Skeleton Letters

by Laura Childs

  Making a half-spin so she faced Bobby Gallant, Carmela said, “We need Babcock on this.” Her words came out a little more hoarse and a little more demanding than she’d actually intended.

  Gallant barely acknowledged her statement concerning his boss. “I’m the one who got the call out,” he murmured.

  “The thing is,” Carmela said, gesturing toward Byrle’s lifeless body, “we know her. She’s a friend.”

  “From Memory Mine,” Ava added. “Carmela’s scrapbook shop.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear that,” said Gallant. And this time he did sound sorry.

  “So we need to do everything in our power,” Carmela gulped, “to find whoever did this.”

  “Which is exactly what I intend to do,” said Gallant. He glanced around and noticed a uniformed officer standing off to the side, staring at Byrle’s dead body. “Slovey!” he barked. “Get something to cover her up!”

  Slovey seemed suddenly unhappy. “What do you want me to use?” he asked.

  Color bloomed on Gallant’s face. “I don’t care,” he snapped. “Use your jacket if you have to!”

  “This isn’t happening,” Carmela murmured to Ava. Holding on to each other, they staggered over to the row of church pews that faced the small altar and collapsed together on the hard seat. There, they huddled like lost souls, trying to make sense of it all. At the same time, like some bizarre soap opera, the beginnings of the police investigation played out right before their eyes.

  The crime-scene techs arrived, set up enough lights to make it look like a movie set, and began to photograph Byrle’s body as well as the damaged saint statue and everything else within a twenty-foot radius.

  Uniformed officers were given assignments and hastily dispatched to interview possible witnesses and take statements.

  And finally, two EMTs arrived with a clanking gurney to carry Byrle away. Probably, Carmela decided, they were going to transport her to the city morgue. And wasn’t that a grim thought!

  “Babcock should be here,” Ava said in a low voice. “Working this case.”

  Edgar Babcock, homicide detective first class of the New Orleans Police Department was, to put it rather indelicately, Carmela’s main squeeze. As Carmela had wrangled through her divorce from her former husband, Shamus, the two had gazed longingly at each other. When Carmela finally separated from her philandering rat-fink husband, she and Babcock finally started seeing each other. And now that Carmela’s divorce was signed, sealed, and delivered, they were most definitely an item.

  “Don’t worry,” said Carmela, “I’m going to call Babcock.” She hesitated. “But Gallant does seem to be doing a credible job.”

  “Credible is only good when it comes to talking heads on TV,” said Ava. “For this investigation we need a grade-A detective.”

  “Sshhh,” said Carmela. Gallant was suddenly headed straight toward them.

  Stepping lightly, Gallant slid into the pew directly ahead of them, settled onto the creaky seat, and swiveled to face them. Only then did Carmela notice the tiredness and deep concern that was etched in his face.

  “Something tells me this isn’t the only case you’re handling,” Carmela said.

  Gallant shook his head. “Two drive-bys last night and a floater in the river.”

  “Tough job,” said Ava.

  “Tough city,” said Gallant.

  “What . . . what’s happening now?” asked Carmela.

  “Well,” said Gallant, “we’ve got the church and outside area pretty much cordoned off, and my officers are interviewing everyone who was hanging around the church. Plus, we’re canvassing the neighborhood.”

  “I think some people left before you got here,” said Ava.

  Gallant leaned forward. “Did you get a look at them?”

  Ava shook her head. “Not really. It was more like hearing them.” She looked suddenly thoughtful. “You know how when you’re in church you’re aware of people nearby, you hear their voices and shufflings and such, but you don’t really look at them?”

  “I suppose,” said Gallant. He seemed keenly disappointed that Ava wasn’t able to give him a complete description. He directed his gaze at Carmela. “You said earlier that you thought the killer was wearing a brown robe?”

  “He definitely was,” said Carmela. “Like a monk’s robe. Dark brown with a deep cowl and hood.”

  “With a white rope knotted around his waist,” Ava added.

  “There’s a bunch of those robes hanging in the back room on a row of hooks,” Gallant told them.

  “That’s a problem, then,” said Carmela. “It means anybody could have grabbed one and thrown it on.”

  Gallant shifted on the uncomfortably hard pew. “What’s the story with the garden and graveyard outside—all the digging and the stakes and ropes and things? Either of you know?”

  “It’s an archaeology dig,” Ava told him. “Been going on for almost four months now.”

  “Do you know who’s in charge of it?” asked Gallant.

  Ava shrugged.

  “I’m pretty sure it’s the State Archaeology Board,” said Carmela. “With assistance from students at Tulane.” She paused. “At least that’s what the article in the Times-Picayune said.”

  Gallant jotted something in his notebook. “They find anything?”

  “Ten feet down,” said Ava, “they discovered the ruins of the original church. The one Père Etienne founded back in 1782.” Père Etienne had been a Capuchin monk who’d been a much-beloved figure because of his tireless work with the sick and the poor.

  Gallant looked mildly interested. “Ruins, huh. Anything else?”

  “They also unearthed an antique silver-and-gold crucifix,” said Ava, “believed to have been the personal crucifix of Père Etienne.”

  “Which was stolen during the murder,” Carmela said suddenly, almost as an afterthought.

  Gallant reared back. “What? A crucifix was stolen?”

  “From the saint’s altar,” said Ava. “Where Byrle was killed.”

  “I think,” said Carmela, “Byrle was struggling with her killer, trying to wrest the crucifix back from him.”

  “Why didn’t you mention this sooner?” Gallant demanded.

  “Because,” said Carmela, “we thought it was more important for you to dispatch your men immediately to hunt down suspects.”

  “So a robbery and a murder.” Gallant stroked his chin with his hand. “I wonder . . . was this crucifix terribly valuable?”

  “Byrle thought so,” said Carmela. “After all, she gave her life for it.”

  Chapter 3

  THE tiny brass bell over the front door da-dinged melodically as Carmela and Ava slipped into Memory Mine. At ten o’clock this Monday morning, Carmela’s scrapbook shop already held a half-dozen customers. Eager scrapbookers and crafters busily browsed the floor-to-ceiling wire mesh baskets that held thousands of different papers, perused newly arrived rubber stamps, and sorted through various packages of stickers, brads, beads, tags, and embellishments, to say nothing of embossing powders, ink pads, and spools of ribbon.

  The hum of activity was a welcome sight to Carmela, who’d come through a few lean years since that gigantic hiccup known as Hurricane Katrina. Business was good—not great, but with the holidays approaching, she knew sales would soon take a nice jump.

  With its warm brick walls, old wooden floors, and charming bay window that looked out onto Governor Nicholls Street, the shop always felt cozy and warm. But this morning, even with customers milling about, her enthusiasm was somewhat dampened.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Gabby. Gabby Mercer-Morris, Carmela’s assistant, was perched behind the front counter sipping gingerly from a cup of take-out café au lait. Normally a cheery, upbeat young woman with brown hair and a luminous complexion who favored preppy-style dressing, Gabby had learned to read the nuances of her boss. And right now, the dour expressions on both Carmela’s and Ava’s faces clearly scared her to death. “What happened?” s
he asked again, with some urgency.

  “Um . . . ,” Carmela began. She really didn’t want to upset poor Gabby, who had both squeamish and sensitive tendencies. On the other hand, Gabby was bound to find out about Byrle’s murder sooner or later.

  “Something happened,” said Gabby. She nervously pushed back her hair and turned serious brown eyes on Carmela.

  Carmela gave a slow nod.

  “Not the dogs . . . ?” said Gabby. Carmela had two dogs who were the loves of her life: Boo, a girly-girl Shar-Pei, and Poobah, a spunky mutt that her ex-husband Shamus had found wandering the streets. Gabby was almost as in love with the dogs as Carmela was, since her Toyota King husband, Stuart Mercer-Morris, was allergic to dogs. Or so he claimed.

  “Pups are fine,” Carmela told her.

  “Then what?” asked Gabby.

  “Over at the church,” said Ava. “Just now.”

  Carmela tried to swallow the lump that felt like a stranglehold in her throat, failed miserably, then managed to croak out, “Byrle.”

  A frown creased Gabby’s normally placid brow. “What about Byrle?” When Carmela hesitated again, Gabby said, in a tremulous voice, “You guys are scaring me.”

  “Byrle’s dead,” Ava blurted out.

  “What!” Gabby hissed as she stared at them. Color drained from her face and was replaced by a mixture of horror and stunned disbelief. “Our Byrle?” She shook her head vigorously, as if in denial. “No, it can’t be,” she said in a clipped tone. “Byrle was just in here two days ago! She asked me to order a package of moss cloth for her!”

  “Cancel that order,” said a glum Ava.

  “Ava!” yelped Carmela. “That’s so . . . cold.”

  Ava bobbed her head and assumed a properly sheepish expression. “Sorry, cher. You know I’m not good when it comes to really serious stuff. I get nervous and worked up, and then I go stupid.” Ava wrinkled her nose. “And then my mouth starts to work overtime.”

  Carmela reached an arm around Ava’s shoulders and gave her friend a comforting squeeze. “You don’t go stupid,” she assured her, “you just . . . go to another place in your head.”

  “That does sound a lot better,” Ava admitted.

  “Tell me,” Gabby said, in a strangled voice. “Tell me what happened.”

  So Carmela and Ava quickly and quietly related the events of the previous hour.

  “I can’t believe it,” Gabby murmured. “At St. Tristan’s? If Byrle was assaulted in some roughneck bar on Bourbon Street I’d believe you, but St. Tristan’s? If a person’s not safe in a church, where are you safe?”

  “Good question,” said Ava.

  Gabby’s shoulders lifted, then relaxed in a deep sigh. “Did you call Babcock?” This question was aimed at Carmela.

  “I called him,” said Carmela, “and left a message.”

  “But he never showed up,” said Ava.

  “Involved with something else, I guess,” said Carmela. “But Bobby Gallant’s working the case. I know for a fact that Babcock has total trust in Gallant.”

  “No,” said Gabby, sounding insistent now. “We need Babcock. He’s the smartest detective on the force and the only one who can get to the bottom of this.”

  “Exactly my feeling,” said Ava. “Bobby Gallant seemed to be doing a pretty fair job. I mean, he was efficient and all, but I didn’t get the feeling he was personally concerned.”

  “Not like Carmela’s sweetie would be,” said Gabby. She gazed at Carmela. “Maybe you should call him again?”

  “I know he’ll be in touch,” said Carmela. “I hate to bug him too much.”

  “Well . . . ,” said Gabby, who still looked stricken as she continued to digest and process the awful news. “You realize we’re going to have to call Baby and Tandy.” Baby Fontaine and Tandy Bliss were two of their scrapbooking regulars. They often gathered with Byrle at the big wooden table in the back of the shop—“Craft Central,” they’d dubbed it—to scrap the entire day away.

  “A bad phone call to make,” Carmela murmured. She knew the two women would be absolutely heartbroken. And though she considered Byrle a friend, she knew that Baby and Byrle had been exceptionally close.

  Gabby put some grit in her voice. “I don’t want Baby and Tandy hearing about this on the TV news. Or, heaven forbid, in some gossipy Twitter chatter.”

  “Who’s going to make those calls, then?” asked Ava. Clearly, she didn’t want to.

  “I will,” Gabby told her. “I’ll go back to the office and call Baby right now.”

  “But you don’t know any details,” said Carmela. To be honest, she didn’t really have any details beyond a few barebones facts.

  Gabby thought for a moment. “Maybe it’s better that way. Just let Baby absorb the awful news. Then, later, when you’re able to, or maybe if the killer is apprehended quickly, you can lay out the full story to her.”

  “Okay,” said Carmela, feeling a weight lift from her shoulders. “And you’ll call Tandy, too?”

  Gabby nodded. “I can do that.”

  “Sounds good,” said Ava.

  “It’s not good,” said Gabby. “But it’s the best we can manage for right now.”

  “Thank you,” Carmela added, as Gabby walked stiffly away. She ran nervous fingers through her hair, noticed that several women seemed to be glancing at her with expectant looks, and murmured, “Jeez, we’re busy.”

  At which point a customer stepped up to Carmela and asked, “Do you have any leather-bound albums?”

  “I can help with that,” said Ava, giving a quick smile. “What size were you thinking about?”

  “Something small,” bubbled the woman. “To showcase photos of my grandkids.”

  Another woman, a sort of regular named Molly, wanted to decorate a black velvet evening bag. “To make it one of a kind,” she told Carmela.

  “Do you have a color palette in mind?” Carmela asked.

  Molly thought for a moment. “Maybe a dark red and bronzy feel?”

  “Over here,” said Carmela, making a quick sidestep, “we just happen to have some packages of really adorable silk flowers.” She grabbed a couple of plastic packs. “Let’s see, we’ve got purple, gold . . . ah, here’s a nice deep red.”

  “Neat,” said Molly, “they even look like camellias.”

  “As for a bronze tie-in,” said Carmela, “how about stitching on a couple of these mesh aspen leaves? They have a brushed bronze finish that’s low key and rather elegant.”

  “Perfect,” declared Molly. “What else?”

  “I think if you applied the flowers and leaves toward the bottom of your velvet bag, you could probably add a bronzecolored tassel as a zipper pull.”

  “I think you’re right,” said a delighted Molly.

  Carmela gathered up all of Molly’s items, wrapped them in blue tissue paper, popped them into a kraft-paper bag, and rang her up at the counter. Then she went to assist another woman who claimed to be in dire need of handmade linen paper as well as some wildlife-inspired rubber stamps.

  Carmela and Ava worked for a good twenty minutes, helping customers, and finally clearing out the store for a much-needed break in the action.

  Finally Gabby emerged from Carmela’s cubbyhole of an office.

  “Baby’s pretty upset,” Gabby told them.

  “I can only imagine,” said Carmela. Her heart felt as if a lead weight were attached to it.

  “And Baby was quite insistent about talking to you,” said Gabby.

  “Doesn’t surprise me,” said Carmela. Of course, she’d want all the details.

  “Did you speak to Tandy, too?” asked Ava.

  Gabby nodded.

  “Doggone,” said Ava, folding her arms and pressing them tight against her body. “I suppose she’s real upset, too.”

  Gabby’s eyes fluttered. “You have no idea.”

  Carmela was suddenly aware that Ava was pale and seemed to be jittering on the balls of her feet. “Are you feeling okay?” she asked Ava.<
br />
  Ava clutched herself even tighter. “Maybe it’s this morning’s scare or this cool, drizzly weather we’re having . . . but I’m freezing to death.”

  “Run back and make yourself a cup of tea,” Carmela suggested. “There’s a pot of hot water in my office along with several tins of fresh tea leaves.”

  “From that little place in Charleston?”

  Carmela nodded. “The Indigo Tea Shop, yes. Really, go fix yourself a cup of Earl Grey. Do you a world of good.”

  “I think I will,” said Ava, skittering away.

  “She’s really upset,” observed Gabby.

  “I think we’re all a little stunned,” agreed Carmela.

  The two of them turned in unison then, as the front door opened. But this time it wasn’t another eager scrapper coming in for a stencil or package of ephemera. This time it was Edgar Babcock. Tall, rail-thin, with close-cropped gingercolored hair and blue eyes that were pinpricks of intensity, Babcock exuded a kind of quiet confidence. The kind of effortless calm they dearly needed right now.

  “Am I ever glad to see you,” exclaimed Gabby. “And, boy, do we ever need your help!” Suddenly looking a little flustered at being so outspoken, Gabby said, “Well, I’ll leave you two alone. I know Carmela wants to talk in private.”

  Eyes focused only on Carmela, Edgar Babcock moved closer and put a hand on her shoulder. “I got your call,” he said.

  “I wish you could have come to the church!” Carmela said in a rush. Since they’d been snuggle buddies for quite some time now, she felt she had the right to prod him a bit.

  “When I found out you’d been a witness, I hurried right over,” said Babcock, “but you’d already left.” He paused. “You must have had quite a scare.”

  Carmela tapped him midchest with an index finger. “We need you on this case.”

  Babcock’s jaw tightened and his brows pinched together. “I can’t be the lead investigator on every murder that takes place in New Orleans,” he told her. “If I did that I’d be working 24/7.” Indeed, New Orleans had played host to almost 175 murders this past year.