Tragic Magic Read Online Free Page A

muffin?” Carmela asked. She dangled a plastic bag full of muffins for Ava to see. “They’re frozen, but I can pop ’em in the microwave.”
    “Are they the ones made with mayonnaise?” asked Ava. “From your momma’s recipe?”
    “Mm-hm,” said Carmela.
    “Got any of your fabulous brown sugar butter to go with ’em?” asked Ava.
    “Yes, I do,” said Carmela. “And we’re going to need some wine, too. Yes, I definitely think we need wine.” She dug around in her refrigerator and grabbed the brown sugar butter and an already opened bottle of Chardonnay.
    “Excellent idea,” said Ava, jumping up immediately to grab a pair of crystal wineglasses. “Help calm our nerves.”
    “A digestif,” said Carmela, pouring the wine. “That was some awful scene tonight.” They clinked their glasses together, and each took a fortifying gulp.
    “Never seen anything like it,” declared Ava.
    “Melody was such a dear person,” Carmela murmured. “I can’t imagine she had an enemy in the world.”
    Ava took another gulp of wine, let loose a tiny, genteel burp, then said, “Melody wasn’t exactly Miss Popularity with some of the men’s Mardi Gras krewes. Remember when she applied for the Demilune float to roll on Fat Tuesday? Lots of vigorous opposition.”
    Carmela thought about Ava’s words for a moment. “But not enough to kill her for.” She sighed. “Too bad we still haven’t made it past all that male chauvinist shit.”
    “It’s the South, honey,” said Ava. “Lots of stuff folks can’t get past.”
    Carmela ladled her sausage gumbo into red Fiestaware bowls, then added extra scoops of steaming-hot red beans. She set the bowls on yellow plates and snugged her mystery
muffins into a wicker basket lined with a white cloth napkin. She pulled knives, forks, and spoons from kitchen drawers, and then Ava helped her ferry everything to the mahogany dining room table that formed a sort of demarcation line between Carmela’s tidy kitchen and the slightly belle époque-style living room.
    Since bidding sayonara to her soon-to-be-ex-husband Shamus Meechum, Carmela had made a concentrated effort to create an elegant, posh apartment for herself that was long on comfort. Countless forays through the scratch-and-dent rooms of Royal Street antique shops had yielded a brocade fainting couch, marble coffee table, squishy leather chair with ottoman, ornate gilded mirror, and a marble bust of Napoleon with a slightly chipped nose. Lengths of antique wrought iron that had once graced antebellum balconies now hung on her redbrick walls—perfect shelves for pottery, bronze dog statues, and her collection of antique children’s books.
    Carmela’s bedroom-bathroom suite held a queen-sized bed covered with plush velvet pillows that she’d hand-stamped with romantic designs. There were also two cushy dog beds and an antique vanity table that had narrow drawers on both sides and a huge round mirror in the middle.
    “Delish,” proclaimed Ava, scraping her spoon against the bottom of her bowl.
    “There’s more beans if you want,” said Carmela. “Or . . . we could have dessert. I have a cocoa loco pie.”
    “Homemade?” asked Ava.
    Carmela smiled. “It’s my home and I made it, so . . . sure.”
    “Let’s do pie and wine,” said Ava. She paused and looked at Carmela. “Gee, you’re being sweet about all this. I know I wasn’t much help earlier tonight. I did get slightly hysterical.”
    “I can’t imagine what you could have done,” said Carmela. “What anyone could have done. Before we could process
what was happening, Melody was dead.” She shook her head and muttered, “Bizarre.”
    “Too bad Babcock’s not coming over tonight,” said Ava. “You could try to pry some details out of him.”
    “He was playing it awfully close to the vest,” said Carmela, “so I don’t know what good it would be. Besides . . . even if I knew something, what could I do?”
    Ava frowned slightly as she