by Laura Childs
“Just stop right there,” said Tandy, adjusting her red-framed glasses. “Do you have more of those things?” She gestured at the shadow box.
Carmela nodded. “A dozen or so in different sizes.”
“Because I’m going to want to make a couple,” said Tandy.
“Maybe,” Baby put in tactfully, “we should let Carmela demonstrate how to make one first?” She reached into her tote, pulled out a tin of her famous Southern coffee cookies, and placed it on the table.
Tandy gave an imperceptible nod as her hand snaked out to grab a cookie. “Of course.”
It didn’t take Carmela long to explain her votive box. In fact, the instructions were so simple, she worked as she talked.
First, Carmela lined the back of the shadow box with a sheet of purple brocade floral paper. Then, she finished the four edges with a contrasting sheet. A small piece of antiqued sheet music and a sprig of pink-and-mauve dried flowers were arranged and tacked against the back wall. Some cream-colored vintage lace was snugged at the bottom of the shadow box to form a ruffly floor. Then Carmela added a small antique statue of an angel, along with a cream-colored candle, a gold key, a small locket, and a crucifix.
“Amazing,” said Baby. Since she’d also just come from Melody’s service, she pretty much understood Carmela’s mindset. “A lovely tribute,” she added.
Tandy narrowed her eyes. “But what if I want to make a votive box to celebrate . . . say . . . my baby granddaughter’s birthday?”
“Easily done,” Carmela told her. “You could start with a more playful background or even a color photocopy of her birth certificate, then add some baby-inspired items. Think old-fashioned wooden building blocks, a small angel statue, a knit bootie, dried flowers, paper dolls, bits of lace and ribbon, some brass butterfly embellishments . . . whatever you think personalizes it.”
“Neat,” said Gabby, who had come back to watch and grab a cookie.
“You could even make a votive box filled with wedding keepsakes, couldn’t you?” asked one of the other women at the table. She laughed. “My daughter’s getting married next month.”
“I think that would be lovely,” said Carmela.
While Gabby pulled out more selections of romance-inspired paper, Carmela grabbed some embellishments—gilded leaves, buttons, charms, unique fibers, silk flowers, bunches of plastic grapes, even some antique labels she’d had lying around.
“This is a great idea,” Gabby whispered to Carmela. “Are you going to add it to your class schedule?”
Tandy overheard. “Class schedule? Come on, Carmela, tell us what’s cooking in that clever brain of yours.”
“Still noodling things around,” Carmela told them. “But right now it looks like I’ll be doing classes on graffito and memory boxes, as well as a class I’m tentatively calling ‘artifacts.’”
Tandy wrinkled her nose with interest. “Artifacts. What’s that?”
“Scrapbook pages, collages, and altered books that look aged and antique,” said Carmela. “Think medieval-looking triptychs or Parisian-inspired notebooks or even Egyptian-type collages.”
“Sounds very decorator-y,” said Baby. “Where do I sign up?”
Carmela worked with the group for another fifteen minutes or so. Then, when they were all well on the way to completing their personal masterpieces, she scuttled up front to arrange new packets of beads and brass brads. When the phone shrilled at the front desk, she almost welcomed the interruption. “Hello?”
“Carmela?” purred a familiar male voice.
“Babcock,” she said, pleased that he’d finally called. “We missed you this morning. At Melody’s funeral.”
“Think of me as being there in spirit,” he told her.
“What? Because you’ve narrowed down your suspects? You’re ready to crack this case wide open?”
Babcock sighed. “Investigations don’t usually unfold that dramatically, Carmela.”
“What a shame,” she replied.
“What I really called about was to see if you had time for a late lunch,” said Babcock. “Unless, of course, you’ve already eaten.”
“No, no,” said Carmela, “I’d love to meet you. That would be a real treat; we never have lunch together.” She hesitated. “You don’t want me to meet you in some dingy police cafeteria, do you?”
“Not at all,” said Babcock. “What I thought was . . . I’d pick up a sack of doughnuts and we’d eat at my desk.”
Carmela made a gagging sound.
“Not keen on doughnuts, huh?” said Babcock. “Then how about going to Bistro Rouge? It’s a warm day; we can sit outside.”
“Perfect,” said Carmela. “See you there in twenty minutes?”
“Better make it thirty.”
Carmela popped back to check on her crafters. Tandy was well on her way to creating an angel votive box. She’d lined her shadow box with a cream-colored vellum and added some gold embossed paper and a filmy pair of angel wings. All that was needed now was to add a photograph of her angelic granddaughter.
Baby was working a sort of gilded-gold Venetian theme.
“We have some miniature Venetian masks,” Gabby told her. “If you’re interested.”
“I think I am,” said Baby.
“Hey,” said Tandy, “have you girls heard about that new crafter’s retreat over in New Iberia? The lady who owns it is really into jewelry making, so she calls it a bead and breakfast.”
“Cute,” said Gabby.
Carmela bent down and whispered in Baby’s ear. “Is there any way you can find out more about Sawyer Barnes?”
Baby nodded. “I could call Del. He has a fairly wide range of acquaintances and resources. I’m sure he could pull up something for you.” She reached in her bag for her cell phone.
“Much appreciated,” said Carmela as the bell over the front door tinkled. She turned, a ready smile on her face. And was dismayed to see the glowering face of Glory Meechum, Shamus’s perpetually argumentative sister, as she stomped her way into the shop. Now what could have brought Glory to Memory Mine? Carmela wondered. As if she didn’t know.
“Glory,” said Carmela, speeding toward the front of her shop. “I had no idea you were going to drop by.”
“No,” spat Glory, “I doubt you would, Carmela.”
Carmela grimaced. She really didn’t want her personal issues paraded in front of everyone.
“What’s wrong, Glory? How can I help?” Carmela figured if she came across a little more friendly, a little more appeasing, she might be able to lessen Glory’s impact.
But Glory was a large, helmet-haired woman in a splotchy gray housedress masquerading as a neutron bomb.
“Car-mela!” she brayed. “I thought we had a deal!”
Rats, Carmela thought to herself. Now I’m never gonna get my divorce settlement.
“Nothing’s poured in concrete yet, Glory,” said Carmela, struggling to keep her tone neutral. “But Shamus has been very amenable to my request.”
“Oh, bull-jabbers!” snorted Glory. “First you want one thing, then you want another.” She stared down at Carmela, her whole body fairly quivering, one baleful eye twitching and blinking like mad.
Carmela took a step back. Glory was two hundred fifty pounds of angry banker on a pair of run-down orthopedic heels. She didn’t fancy a knock-down, drag-out fight with her.
“We talked about you receiving alimony,” spat Glory. “Now you’re asking for the house.”
“Things changed,” said Carmela.
“That’s a load of crap,” said Glory.
“No,” countered Carmela, “New Orleans changed. The economy’s still dicey . . . so I need to know I’ll be secure.”
“But you’re asking for an entire house!” wailed Glory.
“Shamus’s house.”
“It was my house, too,” said Carmela. “Until Shamus bailed on me. And then you went ballistic and drove me out.” She shook her head. “No, Glory, I’m standing firm. In fact, I’v
e already gone over this with Shamus. He’s definitely come around to the deal.” Carmela tried to breathe slowly, but her head was spinning. Glory Meechum’s negative energy could pack a real psychic wallop. Carmela put a hand on the counter to steady herself. Somewhere, in all the background noise, she heard high heels approaching fast, like castanets.
“You don’t deserve to live in the Garden District,” Glory spat out, the whites of her eyes looking like two boiled eggs. “You’re not good enough. You’re . . .” This time Glory’s voice dropped to a mean hiss. “You’re . . . trash!”
Baby was suddenly at Carmela’s side. “Glory,” she said in her coolest society lady manner. “Is there something I can help with? Because I couldn’t help but overhear your mentioning the Garden District. And since I’m on the Neighborhood Watch Board and the Historic Homes Committee, I was wondering if I could lend my influence in some way? That is, if you had some sort of problem.”
“No,” said a sullen Glory. “Carmela and I are finished here.”
“Thank goodness,” Carmela muttered under her breath.
“Got your back, darlin’,” said Baby, as Glory spun about and stomped out the door.
“You’re an angel,” said Carmela. For some reason Carmela was feeling decidedly fragile.
Baby swept an arm around her. “Glory’s nothin’ but a mean old snake! Don’t pay attention to anything she says. It’s all bile and venom.”
“But it can sting,” said Carmela.
“I know that, honey,” said Baby. “So all you can do is hold your head high and let her words roll right off your back. She’s genuinely crazy, you know.”
“I know,” said Carmela. Boy, did she know.
“So,” continued Baby, “I called Del and gleaned a little bit more information for you.”
Carmela suddenly perked up. “About Sawyer Barnes?”
“Right,” said Baby. “Del said pretty much the same thing you mentioned earlier. That Sawyer Barnes is a real estate developer with a penchant for turning grand old mansions and unique properties into condos.”
“Okay,” said Carmela.
“Del also mentioned that Barnes is a member of the Pluvius krewe.”
“Shamus’s krewe,” said Carmela. That was an interesting factoid.
Baby nodded. “And that Barnes was in the military at one time and probably served in the Gulf War.”
“Thanks,” said Carmela. She thought for a few moments.
“Not a huge amount to go on.”
“No, it’s not,” said Baby, patting Carmela’s shoulder, “but it’s what we’ve got. And since you’re a very smart lady, I assume you’ll figure out how to put it all together.”
Chapter 17
EDGAR Babcock lounged at a table in the back courtyard ofof Bistro Rouge. Potted palms encircled the brick-studded patio, a corrugated tin roof lent partial shade, and across the way a large stone pizza oven glowed with red-hot embers. Two tall glasses of sweet tea, coated with beads of condensation, sat on the small wrought-iron table in front of him.
“You read my mind,” said Carmela, slipping into a green wooden chair across from him.
“Lunch will be served shortly,” Babcock told her with a lazy smile. “I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of ordering for you. For us.” He glanced at his watch, a heavy-looking Tag Heuer replete with multiple dials. “I don’t have a whole lot of time.”
“I hope you realize I’m counting carbs,” sang Carmela.
She grabbed her sweet tea and took a long sip, appreciating its cool deliciousness.
“Then you’ll probably be adding up triple digits today,” Babcock told her mildly.
Carmela set her glass down and smiled sweetly at him. “Nice to see you. Nice change from the day I’ve had so far.”
“You’re talking about Melody’s funeral?” He gazed at her, then reached across the table and took her hand. “I would have been there if I could.”
“What kept you . . . ?” Her voice trailed off as the waitress arrived at their table, a large silver tray propped against one hip. Babcock relinquished her hand as Carmela’s eyes surveyed the offerings. There was a plate of cornmeal-crusted oysters for her. Perfect and golden, dusted with ancho powder, and perched atop a salad of mixed greens and sliced avocado, then drizzled with Creole mustard dressing.
Babcock’s lunch was an oyster po’boy. More fried oysters artfully arranged on grilled French bread along with the requisite toppings of shredded lettuce and sliced tomatoes dripping with spicy rémoulade. Side dishes of red beans and dirty rice were placed between them.
“Just what I had in mind,” Carmela giggled, “a nice light lunch.”
“But I can tell you like it,” said Babcock, grinning and trying to wiggle his eyebrows comically.
“No,” said Carmela, unfurling her napkin into her lap and digging in, “I love it.”
“So,” said Babcock, “you going to share details about this morning?” He dug his spoon into the red beans.
“Depends,” said Carmela.
“On what?”
“On how much you’re willing to share with me.”
Babcock set his spoon down. “Come on, Carmela. You know I can’t make you privy to police matters. Besides, the last thing I want is for you to get involved.”
She shrugged. “I’m already involved.”
“You know what I mean,” Babcock sighed.
“Okay, okay,” Carmela muttered under her breath. “As you might imagine, there was a good-sized crowd at Melody’s service.”
“Uh-huh. Keep going.”
“Maybe I should have just videotaped the whole thing.”
“Maybe you should take it easy. You’re as spicy as this food.”
“Mmm,” said Carmela, taking a large gulp of sweet tea.
Dang, those oysters delivered a kick! “All right, there were quite a few shopkeepers from the French Quarter and a lot of women from the Demilune krewe.”
“To be expected,” said Babcock, in an encouraging tone.
“Basically a lot of friends and acquaintances of Melody’s.”
“So no real surprises?” said Babcock. “Nothing out of the ordinary?”
“Not unless you count the poem Garth read,” said Carmela, reaching for a scoop of dirty rice.
“Something he wrote himself?” asked Babcock.
Carmela pushed away a few strands of hair that had slipped into her eyes. “No, it was your basic creepy poem by Edgar Allan Poe.”
“Poe?” Babcock paused. “That seems like an unusual choice for a memorial service.”
“Trust me,” said Carmela. “It was. The poem Garth read spoke about fire as well as a burning blush.”
“So?” said Babcock.
Carmela frowned. “It just seemed like bad taste, considering how Melody died.”
“You’re saying there was some sort of subtext?”
“Probably not,” Carmela said slowly. “At least I don’t think so.” She gazed at Babcock, who seemed to be genuinely weighing her words. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Now Garth is going to shoot straight to the top of your suspect list again.”
“No, he won’t,” said Babcock. “Because he’s already there.”
“Because of the insurance money,” said Carmela.
Babcock nodded. “That and a few other things I can’t go into.”
“Did you ever consider,” said Carmela, “that you’re not digging deep enough? That the real murderer is walking around out there, chortling to himself, assuming he got away scot-free?”
Babcock favored her with a tired smile. “If you can think of anyone like that, feel free to pass his name along.”
Carmela stared at him. Actually there was someone who partially filled the bill. Should she mention him to Babcock? Well, why on earth not? “Okay, smart guy,” she said. “What about Sawyer Barnes?”
Babcock’s right hand jerked spasmodically, sending his glass of sweet tea crashing into his water glass and spilling b
oth glasses across the white linen tablecloth. A sudden silence engulfed them as diners all around turned to stare. Brandishing a towel, their waitress clucked and scurried over.
When order had finally been restored, Carmela said, “Looks like I touched a nerve.”
“How did you know Sawyer Barnes was on our suspect list?”
“Excuse me?” said Carmela. “Maybe because Barnes bid against Melody for the Medusa Manor property? Because he comes across like a sore loser?”
“Do you think Sawyer Barnes is still interested in that property?”
“It’s possible,” said Carmela, remembering Barnes’s whispered chitchat with Olivia Wainwright this morning. “He was at the service this morning and ended up having a rather cozy conversation with Olivia Wainwright. I suppose Barnes could have been asking her if she was interested in selling.”
“Is she?” asked Babcock.
“Doubtful,” said Carmela, “since she was so hot to have Ava and me finish the project. But I can certainly ask Olivia. I’m supposed to meet her later today.”
“You know,” said Babcock, “Garth Mayfeldt has been trying his darnedest to nudge me in the direction of Sawyer Barnes.”
“So he has his suspicions, too,” said Carmela.
“But then,” said Babcock, “Garth would want to deflect suspicion from himself.”
“Who wouldn’t?” said Carmela, giving him a pussycat smile. “You’re a formidable investigator. You’ve probably got lots of people running scared.”
Babcock fixed his gaze on her. “You know, Carmela, I’m not always sure when you’re kidding or not.”
“Neither am I,” said Carmela. She stared across the patio, where two pizzas were being pulled from the wood-fired oven. “You know who else sort of freaks me out?”
“Who?” asked Babcock.
“Sidney St. Cyr.”
“That ghost walk guy?” said Babcock.
“Do you realize,” said Carmela, “that Sidney practically has a license to creep around the French Quarter? He’s leading ghost tours at all hours of the day and night, scurrying up and down every back alley and through every courtyard and byway. I know he looks mild-mannered, but you never know about people.”