Chapter 23

“CARMELA.” Tate Mackie hovered in her office doorway. “You’re all set. I’ve got the cameras tucked away where nobody can see them.”

She straightened in her chair. “Unless somebody’s looking for them.”

“Then you’re dealing with a different kind of thief,” said Mackie. “Someone who possesses a high degree of sophistication when it comes to breaking and entering, not just some goofball off the street.”

They went to inspect the cameras, and then Mackie spent another five minutes showing Carmela how to pull up the images on her smartphone.

“This is very cool,” said Carmela.

“Hey,” said Mackie, “it’s what I got.”

Carmela, wondering if her little video leg trap would catch the postcard perpetrator, wandered back into her shop. And realized that Memory Mine was suddenly busy. Two women were looking at leather-bound albums, another customer was selecting rolls of colorful ribbon, and—wait a minute, was that Tandy standing at the counter? Sure it was.

“I can’t believe you came in today,” said Carmela, hustling up to greet her friend.

“Hey you!” said Tandy, whirling about and quickly administering a series of elaborate air kisses. Wearing a red sweater that matched her curly red hair, she looked skinny as ever. “I was just telling Gabby that I can’t believe you guys are open today.”

“Strange as it sounds,” said Carmela, “the day before Fat Tuesday often turns out to be one of our biggest days.”

“It sure does,” agreed Gabby. “Everybody seems to be in a blind panic over having enough paper and cards and ribbon.”

“There you go,” said Tandy. “I guess that explains why I’m here, too.” She lowered her voice and aimed a concerned look at Carmela: “Gabby tells me your apartment got smoke-bombed.” She rolled her eyes. “Must have been awful!”

“There were a few panic-filled moments, yes,” said Carmela. Were there ever!

Tandy frowned. “Who would do such a horrible thing? And, more importantly, why?”

“Babcock thinks it might be the same person who killed Kimber Breeze,” said Carmela. “He thinks the killer was sending me a warning.”

“Scary,” said Tandy. “What do you think?”

“Not sure,” said Carmela.

“Yes, you are,” said Tandy. “I bet you know exactly why you were targeted.”

Carmela shrugged. “I guess so. I mean, I suppose Babcock might be right.”

“Which tells me you’re trying to solve this Kimber Breeze murder,” said Tandy. She looked both skeptical and curious. “I know you and Ava were there, but . . .”

“I’m just kind of muddling things around,” said Carmela. At least that’s what it’s been so far.

“You know what?” said Tandy, waving a birdlike hand. “I’ll bet you do come up with something. You’ve got a heckuva knack for this kind of stuff. Remember poor Byrle? In St. Tristan’s Church? You were the one who figured it all out.”

“I got lucky on that one, but this Kimber Breeze case is totally different,” Carmela explained, as she followed Tandy back to the craft table.

Tandy dropped her plaid tote bag onto the floor. “I bet you figured out some suspects, huh?”

“A few,” Carmela admitted.

“And you’re gonna be careful, right?” said Tandy, peering at her through red-rimmed half-glasses. “Not take any silly chances?”

“I’ll try not to,” said Carmela.

“Good girl,” said Tandy. She dug into her tote bag and pulled out scissors, paper, rubber stamps, and, finally, a plastic container. “I brought you some homemade biscuits to help you keep up your strength.” She popped off the top. “Sweet potato biscuits.”

“Thanks,” said Carmela, selecting a golden-brown biscuit and taking a bite. “Mmm, delicious.”

“Thought you might like ’em,” said Tandy. “Now I’ve got a crazy question for you.” She put her hands on her skinny hips. “Have you ever done a dog scrapbook?”

“Not a crazy question at all,” said Carmela, as she popped the remaining bit of sweet biscuit in her mouth. “Because the answer is yes.”

Tandy nodded. “I thought you might have.” She pulled out a packet of photos. “Here’s the thing. We’ve got tons of photos of Buster and I’ve never so much as scrapped a single page on the little guy.”

“And you’re feeling guilty?” said Carmela, shuffling through the photos of Buster, an adorable black-and-white Boston bulldog.

“As only a pet momma can,” said Tandy with a laugh.

“Then let’s play around a little,” suggested Carmela. “Shop the store and see what might work for you.” She led Tandy over to her floor-to-ceiling racks of paper. “We’ve got tons of dog motif paper here,” she said, grabbing a few sheets. “And we’ve got breed stickers, dog bone stickers, tennis ball stickers, and dimensional ID tags.”

“Excellent,” said Tandy.

“And,” said Carmela, “I just happen to have these neat leather albums with a photo window on the front cover.”

“Just stick Buster’s photo in there,” said Tandy, smiling. “Easy peasy.”

“Right,” said Carmela. “Now, these albums are small, just six by nine inches, but if you use eight-and-a-half-by-eleven-inch paper and cut the sheets in half, it works like a charm. Plus the album ends up being cute and manageable.”

“Just like Buster,” said Tandy, “so I’m gonna do exactly that.” She was grabbing paper and stickers by the handful. “Hoo-ee! This is gonna be great!”

Because Gabby seemed to be handling the onslaught of customers just fine, Carmela sat down with Tandy and decided to do a scrapbook page herself. She hand-lettered the words Lucky Dog at the top of a page with pawprint borders, deciding the words would serve as a sort of talisman for Boo and Poobah’s safety. She added a photo of Boo and Poobah cuddled on their beds, then punched it up with some glitter bone buttons and two metal ID tags.

Tandy, meanwhile, had stenciled the words Bad to the Bone at the top of her page and was busily trimming and fitting photos.

Perfect, Carmela decided. She was doing a great job.

“Whatcha wearing to Baby’s party tonight?” asked Tandy. Her curls bobbed as she labored over her page.

“Ava and I are going to pick something from that Voodoo Couture line she’s supposed to be acting as muse for,” said Carmela.

Tandy lifted her head. “That’s funny. Ava as muse. So what kind of clothing will it be?”

“Probably lots of black lace and satin,” said Carmela.

“Ooh, sexy stuff.”

“Hopefully not over-the-top sexy,” said Carmela. “Maybe a little more Goth.”

“Please,” said Tandy, snickering, “if the company chose Ava as their spokesperson or muse or hot mama or whatever she’s supposed to be, then the clothes are gonna be beaucoup sexy.”

“Carmela,” Gabby called from the front counter. She waggled the phone, indicating she had a call.

Carmela dashed into her office. “Carmela here.”

“Meet me at the Café du Monde in ten minutes, okay?” It was Babcock, sounding harried.

“You okay?” asked Carmela. She hated to see him frantic and chasing his tail, like he had been for the past week.

“Hanging in there,” he said. “I just need a serious infusion of caffeine. And I’d like to see you. Talk to you.”

“Okay then,” said Carmela, “I’ll be there.”

* * *

THE CAFÉ DU MONDE WAS A FRENCH QUARTER FIXTURE, an open-air café with green-and-white striped awnings. But the real selling point, besides the great French Quarter views and serenading street musicians, was the rich chicory coffee and sweet beignets. Ah, those beignets! Three to an order, nestled in a tidy little cardboard container, there wasn’t a tastier, sweeter, more lethal doughnut to be found. Beignets were, literally, delectable little gut bombs drenched in powdered sugar. To eat one was to love one, and to love one was to be hooked.

Carmela was the first to arrive, so she hastened to the counter and grabbed two cups of coffee and an order of beignets. By the time she threaded her way to an empty table, she could see Babcock approaching. Dressed in an Etro sport coat and James Perse slacks, he looked debonair, au courant, and all those other good things. Except for the slight bulge under his left arm, where his service revolver was holstered in a custom leather harness, he could have been a male model taking a break from a magazine shoot.

“You look good,” Carmela told him, when he got to her table. She’d noticed two blond women at a nearby table noticing him, too. Mine, she wanted to tell them. Hands off.

“So do you,” he said. Settling into a chair, he leaned over and gave her a quick kiss.

“Too quick,” she said. “Again.”

“Gladly.”

This time his kiss was a little more lingering and Carmela noticed that the two blondes had suddenly lost interest. Good. “What’s up?” she asked him.

He pointed toward the steaming coffees. “Is one of those for me?”

“Your jolt of caffeine,” she said, then indicated the beignets. “And a sugar hit, too.”

“There’s a problem,” said Babcock.

“Concerning?”

“The party tonight.”

“Don’t tell me you can’t come.”

“I can’t come,” said Babcock.

“Oh rats.” Carmela grabbed one of the beignets and took a bite, cognizant she’d just given herself a powdered sugar mustache. She wiggled her nose, trying to wipe it away surreptitiously.

“Correction,” said Babcock. “I can attend Baby’s party for a short while, and then my presence is required elsewhere.”

“Care to share what that ‘elsewhere’ is?” asked Carmela. She shoved the remaining beignets toward Babcock. There was no reason she should pack on the pudge and Babcock should remain trim.

“Not really,” said Babcock.

“Does this have anything to do with Kimber’s murder?”

“Nope.” Babcock grabbed one of the proffered beignets and took a bite. “Good,” he said. With his mouth full it sounded like “Guuuh.”

“Does it have to do with the smoke bomb at my place?” Carmela asked.

Babcock eyed her with amusement. “What is this, twenty questions?” He finished chewing then said, “Okay, this is strictly confidential.”

“Of course.”

“Remember that drug thing I told you about? The cartel?”

“Sure.” Carmela had a vague memory of him mentioning something about illegal drugs coming in from South America.

“That’s what I’m working on.”

“Isn’t that more DEA territory?”

“Not when it’s in my territory,” said Babcock.

“So, a stakeout? A drug bust?”

“Nothing that exciting or dangerous, I’m afraid. It’s more like checking out supposedly suspicious activity.”

“Okay. So . . . I’ll meet you at the party,” said Carmela. “That’s no problem. Just be sure to wear a costume.”

“I’ll be the one dressed as a homicide detective. You know, thick-soled Church’s shoes, holstered gun, khaki slacks, suspicious air about him.”

“I’d say it’s going to be practically impossible to pick you out from all the witches and warlocks,” Carmela quipped, “but I’ll try my best.”

Babcock eyed her. “Have you been staying out of trouble?”

His question caught her off guard. “Um . . .”

“What?” Babcock’s mood shifted in an instant and he pounced like a hungry alley cat.

Since they were sitting in fairly neutral territory, Carmela decided she could probably tell Babcock about the third postcard that had arrived this morning. Better here than at her office, where he might hunker down and stay forever. Or his office, where he could browbeat her to pieces and bring in police reinforcements.

“Another postcard came this morning,” Carmela said.

Babcock didn’t look happy. “Your place? Or at Ava’s?”

“At Memory Mine. It was stuck in the door.”

“Ah, man,” said Babcock, rubbing his chin. “I hate this weird shit.”

“Believe me, so do I,” said Carmela.

“Either you have a very strange admirer or you ticked off somebody but good.”

“Really,” said Carmela, “I didn’t mean to.”

Babcock leaned back in his chair and gazed at her intently. “Carmela, I think you did.”