Chapter 7

CARMELA caught sight of the circus tent even before she negotiated the turn off Highway 6. A giant golden pouf of nylon rose out of the dark pine forest like some kind of bizarre spaceship. Lights shining inside gave it a golden tinge, like an enormous puff of meringue that had been quickly toasted under a broiler.

Bumping down a narrow lane, it seemed incongruous that there'd even be a circus out here. But when they rounded a grove of trees, the land widened out to reveal a parking lot filled with cars, the large main tent, and a small caravan of silver Airstream trailers.

“Kind of spooky out here,” said Ava as she stepped from the car.

Indeed, the air was cool, and faint night sounds carried on the breeze: the low hoot of an owl, small animals skittering in the nearby forest.

“But setting up out here does lend the feel of a traveling European circus,” said Carmela. “Like a caravan of gypsies encamped on the edge of the Black Forest.”

Once inside the tent, the women were pleasantly surprised. Seating was on plush red velvet theater-type chairs. And the place was small enough so that everyone had a good view; no nosebleed seats here.

Vendors brought around steaming cups of coffee, hot cinnamon doughnuts, and traditional Louisiana bourbon balls.

And once the circus started, with the strutting ringmaster, his capering assistant, and the small but well-rehearsed brass orchestra, the evening seemed magical.

A troupe of Chinese acrobats were dazzling in their red spangled tights as they seemed to defy gravity. Hurtling upward toward the overhead lights, they seemed to twirl and tumble forever. Then, like agile cats, the acrobats landed on the shoulders of their compatriots.

“I wish the stud muffin was here to see this,” chortled Ava. The stud muffin was Ryder Bowman, Ava's sort-of boyfriend and the millionaire owner of Shipco International.

“Where is he again?” asked Carmela.

“Peru,” said Ava. “Lima, Peru. Negotiating some kind of shipping contract with a fruit company. Oh, speaking of fruit...”

A juggler had entered the main ring and was artfully juggling a watermelon, an orange, and a grapefruit. After he amused the crowd with his antics, he pulled out a gleaming saber and showed off his swordsmanship.

“A juggling act that turns into a fruit salad,” laughed Ava. “That's pretty neat. You know, I haven't been to a circus since I was a kid. And then it was a fairly standard circus with trapeze artists and guys getting shot from cannons, and clowns and all.”

“Clowns,” said Carmela. “I'm not a big fan of clowns.”“Nobody is,” said Ava. “Remember that creepy movie we watched on the Friday night Creature Feature where the wacky, possessed clown had razor-sharp teeth?”

“Please,” said Carmela. “Don't remind me. I had nightmares for an entire week.”

“But don't you love being scared, too?” asked Ava. “Just a teensy weensy bit?”

“Maybe,” said Carmela, reaching for her program. “When I know who's doing the scaring. Say, when does Santino come on, anyway?”

“Dunno,” said Ava. “What's he do, anyway? Trapeze act or something?” She'd just purchased a huge bucket of kettle popcorn, what she'd laughingly referred to as the bimbo bucket, and the two of them were munching it down like crazy.

“Probably,” said Carmela, settling back in her seat to watch.

Then the lights gradually dimmed until the ringmaster stood in the center, a single bright spotlight highlighting him.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began. “Your attention please. We request that everyone remain seated during this next presentation.” The ringmaster took off his top hat and walked to the edge of the ring, pointing it at the crowd. “No talking, no unnecessary movements. Please just remain in your seats and stay as still as possible.”

“What's goin' on?” whispered Ava.

Carmela shook her head. “Some kind of magic act, maybe?”

Just as Carmela uttered those words, the spotlight and overhead lights blinked out completely, and the entire tent was plunged into total darkness. From across the ring, a woman gave an excited little shriek, and others around them laughed nervously.”And now,” called the ringmaster's disembodied voice, “I bring you Santino Stavrach, king of the canids.”

“It's him,” exclaimed Ava. “Santino's on now.”

“Shh,” said Carmela, wondering why the ringmaster had been so adamant about the crowd remaining silent.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, two small blue spotlights began playing on the ring, and the orchestra struck the opening chords of a lighthearted theme by Prokofiev.

“What's going on?” asked Ava. All around them were whispers and expectant rustles. They weren't the only ones who were curious about what was up next.

And then, as the blue spotlights continued to flutter around the ring, small flashes could also be seen. It was, Carmela thought, almost as though a trained team of fireflies had come out and were circling the ring in a low-flying pattern.

A hush swept the crowd now.

“What are those little flashes?” asked Ava as the footlights that circled the ring began to glow.

Carmela stared, not quite believing what she was seeing. As more lights came on to illuminate the ring, they slowly revealed a pack of furry animals circling within it. Those are eyes, not fireflies, she told herself.

And then, as the music built, a key light was thrown on a man that now stood in the center of the ring. Dressed in black leather riding boots, black slacks, and a red silk shirt, he posed with his arms open wide.

“What kind of dogs are those, anyway?” asked Ava, peering down. “They seem so well-trained, chasing each other around like that.”

“They're not dogs at all,” said Carmela, her eyes fixed on the blazing eyes, chiseled snouts, and luxurious tails of the lithe, sinuous creatures that circled the ring. “They're wolves!”

* * *

“YOU WANT A CUP OF THIS BLACK BEAN SOUP?” asked Carmela. They were back at her apartment, digesting what they'd just seen, planning to digest some real food. The circus fare they'd partaken of earlier just hadn't done it.

“Love some soup,” said Ava. She was sitting at the dining table, flipping through one of her favorite tabloids.

Carmela pulled open the freezer door and scanned the contents. There were frozen chicken necks for the dogs, a frozen piece of king cake that had to be at least eight months old and could probably be passed off as permafrost. Ah, here they are. “And maybe a sour cream muffin, too?” she asked.

“Bring it on,” said Ava. “I'm starvin' to death.”

“You downed an entire bucket of kettle corn,” Carmela told her.

Ava flapped a hand. “No nutrition. If a food doesn't have nutrition in it, my body doesn't accept it as food.”

Carmela stared at Ava as she heated up the soup. “How does that work?” she asked. “Share your secret of eating food but not paying the price.”

Ava yawned. “Has to do with my metabolism, I think. And my proprietary digestive system. Kind of complicated. I could actually be a medical miracle.” Ava continued to flip through her tabloid. “Hey, you have to take a look at some of these candid photos that are in here. They oughta call this the cellulite issue. Julia, Pam, Jennifer . . . put them in a revealing bathing suit, and most of these stars don't look any better than we do!”

“That's heartening,” said Carmela.

She spooned bean soup into bright green ceramic bowls, topped each serving with a dollop of shredded cheese, then placed the bowls in the center of bright yellow plates. Those went onto a giant wicker tray. And once the microwave dinged and the sour cream muffins were properly defrosted and warmed, she carried everything to the table.

“Did you make these muffins, or did your momma bring 'em by?” asked Ava, slathering on butter and taking an enormous bite.

“My momma did,” said Carmela. “But I've got the recipe, and I promised myself I'm gonna learn to make them, too.”

“Good,” said Ava. She broke off a couple bits, slipped the pieces to Boo and Poobah under the table. “ 'Cause these are really wonderful.”

They continued to spoon up their hot soup, enjoying it immensely.

“So what do you think?” asked Ava, finally.

“About the wolves?” said Carmela. They had talked about the wolves on the ride back to New Orleans. The fact that Edgar Babcock's forensic people had found strange hairs on Amber had been a major concern. That and the fact that Carmela had thought she'd heard a kind of growl last night.

“What I think is, we're going to have to tell Detective Babcock,” said Carmela.

Ava nodded. “I was afraid you were going to say something like that.”

“Santino could be guilty,” said Carmela. “Or have served as some kind of accomplice.”

This time Ava sighed. “Maybe so, although it doesn't feel completely right.”

“Murder never feels right,” said Carmela.

“What about Giovanni?” asked Ava. “You think he still bears watching?”

“Yes, I do. Your boy, Giovanni, has a tricky way of dodging certain questions.”

“So I've noticed,” said Ava. “You think it's from six hundred years of persecution as a Romanian?” “No, I think it's because he doesn't like answering questions,” said Carmela. “And that white dove thing still freaks me out.”

“He had one of those little plastic dog carriers full of them,” said Ava. “So one could have fluttered away.”

“Point taken,” said Carmela. She stood up, grabbed the remote, and clicked on the television set. “I want to see if Shamus made the news.”

“Oh, the door-kicking incident you told me about,” said Ava. “Yeah, that'd be a hoot if they showed that footage. Serve him right.”

They half-watched the news as the anchorman chattered about Hurricane Katrina rebuilding still going on, how the Tulane football team was faring, and the big plans for Wednesday night's Halloween Bash in the French Quarter.

Which seemed to segue neatly into a special report by Kimber Breeze.

“Here she is,” exclaimed Ava, pointing at the exploding graphics on the screen. “The old bat herself.”

And then Kimber Breeze was babbling on about last night's murder in the French Quarter and how the police weren't one bit closer to solving it.

“The victim, we have learned,” said Kimber, “was Amber Lalique. Miss Lalique was a high-fashion model employed at the Moda Chadron atelier. Earlier today we tried to interview Ms. Carmela Bertrand-Meechum, the other woman who was attacked, but she refused to speak with us.”

“Here we go again,” said Carmela.

“We also spoke briefly with her husband, Shamus Meechum, of the Crescent City Bank Meechums, and he expressed deep frustration that the police are not any closer to solving this heinous crime.”

Accompanying Kimber's lies was footage of Shamus kicking Carmela's front door.”Oh, Shamus is not gonna like that one little bit,” said Carmela. “He's probably screaming at his lawyers already.”

“Shamus looks older on camera,” remarked Ava. “You be sure to tell him I said that.”

“My pleasure,” said Carmela, turning back to watch this strange segment unfold.

“At this time,” said Kimber Breeze, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial stage whisper as she stared directly into the camera, “police are telling us their best suspect so far is an unnamed employee at Juju Voodoo ...”

“There's another ten grand in free advertising,” mused Ava. Then she hesitated. “Although it's not so great for Giovanni.”

“Ssh . . .” said Carmela. “I want to hear this.

Kimber's broadcast continued. “WBEZ has been fortunate to obtain confidential information from an investigator who was actually present at the crime scene ...”

“Uh-oh,” said Ava.

“... And we have confirmed the fact that unusual fibers or perhaps hairs were found on or near the victim, possibly taking the investigation in an altogether different direction, indeed.”

“Shit,” said Carmela.

Now the camera moved in on Kimber, and she focused on conveying her most worried and perplexed look. “Unusual hairs,” she repeated. “Not human and not typical of your common everyday dog, cat, or rodent.” She paused. “With Halloween just around the corner, it would appear some unknown presence might be stalking the residents of New Orleans!”