by Laura Childs
“It sounds like the two of you were fairly close friends.”
“Mmn, I wish we could have been closer. The girl did love to party.” He picked up a yellow pencil and twiddled it. “But it never works out when you date someone you work with, does it?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Carmela told him. “I mostly work with women.”
“Well, there you go.”
“Anyway,” Carmela said, “since the two of you were close, I’m wondering if Isabelle might have been worried about something?”
“Something or somebody?” Delton asked.
“Probably somebody.”
“She hung out with kind of a wild crowd.” He rubbed a finger under his nose and made a sniffing sound. “They got their noses into it pretty good.”
“Are you talking about drugs?” Carmela asked.
“Hey, I’m just sayin’,” Delton said. “No accusations here.”
Carmela wondered if Delton was telling the truth or trying to twist the interview. “Anything else you can think of?”
“She worried about some of the lowlifes she helped get convictions on. We all did.”
“But she never mentioned anyone or any case specifically? Anything that might have been a little hinky?”
“Nope.”
Like you?
But Carmela didn’t say that. Instead she stood up and said, “Thank you for your time. If you think of anything, please don’t hesitate to call me. I’d be very interested. And I’d for sure pass any information on to the police.” She handed him one of her Memory Mine business cards. “Or, obviously, you can contact the police directly.”
Delton rubbed her card between his thumb and his forefinger and offered her a flickering crocodile smile. “But that wouldn’t be half as fun as seeing you again.”
Chapter 10
CARMELA returned to Memory Mine feeling that much more relieved for finally filing the quitclaim deed, and for her impromptu meeting with Bobby Prejean and company. That had been a stroke of luck. The man was clearly distraught over losing one of his crackerjack attorneys, but still had the presence of mind to throw the full weight of his office behind the investigation. God bless him. As for Hugo Delton . . . well, he’d managed to seriously creep her out. But creepy didn’t necessarily mean killer. Still, she decided that she’d keep him on her radar for now. And what were those innuendos about drugs? Isabelle? Really?
As Carmela pushed open the door, she saw that the ever-efficient Gabby was straightening up their bins of discontinued scrapbook items.
“Hi there,” Gabby said. Then, “We don’t really want to keep these yellow felt daisies, do we? They’re kind of . . . way last summer.”
“Then toss them into the closeout bin,” Carmela said. “I’m sure somebody will love them.”
“Everything eventually finds a home, right?”
“Have you been busy?”
“Oh yeah,” Gabby said. “But good busy. After you took off there was a tsunami of scrappers. I think everyone’s all whipped up because we’re closing in on the holidays. They’re crafting Thanksgiving place cards and decorations and seriously thinking about Christmas cards and invitations.”
“It’s that time of year,” Carmela said. She was planning to create her own Christmas cards using a midnight blue paper stock that featured a galaxy of stars stamped with metallic ink and dusted with embossing powder.
“But it was nothing I couldn’t handle,” Gabby said. “Oh, and the mail came. Gobs of stuff, mostly for you. I stacked it all on your desk.”
“Great.” Carmela started for her office.
“And there are cartons of yogurt in the little fridge, if you’re thinking about a healthy lunch today.” She grinned. “Hint, hint.”
“Thanks,” Carmela said. “I guess it doesn’t hurt to eat healthy once in a while.” She pulled open the little refrigerator in the back hallway, grabbed a carton of strawberry yogurt, and ducked into her office.
As she slumped in her chair, Carmela saw that Gabby had stacked the mail into two piles. A small pile of bills and a larger pile of fun stuff. That is, suppliers’ catalogs, scrapbook magazines, invitations, and other goodies. She gave the bill pile a cursory glance, dug out a plastic spoon from her desk, and ripped the top off the yogurt.
The fun pile showed promise. Catalogs from Scrapbook Angel, Paper Paradise, and Bagley’s Rubber Stamps. Also a small square envelope that held an invitation to a baby shower for Vivienne Poulin’s grandniece. Carmela couldn’t help wonder why the family had selected a store-bought, fill-in-the-blanks invitation when Vivienne was such a good customer at Memory Mine. For a pittance, she could have put together an invitation that was truly elegant and one of a kind. Oh well.
Carmela sighed and plucked an oversized purple and yellow postcard from the stack. She studied it, frowning at a rather depressing photograph of a woman dressed completely in black, right down to her gloves. She turned the postcard over.
What?
It was an invitation from the New Orleans Art Institute for a costume show opening this weekend called Mourning Cloak.
This is so weird.
Entranced, Carmela studied the postcard. The Mourning Cloak show was being put on by the museum’s textile and costume department and was going to highlight clothing worn for funerals and mourning. Focusing primarily on the late 1800s and early 1900s in England and America.
Oh my.
Impulsively, Carmela jumped up and scurried out into the shop. She held the card up high, waving it at Gabby. “Did you see this?”
Gabby gave a slow nod. “I did. Pretty weird, huh?”
“I guess.”
Gabby pointed at the card. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“I don’t know,” Carmela said. “What are you thinking?”
“What if the lace that . . . you know, was used to strangle Isabelle . . . what if it came from the Art Institute’s antique fabric collection?”
Carmela thought that would be way too strange. On the other hand . . .
She turned the postcard back to the invitation side. “It says here the show opens this Saturday.”
Gabby gave her a cat-who-swallowed-the-canary look. “But I happen to know there’s a private party for big-buck donors this Thursday evening. Black tie.”
“Really?”
“Maybe you should go,” Gabby said.
“I don’t think that . . .” Carmela hesitated. “Well, maybe I should. Let me noodle it around.”
Back in her office, Carmela sat down at her desk and stared at the wall. It held all manner of sketches and photos and snippets of ideas. Her concept wall, she called it. I should just let this costume thing go and work on . . .
She reached for the phone.
Her friend Angela Boynton, a curator at the New Orleans Art Institute, picked up on the second ring.
“Carmela?” she said. “I was just thinking about you. We need to get together and have lunch. How about Tipitina’s? My treat.”
“I’ll take you up on that,” Carmela said. “But first I have a favor to ask.”
“So ask.”
“I received this invitation in the mail today. For your Mourning Cloak exhibition.”
“Not my exhibition,” Angela said. “But the lady who shares an office with me is one of the curators.”
“The thing is,” Carmela said, “I’d love it if you could get me an invitation to your Thursday night reception.”
“I had no idea you were so interested in costumes and couture,” Angela said. “But, sure, it’s no problem at all. I’ll put your name on our VIP list.”
“And a guest, too?”
“I’m guessing that would be the ever-hunky Detective Babcock?”
“You got it,” Carmela said.
“No, you got it,” Angela said. “Oh, and if it’s not too mu
ch trouble, I need another packet of those oversized brass paper clips with the typewriter keys stuck on the end.”
“I’ll bring it with me Thursday night.”
Carmela clicked the phone off and then immediately called Babcock. The minute he came on the line, she said, “How would you like to go to an art opening this Thursday night?”
“Paintings or photography?” Babcock asked. “And remember, I’m not a modern art guy. And I really dislike graffiti art. It reminds me of bad prison tattoos.”
“What a lovely thought,” Carmela said. “But what if I told you this was a costume show that’s going to showcase all sorts of funeral and mourning clothing?”
“Is there such a thing? Because it sounds very weird.”
“I think it’s right up our alley.”
“Carmela . . . you’re not supposed to be investigating.”
“I know that. But you said I should keep checking on the lace . . .” When Babcock didn’t respond right away, she continued. “And I know this is a long shot, but there’s a possibility that we might gather some more information about that hunk of lace.”
“Okay, you win. I’ll go, but only for a short time. Just long enough to give my brain a rest from all the messes we’re trying to juggle here.”
“That bad?” Carmela asked.
“Oh, you know. Besides Isabelle’s murder we’ve got a bunch of South American smugglers and some bold smash-and-grab guys that are hell-bent on hitting our high-net-worth citizens. And then there’s Peter Jarreau.”
“Who’s Peter Jarreau?”
“He’s our new media liaison hired by the police commissioner. To, you know, liaison with the media. Such as it is.”
“And Jarreau’s not doing his job?” Carmela asked.
“Just the opposite. He’s poking his fool head in my office every five minutes.”
“Liaisoning,” said Carmela.
“I guess.”
“Look on the bright side. You get to play dress-up and go to a fancy party with me.”
“Mmn, how fancy?” Babcock asked.
“Well, it’s black tie, so you do have to dress appropriately.”
“You mean I have to wear a high-button collar and a cutaway coat à la the eighteenth century?”
“Why don’t you skip the coat,” Carmela said. “And just wear the collar.”
“Just the collar?” Babcock said. There was a long pause. “Wait a minute!” He sounded both shocked and amused. “That sounds suspiciously like you want me to dress like a Chippendale.”
Carmela cackled into the phone. “Only if you’ve got the right moves, cupcake.”
* * *
Gabby set a stack of white tagboard on the craft table and heaved a sigh. “Carmela, it still feels funny to be doing this. I mean, isn’t it awful that about-to-be-bride Isabelle hasn’t even been buried yet and we’re holding a wedding workshop?”
The latest issue of Martha Stewart Weddings slid off the top of a thick stack of magazines that Carmela was carrying. She grabbed it before it hit the floor, and she looked at Gabby.
“I totally understand how you feel,” Carmela said. “In fact, I have the same trepidation, like it’s somehow bad karma. But the people who are coming today probably don’t even know about Isabelle. So if we canceled at the last minute it would just be to assuage our own feelings.”
Gabby fingered one of the magazines. “I guess you’re right.”
“But it does feel weird,” Carmela said.
Still, Gabby seemed reluctant to let the issue go. “Tonight is the visitation at the funeral home?”
“From seven to nine,” Carmela said. “And I’ve got my fingers crossed that none of those lunatic relatives will throw a hissy fit. It would be nice to see some decency and decorum for a change.”
Before Gabby had a chance to comment, the front door blew open and Tandy Bliss burst through. Skinny as a model, with her cap of hennaed red hair, Tandy had all the exuberance and energy of a Tasmanian devil. Except she was so much nicer and sweeter. And she had her young cousin in tow.
“Are we early?” Tandy blared as her head swiveled around. “Where is everybody? The wedding workshop is today, right?” Tandy was never soft-spoken, and her booming questions were no exception.
Carmela chuckled. “You’re the only ones who signed up, I’m afraid.”
That stopped Tandy dead in her tracks. “What? And I even brought along a pan of my famous shortbread bars.” Then she peered at Carmela, who was barely suppressing a smile, and said, “Oh you. I bet there’s gonna be a stampede of women any second.”
“There is,” Gabby said. “So watch your toes.” She was busy setting up a third table, wedging it into the aisle where the paper bins were located. “Maybe you two had better grab a seat.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Tandy said. “C’mon Rae Anne, let’s take a load off.” When she and Rae Anne had established a beachhead at the main table, she added, “You all remember my cousin, Rae Anne, right?”
“Sure,” Carmela said.
“Great to see you again,” Gabby said.
“She’s finally gettin’ hitched!” Tandy proclaimed. “She’s a blushing bride-to-be.”
“That’s wonderful, Rae Anne,” Carmela said. “Have you set a date?”
Rae Anne nodded. “May tenth. But that’s all I’ve figured out so far. I haven’t made any other plans at all. In fact, I barely know where to begin.”
“That’s why we’re here,” Tandy said. “So Rae Anne can start figuring out all the really important stuff. Like colors and flowers and invitations and, well, I guess you guys are gonna tell her what all is involved.”
The bell over the front door da-dinged as two more women rushed in. Then it continued its cheery but relentless ringing as another dozen women streamed in.
“We’ve got a packed house,” Gabby murmured to Carmela, as the women filtered in and, amidst loud exclamations, a few shrieks, and multiple air kisses, found places around the various tables.
“Am I ever ready for this,” a young woman named Wendy announced. “I’m in a pre-planning tizzy.”
“Which is why we’re here to help,” Carmela said, taking her place at the head of the large table. “We’re going to help you get a nice big jump start on your wedding plans.” She held up a large sheet of tagboard. “This may look like a blank canvas right now, but by the end of this class you’ll have created your very own inspiration board. And if you’re lucky, you’ll have figured out your concept, theme, signature colors, invitations, place cards, favors, and maybe even table settings.”
“How on earth are we ever gonna do that?” asked a small blond woman in skinny jeans and a patchwork military jacket that was most definitely of the designer variety rather than that handed out by a supply sergeant.
“What’s your name?” Carmela asked.
“Penny,” the woman said.
“Lieutenant Penny,” Carmela joked, “please don’t be nervous. You and all the other ladies here have already taken care of the most important item—finding the perfect groom.”
There was loud laughter at that and everyone seemed to relax.
“But now you need to make a few decisions that will help reflect your very own personal style,” Carmela continued. “She held up one of the magazines. “Browse through a few magazines, see if you can’t find an invitation or table setting that you really love. Maybe even a wedding dress or a bridal bouquet. Cut out the photos and paste them on your board. Then browse the shop, too. Pick out a snippet of ribbon that might work on your bridal bouquet, some paper samples that might be perfect for your wedding invitations, or even a stencil or embellishment that you could incorporate into your designs. And remember, more and more brides are crafting their own invitations these days, using rubber stamps, collage techniques, and embossing powder to make them one of a kind.”
“I love it!” Penny said.
“And don’t be afraid to experiment,” Carmela said. “That’s how you’ll begin to explore your taste and narrow down your choices.”
“Explain, please,” Rae Anne said.
“Oh,” Carmela said. “Maybe the paper you thought would be perfect for your invitations turns out to be more suited for your dinner menu. By putting everything together on a concept board, you’ll be able to make some decisions and winnow your choices down.” She smiled. “The thing about what we do here—the scrapbooking, journaling, rubber stamping, and crafting—is that you get to go on your own artistic journey.”
“What about wedding albums?” a woman asked. “Or am I getting ahead of things?”
“Not at all,” Carmela said. “We offer a good supply of albums, many of which are just waiting for a would-be bride to apply her own special touch. Imagine adding your own lace or pressed flowers, or strand of pearls with tiny charms.”
Their guests were nodding now, murmuring to one another, and beginning to page through magazines. Two women had gotten up and were eagerly pulling out paper samples.
“Okay,” Carmela said. She nodded to Gabby and they each grabbed a stack of tagboard and began passing sheets around.
Carmela had thought her crafters would need a fair amount of guidance, and she was happily proved wrong. Indeed, paper was being snipped, glue was being applied, and the concept boards were starting to take shape.
One young woman’s concept board looked as if it was going to be all ruffles and romance, with vellum paper, snips of lace, and a packet of seed pearls. Two African American women, Darnella Rashad and Justine Coulter, had veered into more contemporary territory. They’d chosen Japanese washi paper, rubber stamps with Picasso-style hearts, and stamp pads with rich purple and red pigments.
“Could you ever put sealing wax on your invitation?” Darnella asked Carmela.
“I think that would be spectacular,” Carmela told her.
Acacia Jones, who lived just a block from Carmela’s apartment, and was engaged to a professor at Tulane, said, “Wish tags. I really do want to have wish tags.”