Chapter 14

SATURDAY morning dawned cool and overcast. Carmela and Ava rendezvoused at her apartment, then drove over to St. Louis Cemetery No. 1 in Carmela’s little two-seater Mercedes, a long-ago gift from Shamus.

“Can we drive right in?” asked Ava. “It looks like it’s about to pour buckets any second and I don’t want to slop through puddles in these shoes.”

“Perhaps five-inch platform sandals dusted with glitter aren’t the most practical shoes for a day like this,” suggested Carmela, glancing down at Ava’s bedazzled feet.

“If they’re good enough for Lady Gaga, they’re good enough for me.”

“Ava Gaga.” Carmela chuckled. “It does have a certain ring to it.”

“Hah,” said Ava. “I was rocking sky-high stilettos and crazy pumps when she was a kid wearing sneakers and jeans.”

“You always talk like you’re ancient,” said Carmela, “and you haven’t even hit thirty yet. I haven’t hit thirty yet.”

“Time’s a-wastin’,” said Ava, sounding a little annoyed with herself. “I thought for sure I’d be married and divorced by now. Enjoying a little alimony and setting a leg trap for husband number two.”

“You don’t think that’s a bummer attitude?”

“That’s reality, chickie-poo.” Ava pulled a bloodred lipstick from her bag and smeared it across her voluptuous lips. She smacked her lips together, fluffed her mass of curly hair, then turned to Carmela and asked, “How do I look?”

“In those shoes, that lipstick, and your tight leather jeans, you look like you’re trolling for a hot date at Dr. Boogie’s jazz club.” Not attending a funeral.

“Exactly the look I was aiming for,” said Ava, happily.

Carmela drove through the stone gates of the cemetery, passing under a scroll of antique wrought iron. Then she slowed as a uniformed police officer stepped out and waved her down. She lowered her window and said, “Problem?”

“You here for the funeral?” he asked. Looking bored, sounding bored.

“That’s right.”

“Which one?”

“Kimber Breeze,” said Carmela.

“You and everybody else,” wheezed the officer. “Ah . . . we’ve been asked to keep the looky-loos away.”

“I was told to meet up with Detective Babcock here,” said Carmela. “He’s with the Robbery-Homicide Division. “We’re . . . uh . . .”

Ava leaned over. “She’s being coy. Carmela and the officer in question are officially an item.”

“Okay,” said the officer. “Whatever.” He stepped back and waved them through. “Go ahead.”

“That was so helpful,” said Carmela, as she tromped on the gas pedal.

“You’re welcome,” said Ava. “Besides, we don’t want to miss the festivities.”

“What do you think is going to happen here?” asked Carmela. “A keg party and barbecued ribs?”

“No, but . . .” Ava grinned. “TV cameras?”

“Ah, that’s why you’re so jazzed,” said Carmela, as they crunched their way up a circular drive littered with white gravel. “And all duded up.” At the top of the rise, an enormous stone angel watched solemnly over acres of tombs and headstones. Now Carmela slowed. Which way?

“There!” Ava announced, pointing left. “It’s gotta be over there. Oh man, look at all the cars! Look at all the big black shiny limos. It’s like . . . I don’t know . . . a Hollywood premiere or something.”

“Or a funeral,” said Carmela. They pulled in behind a gold Lexus and got out, Ava hitching up her tight black skirt while adjusting her low-cut purple sweater even lower.

“Be careful,” Carmela said, out of the corner of her mouth. “You don’t want to show too much skin.”

“This is my conservative outfit,” said Ava. “You should have seen my first choice . . .”

“Dear Lord,” breathed Carmela. At least Ava hadn’t worn one of her leather-studded bondage costumes.

“But look,” said Ava, pointing, “it kind of is like a red carpet. They have velvet ropes set up around the grave site and everything.” She stiffened suddenly. “Oh, Lordy Lordy, what if we can’t get in? And me all gussied up.”

But as they approached the partitioned area, Carmela could see Ed Banister, the station owner, greeting guests and looking somber in a three-piece black suit.

“Carmela,” Banister said, stretching out a hand. “And Ava. Glad you ladies could make it.” They mumbled greetings back and strolled in, aware there was a growing contingent of curious onlookers who hadn’t been invited into the inner sanctum.

“I was right,” said Ava, nudging Carmela. “There is a camera. They’re going to tape the whole thing.”

Carmela wasn’t sure how she felt about taping Kimber’s funeral. Maybe that it was a bit too commercial? A little too intrusive? Then again, what wasn’t these days?

Carmela glanced over to where a sleek silver coffin rested atop a mound of unnaturally bright green plastic funeral grass. No red carpet for Kimber today, just a tacky green one. Beyond the grave site were three rows of black metal folding chairs, half occupied. Nearby, a cluster of mourners milled around. And, behind all of that, the camera on a tripod.

“Is that Raleigh?” Carmela asked, squinting. “Manning the camera?”

“I don’t think so,” said Ava.

Carmela surveyed the scene again and spotted Raleigh hanging out with a small group of people, probably KBEZ-TV staffers. He looked drawn and hunched in an ill-fitting dark suit, a radical departure from his usual outfit of chinos, T-shirt, and baseball cap.

“And there’s Zoe,” said Ava.

Carmela’s eyes lasered on Zoe. Unlike Raleigh, Zoe Carmichael looked completely poised and pulled together as she wove her way through the crowd, touching an arm here and there, whispering to coworkers.

“She looks like she’s actually enjoying this,” observed Carmela. Then decided the girl probably was. Zoe had waited a long time to come into her own, and now Kimber’s death had opened the door. The question was, had Zoe helped kick that door open?

As more and more mourners arrived, Carmela and Ava grabbed seats on a fourth line of chairs that had been hastily set up by a nervous, pacing funeral director.

“This has turned into a really big deal,” said Ava. She was sitting up straight and craning her neck, the better to be in line with the camera lens.

Carmela looked around for Babcock but didn’t see him. She had a feeling, though, that he’d show up. That he’d put in an appearance.

Finally, the last of the mourners filed in and a pink-faced minister wearing a black suit and clutching a Bible walked to the head of the casket. He waited there as Ed Banister, Zoe, Davis Durrell, and a skinny guy in a shabby black shirt and slacks took their places in the front row.

Carmela studied this peanut gallery of sorts. She understood why Banister and Zoe were there. They were Kimber’s coworkers and in charge of filming this spectacle. They were the director and producer, so to speak. As far as Durrell . . . well, he was the mournful boyfriend, so that made sense, too. But who was the other guy? The skinny, scruffy guy?

The answer suddenly hit her.

“That must be Kimber’s brother!” Carmela whispered to Ava.

Ava bent sideways to look. “The alligator farm guy?”

“I think so, yeah.”

“Judging from how poorly he’s dressed,” said Ava, “I don’t think Kimber exactly shared her success.”

But the surprises just kept coming. Now a gospel group in long purple robes filed in. Then the red eye of the camera winked on and the gospel singers sprang into action, beginning with a rousing chorus of “God Walks the Dark Hills.”

The singers were really quite good, Carmela decided, their voices joined in a lovely harmony that managed to be both uplifting but mournful, too.

When the song had concluded, the minister stepped closer to the head of the casket, lifted his hands, then spread them apart.

“Dear friends,” said the minister, “we are gathered here to bid farewell to a woman who was taken from us in the bloom of her youth . . .”

As the minister continued his soliloquy, Carmela glanced around the audience. She recognized the receptionist from KBEZ-TV, as well as the weatherman and the evening anchorman with his trademark blow-combed hair. They all looked properly sedate, as did most of the other mourners, even the ones who had probably come out of sheer curiosity.

Glancing down the row to her left, Carmela gave a start. There was a face she recognized from last night! She nudged Ava. “Your artist friend is here,” she whispered.

Ava hunched forward in her chair. “Finch? Really?”

Carmela nodded. It seemed strange to her that Sullivan Finch had shown up here. On the other hand, he had painted a portrait of Kimber. So there was that connection. Maybe artist and subject had been closer than anyone really knew?

The mousy smile on Ava’s face told Carmela that Ava would be hotfooting her way to Sullivan Finch as soon as this service was concluded. Ava was clearly interested, which worried Carmela a little. She let her mind veer off course a bit and hoped that a death portrait wasn’t a dire portent of things to come.

No, that wouldn’t happen, would it? Couldn’t. Not to Ava anyway.

As Carmela ruminated, Ed Banister stood up and gave his heartfelt tribute to Kimber. His voice shook when he talked about her devotion to the station and her superior work ethic.

Really? Carmela thought. She’d never thought of Kimber as a particularly hardworking journalist, had always thought she was in it purely for the glamour and TV face time.

Banister’s hands trembled when he concluded his eulogy. Then he reached out and gently touched her coffin with his fingertips, bidding Kimber a tearful farewell.

Just as a thin rain began to filter down, the gospel singers kicked it into high gear again with a rousing rendition of “The Old Country Church.” Their voices rose, blended, and harmonized, echoing off nearby tombs, providing a brief moment of joy. But as their final notes hung in the damp air, people stirred, looked around, and stood up. The service was concluded.

“Just think,” said Ava, “this was all captured on tape.”

“Film at eleven,” said Carmela.

Ava lifted her chin, threw back her shoulders, and said, “Excuse me, cher, I’m gonna say my how-do’s to Sullivan Finch.”

“I figured you might,” said Carmela.

She watched as Ava nimbly negotiated her way down the row to end up in front of Sullivan Finch. She saw Finch grin and put his arms around Ava. It was a gentle hug, but a hug nonetheless. And it made Carmela nervous.

On her own now, unsure of what to do next, Carmela found herself edging toward Zoe.

When Zoe noticed Carmela, she gave a quick wave and a decorous smile.

“I thought I might see you here,” said Zoe. She was wearing a sedate black suit with a plain white blouse.

“And I knew I’d see you here,” replied Carmela.

“Such a sad day.” Zoe half-managed to arrange her features into a look of sadness.

“So the station filmed the entire service?”

“That’s right,” said Zoe. “We’ll probably use a few judicious clips on the news tonight.”

“And you guys are still working on your documentary?”

“Oh sure,” said Zoe. “In fact, we’ll be at it all weekend, right up until midnight on Fat Tuesday.”

“When the police come out and spray everyone with fire hoses,” said Carmela. It was New Orleans’s friendly way of saying, Okay, you’ve partied your brains out and we’ve been more than tolerant, now it’s time to go home.

“Don’t you just love our Mardi Gras traditions?” said Zoe.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” said Carmela, “will you continue to work on the investigative reports that Kimber had started?”

Zoe shifted from one foot to the other. “Hmm?”

“Remember? You told me Kimber had launched a couple of investigations?”

“Sure,” said Zoe, “but I don’t really know much about them.”

But Raleigh does, thought Carmela. So why don’t you? Or do you know more than you’re letting on?

“I have to kind of wait until Mr. Banister gives me some clear direction,” said Zoe. “You know, whether I’ll work on fluff pieces, features, or even hard news.”

“What do you want to work on?” asked Carmela.

Zoe considered this for a few moments. “Everything!”

* * *

CARMELA MILLED AROUND WITH THE REST OF THE group for a few more minutes until she connected with Raleigh.

“A sad day,” he said, shoulders hunched, a hangdog look on his face.

“Indeed,” said Carmela. Then, “I understand you sent the police a DVD of the Bonaparte Suite party.”

“That’s right,” Raleigh said, “one to them, one to you.”

Carmela was a little surprised at that. “Nobody else?”

“You’re the only guys who want to investigate,” said Raleigh. “The only ones who really care.”

After giving Raleigh a slightly clumsy good-bye hug, Carmela decided to make a run at the cameraman. He’d finished shooting the funeral footage and was now packing his camera into a foam-lined case and coiling up wires. She also recognized him as the one who’d worked with Zoe the night of Kimber’s murder.

“Excuse me,” said Carmela, “we met the other night? At the Hotel Tremain?” They hadn’t been formally introduced, but he might remember her.

The cameraman, a skinny guy with curly brown hair, gazed at her for a second, then snapped his fingers. “You were one of the witnesses? You went out on the balcony and . . .”

“That’s right,” said Carmela. She licked her lips and plunged ahead. “I understand you were working with Zoe that night?”

The cameraman nodded. “Uh-huh, shooting the Loomis parade.”

“So you and Zoe were together the entire evening? I mean, up until the time you were called to the Hotel Tremain?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Then he shrugged. “Well, not exactly the whole time. Zoe had to do her thing. Go off in the crowd, scout out people to interview. Try to come up with some meaningful story lines.”

So Zoe could have slipped away, thought Carmela. And if she was really quick and really determined, she could have killed Kimber.

“Will you continue to work with Zoe?” Carmela asked him.

The guy made a face. “Jeez, I hope not.” And went back to packing his equipment.

Ava was suddenly plucking at Carmela’s sleeve. “Guess what?” Excitement shone on her face.

“What?” said Carmela.

“I’ve got a date with Sully.”

“Now you’re calling him Sully? You do fast work, lady.”

“Better believe it,” said Ava, giving a wink.

“So you two are going out . . . when?”

“I invited Sully to Baby’s party,” said Ava. She hesitated. “You don’t think she’ll mind, do you?”

“Baby loves extra guests.” But I’m not so thrilled.

Ava peered at Carmela. “You look like you just ate a sour pickle.”

“It’s that apparent?”

“Yeah,” said Ava. “You don’t like Sully, do you?”

“I don’t know Sully.”

“But you’ve got your pretty pink thong in a twist all because of that clown painting last night. And that death portrait. Those paintings kind of freaked you out.”

“Yes, they did. And for your information,” said Carmela, glancing around, “I don’t wear thongs. Not my style.” She’d caught a glimpse of Kimber’s brother out of the corner of her eye. Now she was wondering where he’d gone? She wanted to meet him and offer her condolences. And maybe ask a few questions, too. “What happened to Billy Laforge?” Carmela said to Ava.

Ava looked around. “I don’t know.”

“Doggone, I wanted to talk to him.”

“Now who’s pushing the envelope?”

Carmela considered this. “Me, I guess.” She searched the crowd again, looking for Laforge. What had been a large group had dwindled down to about three dozen people, but Laforge was still nowhere to be seen. Had he dashed off as soon as it was over? Probably. Carmela thought about the address she’d cribbed from Babcock’s cell phone. Was it worth going out there? Try to converse with Laforge on his own turf? Well . . . why not? What did she have to lose? After all, this whole case was really quite fascinating.

“Would you be willing to take a ride out to Theriot with me?” Carmela asked.

Ava stared blankly at her. “Pour quoi?”

“I was able to, um, obtain Laforge’s address from Babcock. And I’d kind of like to corner the guy at home, where he might be more relaxed and amenable to talking to me.”

“You think he’s going to confess to murdering his sister?” asked Ava.

“No, but we might be able to get some idea as to his state of mind,” said Carmela. “You know, is he sad? Is he angry? Is he indifferent?”

Ava considered this. “So a fishing expedition.”

“Well, yes.”

“I suppose I could ride along, sure. Miguel’s at the store today and so is Talley.” She looked suddenly hopeful. “If we’re driving out that way, maybe we could stop for lunch at the Blue Tick?” The Blue Tick was one of Ava’s favorite roadhouses, a place that served killer andouille sausage with sauce piquant.

“I think lunch could be arranged.”

“Excellent,” said Ava. “I’m just gonna run over and say bye-bye to Sully, okay?”

“Bye-bye away,” said Carmela. Her eyes had landed on Davis Durrell, who was shaking hands with Ed Banister. Then Durrell walked slowly over to Kimber’s coffin, placed his hands flat against it, and bowed his head. She wondered whether Durrell was feeling sadness, relief, or guilt. Or all of the above, or none of the above?

Then, like a signal to end his show of grief, Durrell’s phone jangled, and he whipped it out of his pocket and hastily held it to his ear.

Carmela could see Durrell’s mouth moving but couldn’t hear his words. Though she sincerely wanted to.

So . . . did she dare?

She dared.

Edging closer to Durrell, Carmela dodged around Kimber’s casket and tiptoed across the hideous funeral grass. Then, using a large white marble sarcophagus for cover, Carmela moved stealthily closer to Durrell. He was speaking loudly now and sounding almost argumentative.

Hassling with a client? Or someone else?

Carmela put her back against a tilting marker, feeling the cool of the marble, and slid around it. Durrell was ten feet away from her now, wandering slowly through a small grotto of head-high aboveground tombs. His black suit was in stark contrast to the whitewashed stone as he railed angrily at his caller.

Carmela cocked her head, trying to concentrate. And listen.

“What? Not until Monday night?” Durrell complained. “I got people waiting on me. Seriously heavy-duty people, if you catch my drift.”

Carmela strained to hear more. But now Durrell, as if sensing he was making too much noise, as if fearing someone might overhear his conversation, was hunched over and mumbling.

Carmela eased closer.

Durrell raised his voice a final time. “Yeah, yeah, I got it,” he snarled. “Eleven. Monday. Just be there!”

Durrell stabbed a finger at his phone, then whirled around. At the same time Carmela jumped behind her tombstone, hopefully out of sight. Her heart thudding with excitement, she wondered exactly what that call had been about. What was Durrell up to? And what, pray tell, was supposed to happen Monday at eleven?

Just as Carmela slid out from her hiding place, Babcock approached her.

“What are you doing over here?” he asked. Suspicion was written all over his face.

“Just looking around,” Carmela told him. “I haven’t been here for a while. It’s . . . interesting.”

Babcock grunted.

“I figured you’d show up here eventually.” Carmela smiled at him, but he seemed distracted. Maybe even distraught. “What?” she asked.

“Oh, nothing’s falling into place,” said Babcock. “This whole Kimber Breeze investigation’s a mess.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Are you really?” he asked.

“Yes! You know I’m your biggest booster.”

“I wish I could believe that,” said Babcock. His eyes focused on Durrell, who had rejoined the dwindling crowd of mourners. “Durrell was out last night.”

“How do you know that?”

“I have my ways.”

“What?” Carmela asked. “You tapped his phone?”

“Nothing that illegal,” said Babcock. “We had a squad sitting outside that enormous house of his. Really not that far from your old place.”

“Where did Durrell go?” asked Carmela.

“Bar in the CBD,” said Babcock. The CBD was the Central Business District, which had become revitalized of late with new condos and clubs. “A place called Augie’s.”

Carmela knew that Augie’s was one of the hot new places. A sleek, contemporary bar where thirty-something ad guys, lawyers, and media people got together to drink, put each other on, and hook up.

“So what happened?” she asked. “Did Durrell pick someone up? A woman?

“No,” said Babcock, “but he met with someone.”

“Who? Somebody from his firm? Another money guy?”

Babcock made a face. “That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”

Carmela thought about the conversation she’d just overheard. Should she tell Babcock about it? Tell him that Durrell was supposed to connect with someone? Or just let it go for now? Something inside her head flashed a yellow warning light that said . . . just let it go. For now.