Free Gilt Trip by Laura Childs Page B

party,” said Margo. She said the word
workers
as if she were referring to manure.
    â€œOkay,” said Carmela. “What about the people Jerry Earl did business with? Construction clients. Any of them present?”
    Margo’s nod was imperceptible. “Yes. A few.”
    â€œAny strained relationships among those people?”
    â€œNone that I know of.”
    Carmela tapped a finger against the top of the desk. This was like pulling teeth. “What about Conrad Falcon?” Aka The Whistle Blower.
    Margo reared back as if she’d been struck in the face. “That thieving rat! Do you seriously think I’d have him in my home?”
    â€œI’m guessing he’s not one of your favorite people,” Carmela said mildly.
    Margo was practically foaming at the mouth now. “Conrad Falcon
hated
Jerry Earl. Falcon was always jealous of Jerry Earl because he was smarter and more successful.”
    â€œYou’re telling me they were fierce rivals,” said Carmela. “Because they both owned construction companies.”
    â€œThey were in rival Mardi Gras krewes, too,” put in Beetsie. “Jerry Earl was in the Rex krewe, while Falcon was in the Pluvius krewe.”
    Conrad Falcon was in the same as Shamus, Carmela thought. Interesting.
    â€œIt seems to me,” said Carmela, “that you’re pretty much pointing a finger at Falcon.”
    Margo frowned. “Yes, I suppose I am highly suspicious of the man. Obviously I am.”
    â€œAnd there’s no way Falcon was at your party Sunday night?”
    â€œNever!” said Margo.
    â€œAbsolutely not!” echoed Beetsie. “He may live in our neighborhood, but we always make it a point to snub him.”
    â€œTell me,” Carmela said to Margo, “did you share your suspicions about Conrad Falcon with Detective Gallant?”
    â€œI might have mentioned it,” said Margo.
    Carmela gazed at Margo, who was toying idly with a gold coin in a Lucite frame. “Why do you think Jerry Earl slipped away from the party?” Privately, Carmela figured the man had tucked into his office because he’d developed a burning desire for a few nips of a real drink, a man’s drink like bourbon or whiskey.
    â€œI don’t know,” said Margo. “Perhaps he received a phone call?”
    â€œHow would Jerry Earl know that?” Carmela asked. “The musicians were playing, the crowd was noisy and exuberant, and your husband was being lauded by well-wishers and mingling with guests.”
    â€œI suppose Eric would have told him,” said Margo.
    Carmela stared at her. “Eric . . .”
    â€œEric Zane,” said Margo. “Jerry Earl’s personal assistant.”
    â€œAh, yes, he was at the party,” said Carmela. Of course, he was. She remembered Zane as the brittle young man who’d been questioned at length by Gallant.
    â€œBut he wasn’t an invited guest,” said Margo. “Zane is on our personal staff.”
    â€œIs Zane here now?”
    â€œHe should be.”
    â€œThen let’s get him in here,” said Carmela.
    Beetsie crossed the rug, her soft-sole no-nonsense shoes barely making a whisper. Carmela looked down at the carpet on which she’d just trod.
    Where exactly had Jerry Earl been killed?
    Surely the delicate carpet would still be a bloody mess if Jerry Earl had been stabbed in his own office—and it didn’t appear as if the Rug Doctor had made a recent house call. Could the killer have lured Jerry Earl into the laundry room and done the deed there? That had a nice hard tile floor. Easy to spritz a little 409 and tidy up the blood once you were all done committing bloody blue murder.
    And who had access to the laundry room? Well, she supposed pretty much anyone and everyone who wandered down that back hallway.
    As Carmela mulled this over, Beetsie returned with an unhappy-looking Eric Zane. But Zane