Free Postcards from the Dead by Laura Childs Page A

thinking about Kimber’s murder. And her list of sort-of suspects. And wondered who she could talk to next.
    The person I really want to talk to is Durrell. But that’s not going to happen.
    She spun around again, catching quick images of a Jasper Johns print, the Eiffel Tower, ballet dancers, and old maps that were tacked on her office wall. All there to hopefully inspire a megawatt brainstorm.
    Why can’t I talk to Durrell?
    Because I would need a very good excuse or reason.
    Carmela was enjoying this little conversation with herself.
    So make one up.
    Two minutes later, Carmela had an appointment with Davis Durrell for first thing tomorrow morning. She’d told his secretary, a nice older-sounding woman named Mavis, that she wanted to drop by for a couple of minutes to personally offer her condolences. Mavis, trusting soul, had bought it.
    Happy now, Carmela sauntered out into her shop.
    “Need some help?” she asked Gabby, who was standing at the cash register ringing up a customer.
    Gabby shook her head. All seemed under control. In fact, they were edging toward closing time. So there probably wouldn’t be . . .
    Another customer?
    The front door opened and a waft of cool air whooshed in, shepherding in a tall man in a long, dark coat. He was lantern-jawed with a long horsy face and piercing eyes that peered out from beneath bushy gray eyebrows. The man glanced around with what felt like a hint of merriment, spotted Carmela staring at him, and immediately stuck out a bony hand. “Marcus Joubert,” he said, smiling and revealing large, almost pointed teeth. “Your new neighbor.”
    “Oh, my gosh,” said Carmela, shaking off a strange feeling of unease and stepping forward to shake his hand. “You opened the new shop next door, you’re the proprietor of . . .”
    “Oddities,” said Joubert.
    “It’s nice to finally meet you,” said Carmela. “I’m sorry I haven’t been over to formally welcome you to the neighborhood. It’s been so crazy here and I . . .”
    Joubert flapped a hand to dispel her concern. “Don’t be silly. Of course you’re busy, it’s Mardi Gras.” He gave a wolfish grin. “But I think when you find time to visit, you’ll find I’ve orchestrated a rather unusual shop.”
    “I’ve heard rumbles to that effect,” said Carmela. “Hence the name Oddities.”
    Joubert nodded. “But I understand, Ms. Bertrand, that you sometimes deal in strange things, too.”
    Carmela wasn’t following him. “Excuse me?”
    “This morning’s Times-Picayune said you witnessed a rather gruesome murder.” Joubert seemed to take a strange satisfaction in mentioning Kimber’s murder.
    Carmela thought it a little odd but reminded herself there were lots of crime groupies. Babcock had told her all about it. There were people who were forensics freaks as well as cop wannabes who followed all the action on police scanners and radios.
    “I wasn’t really a witness,” she told him. “I was just sort of there . Along with a quite a few other people.”
    “Still,” said Joubert, “the French Quarter has a well-deserved reputation for strange goings-on. Where else does one find voodoo shops, strip clubs, absinthe bars, haunted hotels, and shops filled with priceless antiques nestled shoulder to shoulder?”
    “Point well taken,” said Carmela. “I guess we’re just a patchwork of craziness.”
    Joubert reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small black envelope. “An invitation to my open house,” he told her. “This Saturday evening.”
    “Thank you,” said Carmela, accepting the envelope.
    Joubert gave a thin smile, then lifted his hat and tipped it at Carmela. “I’d love it if you could come.” He glanced over at Gabby. “You, too, ma’am.”
    “We’ll certainly try,” said Carmela, following him to the door and then waving good-bye.
    When the door had closed behind him, Gabby said, in a low voice, “He makes me nervous.”
    “Seriously?” said Carmela,