by Laura Childs
Carmela took her plaster bandages, dipped them into a bowl of water, squeezed them out gently, and started in earnest. “I’m going to make an X across Tandy’s nose,” she said, laying two smaller bandages down, “and then build from there.” She proceeded to add layer after layer of plaster bandages, then spritz them with water. “Notice, you have to pay special attention to all the facial features. The nose and eyebrows especially, gently pinching them into ridges as you go along.”
There was another muffled exhalation from Tandy and the heels of her loafers drummed against the wooden floor.
“Easy now,” said Carmela. She smoothed the bandages around the sides of Tandy’s face, adding another layer here and there, wherever it was needed.
“This is fascinating,” said Baby, picking up one of the spray bottles and giving Tandy’s face a spritz. “And once you’re done . . . well, how long does the plaster have to set?”
“About fifteen minutes,” said Carmela.
“You hear that?” Baby asked Tandy.
There was a muffled reply that was either “Yes” or “Help.”
When fifteen minutes had passed, Carmela tapped the mask with a fingertip. It felt good. Maybe a trifle damp still, but it wouldn’t take more than a few minutes longer for the mask to be completely set. “Tandy, what I need you to do now is wiggle your face a little. Smile, frown, even twitch your nose if you can.”
Tandy nodded and, five seconds later, with some gentle guidance from Carmela, the mask popped free.
“I’m never doing that again,” Tandy declared. She was wild-eyed and pink-faced.
“Yes, you are,” said Julie. “Because I want to do one of you, too.”
Tandy wiped a hand across her forehead. “Whew. That was downright claustrophobic. I’m shaking like crazy, I think my nerve and my blood sugar plummeted at the exact same moment.”
“How about an ice cream sandwich?” Gabby offered. “To help make things better.”
“Really?” said Tandy, her good humor flooding back. “What kind?”
“The best kind,” said Gabby. “Homemade. Carmela made ’em. She layered butterscotch ice cream between pieces of fresh-baked shortbread.”
“Sounds delish,” said Tandy, brushing at her cheek to dislodge a remnant of plaster.
Gabby dug into their tiny freezer and distributed the ice cream sandwiches. As the women munched happily, Baby said, “Now what? I mean, what do you do with the mask now that it’s practically dry?”
“That’s the fun part,” Carmela told her. “The creative part. First you refine your mask by rubbing it with fine-grain sandpaper, getting rid of any extraneous lumps or bumps. Then you decorate it, paint it, or do a kind of decoupage by adding strips of colored paper or even gold tissue paper.”
“Neat,” said Baby.
“Ooh,” said Tandy. Her eyes went wide as she suddenly put a hand to her forehead.
“What’s going on?” asked Baby. “You trying to read our minds?”
“No,” said Tandy. “This ice cream is so cold I think I’m having a brain seizure.”
“A Mr. Misty headache,” said Carmela.
Gabby handed Tandy a bottle of water. “Here, drink this. A sip of water makes it all go away.”
Tandy took a glug. Then she stopped, burped, and smiled. “You’re right.”
Baby was still nibbling daintily at the last of her ice cream sandwich. “You know all the brouhaha that’s been going on over that missing death mask?”
“Yeeees?” said Carmela.
“Guess which one of my neighbors has a couple of death masks hanging in his home?” said Baby.
All eyes were suddenly focused on her, especially Carmela’s.
“Who?” Gabby asked.
“Titus Duval,” said Baby. She looked pleased with her announcement.
“Seriously?” said Carmela. It felt like her world had just tilted on its axis. Titus Duval was the wealthy collector that Marcus Joubert had been meeting with that same fateful night the Napoleon death mask had been stolen from the Dallas collector. And if Duval was also a collector of masks, could he have been part of that robbery? Obviously, she had lots more probing and digging to do.
“The masks are hung in his house?” asked Carmela.
“They’re part of his so-called art collection,” said Baby.
“What kind of death masks are they?” Gabby asked. She glanced nervously at Carmela. “Or should I say who are they?”
“I’ve never seen them firsthand,” said Baby, “but I understand that one is a former U.S. president.”
“Now there’s a definite creep factor,” said Gabby.
“And I heard another mask was of a famous Hollywood director,” put in Tandy. She tried to grin but her face was still so stiff her expression was more of a grimace.
Which was exactly how Carmela suddenly felt.
* * *
“Carmela?” A small voice suddenly broke their stunned silence.
Carmela turned in her chair to find Mavis Sweet standing a few feet away and smiling tentatively at her.
“Mavis,” Carmela said. “How are you?” She hadn’t heard Mavis creep in. On the other hand, she’d just been knocked for a loop by the revelation of Duval’s death masks.
Mavis gave a halfhearted shrug. “I’m okay.” She gestured with her thumb. “I was just next door, packing up the last of the boxes. I thought I’d pop in and say hello.”
Carmela stood up from her chair. “Mavis, you know everyone here, don’t you? Gabby and Tandy and Baby. Oh, and this is Julie, Tandy’s daughter-in-law.”
Mavis gave a nervous wave. “Hi, everybody.”
“I’m so sorry about all your troubles,” said Baby. “The death of your employer . . . the closing of your shop.”
“Thank you.” Mavis reached up and twisted a hank of her hair. She looked nervous, as if she wished the earth would open up and swallow her for good. “Carmela, I just wanted to remind you about the memorial service tomorrow?” It came out as a question. Obviously she was still hoping that Carmela would attend.
“What time is it going to be?” Carmela asked. She had every intention of showing up. How could she not? This poor girl was beside herself.
“Ten o’clock,” said Mavis. She started to back away from the group.
“Mavis,” said Baby, “if there’s anything I can do to help . . .” Baby wasn’t just a New Orleans socialite, she was kindhearted and charitable, too. And not just the check-writing kind of charity.
“That’s very kind of you,” Mavis murmured.
“In fact,” Baby continued, “I’d love it if you came to my Halloween party tomorrow night.” She smiled kindly. “It might help take your mind off things and do you a world of good to get out for a while.” Baby fully subscribed to the good-to-get-out-of-the-house school of thinking.
Carmela imagined Mavis sitting all alone in that awful, tacky house of hers and her heart swelled at Baby’s kindness.
At the same time, Mavis’s eyes lit up and her demeanor shifted to one of interest and happiness. “Oh, my goodness. I’d love to come. That’s so kind of you.”
Carmela put an arm around Mavis’s shoulders and led her back through the shop.
“She’s so nice,” Mavis whispered. “Did she really mean it?”
Carmela smiled. “Of course she did. And it’s a costume party, a masquerade, so we’ll all expect you to wear a grand costume and be front and center tomorrow night.”
“Wow.” Mavis seemed suddenly energized.
“So the packing’s almost done?” Carmela asked.
“Almost.”
“Is Boyd Bellamy still pressuring you?”
Mavis made a face. “He dropped by a while ago. I think he enjoys making me cry.”
“He enjoys making grown men cry,” said Carmela. She st
opped and faced Mavis. “Listen, have you found any paperwork yet that relates to that death mask?”
Mavis shook her head. “No.”
“And you looked through all of Joubert’s records?”
“I’ve been through everything,” said Mavis. She hesitated. “Why do you think it’s so important?”
“Because it’s still critical to work out the provenance of that death mask,” said Carmela. “I don’t know what the ramifications are if it turns out the mask was stolen from that Dallas collector . . .”
“I’m sure it wasn’t,” said Mavis.
Carmela held up a finger. “Hear me out, please. If it was, that collector could launch a claim against Oddities. Against what remains of the estate.”
Mavis worked her upper front teeth against her lower lip. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“It’s not good. Especially if you still have faint hopes of opening a shop of your own. Depending, of course, on whatever agreement you work out with the sister.”
“Okay,” said Mavis. “I see where you’re going with this. I’ll go through everything again.”
“Good girl,” said Carmela. She saw that the reality of her words had caused Mavis to go a little numb. She hated to push Mavis any harder, but knew it was necessary. “The other thing I wanted to ask about—did you find any sort of connection between Joubert and Johnny Sparks?”
Mavis’s eyes slid away and Carmela realized she’d hit a nerve.
“What?” said Carmela. “What did you find?”
“There was a necklace.”
“What kind of necklace? What about it?”
Now Mavis seemed reticent. “Apparently, Marcus bought some kind of diamond necklace at auction and then had Joubert sell it for him. On commission, I think.”
“Do you know the value of the necklace?”
Mavis hunched her shoulders. “I found a note that said three thousand dollars less nine hundred dollars’ commission.”
Carmela made a quick calculation. Sparks had helped himself to a 30 percent commission. “So you’re telling me that Joubert had Johnny Sparks sell a necklace for him?” Or fence it.
“I guess so,” said Mavis.
“Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know. Maybe Sparks had better connections?”
“This is all getting a little strange,” said Carmela. “Don’t you agree?”
Mavis furrowed her brow. “It’s all I think about,” she moaned. “How is this connected, how is that connected? Why was Marcus doing business with Johnny Sparks?”
Carmela was just as confused. There were too many strings all balled up into one unhappy package. Only problem was, if you pulled one string a couple of others seemed to unravel, too. And then there was the problem with the mask . . . or masks.
“Mavis,” said Carmela, “I’m still wondering how that death mask was stolen from your cabinet. It seemed like it had been fairly well hidden. Are you sure nobody else knew about it except you and Joubert?”
Mavis stared at her. “Actually . . .”
“Actually what?” said Carmela, pouncing on her words.
“Now that I’ve had time to think about it, I guess maybe I did show it to one person.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Last Tuesday, I think it was. A week ago.”
“Who was it?” Carmela felt excitement fizzing up inside of her. If somebody else had seen the mask and suddenly gotten greedy, this could crack the case. If someone else knew about it, they could be the thief and killer! “Who was it you showed the mask to, Mavis? A potential buyer?”
“No, not a buyer.” Mavis made an unhappy face. “It was actually the landlord. Boyd Bellamy.”
CARMELA did a double take that would have been comical if she hadn’t been so stunned. “You showed Boyd Bellamy the death mask?” she sputtered out. “Why on earth would you do something like that?”
“Because I was trying to get him off our case,” said Mavis. She was suddenly defensive, her voice growing a little strident.
Carmela grabbed Mavis’s sleeve and pulled her outside onto the sidewalk. “Go on. Keep talking.” A woman with a small collie dog walked by and they both hesitated.
When the woman and dog had passed, Mavis said, “You have to understand. We were way behind in our rent and Bellamy was literally breathing down our necks, threatening us with eviction. Marcus and I were planning a wedding and I saw our life just . . . well, evaporating. Anyway, I figured if I could convince Bellamy that the mask was going to sell for a lot of money, then maybe he’d back off and give us some leeway.”
Carmela was listening intently. “So . . . did he? I mean, was Bellamy impressed enough with the mask that he was willing to give you more time on the rent? Did he understand the mask’s historical significance or . . . uh, monetary value?”
“He just sort of looked at it and nodded,” said Mavis. “Like he didn’t really care.” Her eyes swam with tears and she brushed at them with her fingers. “You don’t think Bellamy was the one who broke in, do you? That he came back and killed Marcus?”
“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” said Carmela. “I supposed he could have, though it doesn’t feel quite right.” Bellamy struck her as more of a cash-up-front type of guy.
Mavis hung her head. “You must think I’m really stupid. A stupid, trusting cow.”
“Not at all,” said Carmela, feeling a tinge of regret at giving Mavis’s feelings a glancing ding. “I think you’re a sweet, caring girl who’s found herself smack-dab in the middle of a nasty situation she can’t figure out.”
“The thing is, can you figure it out?” asked Mavis.
Carmela shook her head. “I don’t know, honey, but I’m sure going to try.”
* * *
Carmela left Mavis on the street, looking sad and troubled, and hurried back inside Memory Mine. When she checked her crafters, it was Baby’s turn to be swaddled in plaster bandages while Tandy squirted water at her. Their peals of raucous laughter were a welcome sound after Mavis’s strange revelations and quiet pleadings.
Slipping behind the front counter, Carmela let her thoughts flash back to Boyd Bellamy. Had he seen the mask and, quick as a wink, made up his mind to swipe it? Had he come back, gotten into a nasty confrontation with Marcus Joubert, and then murdered him during an ensuing struggle? Or had it been someone else entirely? Someone who knew about the mask or had stumbled upon it. Like the uber-wealthy Titus Duval? Or the strange Countess Saint-Marche? Or the scheming Johnny Sparks?
Carmela’s meditation on murder was interrupted by the ringing of the phone.
She snatched it up, trying to shift into chipper mode. “Memory Mine.”
“Cher, we’re still going to the Witches’ Run tonight, right?” It was Ava. And just hearing her upbeat voice caused Carmela to grin and her shoulders to unknot.
“Don’t you ever just want to stay home? Crawl into your jammies and watch something on Netflix?”
“Nuts,” said Ava. “I can rest when I’m dead and stuck away in some spooky mausoleum that’s hopefully kitty-corner from Commander’s Palace so I can order in when I feel like it. But for right now, I want to party my brains out.”
“Ava . . .”
“Please, please, please, Carm. I’ll even buy you dinner at Mumbo Gumbo.”
“Hmm . . . bribery will get you everywhere,” said Carmela. She knew Mumbo Gumbo would be jumping tonight and they did dish up some wicked gumbo and jambalaya.
“Hah,” said Ava. “I thought so. And cher . . . ?”
“Yes, dear?”
“Wear something fun tonight, something a little kinky. Enough with that conservative Republican beige. Maybe try . . . a rubber dress?”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“Yes, and I’m very corruptible, too.”
*
* *
As soon at the masks were decorated—Tandy’s with red zigzags that were almost tribal, and Baby’s image with gold leaf—Carmela hastily straightened up the back table. There were lots of snips and snippets scattered around, what she like to call craftermath.
“Are you coming back to the French Quarter tonight?” Gabby called to her. “For the 5K and the parade?” Baby, Tandy, and Julie had just tumbled out the front door, giggling and waving their good-byes.
“I think so. You?”
Gabby shook her head. “No, Stewart’s receiving some kind of award tonight from the local Rotary Club. For being a model citizen and selling, like, eight million Toyotas.”
“Eight million. Very impressive.”
“Well, maybe not that many.” She paused, a piece of peach-colored rice paper in her hands. “I feel sorry for Mavis. She seems like one of those poor misguided souls who never really finds their way in life.”
“You may be right.”
“So . . . perhaps we should help her?”
“I think,” said Carmela, “that we already are.”
* * *
Carmela was the last one out that night. As she turned her key in the lock, always mindful to latch the door carefully, she realized that she still felt haunted by the specter of murder next door. She walked a few steps down the sidewalk to Oddities and peered in the window. Where jade statues, antique weapons, and taxidermy animals had been displayed just days ago, now there were just dust balls. It felt like an entire year had passed since she’d peered in the window and noticed a faint light. Had heard that awful telltale thump.
Oh my, kind of like Poe’s “Tell-Tale Heart”!
But it had been only four days.
Babcock was working his fingers to the bone, trying to solve Joubert’s murder, but he didn’t seem to be getting any closer. She’d been snooping around herself. And while she’d sniffed out a few rotten eggs—suspects, really—she hadn’t drilled down to the heart of the matter. Who was the killer? Someone who freely walked the French Quarter? Someone who all the unsuspecting players were rubbing shoulders with?