in sight?”

“It's Thursday night,” pointed out Carmela. “Technically not the weekend yet.”

“Thursday's the new Friday,” said Ava. “Just like tea is the new coffee, and sixty's the new forty.”

“You do have a certain way with logic,” admitted Carmela.

“Hey,” said Ava, reaching for the Big Easy Weekender paper that lay on Carmela's coffee table. “Why don't we check the local personal ads. Might be a good way to find ourselves a couple of likely candidates.”

“I'm not sure that's a good idea,” laughed Carmela.

Ava opened the paper toward the back. “No, come on, this'll be fun.” She turned a few pages. “Soon's I get through all these escort service ads. My, there sure are a lot of ladies named Brandy and Tiffany who want to meet discreet gentlemen. Think they're any competition to us?”

“Let's hope not,” said Carmela.

Ava finally came to the personal ads. “Okay, I see a serious possibility right off the bat. Listen to this, cher. 'Lonely, elderly man seeks female companion for meals out, concerts, movies, conversation, and Scrabble.'“ She set the paper down and grinned widely. “He could be perfect for me.”

“Ava,” scolded Carmela, “you're gorgeous, sexy, and not even thirty. Don't you think you might be hunting in the wrong age bracket?”

“Then how about this,” said Ava. “Single white male, financially secure and easygoing, seeks lady, no controlling, attractive, and a good driver.”

“I don't think you'd qualify,” said Carmela.

Ava peered over the paper. “ 'Cause I'd flunk the no controlling part?”

“That's a consideration, yes. And then there's the good driver part.”

“Please,” said Ava, looking offended. “Anybody can wrap a Honda around a stupid lamppost. I mean, the city puts those darned posts in the absolute worst places.”

“You mean on the streets?”

“Yes!”

 

FIVE MINUTES INTO THEIR SECOND BOTTLE OF wine, Jekyl called.

“I've made plans to hold Archie's memorial service this Saturday,” he told Carmela. “Right in St. Louis Cemetery No. 1, near his crypt.”

“Okay,” said Carmela. She mouthed the word, Jekyl, to Ava.

“Say hey to Jekyl,” called Ava.

“Ava says hey.”

“Hey back,” said Jekyl. “What I really want to know is, are you still willing to design a memorial program?”

“Of course,” said Carmela. “Just give me the details.” She gestured at Ava for a pen, grabbed the little newspaper from her and made a scribble mark in the margin. “Okay, shoot.”

“I don't have every single detail,” said Jekyl, “but I'll give you what I have.”

Carmela listened, then jotted a few notes, while Ava got up and strolled into the bathroom.

“I'll e-mail the rest of the details once I finalize the arrangements,” promised Jekyl.

“Great,” said Carmela. She quickly filled him in on the file she'd picked up earlier, then said, “Jekyl, while I've got you on the phone ...”

“Yes?” said Jekyl, in a voice that sounded harried and a little hesitant.

“You know Archie had been drinking absinthe? The illegal kind?”

“Who told you that?” asked Jekyl.

“Detective Babcock. It showed up in the medical examiner's toxicology report.”

There was dead silence for a few moments, then Jekyl said, “Okay.”

“Did you know he was into absinthe?” asked Carmela. “Are you into absinthe?” Her words just sort of rushed out.

“We playing truth or dare?” asked Jekyl.

“No,” said Carmela, knowing he was resorting to coyness. “Only truth.”

“Truth then,” said Jekyl. “I tried some that had been smuggled in from the Czech Republic. Didn't really like it. The price was a bit too high for me.”

“We're talking retail?” asked Carmela.

This time Jekyl chuckled. “The price of a hangover.” He hesitated. “But I know Archie had developed a taste for it.”

“Well, the police are going to be asking more questions,” said Carmela. “You might want to have a few answers ready.”

Ava came out of the bathroom looking radiant with newly applied lipstick, blusher, and mascara. “Are you talking about the absinthe?” she asked in a loud whisper.

Carmela nodded.

“For gosh sakes, don't tell him we're going off tonight to meet a genuine absinthe dealer!”

Carmela tried to cover the phone, but Jekyl's sharp hearing had caught part of Ava's words. “Don't tell me about what?” he asked. “What are you two cooking up?”

Nothing,” said Carmela. “Nothing at all.”

 

'TIME TO HEAD OUT,” ANNOUNCED AVA, ONCE Carmela had hung up the phone. “Think we should take the doggies along for protection?”

Carmela gazed at Boo and Poobah, who were sprawled on the floor, looking like stuffed animals that had had the stuffing knocked out of them. Fast asleep, their paws twitched in their doggy dreams, and they both emitted loud snoring noises that came pretty close to mimicking a buzz saw.

“Somehow, these two dogs don't strike me as rough-and-ready guard dog types,” said Carmela.

“Good point,” said Ava. She peered down at Boo. “She's so dang cute, but does she always drool when she sleeps?”

Carmela nodded. “The joys of living with a Shar-Pei.”

“LEFT! Turn left!” screamed Ava. They were whipping down Lesseps Street in Carmela's Mercedes, a car that had been a gift from Shamus a couple of years ago. For reasons unknown, Ava seemed to be waiting until the last possible moment to give Carmela precise directions.

Carmela turned, slowed, and popped the clutch into first. “This street's completely blocked.”

“Oops,” said Ava, making a face. “A slight tactical error. Sorry.”

“Do you actually know where we're going?” asked Carmela.

Ava held up her paper with the scrawled directions and rattled it, as if to reassure herself. “Course I do. I've got the finely honed instincts of a professional cartographer.”

“That's comforting,” said Carmela in a droll tone. “But do you know which street to take right now?”

Ava looked left, then right, then squinted at her map. “I think we should head across the river on St. Claude Street and figure it out from there.”

Carmela backed into a driveway, then turned back the way they'd been headed. “So cross the Inner Harbor Canal?”

“Right,” said Ava. “I mean correct.”

“Then what?”

“I'm workin' on that, cher. But it's hard to be exacting under such pressure.”

“But you've got the address?”

“Oh sure,” said Ava. “Hey, turn here at this little neighborhood bar. Azalea's. You ever been in there? Good comfort food.”

“Great stuffed artichokes,” said Carmela.

“Now go right, turn right on Reynes.”

Carmela braked hard, barely sluiced her way through the turn. “I need a little more warning,” she told Ava.

“A few more blocks,” said Ava, “then we'll take a left.”

They glided down several more blocks. “Dark around here,” remarked Carmela. They seemed to be leaving that part of the city that was still inhabited and twinkling with lights.

“Stuff hasn't been rebuilt yet,” said Ava as they drove past homes and commercial buildings that were still boarded up.

“And time is taking its toll,” added Carmela. Three years later, so many buildings were still deserted. This part of the city was in flux, property owners still hesitant about whether to tear down and rebuild or just abandon their properties entirely, wait until the city declared eminent domain.

“Spooky,” said Ava. “Hardly any lights on. Hardly any people.”

“Now what?” asked Carmela. Being in this part of town made her feel jittery. You never knew what could go wrong. And crime in New Orleans was still at an all-time high.

“Go left!” directed Ava.

What are we in for? wondered Carmela.

“Perfect,” declared Ava, as Carmela executed her turn. “Now just pull over to the curb.”

“You're not serious,” said Carmela, when she saw where they'd ended up. “You know where we are?”

“Gateway Community Hospital,” said Ava. She checked her hand-drawn map. “Yeah, this is it, all right.”

Carmela was shocked. “This is where we're supposed to meet your Miguez character? The place is completely deserted! It's been closed since Hurricane Katrina!” She peered out the car window at a ten-story brick building that, in the dark, loomed like a gigantic wrecked hulk. It reminded her of the burned-out buildings in Berlin that she'd seen in World War II films. After the Russians had stormed the city and pretty much pounded everything to rubble.

“This can't be right,” Carmela muttered again.

“Oh, this is it,” Ava assured her. “Miguez said to come here, and he'd phone with the rest of the directions.”

Carmela's head snapped right. “He's going to call us? We're just supposed to sit here like . . . like sitting ducks?”

“He was very clear that he'd direct us on a need-to-know basis.”

“Guess what,” said Carmela, her unease ratcheting to a new level. “I need to know right now!”

As if on cue, Ava's cell phone tinkled the first few notes of Bon Jovi's “We Got It Going On.” “Bet that's him now,” she said brightly. She thumbed her On button, held the little phone to her ear. “This is Ava.”

“Good lord,” murmured Carmela, still peering out her window at the devastated neighborhood.

“Yup, it's us,” Ava said into the phone. She smiled at Carmela, gave an exaggerated nod of her head. “Really? Around back?”

Carmela shook her head no.

“Okay,” said Ava. “If you say so.” Dropping her phone into her purse, Ava smiled at Carmela. “Looks like he's gonna meet us at the back door.”

“I don't like this,” said Carmela. “There's something screwy here.”

“Guy's probably just being cautious.”

Against her better judgment, Carmela stepped out of the car. Her eyes took in the dark building with its shattered windows and boarded-up front door, as well as the battered chain-link fence that stretched around the perimeter. She couldn't think of a more foreboding place.

“Careful where you walk, cher” said Ava. “There's a lot of junk lying around.”

“No kidding,” said Carmela, as she stepped over a soggy cardboard box, then a jumble of boards with sharp nails protruding from them. They walked gingerly in the darkness, following the fence around to the back.

“Dark back here,” commented Ava. Now she sounded a little less sure of herself and their plan.

When they arrived at a gaping hole in the chain-link fence, Carmela shook her head. “Man, I really don't like this. You sure this Miguez guy is on the up and up? I'd hate to walk into some sort of trap.”

Ava pulled her sweater tight around her shoulders. “I think he's okay.” Her dark eyes met Carmela's. “What do you want to do, cher? Turn around?”

Carmela eyed the hole in the fence. “Not sure.” Her upper teeth worried her bottom lip for a few moments. Finally, she made up her mind. “We've come this far ...”

“My sentiments exactly,” agreed Ava.

Ducking through the hole, taking care not to get caught on the pieces of rusty wire that poked out, they walked the twenty paces to the back door of the ruined building. A heavy chain stretched loosely between two door handles.

Ava reached down and jiggled it. “It's not padlocked or anything, just looped. We can go in.”

“I guess,” said Carmela.

Pulling open the back door, they were immediately enveloped by a gust of stale, damp air. Carmela, always a believer in accumulated karma, could only imagine the enormous misery that had occurred here during the dark days of Hurricane Katrina.

Ava's phone tinkled again from the depths of her purse.

She dug for it quickly. “Hello? Where are you?” Now she didn't sound all that sure of herself. “You were supposed to meet us.” Pause. “Downstairs?” She gazed at Carmela, indicated a dark stairwell off to their left. “He wants us to . . . uh . . . come downstairs.”

“No way,” said Carmela. “It's pitch-black. We're liable to fall and break a leg.”

“What?” said Ava into her phone. She turned to Carmela. “Apparently he left a flashlight for us over by the wall.”

Carmela looked around warily. “I must be crazy,” she muttered. Then her eyes fell upon a small metal tube propped against a dingy cinder block wall. “Okay, I see it.”

“We got it,” said Ava. “I guess we're coming down.”

Clutching each other, the thin beam of light barely cutting through the thick cloud of darkness, Carmela and Ava eased themselves down the stairway. Damp and littered with trash, the steps were a nightmare to negotiate. The walls that closed in on them were scabrous and covered with gray mold. But finally, crazily, they made it.

“Now what?” asked Carmela. Her voice sounded hollow and small in the dank basement corridor.

“Not sure,” said Ava. She flashed the light around, revealing corridors that led off in three different directions. “Man, this is scary.”

As they stood motionless for a few moments, Carmela's eyes began to grow accustomed to the darkness. “Down there,” she said, pointing to where a faint light seemed to glow from behind frosted glass. “There's a light burning.”

“Okay,” said Ava, “then I guess we head that way.”

The long hallway was worse than the stairs. Shards of glass crunched underfoot, and there were faint sounds of scurrying and rustling.

“Tell me those aren't rats I hear,” said Ava. Her respiration was fast and audible. Ava was terrified of rats.

“They're not rats.”

“You're sure?”

“Just squirrels with skinny tails,” said Carmela.

“Eeyew,” breathed Ava.

They drew nearer to a large set of double doors. The frosted glass glowed a little brighter. Someone was definitely waiting beyond those doors.

“What's that say?” asked Ava, squinting at flaked and cracked letters peeling away from the door.

Carmela grasped Ava's wrist and aimed the flashlight. “It's says . . . Morgue.”

Ava froze in her tracks. “You're kidding!”

Gathering her courage, Carmela kicked at the door with her foot. It creaked open on rusted hinges. “You won't find any bodies in here,” she told her friend. “Not any dead ones, anyway.”

“Oh my,” whimpered Ava as they shuffled into the room.

And what a room it was. Metal tables stood in two rows, their ungodly plumbing kinking down into pipes that descended into the filth-strewn floor. Trays of instruments sat catawampus on metal stands; Stryker saws dangled overhead.

Hearing a faint scraping sound, sensing a change in the room's atmosphere, Carmela aimed the flashlight toward the back of the room.

“Holy shit!” squealed Ava. Standing in the shadows was a man, six feet tall, with a tangle of dark hair.

“Miguez?” asked Carmela, concentrating on not allowing her voice to crack.

Miguez stepped out of the shadows and gave an inquisitive cock of his head. “At your service.” He had a deep, resonant voice that bore the distinct cadence of the Cajun dialect. “You come alone?” he asked. “No one followed?”

“Who would want to?” said Carmela.

He laughed softly, then turned and fiddled with an electrical cord. A slight hum filled the room, then soft light puddled around them.

Now Carmela was able to get a better look at Miguez. He was in his early thirties, clean-shaven, and fairly good-looking in a dark, brooding sort of way. He was dressed in blue jeans and a tight black T-shirt. Probably a concert T-shirt, since it had a faded Aerosmith logo. Gazing at them, Miguez wore a lazy half smile on his face. He certainly didn't look all that threatening.

“You know why we're here?” asked Carmela.

Miguez gave a careless shrug. “You tell me.”

Carmela felt emboldened. “Why on earth would you ask us to meet you down here?”

Miguez swept a languid arm toward the morgue tables. “You don't like my place?”

“I think you need a better decorator,” Carmela shot back.

Miguez let loose another soft laugh. “But this is the perfect place,” he told her. “For someone in my business.” Now he indicated the bank of oversized stainless steel drawers that stood behind him. “You see . . . excellent storage.”

The tiny hairs on the back of Carmela's neck stood up.

“What about electrical power?” asked Ava. “It's dark as sin down here and there hasn't been electricity in this part of town since the hurricane.”

“Generator,” was his one word answer. “But enough with the questions. Now we do business.” Miguez retreated a few steps, slid open one of the drawers.

Instinctively, Carmela and Ava shrank back.

Miguez seemed not to notice. He reached in and extracted a slender bottle of green liquid, balanced it carefully in his hand. “I can let you have one-half liter for one hundred dollars. Or I can give you two bottles for one eighty.” He stared at them, challenging now. “The price is firm. No negotiations. This is the real stuff, made with wormwood.”

“What if we want more at a later date?” asked Carmela.

“Not possible,” said Miguez. And now he eyed them with suspicion. “Things have changed. It appears I'm . . . uh . . . getting out of the business.” He held up the single bottle, wiggled it enticingly. “La dame verte,” he said. “The green fairy. You want to buy? You got cash money?”

“Oh, we're not here to buy,” said Ava.

Miguez seemed not to understand. “Excuse me?”

“What we really want is a little information,” said Carmela. “Then we'll be out of your hair.”

Ava gave a nervous grin. “That's right. You can forget we were even here.”

Now a sly smile spread across Miguez's face. “You ladies want information? Then you are most definitely here to buy.”

“No, really,” said Ava. “We just have a couple quick questions.” She glanced at Carmela, obviously looking for backup.

Miguez stared at them. “What did I tell you before? One hundred dollars? Excuse moi, but the price is now one hundred fifty dollars.” He extended his right arm, palm up.

“You're not serious,” said Carmela.

Miguez stared at her with crackling dark eyes until she decided he was most definitely serious.

“I don't suppose you, heh-heh, take Visa,” said Ava. When an answer wasn't forthcoming, she said, “No? Well okay.”

Carmela dug in her purse, pulled out five twenties, placed them in the palm of his hand. Miguez continued to stare at her.

Carmela and Ava had a whispered conversation and then two more twenties appeared.

“Close enough?” asked Carmela.

Miguez folded the bills and nodded. Slipped them into the pocket of his jeans.

“What I want to know,” said Carmela, “is if you sold absinthe to Archie Baudier?”

“Yes,” he responded slowly. “I sold to him. But not so recently.” Miguez continued to stare at Carmela, as if anticipating another question. And Carmela had the distinctfeeling that Miguez had absolutely no idea Archie was dead.

“Do you know who supplied Archie most recently?” asked Carmela, deciding to take a different tack.

Miguez hesitated a few long moments. “Possibly. There's a new guy around. A Russian.”

For the first time, Carmela detected a look of nervousness on Miguez's face. Or maybe it was fear.

“And he's your new competition,” said Carmela. It was a statement not a question.

“Fancies himself a real tough Mafia guy,” said Miguez. Once again, he'd tried to pass off a casual answer but looked decidedly unsettled.

“Is he really Russian Mafia?” asked Carmela. “Or just self-appointed ? “

“Hey,” said Miguez, roughly. “Enough.” And now his voice rose. “Like I told you, I'm getting out of the business. The situation is becoming a little too intense.”

“All we want to determine—” began Carmela.

But Miguez was decidedly unhappy with their line of questioning. “I said enough! Too pushy!”

“Don't go bracque,” said Carmela, using a little Cajun. Don't go crazy. “No need boude.” No need to be angry.

Miguez stared at her, his anger suddenly on hold. “You speak Cajun?” He sounded surprised.

“A little,” she admitted.

“You're Cajun?” he asked.

“Some.”

Miguez visibly relaxed. “Okay then, I be obligeant.” I'll be more considerate. “But I think our business here is done.”

“Great,” said Ava. “ 'Cause I'm about ready to blow this pop stand.”

Miguez laughed, suddenly turning his attention on Ava. “Pretty be'be,” he told her. “Is that your real hair?”

Ava was both amused and outraged. “Of course it is.” She touched manicured nails to her lustrous locks. “You think this is one of those cheap TV shopping channel clip-ins? No way, honey, this is part and parcel of my DNA.”

“Beautiful,” said Miguez, his voice smooth and silky now. “You maybe go out with me sometime? We go to a fancy restaurant. Maybe Antoine's or Galatoire's?”

Ava seemed more than a little flattered. “Well . . . maybe.”

“Have some oysters Rockefeller and some champagne.” Miguez leered at her. “The food of lovers.”

Carmela was horrified. “Ava!”

Ava shrugged. Honestly, what was a girl to do?

“One more question,” said Carmela.

Miguez's eyes burned bright.

“What else can you tell me about this Russian dealer who's come on the scene?” pressed Carmela. “What's his name? Where does he live? Where does he hang out?”

Miguez’s good humor seemed to wither away, and Carmela could tell he was ready for them to leave. Was probably regretting they'd ever come. “I heard he lives in a big mansion in the Garden District. Rented place, but he still try to look like a big shot.” He gave a snort. “A Russian immigrant who tells everyone he once lived in Transylvania.” Miguez shook his head. “He loves that shit.”

“What . . . uh . . . ?” began Carmela. “Oh, you mean vampires?”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Miguez. “That's supposed to be one of the reasons he moved here. Loves the New Orleans cemeteries. All the crazy stories and vampire shit.” Miguez paused. “And he's supposed to be an ex-mercenary hiding out.”

“Oh, that's not good,” said Ava.

“What kind of ex-mercenary?” asked Carmela.

“The bad kind,” said Miguez, seriously emphasizing his words. “One who worked in Sierra Leone and now is heavy into selling guns to certain interested parties in South America. New Orleans makes a convenient home base.”

Carmela thought about that for a minute. As preposterous as it sounded, Miguez's words could be true. Things were still crazy and unsettled in New Orleans. The police were still a little overwhelmed, and there'd definitely been an influx of bad-ass criminals.

“You go now,” said Miguez. He placed the half liter bottle of absinthe in Ava's hands. “For your trouble,” he told her. Although the look on his face indicated that he'd been the one who'd incurred the trouble.

 

“CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?” ASKED AVA, AS THEY climbed the stairs. “He gave us a bottle of totally illegal absinthe!” She sounded excited but nervous, too. As though a bunch of narcs or the guys from ATF would swoop down in a fleet of black helicopters and take it away from her.

“For all the trouble Miguez put us through,” said Carmela, “we should have gotten a bottle of Cristal champagne.”

“Still,” said Ava, clutching the tapered bottle of shimmering green liquid, “this is intriguing.”

Carmela leaned the flashlight back against the wall, and they exited the building. The night air felt cool and refreshing and welcome after their time inside the crumbling hospital.

“Good Lord,” said Ava, looking at her watch. “I can't believe how late it is. It's after midnight.”

“You know what happens tomorrow night, don't you?”

asked Carmela. “Or, rather, tonight. Since we're already into Friday.”

“You've got a hot date.”

“Not quite,” said Carmela. “Think bigger.”

“Two hot dates,” said Ava.

“You've heard of the Vampyre Danse?”

About ready to duck through the gap in the fence, Ava paused and stared at Carmela. “No kidding, that's tomorrow? I mean tonight?” The Vampyre Danse was one of hundreds of fantastical parties and balls that were held during the Mardi Gras season. Only difference was, instead of formal dresses and tie and tails, the participants were vampire lovers, vampire wannabes, and Goth fans, all suitably attired in full vampire regalia.

“It's something to consider,” said Carmela.

“You're thinking this Russian guy could show up there?” said Ava.

“It's the biggest vampire soiree I know of,” said Carmela. “And Miguez says this Russian guy is really into vampire legend and lore. So . . . yeah. Maybe.”

Ava was already thinking ahead. “Of course, we can't just go waltzing in. We'd need an invitation.”

“But if this Russian guy does attend,” said Carmela, “we could pick up a valuable lead.”

If we can score an invitation,” said Ava.

“That's a mighty big if,” admitted Carmela. “But I'll call Jekyl first thing tomorrow. See what he can shake out of his network.”

“You know what the best thing would be?” giggled Ava. “We'd get to dress up in sexy costumes!”

A bell tinkled discreetly as Carmela stepped inside Royal Coin and Curios; soft Oriental carpets whispered underfoot. Much to Carmela's delight, the shop had a distinct old-world feel. Tiffany lamps sat atop antique glass cases, and a handsome grandfather clock ticked reassuringly. As if on guard duty, a fuzzy orange cat squirted across in front of her, leapt to the counter, and curled around a cut-glass vase filled with a bountiful array of purple anemones.

“Hey, kitty,” said Carmela, just as Robert Tallant emerged silently from behind a pair of gold brocade curtains. He wore a pink shirt with a cream bow tie that seemed to go well with his carefully practiced smile and somewhat studied manner. His brown hair was parted low, his gray eyes were narrow, his lips thin. He was in his late forties, maybe early fifties, with a certain coolness surrounding him.

“This is a lovely shop,” said Carmela, realizing for the first time that there were quite a few antique daggers as well as a suit of armor on display, too.

“Thank you,” said Tallant, crinkling his eyes to imitate a smile.

Carmela extended a hand across the glass case, noting a display of gold coins that would have made any pirate's heart beat faster. “I'm your neighbor, Carmela Bertrand. I own the scrapbook store, Memory Mine, over on Governor Nicholls Street.”

Tallant shook her hand. “Of course,” he said without a flicker of recognition.

“Your name was in Archie Baudier's appointment book. In fact, you two had a meeting today.”

Tallant's faint smile dissipated quickly. “So we did.”

“You're aware Archie was killed last Tuesday evening?”

“Yes,” said Tallant. “I saw the news report, and then two police officers dropped by yesterday afternoon. A sad affair, it would seem.”

“That's kind of why I'm here,” said Carmela.

Tallant steepled his fingers while his eyebrows formed twin arcs. “Oh?”

“I'm just following up on anything or anyone who may have had recent dealings with Archie.”

“And you are doing so—why?” asked Tallant.

“As a friend,” said Carmela. “A concerned friend.”

Now Tallant's gray eyes sparkled. “A fellow shopkeeper playing detective?”

“Something like that,” said Carmela.

“Working in concert with the police?” He looked skeptical.

“Absolutely,” said Carmela. Sure, she was. Sort of. “The thing is, I was just wondering about the nature of your meeting today. Was Archie buying coins or possibly even selling coins?”

Tallant stared at her, seemingly reluctant to disclose that information. Finally he said, “Mr. Baudier was interested in purchasing a small collection that I'd recently acquired.”

Carmela gazed into the display case that stood between them. “How fascinating. Is that particular collection on display? The one Archie was interested in? May I see it?”

Tallant let loose a low sigh. “It's not on display, but, yes, you may see it.” He held up an index finger. “Wait please.” Then he disappeared behind the curtain.

Carmela stared at a pewter mug and a crucifix inlaid with rubies, wondering if Tallant was watching her right now on closed-circuit camera. Figured, yeah, he probably was. The shop was filled with valuable items, and he seemed a twitchy sort.

Tallant came bustling out with a small red velvet box. He set it on the counter, reached for a black velvet mat, then placed the box on top of that, centering it carefully.

“They're Dutch coins,” he told her as he opened the lid on the hinged box. “Guilders, to be exact.” He grasped a small black velvet pouch, tugged it open, and poured a half-dozen coins into Carmela's hand.

“Gorgeous,” she exclaimed, surprised at her own strong reaction. The coins were the smoothest, richest, yellowest gold she'd ever laid eyes on. In fact, they seemed to be lit from within.

“Twenty-four-karat gold,” whispered Tallant.

Carmela could barely pull her eyes from them. Puddled in the palm of her hand, the coins looked and felt like liquid butter. “And Archie was planning to buy these?”

Tallant nodded. “Probably. They would have made an exquisite addition to his collection.”

“They're like some wonderful treasure,” said Carmela, returning the guilders to his hand.

“Indeed,” said Tallant, as he slipped the coins back into their velvet pouch.

“I'm just curious, Mr. Tallant. As a rare coin dealer, have you ever gone treasure hunting yourself?”

Tallant gave a curt laugh. “Me? Hardly. I let the dreamers and fools do that. I'm strictly a businessman. One who tries to purchase interesting collections . . . treasure falling into that category, of course.”

“So you actually purchase found treasure?” asked Carmela.

“Absolutely,” said Tallant. “I've acquired pieces from Mel Fisher's Atocha gold. And, let's see, about a hundred of the twenty thousand Roman coins that were unearthed a few years ago in South Gloucestershire, England. Those were lovely, attributed to Constantine the Great. And then I run across the odd piece of Confederate gold now and then. It's amazing what turns up.”

Carmela decided this was as good a time as any to ask the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.

“Do you know anything about the Jean Lafitte treasure?”

Tallant smiled. “You mean the gold coins supposedly given to Lafitte by Colonel Andrew Jackson? For throwing in with him and helping win the Battle of New Orleans?”

“Bingo,” said Carmela. This conversation might just be easier than she thought.

But Tallant was shaking his head in a dismissive gesture. “Pure myth. According to modern historians, the meeting between Jean Lafitte and Andrew Jackson never took place.

There was no great strategizing between the two men. So, obviously, there was never any payoff.”

“But modern historians weren't there,” said Carmela. “Or maybe Lafitte's treasure wasn't entirely payoff money. Maybe it was gold coins and bullion that Lafitte had amassed over the years. After all, he raided countless Spanish galleons as well as French and English trading ships that plied the Mediterranean as well as the Gulf of Mexico. You might say Jean Lafitte was an equal opportunity pirate.”

“And his myth grows with each passing year,” said Tallant, sounding even more skeptical.

“Archie Baudier didn't think it was a myth,” said Carmela, hoping to elicit some sort of reaction.

Tallant looked like he was about to say something, then didn't.

Carmela continued with her line of conversation. “Apparently, Archie was doing considerable research at the Vieux Carre Historical Society, studying old maps and newspaper accounts.”

Tallant simply nodded, as though he was a patient shopkeeper listening to a rambling customer. “There are a lot of old accounts. And theories concerning the treasure's location.”

“A few people think Archie might have been on to something,” said Carmela. She was grasping at straws now, hoping Tallant had something to add. But nothing seemed to be forthcoming.

Finally, Tallant said, “You know, I wouldn't mind getting my hands on Archie's collection. He wasn't exactly an amateur collector, so he had some fairly decent pieces. Do you by any chance know who's in charge of his estate?”

“No,” said Carmela, deciding Tallant was pretty much a clod for asking. Especially since Archie hadn't even had a proper burial yet. “No, I don't.”

 

CARMELA HAD BARELY STEPPED OUTSIDE Robert Tallant's coin shop when Edgar Babcock accosted her.

“Are you crazy?” he shrilled. “Have you completely lost your mind?”

Carmela whirled to face him. “What are you talking about?” Was he upset that she'd visited Tallant?

“Gateway Community Hospital,” said Babcock, his face beginning to take on the red tinge of freshly boiled crawfish. “Last night. You and Ava went to see that crazy Cajun!”

“You were tailing us?” asked Carmela. Now her surprise quickly turned to anger. What was Edgar Babcock doing, putting a tail on her? What was his problem? Hot spots exploded behind her eyes. “I can't believe you were watching us!”

“I had people there, yes,” snapped Babcock.

“Because you think Ava and I had something to do with Archie's murder? Are you kidding me?” Carmela was livid with anger now.

Babcock looked suddenly confused. “No,” he said. “That's not it at all.”

“Then what are you talking about?” demanded Carmela.

“We were staking out that Cajun guy—trying to bust him!”

“Miguez?” said Carmela.

“That's one of his aliases, yes,” said Babcock. “And for your information, we've been after him for quite some time!”

Carmela forced herself to calm down, tried to quell her rapidly beating heart. “He told us he was getting out of the business.”

“Hah!” exclaimed Babcock. “I seriously doubt that. There's been a whole ring of smugglers operating in New Orleans and across the river in Algiers and Gretna. Absinthe, Ecstasy, roofies, ice—they're dealing it all.”

“Are you telling me European absinthe is the new club drug?” asked Carmela. She didn't quite believe that.

Babcock stared at her. “It hasn't exactly replaced X, but it's becoming pretty darn popular.”

Should she tell him? Sure, why not.

“I, uh, heard there was some Russian guy who was pretty much trying to control the illegal absinthe franchise,” said Carmela. “That he's importing and distributing it.”

“Is that what Miguez told you?”

“Well, yeah,” said Carmela.

“That guy is scum,” snorted Babcock. “He'll tell you anything.” Edgar Babcock leaned down, and Carmela could smell Dentyne and Hermes aftershave. “Did you give him money?”

“No,” lied Carmela. How could she tell Babcock they'd given Miguez a hundred and forty bucks? For what might turn out now to be bogus information!

Babcock continued to keep pace beside her as she headed back toward her shop. “So he actually said there was a Russian involved?” He sounded dubious.

“Yes, that's what he said. Made it all sound highly mysterious. Like the guy was connected to the Russian Mafia or something.”

“We're working with ATF on this,” said Babcock. “Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. I'll check with them, see if they've heard any rumors about other people involved, particularly your mysterious Russian.”

“ATF,” said Carmela. “That's federal, right?”

Babcock frowned. “Hell yes, it's federal.”

Carmela paled slightly, picturing the tall, elegant bottle of green liqueur sitting on her kitchen counter even as she ambled through the French Quarter with an officer of the law.

“The wormwood absinthe,” said Carmela. “You think it's that bad?”

“Doesn't matter what I think,” said Babcock. “Point is, the stuff's illegal.”

BACK at Memory Mine, nervous over the notion of the ATF raiding her apartment at any moment, Carmela was pleasantly surprised to find two of her regulars waiting for her: Tandy and Baby. Surely they'd help take her mind off all the recent craziness.

“Here she is,” proclaimed Tandy as Carmela made her way toward them. “And thank goodness.”

“What's up?” asked Carmela, trying to appear cool and collected.

“We could use a little help, please,” said Tandy. “Seems we're fresh out of ideas for new scrapbook pages.”

“I can hardly believe that,” said Carmela. Usually, Tandy was a fiend for coming up with new page themes.

“It's true,” said Baby. “We're completely flummoxed.” She shook her head, and the charms that hung on her Louis Vuitton gold hoop earrings made a tinkling sound, like tiny wind chimes.

“What are you trying to scrap?” asked Carmela, easing herself down at the table.

“I still haven't done anything with my Christmas photos,” said Tandy, sounding a little embarrassed. “And Baby's got a new grandchild, of course. Dawn had a baby girl last month.”

“I know,” said Carmela, trying to think. She put her hands flat on the table, buying a little more time, then said, “Okay, I think I've got a couple of ideas.”

“About time.” Tandy laughed.

Carmela bustled about her shop, pulling out sheets of paper and foil, bits of lace and ribbon, embellishments, and vellum envelopes. Then she sat down with Tandy and Baby, and they all three put their heads together.

An hour and a half later, both women had the makings of a top-notch scrapbook page.

Baby's page for her granddaughter had adopted the theme, Pocketful of Miracles. This line, in bouncing contemporary type, was on a background of pink-and-white checked paper along with two adorable photos, lace bows, and an actual vellum pocket. Inside the pocket were little heart-shaped pieces of paper on which Baby and other family members would write heartfelt wishes for this new child.

Tandy's Christmas page had an O Christmas Tree headline slaloming across red and green paper torn into tree shapes. Three photos were cut into circles like ornaments and ringed with gold vellum. Green foil formed holly leaves and red foil the accompanying berries. A star garland twisted its way across the bottom.

“Fantastic,” declared Tandy, while Baby just beamed.

“I love 'em,” said Gabby, leaning over their shoulders to admire the two new pages. “Carmela, I don't know how you come up with such wonderful ideas.”

Carmela smiled knowingly. She didn't know how she came up with a steady stream of ideas, either. Somehow, they just bubbled up inside her head, like some sort of well-spring. She supposed that's what was known as inspiration.

 

LUCKILY, THINGS WERE RELATIVELY QUIET FOR A while, so Carmela grabbed a carton of strawberry yogurt from their small refrigerator and retreated to her office. She wanted to sort through the last dozen or so pages of the file she'd picked up at the Vieux Carre Historical Society. The ones she hadn't gotten to yet. And then, of course, she'd make copies of anything that seemed pertinent.

Scanning an old article written by a fellow named Hubble Whitley, Carmela noted that Lafitte's group had often been referred to as the Baratarians.

“Barataria Bayou,” she murmured to herself. She knew a little bit about that area. Shamus's family had a camp house there that they used occasionally for hunting and fishing. It was a small wood frame house with a big front porch that sat on stilts over dark water. The downstairs was pretty much one big kitchen and living room; upstairs was a sleeping loft. During storms, the patter of rain on the corrugated tin roof was like a bayou lullaby.

Okay, she thought. It seems like Lafitte left his imprint in lots of places.

Carmela thumbed through a few more pages. One was a sketchy, hastily drawn map that showed Money Hill and its surrounding lakes and bayous. Another map focused on Port Arthur, Texas.

Probably, she decided, a lot of would-be treasure hunters had concentrated their efforts in those particular areas of southwest Louisiana and neighboring Texas.

The final paper in the file was a clipping from the New Orleans Times-Picayune. It was a short blurb about a group of local speculators who'd launched a search for Jean Lafitte's treasure in southwestern Louisiana some five years ago.

So, people are still looking.

Carmela was about to put the page aside when a name jumped out at her: Robert Tallant.

What? She studied the article more closely. It didn't give many more details, but it certainly flew in the face of what Tallant had just told her this morning about letting dreamers and fools hunt for treasure.

“What a dirt ball,” Carmela muttered to herself, even as she wondered if Tallant could be a viable suspect in Archie's death.

A gentle rap sounded at her door. “Phone call,” said Gabby. “It's Jekyl.”

“Hey,” said Carmela, picking up the phone. “Guess who I met with this morning?”

“That police detective? Babcock?”

“Actually,” said Carmela, “I did run into him. But first I had a very interesting meeting with Robert Tallant, the owner of Royal Coin and Curios.”

“Tell me what was so interesting,” said Jekyl.

“For one thing,” said Carmela, “Tallant is a serious collector. His shop is filled with extremely rare coins.”

“The kind Archie collected,” said Jekyl.

“Exactly,” said Carmela. “Tallant also acted somewhat blasé about Archie's death. He assumed a kind of too-bad attitude about the whole thing. Didn't even mention the fact that there was a murder investigation going on. But then, toward the end of our meeting, he asked if I knew how he might go about purchasing Archie's collection.”

“The guy is all heart,” said Jekyl.

“But the story gets even stranger,” said Carmela. “Tallant professed to only be a dealer in rare coins. When I asked him if he'd ever done any actual treasure hunting himself, he was extremely scornful. Yet I found an article . . . hold on a minute.” Carmela scrabbled to retrieve the news clipping. “You remember that file I mentioned last night? The one I borrowed from the Vieux Carre Historical Society?”

“Yes?” said Jekyl.

“It was in there. From a five-year-old article that ran in the Times-Picayune. Robert Tallant was mentioned as one of the members of a modern-day expedition that went searching for Lafitte's lost treasure.”

“So your logic is . . . what?” asked Jekyl. “If Tallant lied about one thing, he'd lie about other things, too?”

“Something like that,” said Carmela.

“Then we should maybe tell the police about him,” said Jekyl. “Alert your Detective Babcock.”

“I think you're right,” said Carmela, thinking how Jekyl had certainly done an about-face in being candid with the police. And just maybe, by telling Babcock about Tallant's treasure-hunting foray, she might get herself back in Babcock's good graces again, might be able to glean a little more information from him.

“You can handle that?” asked Jekyl. “You seem to have a real connection with Babcock.”

Not really, thought Carmela. She was still smarting from his rant about meeting Miguez last night.

“Since we're on the somewhat touchy subject of suspects,”

said Jekyl, “I made a few calls concerning the Vampyre Danse tonight. So you could maybe check out that Russian guy.”

“Any luck on scoring an invitation?” asked Carmela. She'd sent Jekyl an e-mail earlier, explaining how she and Ava had met with Miguez, but downplaying the danger of their meeting. He'd fired an e-mail back. Along with the final details for Archie's funeral, he'd scolded her for keeping last night's meeting secret. He'd also assured her he'd try to wangle an invitation.

“I had more than luck,” Jekyl told her. “The Fates, fickle as the little darlings generally are, smiled down upon us.”

“That's a yes?” asked Carmela.

“Thanks to some rather cunning sources,” continued Jekyl, “I managed to score three tickets. Now we can all go and enjoy a somewhat ribald party while we hopefully snoop on your mysterious Russian. If he even bothers to show up.”

“Ava, too?” asked Carmela.

“Of course, Ava, too,” said Jekyl. “Oh, and the Vampyre Danse is being held at a private underground club this year. A place called Club Taboo.”

“Where's that?” asked Carmela.

“In the CBD,” said Jekyl, referring to the Central Business District, that part of New Orleans that encompassed retail stores, luxury hotels, and, on the edge, large old warehouses. “You'll like Club Taboo. It's in the basement of an old tobacco warehouse. A big dungeony place that holds beaucoup revelers. So get your vampire costume ready!”

Costume, thought Carmela. Gulp, She wasn't nearly ready to attend a glammed-up party tonight, even if it was a Vampyre Danse.

“Listen,” said Jekyl, “I'm frightfully busy, so I don't really have time to drop by with your invitations. But if you could just sort of scoot down the alley to my apartment, I'll leave them stuck halfway under the door.”

“Then you'll meet us there tonight?” asked Carmela. “At Club Taboo?”

But Jekyl had already hung up.

Carmela immediately called Ava. “We're in luck; we're going to the Vampyre Danse!”

“Fantastic!” was Ava's comeback. “I can't believe it!” But then she got deadly serious. “Cher, this is a major cultural event in our lives, and we've barely got time to prepare!”

“I know that,” said Carmela, glancing at her watch. “So I'm probably just gonna throw something together from my closet.”

“No,” came Ava's emphatic cry. “No, no, no, no, no! This is a really big deal, honey. We've got to seriously dress the part and look like vampire club kids. I mean, people come from all over to attend the Vampyre Danse. It's comparable to partying at Skybar in L.A. or Tao in Las Vegas!”

Was she serious? “I had no idea you felt so strongly about this,” said Carmela.

“I'm stoked!” said Ava. “Besides winning the Miss Teen Sparkle Queen crown a few years back, this is one of the happiest moments of my life! Hey, what say you meet me at Rag and Bone around four o'clock? That's probably our best shot for scoring some over-the-top costumes.”

“Maybe,” said Carmela. “What's Rag and Bone? Used clothing?”

“It's that Goth boutique over on Esplanade Avenue.”

“What!”

“Please don't completely freak out,” begged Ava. “Besides Goth paraphernalia, Rag and Bone also has tons of funky stuff: wearable art, designer resale stuff, a shitload of jewelry and scarves.” Ava forced herself to calm down and breathe. “The thing is, can you be there?”

“Okay,” said Carmela, deciding it wouldn't hurt to look a little vampy, a little vampirey. “My schedule's tight, but sure. Why not?”

“Crazy,” squealed Ava. “See ya there!”

BACK at craft central, the situation was, thankfully, calm. Tandy and Baby were still busily scrapping. Gabby was waiting on customers, then popping back to check on things when she was free.

“Hey you!” exclaimed Tandy, as Carmela emerged from her office. “We were just talking about Baby's party. You're still coming, right?”

“I wouldn't miss it for the world,” said Carmela.

“Atta girl,” said Baby, pleased.

Every year, on the Sunday evening right before Fat Tuesday, Baby threw a huge party at her rather splendiferous Garden District home. The music, the food, even the guests, were over-the-top. Carmela never missed one of Baby's parties!

“I love the fact that it's a costume party this year,” said Tandy. “Darwin and I have ours all figured out.”

Costume, thought Carmela. That's right. I've got to come up with another costume!

“And don't you love the theme?” asked Gabby.

“Riverboat Ramble,” said Tandy, grinning at Baby. “Very fitting. Very catchy.”

“Hopefully,” said Baby, “everyone will adopt a sort of Mississippi riverboat theme into their costumes.”

“And you're still going to have a sketch artist?” asked Tandy.

“And a jazz band?” asked Gabby.

Baby nodded happily. “And Del is going to have a couple of poker tables set up. All guests will start with a hundred dollars in play chips. Redeemable, of course, for some very interesting prizes at the end of the night.”

Carmela listened as she pulled sheets of paper from her floor-to-ceiling racks, picked out a brass stencil of an arched cathedral window, then selected a couple of rubber stamps. “Are you using the same caterers as last year?” she asked Baby.

Baby straightened in her chair, looking serious. “No. I'm trying a brand-new place over on Prytania called Alex and Athena Catering. Ever hear of them?”

Carmela shook her head as she pulled out a sheet of light-green mulberry paper with banana fibers woven through it. “Don't think so,” she told Baby.

“I think I have,” said Gabby. “Maybe they catered a fund-raiser for the orchestra last fall?”

“They did,” said Baby. “In fact, that's how I found out about them. Alex and Athena are actually this wonderful young couple who recently graduated from the Culinary Institute in Napa Valley.”

“I bet you worked out a really good menu, huh?” asked Tandy. Skinny and hyperthyroid, Tandy could pack away a monumental amount of food.

“Oh, my gosh,” said Baby. “Let's see if I can remember.

We're serving shrimp-stuffed merliton baked in tomato sauce, an oyster and shrimp bouillabaisse, blackened catfish, and fresh salmon fillets topped with beurre blanc sauce.”

“Good Lord!” exclaimed Gabby. “What a banquet!”

“Tell us about dessert,” demanded Tandy, also the resident sugar freak.

“Well,” said Baby, “king cake, of course.”

They all nodded.

“And peach cobbler and mud pie and probably coffee ice cream,” said Baby. “Oh, and my aunt Laila gave me her recipe for lace cookies. So I'm going to do a little baking of my own.”

“Everything sounds so good,” said Carmela, pulling out a chair and sitting down at the table.

Baby suddenly leaned forward, took in the brass stencil, the rubber stamps, and the mulberry paper that Carmela had arranged in front of her. “Oh, honey,” she said, suddenly looking sober. “You're working on a memorial program!”

Carmela nodded. “That's right. Archie Baudier's funeral is tomorrow morning.”

“Dear me,” said Tandy, one hand flying to her skinny chest. “And here we are, going on about Baby's party like a bunch of silly, irreverent ducks.”

Baby looked utterly crestfallen. “Talking about river-boats and music and food.”

Carmela smoothed out her paper. “No reason you shouldn't,” she told them.

 

ONCE CARMELA AND AVA HIT RAG AND BONE, IT took Ava about thirty seconds to pick out her costume and try it on. A strapless black stretch PVC dress with a racy lace-up back.

“I love it,” Ava declared, making a pirouette in front of a wavering full-length mirror. “It's so me.”

“It's your basic little black dress, all right,” said Carmela. “Except it looks like you were melted down and literally poured into it.” She chuckled. “Liquid Ava.”

“I love the way that sounds,” purred Ava. “And, cher . . .” Ava pawed through a nearby rack. “I think you should get this adorable one-shoulder fishnet top.”

Carmela gazed in horror at a tiny bit of black netting that hung limply from a padded hanger. “There's nothing there! It would be like wearing the emperor's new clothes!”

“Maybe add a black push-up bra underneath?” suggested Ava. “Just to keep things legal.”

“How about a black bra underneath a black dress?” asked Carmela. “I have an old black evening gown. Maybe I could fray the hem a little, give it a vampire spin.”

“Way too many layers,” scoffed Ava. She searched the rack again and pulled out a black satin bustier with three red buckles slashed across the low-cut front. “Better you should get this bustier and borrow my black leather skirt.”

Carmela eyed the bustier with nervous apprehension. “You think?”

Ava nodded knowingly.

But Carmela wasn't sure. The bustier was small, tight, and somewhat lacking in modesty. “Could I throw a black cape over it?” she asked. Lord knows, she needed some sort of cover-up.

“I'll allow a cape,” said Ava. “But only if it's extremely thin and fluttery.”

They searched for accessories then. Carmela opting for a black batwing purse and Ava exclaiming over a coffin-shaped vinyl purse. Then, warming up to the whole Goth thing, Carmela fell in love with a jeweled batwing pendant, while Ava chose a Medusa necklace with a red jewel in the forehead just below a crown of writhing snakes.

“Oh,” said Ava. “And I'm gonna need these metallic red false eyelashes. They'll be the perfect finishing touch.”

“Very foxy,” said Carmela, trying to keep a straight face. “A really excellent look for you.”

“And maybe these clip-in hair extensions?” said Ava, holding up two strands of silvery-white hair attached to tiny clips.

“For that vintage Lily Munster look,” agreed Carmela.

“Cher,” drawled Ava, reaching for a package that held a pair of small glass vials. “This is what you need for a change of pace. Green cat-eye contact lenses.”

“You don't think colored contacts are a little over-the-top? Maybe a little too Marilyn Manson?”

Ava shook her head. “I say you go for it.” She reached for a black feather boa. “And maybe a touch of feathers?”

“I have to be nuts,” laughed Carmela. “Taking advice from a woman who thinks black vinyl is the perfect little party dress!”

 

HER OUTFIT TUCKED CAREFULLY UNDER HER arm, Carmela headed down Esplanade. The evening was fast approaching, and she still had lots to do.

For one thing, Carmela wanted to return the file to Margot Destrehan at the Vieux Carre Historical Society. Margot had been kind enough to lend it to her, and she'd made copies of quite a few articles she'd deemed important, particularly that clipping concerning Robert Tallant.

Pushing open the front door to the little historical society, Carmela found herself staring into an empty room.“Hello?” called Carmela. “Anybody here?”

Probably, she figured, most of the folks had already gone home for the evening. For the weekend, really. On the other hand, the door had been left unlocked . . .

“Margot?” called Carmela. “It's Carmela.”

This time she got an answer.

“Back here,” came a woman's voice.

Carmela found Margot sitting at one of the library tables, a half-dozen old books spread out in front of her. Sitting alongside were latex gloves, a glue bottle, snips of leather, heavy-duty scissors, and assorted jars.

“You're still hard at work,” said Carmela.

Margot pushed a few strands of hair from her face and smiled at Carmela. “It never seems to end.” She picked up a piece of leather and wrapped it around the spine of one of the books, measuring it.

“That looks awfully crafty,” Carmela commented. “Like you're designing an album or making an altered book.”

“I wish,” said Margot. “Fact is, I'd like nothing better than to while away an afternoon at your scrapbook shop, absorbed in some wonderful craft or arranging my photos in some marvelous design. Unfortunately, my creativity seems only to extend to bookbinding.”

Carmela gazed at the leather books that were shelved floor-to-ceiling. Most looked old bordering on antique. Many seemed frayed and moth-eaten. Probably, these old books forever needed to be patched or rebound. She knew how fragile book bindings could be and how easily the combination of paper and glue could give out.

“We try to keep up,” explained Margot, “but the bindings on these poor old tomes just keep cracking.”

Carmela studied the book Margot was working on. The binding was terribly frayed, but Margot was doggedly replacing the leather and touching up the corners.

“It looks like you're doing a lovely job, though.”

“Probably be better if we hired professional bookbinders to work on these,” said Margot. “But that's not in our budget.”

“Maybe I could speak to Glory,” said Carmela, then regretted her words instantly. Glory hated her. She would probably cut off funding altogether if Carmela even mentioned that she was somehow connected with the Vieux Carre Historical Society.

“You're very kind,” said Margot. “But there's no need. We'll just keep muddling along. We always do.”

“I brought your file back,” said Carmela. She pulled it from her shoulder bag and set it on the table.

“Oh, aren't you a dear. It's so nice when folks do what they say they're going to do.” She peered at Carmela. “Was it at all helpful?”

Carmela shrugged. “Interesting, anyway.”

Margot nodded. “That's what I thought. Good reading, but not much substance.”

“Are you coming to the memorial service tomorrow?” asked Carmela.

Margot sighed gently, and her shoulders seemed to droop. “Yes. But it's going to be a difficult one. Archie was so young.”

“All funerals are difficult,” said Carmela.

 

FROM THE HISTORICAL SOCIETY IT WAS ONLY A hop, skip, and a jump to Jekyl Hardy's apartment.

Climbing the sagging wooden staircase, Carmela was acutely aware of how dark it was. Spooky almost. Of course, Napoleon Gardens was an old building, constructed long before electric lights were even a consideration.

Rounding the final turn, walking the final creaking half flight up to Jekyl's third-floor apartment, Carmela didn't find the lighting situation any better. It was as if someone had replaced all the hundred-watt bulbs with twenty-watt bulbs. Or turned off half the lights in the hallway.

Which suddenly reminded her of an old joke. How many Louisiana politicians does it take to change a light-bulb? Four. One to change it and the other three to deny it. Ha!

Her chuckle was short-lived as she crept down the hallway. The dark aubergine walls seemed to close in on her, and she was acutely aware of how quiet and deserted the place was.

At this time of day? Shouldn't everyone be coming home about now? Turning on the TV to watch the evening news?

She listened, heard nothing.

Weird.

Continuing down the hallway, Carmela finally arrived at Jekyl's door.

Yes, there it is.

Stuck halfway under the door was a bright red envelope.

Carmela leaned down to grab it. And just as she did, heard a door snick open somewhere down the hall.

She straightened up, looked around fast, saw nothing. Only the dark walls cloaked in shadows.

Gingerly now, she reached down and grabbed the envelope, stuffing it in her bag. The feeling of someone watching her was overwhelming.

Could it have been the door to Miss Norma's apartment that had snicked open?

Did it mean that Miss Norma was watching her? If so, the woman was either nervous, nosy, or . . . watching for something?

THE evening was moonlit and magical. A gilded moon bobbed atop billowing clouds like a galleon riding the sea. Cool breezes, sweeping north from the Gulf, whooshed into the Big Easy and fluttered the hems of legions of costumed vampires as they glided silently through the night, drawn like a magnet to this one place.

A half block from Club Taboo, Ava was all atwitter. “You think Ann Rice will be there?”

“I think she's since moved on,” replied Carmela, tugging at her bustier. Her costume was short, tight, and way too revealing for her sensibilities.

“Still,” chirped Ava, as they joined the ranks of black-caped vampires congregating at the front door, “you never know.”

“Invitation please.” A red-robed doorman, head shaved, multiple pieces of hardware piercing his ears and eyebrows, scanned their invitations, then nodded. “Downstairs,” he told them. “Watch your step.”

Then they were descending a circular stone staircase.

“This is so cool,” said Ava as they caught the first pulse of techno music.

“Great,” said Carmela, who'd managed to catch her heel a half-dozen times. “If only I...” As they rounded the final turn, she stopped in midsentence.

Now a thunderous wave of techno music rolled across them as they entered Club Taboo. The place was dark and huge. Stone walls with a rough-hewn wood beamed ceiling. Giant pillar candles flickered everywhere, reminding Carmela of film footage she'd seen of Roman catacombs. An enormous stained glass window hung above a long, wooden bar, its backlit shards of red, purple, and yellow glass forming an elegant crest pattern. Because this was the Vampyre Danse, coffins were arranged everywhere, some with red vigil lights inside, others occupied by fashion models in skintight vampire costumes. A fog machine cranked out a diaphanous layer of swirling mist.

And everywhere, writhing to the music, bellying up to the bar, hanging out at small, intimate cocktail tables, were revelers in vampire costumes.

“Whoa!” said Ava, looking around excitedly. “This is my kind of customer. If I could get these people into my shop, I bet I could really crank up sales.”

“Maybe you should put one of those ads on the bathroom stall doors,” suggested Carmela.

“Get 'em coming and going,” cackled Ava. “Not a bad idea.”

“Look over there,” said Carmela, gesturing to a wooden booth, the kind you might see at a county fair. Only this booth was wound with black crepe paper bunting entwined with thorns. “A biting booth.”

“Now that's a little weird,” said Ava.

Carmela gazed around, utterly amazed at the spectacle of so many wannabe vampires in one place. Even though New Orleans was known for its vampire groupies and vampire underground, this was still an amazing sight. “Some of these costumes are absolutely incredible,” she remarked to Ava.

“Custom-made,” agreed Ava.

Indeed, there were women in tight, slinky Morticia Adams—type dresses, men in tuxedos with velvet capes, even a few younger vampires with skimpy leotard costumes and lots of body paint.

And almost everyone had fangs. Short fangs, plastic fangs, ivory-looking fangs, snaggled animalistic fangs.

“I can't believe it,” said Ava, shaking her head in dismay. “We forgot to buy fangs. We knew it was the Vampyre Danse, and we still forgot the darn fangs.”

“Hard to drink with those things in your mouth,” Carmela pointed out.

Ava grinned as she raised one eyebrow and let it quiver for an instant. “Depends on what you're drinking.”

Carmela grabbed Ava by the elbow. “Speaking of which, let's head over to the bar. We'll get ourselves a nice cocktail and wander around some. Scope out this place. Try to find Jekyl.”

What else could two bewitching vampire ladies order except Bloody Marys?

“Mmm,” said Ava, taking a sip. “Now this is what I call a drink.” The lip of her oversized goblet was rimmed with lethal black pepper, and her drink was garnished with a curled pink shrimp. Carmela's Bloody Mary was equally peppered and sported a giant spear of dill pickle.

They wandered out of the bar area, circled around the dance floor, eased themselves into a second room that was slightly quieter. Dark booths rimmed the walls, and in the center was a scattering of low tables and club chairs. The place would have been cozy except for the fact it was lit with an eerie blue light.

“This isn't a bit flattering to my complexion,” remarked Ava.

“Nobody looks good,” giggled Carmela. “In fact, they all look like Smurfs!”

“If hell had a bad lounge act,” said Ava, “this would be the place.”

“Not the green room, but the blue room,” said Carmela.

“And the devil would—” began Ava.

“Speaking of—” said Carmela, interrupting. She'd just noticed a familiar-looking red-sequined devil suit bobbing and weaving its way through the crowd. “Jekyl!” she called. “Over here!”

“Halloooo!” exclaimed Jekyl, suddenly popping up in front of them. “Having a fun time, kiddies? Making lots of new friends?”

“Trying to,” said Ava, throwing a dazzling smile at a goateed man in a crimson-lined black cape.

“Did you locate your mysterious Russian yet?” he asked.

“Not yet,” said Ava, nibbling at her shrimp. “But we're just getting started.”

Jekyl inclined his head toward Carmela. “I see you got the invitations okay.”

“Is your building always that dark?” asked Carmela. “I felt like I was creepy-crawling a haunted house.”

“That's called character,” said Jekyl. “And I think there have been some recent problems with the wiring.” He stared at her quizzically. “Why? Something happen?”

“I had the strangest feeling I was being watched,” said Carmela.“Maybe you were,” said Jekyl. “I do have neighbors, after all. And after what happened . . .”