Skeleton Letters

by Laura Childs

  “Consumers requesting the wine is the pull?” said Ava.

  Carmela hesitated. “I think that’s right. But you know I was a design major, not a marketing person.”

  “So . . . can anyone wangle an invite to this fancy shindig?” asked Ava. “And by anyone I mean moi.”

  “I’d love it if you came,” said Carmela.

  “And I’m guessing it’s formal,” said Ava. “Hint, hint.”

  “So you can dress to the nines or whatever number your little heart desires,” said Carmela. “And if you choose to swoop in wearing one of your Goth gowns, that’s fine, too.” Ava’s overstuffed closets contained more black velvet, crepe, and silk than the entire wardrobe department at Paramount.

  “Is there going to be a red carpet?” asked Ava, suddenly all a-twitter.

  “A small one, with a step-and-repeat background.” Carmela could definitely see the wheels turning in Ava’s head.

  “Then I should wear a gown with an opera cape.”

  “I think that would be apropos,” said Carmela. “For you, anyway.” Ava was known to wear a long gown and opera cape at the drop of a hat. To the local pancake house, the hardware store, even scooping up beads at a Mardi Gras parade.

  Ava grinned happily. “Dang, this gumbo is good. The bread, too. Really hits the spot on a night like this.”

  “Still coming down out there,” observed Carmela. The thunder had abated somewhat, but rain was beating down and lightning still strobed away.

  They finished their gumbo, carried their dishes into the kitchen, and dumped them into the dishwasher. Then, with wineglasses refilled, they retreated to Carmela’s living room.

  “Cozy in here,” said Ava. She plunked herself down on the leather chair with matching ottoman, stuck a tapestry pillow behind her head, and, with a delicious little shiver, stretched all the way out. “Is that a new painting, cher?” Ava cocked a forefinger at an oil painting that hung on the nearby dusty redbrick wall. It was a depiction of two shrimp boats in a bayou. Done in rich reds, golds, and yellows, and crackled with age, it gave the impression of shrimpers, their nets up, returning at sunset.

  “I picked that up in the scratch-and-dent room at Dulcimer’s Antiques,” said Carmela, pleased that Ava had noticed her new acquisition. She adored original oil paintings, even the ones where the canvas was worn thin and the paint needed some judicious restoration. This particular seascape also featured a spectacular gold Baroque frame.

  “Dulcimer’s . . . ,” said Ava, searching her brain.

  “Place on Royal Street,” said Carmela. “Just down from my shop. Owner’s a chubby guy with a ponytail. You know, the guy who’s always lugging that cutesy little dog around with him?”

  Ava snapped her fingers. “Mimi. The pug.”

  “That’s it,” said Carmela. She grabbed a lighter, flicked it on, and touched the flame to the wicks of two tall red pillar candles that she’d decorated with Celtic cross charms. “Just in case this crazy storm knocks out our electricity,” she told Ava.

  “Didn’t you get your highboy at Dulcimer’s, too?” asked Ava.

  Carmela turned to admire the fruitwood highboy that held thirty books, part of her prized antique children’s book collection, as well as two bronze dog statues. “Mmm, I did. And at a good price, too.”

  Carmela’s apartment was her little oasis of sanity in the French Quarter. Tucked away in a hidden courtyard with bent-over live oak tree and burbling fountain, it rubbed shoulders with elegant old-world hotels, esteemed restaurants, and posh antique shops brimming with oil paintings, family silver, fine furnishings, and the crème de la crème of estate jewelry.

  And, as luck would have it, it was located directly across from Ava’s voodoo shop. As they say in real estate, location, location, location.

  After several years of designing, decorating, and collecting an assemblage of fine things, Carmela’s apartment now exuded a lovely belle époque sort of charm. Walls that Carmela had come to think of as museum walls now displayed an ornate, gilded mirror, old etchings of the New Orleans waterfront during the antebellum period, and a heroic piece of wrought iron, probably from some long-ago French Quarter balcony, that served as a bookshelf.

  Carmela padded across the room, shuffled through a stack of CDs, and popped one in the CD player. And just as the mellow strains of Norah Jones filled the room, just when everything was all quiet and relaxing, Boo and Poobah suddenly leaped straight into the air, ears flat against their little heads, and howled at full volume.

  So much for peace and contentment.

  Chapter 5

  “HOLY shih-tzu!” Ava cried, as Poobah tumbled across her legs like a circus acrobat. “What a racket!” The dogs were barking nonstop, spinning in circles.

  Carmela’s head periscoped up from where she’d been slumped in a wicker king chair. “Somebody must be out in the courtyard.”

  “Babcock,” said Ava. She gave a knowing grin. It wouldn’t be the first time Edgar Babcock had come pussyfooting across the courtyard at night. And since her apartment was tucked in a cozy little garret above the courtyard, Ava had a bird’s-eye view of Babcock’s comings and goings. Of everyone’s comings and goings.

  “No,” said Carmela, scrambling to her feet, “I don’t think so. At least Babcock didn’t mention anything about dropping by.”

  Ava shrugged a tangle of dark hair off her forehead. “Then who?”

  Padding to the nearest window, Carmela pushed back filmy draperies and peered through rain-streaked glass into the courtyard. And was pretty sure she recognized the hooded Burberry coat as well as its wearer, who was skipping and dodging across wet flagstones. Then, a sudden flash of lightning illuminated the figure, as well as the live oak tree and pots of bougainvilleas, giving everything a film noir, color-leached feeling, and Carmela knew for sure who her visitor was.

  “It’s Baby,” Carmela exclaimed, at the exact moment a loud bang sounded at her front door.

  Which triggered a second cacophony of barking and howling as the dogs tripped over each other, heading for the door.

  “Boo! Poobah!” Carmela commanded in a loud, take-noprisoners voice. “Sit!” When they hesitated, she yelled, “Do it NOW!”

  “Jeez,” said Ava, who’d started to get up, “when you yell like that, even I feel compelled to sit.”

  “At least somebody around here minds,” Carmela muttered.

  Carmela finally corralled the dogs, got their furry little butts plunked squarely on the floor, and pulled open the door.

  It was, indeed, Baby Fontaine, one of her scrapbook regulars and a very dear friend.

  But this wasn’t the happy-go-lucky Baby who was the matron and self-proclaimed booster of the Garden District, the Baby who giggled and flashed her megawatt smile as she effortlessly hosted elegant parties and gourmet dinners for three hundred. This Baby looked sad, tearful, and practically desperate.

  “Oh, sweetie . . . ,” said Carmela, sweeping Baby into her arms.

  They hugged for a few moments, and then Baby, her voice registering the same pain that was so evident on her face, said, “Carmela, you have to help!”

  “Come in,” Carmela said in a soft voice. “Take off your coat and we’ll talk.”

  “Oh, I’m dripping wet,” Baby said, in an anguished tone. “And, look, I got you all soggy.”

  “Not a problem,” said Carmela, brushing herself off.

  Baby slipped out of her raincoat and ran a hand through her pixie-cut blond hair. She was on the far side of fifty, but her tiny figure, smooth complexion, and genteel accent gave her an upbeat, youthful aura. And Baby’s good friends, in no hurry to abandon the familiar, endearing moniker that she’d earned back in her sorority days at Tulane, continued to call her Baby.

  “You know,” said Carmela, leading Baby over to where Ava was now sitting cross-legged, “Babcock is already working on this. Along with Bobby Gallant and a number of other officers. They’re taking it very, very seriously.”

  “Prob
ably the folks at St. Tristan’s are, too,” added Ava. “Hi, honey.” She gave a little wave.

  “Hi, Ava,” said Baby. She was quick to return Ava’s smile but still seemed agitated and sad as she groped her way through the initial throes of mourning. “Yes, I understand all that,” she said, settling into a chair. “And I’m grateful the police have put their full weight behind this. But, Carmela, I’d feel a whole lot better if you could sort of nose around, too. I mean . . .” She reached up and gently massaged her temples with her fingertips. “Byrle getting murdered . . . right in the heart of the French Quarter. Inside St. Tristan’s!”

  “Terrible,” agreed Ava.

  “It’s a nightmare,” Baby said in a whispery voice.

  Carmela stood up, went to the cupboard, and grabbed another wineglass. When she returned, she held out a half-glass of white wine for Baby. Baby stared at the glass for a few moments, then finally accepted it and took a small sip.

  Then Baby’s gaze returned to Carmela. “Plus, Byrle is one of us.” Us, of course, meant a fellow scrapbooker.

  “I know all that,” said Carmela, “and I’ve been thinking about this nonstop.”

  “We both have,” said Ava. “It’s like I’ve got theater chase lights in my brain. The notion of Byrle’s murder just keeps zooming round and round, faster and faster.”

  “And I feel that since I was right there,” said Carmela, “I should be able to put my finger on something more definite. More . . . concrete.”

  “But you can’t?” Baby’s words came out in a plaintive plea.

  “Afraid not,” said Carmela. “We just didn’t see enough.” Carmela had racked her brain, trying to recall details. But it was still mostly a bad blur.

  “But I thought you two were eyewitnesses!” exclaimed Baby. “When Gabby called me this morning, she made it sound like you two saw the whole thing unfold!”

  “We were there,” Carmela said slowly, “but all we saw was Byrle locked in a life-and-death struggle with some guy wearing a brown hooded robe.”

  Baby put a hand to her mouth. “Oh dear. That sounds so utterly visceral.”

  “We’ve been sitting here trying to figure out the how and the why,” said Ava. “Trying to understand just what the heck went down.”

  “Who would want to murder Byrle?” Baby demanded. “She was one of the dearest, most peaceable souls I’ve ever known.”

  “Technically,” said Carmela, “it was a homicide, not a murder. Poor Byrle was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. A robbery gone bad.”

  “Have you ever heard of a robbery gone good?” asked Ava.

  “Point well taken,” said Carmela. “But seriously, Baby, Ava and I have pretty much bought into the theory that Byrle died trying to thwart the robbery of Père Etienne’s crucifix.”

  “I didn’t know about that,” said Baby.

  Ava nodded. “The crucifix is gone. Just disappeared into thin air.” She made a skimming gesture with her hand and said, “Pfft.”

  “That’s news to me,” said Baby.

  “It was rather admirable on Byrle’s part,” said Ava.

  “But still a heinous outcome,” said Baby.

  “Baby, can I get you something to eat? Gumbo and a slice of bread?” asked Carmela.

  Baby loosened the blue silk scarf from around her throat. “Sure, honey, that would be nice. Del’s on a business trip, so I’ve just been rattling around all by myself.”

  Carmela brought out a tray of food for Baby and restarted her CD, grateful that things had finally settled down to a dull roar.

  “What have you heard from Babcock?” Baby asked, between bites.

  “He’s been a champ,” said Carmela. “When he found out Ava and I were at the church this morning, he definitely took an interest.”

  “And when he found out Byrle was a friend of ours,” said Ava, “he promised to jump right on the case.”

  “That’s wonderful!” said Baby.

  Carmela gave a strangled smile. Babcock hadn’t promised that at all. In fact, he’d been a little noncommittal. But it wouldn’t help to assuage Baby’s grief if she told her that.

  “And Babcock’s keeping you in the loop?” Baby asked Carmela.

  Again Ava jumped in. “You can count on Carmela to get the straight poop. Right from the horse’s mouth.”

  “Wrong end,” Carmela muttered.

  But Ava’s confidence in Babcock helped relax Baby. That and the wine.

  “Besides staying in the loop on the investigation,” said Baby, gazing at Carmela, “I have another favor to ask.”

  “If you want a refund for Wednesday’s calligraphy class,” said Carmela, “no problem. I understand completely if you’re just not up for it.”

  “No,” said Baby, “that’s not it at all.”

  “Then what?” asked Carmela.

  Baby fidgeted. “After everything that’s happened today, this is going to sound awfully frivolous.”

  “Come on, honey,” urged Ava, “just spit it out. You’ll feel better.”

  Baby took a quick sip of wine and aimed a lopsided smile at Carmela. “You know I’m chairperson of this year’s Holidazzle Tour,” she began. The Holidazzle Tour was a walking tour of holiday-themed homes in the upscale Garden District.

  “Okay,” said Carmela.

  “And one of my Holidazzle homes just fizzled out on me.” Baby squinted, then corrected herself. “Actually, Madge and Bryan LeBeau, the owners of the home, are in the throes of getting a divorce . . .”

  “You’re saying the dazzle went out of their marriage,” said Ava.

  “Something like that,” said Baby. “Actually, Madge caught Bryan with a . . .” She cleared her throat. “. . . A girlfriend, but that’s beside the point.”

  “Actually, that’s sort of interesting,” said Ava.

  Baby plunged on ahead. “So I was wondering, Carmela, if you’d agree to decorate your Garden District house for the Holidazzle Tour?”

  Carmela didn’t hesitate. “Oh no. I couldn’t.” The Garden District house had been Shamus’s home originally and the one she’d finally received in their long, drawn-out divorce settlement. And now that she had it and wasn’t even living there, she had to figure out what to do with it. Sell it, keep it, burn it down?

  Baby looked disappointed. “You did Holidazzle once before.”

  “Sure,” said Carmela, “but that was different. That was when Shamus and I were still married.” She shuddered at the thought of Shamus, who worked a cushy job doing little to nothing as vice president at his family’s chain of Crescent City Banks. “Now I’m not even living there.”

  “So much the better,” drawled Baby. “You won’t have to worry about hordes of visitors tromping through and disturbing your privacy.”

  “Baby . . . ,” said Carmela, sounding pained.

  “It would only be for two weekends,” Baby pointed out. Clearly, she didn’t want to take no for an answer.

  Carmela let loose a deep sigh. Decorate her empty house for the Holidazzle Tour? How would that work, anyway? Could you really make an empty home look all cheery and holiday happy? Or would it just end up looking staged and empty?

  “I could help you decorate, cher,” volunteered Ava. “You know how much I love holidays.”

  “Thanks a bunch,” said Carmela, “but your favorite holiday is Halloween. You’re the one who goes all misty eyed over goblins and witches.”

  Ava gave an energetic nod. “That’s all true, but I can work up some Christmassy spirit if I have to.”

  Carmela looked skeptical. “Not like you do for Halloween.”

  “How about this,” said Ava, “I could try.”

  “See?” said Baby, nodding her approval. “Ava’s on board.”

  “Whoop-de-doo,” said Carmela.

  “Come on,” urged Ava. “Be a sport.”

  Carmela looked at Ava, then turned her gaze on Baby. She looked so sad and bereft, how could Carmela not say yes?

  “Okay, you win,�
� said Carmela. “Yes.”

  Baby broke out in a wide grin. Good-hearted Carmela, who’d pretty much been on the hook the whole time, had needed only a gentle tug. “And remember,” said Baby, “all the proceeds go to charity.”

  “Which one this year?” asked Ava.

  “Rescued sea turtles,” said Baby. “All those poor little sweeties who are still being plucked from the oily swamps and wetlands. The loggerheads, hawksbills, and leatherbacks.” Baby had a soft spot in her heart for turtles and even had a pet snapping turtle named Sampson who tolerated no one but her.

  “Ohhh,” said Ava, turning imploring eyes on Carmela. “Turtles. Now you have to do it!”

  “Okay, okay,” said Carmela. Hard to argue with the both of them. Even harder to argue against charity for turtles.

  “Then it’s a fait accompli,” declared Baby. “Ava will help decorate and I shall list your home on the official Holidazzle Tour program.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Baby had departed and both Carmela and Ava were beginning to yawn. The day’s events had finally caught up to them, frazzling and fraying their nerves.

  Ava stood up, stretched her arms above her head, and said in a slightly hopeful tone, “Maybe we should go back to St. Tristan’s tomorrow and take a look around.”

  Carmela stared at Ava. She knew that take a look around was code for snooping. “What do you think we’re going to find? Some kind of clue? A suspicious person skulking around the back alley?”

  Ava shook her head. “Nothing that obvious. But maybe, just maybe, we can pick up a vibe or two.”