by Laura Childs
She ran her fingers along the edge of a marble tomb, cool and smooth as picked bones. She glanced up—hoping that the crescent of moon might put in an appearance again. But the night seemed to turn darker, holding a hint of ever more danger.
Carmela scuffed along quietly. She figured she was fairly close to where Babcock might have called to her from. Now if she could only see . . .
A sound, soft and muffled, as if someone might be hunching themselves back into the shadows and hiding from her, caused Carmela to stop dead in her tracks. On high alert, hair on the back of her neck prickling like crazy, she listened as though her life depended on it. And maybe it did.
What was that? What did I hear?
Flattening herself against the side of a large, hulking crypt, she tried to modulate her breathing as best she could. Tried to make every sense keenly alert to what was going on around her.
But, after a few moments, she heard—and felt—nothing.
Carmela slowly released a breath. She was spooked, yes, but she wasn’t going to let her emotions run wild. She was going to keep bumbling along and find Babcock. After all, he was in here somewhere.
Carmela moved ahead two steps, then three, her right shoulder still brushing against the side of the crypt, using it as a sort of touch point. She was just about to cry out to Babcock again, to try to get a fix on his position, when she heard a strange, low, creaking sound and caught a rush of something.
The initial spark in Carmela’s brain told her it was a shadow coming at her—a grid of light and dark projected by a far-off passing car. At the last moment, she realized it was a rusty iron gate. The heavy, flaking wrought-iron door of the crypt had been flung open on squeaking hinges and was creaking inexorably toward her.
Shocked and totally unprepared, Carmela had barely two seconds to get a hand up in front of her face, a pro forma protest at best, before the gate struck hard against her, pinning her tightly against the crypt’s outside wall.
She let loose a startled yelp as her forehead went numb and bright stars danced and flashed before her eyes. She suddenly felt like a captured butterfly pinned inside a display case. Angry, stunned, and struggling to pull herself back to the here and now, she gripped the gate with her hands and managed to croak out, “Help!”
Then she heard footsteps lightly running away from her as she was finally able to shove the heavy door or metal gate or whatever it was off her body.
“Stop!” she cried out. Now her fear had been replaced with fury.
But whoever had smacked her with the gate was long gone.
Carmela gently touched a hand to her nose, mindful of sudden tears that clouded her eyes.
Broken?
She prodded carefully. No, she didn’t think so. Just sore. But whoever had tried to waylay her had been fairly successful. They’d stopped her cold. She figured she’d probably feel battered and bruised come tomorrow morning.
Deciding the smartest thing, the safest thing, to do right now was get herself out of the cemetery as fast as she could, Carmela scuttled left, found a sort of pathway, and hurried along it. She was angry and scared and hurt. If she could make it out to Babcock’s car, she’d hopefully meet up with him there.
Boy, did she have a story to tell!
But as Carmela lurched along, her eyes scanning to either side of the path, she almost tripped again. She caught herself at the last moment, glanced forward, and let loose a startled cry.
What is that? What am I seeing now?
Someone had flung a coat across a gravestone?
Carmela blinked and struggled to focus. Wait a minute. Maybe that wasn’t a coat?
Is that a person lying there? Oh dear Lord.
Carmela moved forward as if in a trance. She was suddenly hyperaware of every crunch of gravel underfoot, every looming grave, every sigh and hiss of the wind.
Who is it? Is it the person we heard screaming?
Had to be.
As if compelled to bear witness, Carmela drew closer and closer to the grave where someone—she was pretty sure it was a woman—was sprawled in a totally unnatural pose, as if they’d been hurled there by some uncaring, unfeeling giant.
Carmela was five feet away when her brain blipped out a warning message: Be careful, be careful.
Babcock. Where was Babcock? Now she really had to find him.
She opened her mouth to cry out, but no sound emerged. Because, by this time, she was standing directly in front of the slumped body (slumped dead body?), feeling not only shock, but paralyzing fear.
Get a grip, she told herself. Try to breathe. Make a sound. Any sound.
Carmela gritted her teeth and tried to rally her courage. She wasn’t sure if this woman was dead or very badly injured. But she knew she had to try and help this poor soul . . .
Tentatively, Carmela reached out a hand. And just as the tips of her fingers were about to touch the woman . . .
“Carmela,” came a harsh voice. “No!”
Chapter 2
CARMELA jumped back as if she’d been jabbed with a hot wire.
Then footsteps sounded and Edgar Babcock slalomed to a stop next to her. He grabbed her arm, jerking her backward.
“No, Carmela, don’t touch her. She’s gone.”
Carmela staggered back against Babcock, turned, and bumped her forehead again. “Ouch!” Then she stared up at him with questioning eyes. “What . . . what happened?”
“She’s been assaulted,” Babcock responded. “Strangled.” He was using his cool law enforcement tone of voice, the same calming tone he used when he was tasked with speaking to relatives of crime victims. When he had to show up on someone’s doorstep and say, I’m sorry, but there’s been an accident.
“Strangled just like that?” Carmela said. She was a little incredulous. “You mean the woman is dead?”
“I got here just in time to find her like this and then see someone disappear into the graveyard,” Babcock said. “I took off after him, but . . .” He gave a kind of feral snarl. “I lost him.”
“I saw him, too,” Carmela said. “Well, I sort of encountered him.”
Babcock stared at her. “What are you talking about?”
“Somebody . . . well, I guess it might have been the killer, was hiding just inside one of those big crypts. Anyway, when I came along he swung the door open and tried to nail me.”
Babcock gripped both her shoulders. “Are you hurt?”
She pointed to the bridge of her nose. “Just kind of banged up.”
“You shouldn’t have followed me in here, Carmela. This could have been a bad scene.” Then, as she glanced at the body draped across the tombstone, he added, “Worse than it already is.”
Carmela made a slight move toward the body. “Do we know who . . . ?”
“Carmela, don’t,” Babcock said. Now his voice was uncharacteristically harsh.
“What?” Carmela asked. She studied Babcock’s face, saw something lurking there, and said, “What aren’t you telling me?”
“I’ve already called this in,” Babcock said. “So the best thing we can do now is . . .”
“No,” Carmela said. Then, “Something’s really wrong, isn’t it?”
When he didn’t reply, Carmela edged closer to the body. She bent down and asked, “Do we know her?”
Babcock pulled a hanky from his pocket, carefully draped it across the woman’s hair so he wouldn’t obliterate any evidence, and turned her head gently. As he moved the body, Carmela caught a glimpse of the woman’s pale face.
“It’s Isabelle!” Carmela said in a hoarse voice. “Please, no, it can’t be her.”
But it was. And she knew it.
“What happened?” Shock and anger bubbled up inside Carmela.
“Look here,” Babcock said. His index finger hovered close to the dead woman’s face, then di
pped down to indicate her neck. “She’s been strangled.”
“Dear Lord,” Carmela gulped. “With what?” She really didn’t expect an answer, because she was leaning in close herself, eyes finally adjusting to the darkness as she gazed in horror at the body.
“You see?” Babcock said. Now even he was slightly choked up.
Carmela tried to look past the awful purple and black welts, at the twisted piece of fabric that was buried deep in Isabelle’s neck. “It’s a piece of lace,” she said, sounding almost incredulous. “Isabelle’s been strangled with a piece of lace.”
* * *
Five minutes later the cemetery was a hub of activity. Police cruisers rolled up, their blue and red pulsing lights cutting through the inky darkness and attracting a gaggle of onlookers. Uniformed officers streamed in, along with two EMTs who’d brought along a clattering metal gurney.
Too late for that now, Carmela thought. Now they would need the crime-scene techs with their myriad tests and equipment.
Police radios burped as more officers arrived, along with Babcock’s right-hand man, Detective Bobby Gallant. They talked in low, concerned voices, their shoulders hunched, their heavy cop shoes scuffing gravel. Nobody paid much attention to Carmela.
Carmela wandered away from the circle of law enforcement that clustered like blowflies around Isabelle’s dead body, and stared at a row of dark, curious faces that peered through the wrought-iron fence. The lights and hum of activity had attracted these onlookers, and she wondered if any one of them might have had a hand in poor Isabelle’s murder. Was the killer standing over there right now? Watching the drama unfold with dull, appraising eyes?
“Carmela?” Babcock was waving at her. “Stay close,” he cautioned.
“You think her killer’s still out there?” she asked. Her eyes were once again drawn to the dark faces at the fence.
“We don’t know,” Babcock said. “We’ve got officers searching the area right now. Talking to people.”
“Okay,” she said woodenly. She could hardly believe it. Thirty minutes ago, Isabelle had been inside a cozy, warm restaurant with a group of friends. Now she was lying dead atop a cold, impersonal tombstone. It simply didn’t compute. None of this did.
The crime-scene team arrived, deposited a half dozen black leather cases on the ground, and set up three stanchions with super bright lights. They were here to process the body.
“Careful now,” Babcock warned as they pulled on latex gloves. The techs nodded perfunctorily. They knew their jobs and they were always careful.
Carmela hunched closer to Babcock. Under the glaring bright lights, Isabelle’s body looked pale and ethereal. “Why is there a crust of blood on her mouth?” she asked.
“Probably bit her lip during the struggle.”
Carmela frowned and looked around. The cemetery was dark, lonely, and foreboding. “Why would Isabelle even come in here?” she asked. “I mean, she’d been tasting cake, for goodness’ sake, with a bunch of friends. Why would she bother coming in here at all? Do you think she was taking a shortcut or something to get to her car?”
“Maybe,” Babcock said. “Or it’s possible she knew her attacker.”
Carmela’s head pivoted in Babcock’s direction. “What did you just say?”
“There’s a chance that she knew him,” Babcock repeated. “That she was comfortable with her attacker and never sensed she was in any sort of danger. It would certainly explain why she came strolling through here.”
Carmela swallowed hard. She didn’t respond because she didn’t know quite what to say. But . . . maybe Isabelle knew him? That made the circumstances surrounding the woman’s death even more frightening.
A sudden scuffle nearby caused everyone who’d been hunkered around the body to immediately turn and stare.
“Stop it! Let me go!” shouted a man. He was angry and struggling like crazy as two uniformed officers half walked, half dragged him into the circle of light.
“We found him lurking just outside the gate,” one of the officers said to Babcock.
“I wasn’t lurking, you idiot, I was getting into my car,” the man cried. He was tall, with an aquiline nose, Dudley Do-Right square jaw, and a shock of blond hair that swept across his forehead preppy style. His face was practically beet red to match his crewneck sweater. The man glowered at Babcock. “Are you in charge here?” he snapped.
Babcock stared at him. “Who are you?”
“My name is Julian Drake and I’m—” He broke off his words suddenly as he gazed past Babcock. “Dear Lord, what happened?”
“You don’t know?” Babcock asked.
“No, I don’t know,” Drake snapped. “What’s going on? I need some answers right now.”
“Are you familiar with a Miss Isabelle . . . ?” Babcock turned toward Carmela.
“Black,” Carmela said. “Isabelle Black.”
Drake sagged visibly. “Something happened to Isabelle?” He sounded stunned.
“I guess he knows her,” Carmela said.
“She was murdered here tonight,” Babcock said. He was watching Drake intently.
“Murdered? Here?” Drake said. He spoke the words as if they were completely foreign to him. “Seriously?”
Babcock stepped aside. “See for yourself.”
“Oh no,” Drake said, as he caught sight of Isabelle’s lifeless body illuminated by the harsh lights. “Oh no.” The two officers released him from their grip, and he lurched forward and caught another quick glimpse of the body. Then he moaned and staggered sideways toward a low stone tombstone. He plopped down hard on top of it and dropped his head into his hands. “This can’t be happening,” he rasped.
“It’s already happened,” Babcock said.
Drake slowly lowered his hands so just his eyes were visible. “She’s really gone?”
“I’m afraid so,” Babcock said.
“Gracious.” Drake fumbled in the pocket of his khaki slacks, pulled out a white hanky, and mopped his face. There was a loud honk and then he peeked out again and asked, “What happened?”
“She was strangled,” Carmela said. She was watching Drake carefully. He seemed like a man in shock. Then again, you never know.
“You were well acquainted with the deceased?” Babcock asked.
“I am . . . I was supposed to be the best man at her wedding,” Drake said.
“So you were at the cake tasting tonight,” Carmela said.
Drake stared at her. “Yes, of course.” He paused. “Who are you?”
His question was ignored. “Did you see Miss Black leave Commander’s Palace with anyone in particular?” Babcock asked.
“We all kind of straggled out,” Drake said. He licked his lips and nervously jiggled a leg. “Am I under arrest?”
Babcock was noncommittal. “We’d like you to come downtown with us and answer a few questions. Give us the names of everyone who attended your party tonight.”
“Sure. But I don’t know how much help I can be,” Drake said. He wiped at his eyes and gave a loud snuffle.
“You can try,” Babcock said.
* * *
Ten minutes later it was all over. Drake was escorted to a patrol car, and the crime-scene techs packed up their equipment. The two EMTs took great care as they loaded Isabelle’s body onto a gurney. Now they were going to hump it back out through the graveyard, with everyone shuffling along in their wake.
Carmela shivered. Isabelle was getting her procession after all. It just wasn’t the grand wedding day procession that she’d probably dreamed about.
Chapter 3
GABBY poured a steaming cup of chamomile tea into a shiny black mug and handed it to Carmela.
“Here,” Gabby said. “Maybe this will help.”
Carmela didn’t think it would help, but she took it anyway. Standing in Memory Mine thi
s early Monday morning, she felt discouraged and weary. Gabby, her trusted assistant, was being her sweetest self, but even that wasn’t giving her much comfort. Really, nothing could wipe out the shock and pain of seeing Isabelle’s body splayed out on that awful tombstone last night.
“I can only imagine how terrible Ellie is feeling,” Gabby said. “For her own sister to be murdered . . .” She shook her head, almost choking on her words.
“I’m sure she’s numb with grief,” Carmela said. Then thought, no, Ellie was probably sick with grief. She herself was the one who was still feeling numb.
“And what about Ava?” Gabby asked. “How did she take it when you talked to her last night? Or did you talk to her?”
Carmela nodded. “Oh yeah, I figured I pretty much had to. After Babcock dropped me back at my apartment, I ran across the courtyard to Ava’s place. Kind of dropped the whole thing on her like one great big nasty matzo ball.”
“And she was upset?” Gabby asked.
“Ava was stunned. She felt terrible about Isabelle and was worried sick for Ellie. I mean, Ava and Ellie are fairly close. Ellie’s been working at Juju Voodoo as a tarot card reader and astrologer for well over a year now.”
“So you and Ava didn’t go over to Ellie’s house?” Gabby asked.
“We talked about going over there, but felt like we’d be horning in. Anyway, Babcock and Bobby Gallant went there to make some sort of formal notification . . .”
“Which must have been an awful thing for them to do.”
“Yes,” Carmela said. “And then we figured that Ellie would want to commiserate with her family. Or with Isabelle’s fiancé.”
“So sad,” Gabby said. “Especially since they were supposed to be married in . . . what was it? A couple of weeks?”
“Two weeks,” Carmela said. She took another sip of tea. “What a tragedy.” For some reason, the fact that she’d forgotten to RSVP to Isabelle’s wedding made her feel all the more guilty and sad.
Gabby was silent for a few moments, and then said, “Do you think it’s kind of creepy that we’re scheduled to have a wedding workshop tomorrow afternoon? I mean, we’re even going to be working with lace.” She gave a little shiver.