Skeleton Letters

by Laura Childs

  “Ex-wife,” said Carmela, eager to set the record straight.

  Fried snapped his fingers. “In fact, you’re going to be part of Open Door this Sunday at the Art Institute. Something to do with children’s art, if I recall correctly?”

  “That’s right,” said Carmela. “My friend Jekyl Hardy and I curated a small show of children’s art, in conjunction with the Children’s Art Association.”

  “It’s going to be a grand day,” said Fried, unwinding a black-and-yellow-striped scarf from around his neck. “There’s nothing more inspiring than attracting a whole new crowd of people to the museum. Helps to feed the hunger in their souls.”

  Carmela figured that while they were conversing politely, it wouldn’t hurt to slip in a question or two. “I understand,” she said, “that you were here yesterday morning.” When Fried just stared at her, she added, “Your choir practice had just concluded . . . right before the murder?”

  Fried peered sharply at her, a question hovering on his bland face. “I wasn’t here—here, if that’s what you mean. According to the time line the police gave me, we’d apparently finished choir practice something like ten minutes before poor Mrs. Coopersmith met her untimely end.”

  “So you were already gone,” said Carmela. “Out the door?”

  Fried suddenly looked a little less friendly. “Yes, that’s correct. Didn’t I just say that?”

  “I was simply clarifying,” said Carmela.

  “And your interest is . . . ?” said Fried.

  “Byrle was a friend,” said Carmela.

  “A good friend,” added Ava.

  “And you two ladies have taken it upon yourselves to investigate her murder,” said Fried, in a slightly acerbic tone. “How commendable.”

  “That’s right,” said Ava.

  “Not exactly,” said Carmela.

  Fried squinted at them. “Which is it?”

  Ava was quick to backtrack. “Really, we’re just curious. Because we knew her so well.”

  Fried pursed his lips and shook his head in disapproval. “You know what they say, don’t you?” He let loose a dry chuckle. “Curiosity killed the cat.”

  “But you know what they say about cats,” said Carmela.

  Fried lifted his chin ever so slightly. “Pray tell, what is that?”

  Carmela offered him a thin smile. “Nine lives.”

  “Rain let up,” said Ava, as they stepped outside.

  “Thank goodness,” said Carmela, as she pulled her suede jacket closed and buttoned it. “Maybe we’ll both enjoy a good spurt of customers today.” They hotfooted it down the side alley, came out on Chartres Street, then cut over toward Jackson Square.

  Andrew Jackson was balanced astride his fine horse as he had been for the past 158 years, tipping his hat and looking jaunty, while all around his statue, cadres of painters, psychics, cartoonists, street performers, musicians, and panhandlers set up shop for their daily gig. Jackson Square was a crazy quilt of street vendors who plied their trade for eager tourists who flocked to the square each day hoping to get a taste of the real French Quarter.

  Gazing across Decatur Street, Carmela could see steam rising off the Mississippi and noted that the paddle wheeler Jeremiah was taking on a load of passengers.

  “This place gets crazier every time I come here,” Ava observed.

  “But tourists love it,” said Carmela. “So much going on.”

  “Dear ladies,” crooned a raven-haired woman in a red frilly blouse and long, purple crinkle skirt, “come see what fate has in store for you.” The lady was perched at a card table swagged in black velvet. A small crystal globe sat enticingly before her. A second folding chair sat ready for her first customer of the day.

  Ava stopped in her tracks. “Eyyy . . . you’re a psychic?”

  The woman gave a knowing and sage nod.

  “Maybe we should ask her about the murder,” said Ava.

  Carmela gave a warning look and a quick shake of her head. “Maybe not.”

  “The murder,” said the woman, pouncing immediately. “The one at St. Tristan’s Church yesterday?”

  “That’s the one,” said Ava. She pointed a finger at the woman and declared, “You’re good.”

  “Oh please,” said Carmela. “She probably read the newspaper when she sipped her morning coffee. Just like everyone else did.”

  “Still . . . ,” said Ava, focusing her attention on the psychic. “Maybe her insight could help us get a leg up.”

  “You were there?” asked the psychic. “At the murder scene?”

  “You see . . . ,” began Ava.

  “Excuse me,” Carmela said to the woman. “But you’re the psychic. Why don’t you tell us?”

  The woman gazed at Carmela for a few moments, and then her eyes seemed to fill with a knowing light. “Yes, you were there yesterday.” Her head bobbed eagerly as she stared into her crystal ball. “The two of you saw the murder take place.”

  “But we didn’t . . . ,” began Carmela.

  The woman held up a finger. “I didn’t say you saw the murderer. I said you saw it take place.”

  “She’s right,” said Ava, excitedly.

  “Okay,” said Carmela, “if you can see us witnessing the murder, can you also see the killer?”

  The psychic wove her hands slowly above her crystal ball. “Brown,” she said.

  A little startled, Carmela said, “What else do you see?”

  “Profound sadness,” said the psychic.

  “Pretty close,” said Ava. She seemed to run a couple of permutations in her head, then said, “You know, I could use a good psychic at Juju Voodoo. That’s my shop, just a few blocks from here. I’m pretty well set for tarot card readers and mediums, but we’re skimpy on psychics.”

  “I could come in a couple of days a week,” offered the woman. “Do readings for your customers. Crystal ball, auras, palmistry, whatever you want. I offer quite a repertoire.”

  “Sounds perfect,” said Ava. “Uh . . . what’s your name?”

  “Madame Eldora Blavatsky,” said the woman.

  Ava looked surprised. “Seriously? That’s your given name?”

  “Actually it’s Ellie Black,” said the woman, “but Eldora is my stage name.”

  “You worked onstage?” asked a skeptical Carmela.

  The woman shrugged. “One of the casinos over in Biloxi. I had a five-day gig.”

  “Good enough,” said Ava. “So . . . you have a business card?” She winked as she flashed a wry grin. “Or should I just send out a few thought waves?”

  Eldora snapped open a purple velvet purse and reached in. “I have a card.”

  Chapter 8

  “YOU’RE here,” exclaimed Gabby. She seemed surprised that Carmela had turned up at the shop this morning.

  “I told you I’d be here,” said Carmela, peeling off her jacket.

  “I know,” said Gabby, looking concerned, “but I still thought you might take the day off. After . . . you know . . . the stress of what happened yesterday.”

  “You’re probably going to think this is totally whacked,” said Carmela, “but Ava and I stopped by St. Tristan’s this morning for a quick look-see.”

  Gabby seemed stunned. “You went back to the murder scene? Why on earth would you do that?”

  Carmela gave an embarrassed shrug. “Ava wanted to look for clues.”

  “Oh.” Gabby digested this for a few moments. “Did you find any?”

  “No, but we did run into a couple of people who were there yesterday.”

  Gabby put her elbows on the front counter and leaned forward with sudden interest. “Like who?”

  “Norton Fried, the choir director, for one. He was kind of pussyfooting around.”

  “Okay,” said Gabby.

  “According to Babcock, Fried had just concluded choir practice some five minutes before Byrle was killed.”

  “But you don’t think he would . . . I mean . . . isn’t Fried a stand-up guy?” asked Gabby
. “He’s forever being written up in the paper for taking his choir to one or another international chorale.”

  “I always thought he was an okay guy,” said Carmela.

  “So who else did you run into?”

  “Strangely enough,” said Carmela, “the one who really got us wondering was the mysterious Brother Paul.”

  Gabby looked vaguely taken aback. “Who’s Brother Paul, and why is he so mysterious?”

  “He’s some guy who works at St. Tristan’s. And he’s mysterious because we found him creeping around in the basement.”

  “You went down in the basement?” said Gabby, looking wide-eyed.

  Carmela nodded. “We were scoping out another possible exit. Because, you know, maybe that’s how the killer got away.”

  “Did you find one?”

  Carmela shook her head. “Not really. We kind of lost our momentum once we ran into Brother Paul.”

  “Did you talk to this Brother Paul?”

  “Tried to,” said Carmela. “But when we threw a couple of questions at him, he mumbled something about Seekers and took off.”

  “Seacoast?” said Gabby.

  “I’m pretty sure he said Seekers,” said Carmela, enunciating more clearly. “But don’t ask me what that means, because I have no earthly clue.”

  “Maybe he really said secrets,” Gabby speculated. “Maybe he was trying to point you toward someone in particular, a suspect maybe, but was too afraid to come right out and say it.”

  “He didn’t seem afraid,” said Carmela. “But I want to tell you, when Brother Paul came creeping out of the shadows in that basement, he sure scared the bejeebers out of me!”

  Carmela and Gabby spent the next twenty minutes sorting through a new shipment of rubber stamps that had just arrived, all with a sort of Renaissance theme.

  “Look at this,” said Gabby, holding up a minstrel strumming a lyre. “It’s perfect for Mardi Gras.”

  “Our customers are gonna love this stuff,” said Carmela, feeling the first spark of happiness that she’d felt in two days. This was, after all, what it was all about. Preserving photos and memories through scrapbook pages. Creating lovingly crafted handmade goods in an era of foreign-made products and instant gratification.

  “Tandy!” said Gabby, looking up as she unwrapped more rubber stamps. “Hello!”

  Tandy Bliss, five feet two and 105 pounds soaking wet, walked stolidly into Memory Mine, her scrapbook tote slung over one skinny shoulder. She was followed by another woman, a studious-looking middle-aged blonde, who wore a neatlooking green suit and carried a leather briefcase.

  “I heard,” said Tandy, greeting Carmela with a big smooch on the cheek and a bear hug that belied her small stature. “I heard you were there.” She followed that up with a hug for Gabby.

  “You talked to Baby?” Carmela asked.

  Tandy bobbed her tight frizzle of red hair. “A couple of times. She called me last night, after she dropped by to see you, and we spoke again this morning. About an hour ago.”

  “This whole thing about Byrle is so awful,” lamented Gabby.

  “Agreed,” said Tandy, focusing sharp, birdlike eyes on Carmela. “But Baby informed me that Carmela promised to try to pry all the latest case developments out of Detective Babcock.”

  “Try being the operative word,” said Carmela. He’d been pretty tight-lipped about the case yesterday, and she didn’t foresee Babcock changing his mind.

  “In that case,” said Tandy, “may I present you with what might just be a secret weapon for your arsenal.” She smiled widely, showing her small teeth, then said, “Marilyn?”

  The woman in the green suit stepped forward with an expectant look.

  “This is Marilyn Casey,” said Tandy. “We met a couple of months ago when she spoke at my book club.”

  “How do,” said Marilyn, giving a tentative wave.

  “Hi,” said Gabby.

  “Nice to meet you,” said Carmela.

  Tandy continued with her introduction. “Marilyn’s a local author who’s been writing a mystery set in and around the French Quarter. The working title is Big Easy Dead and it’s loosely based on a particularly grisly murder that took place in the Exeter Hotel.” Tandy drew an excited breath. “But now Marilyn’s going to expand her story—I think you call that a subplot—and write in Byrle’s murder at St. Tristan’s, and maybe even the theft of the crucifix!”

  Marilyn gave a vigorous nod, like she might be a tad overcaffeinated. “Last night, after I devoured everything I could find on the news, I sat down and wrote almost thirty pages! And this morning there was even more on the television news.”

  “I guess you’re not bothered by writer’s block,” said Gabby, moving around the counter and edging closer to the little group, the better to hear.

  “Not with all the material I have,” gushed Marilyn. “Plus the Times-Picayune had extensive coverage of the murder in this morning’s edition.”

  “I’m curious,” said Carmela, “are you writing fiction or true crime?”

  “That’s the crazy thing,” said Marilyn, taking on a slightly wild-eyed look. “My book started out as fiction, but now it’s definitely taken a turn toward true crime!”

  “Really,” said Carmela. She wasn’t sure how she felt about Byrle’s murder being part of a book. No, that wasn’t quite right. She knew exactly how she felt. She didn’t much like it at all. “Is this something you really feel the need to do?” Carmela asked Marilyn. “I mean . . . she’s our friend and her murder is still unsolved . . .” She stopped, aware that everyone was suddenly focused on her.

  Tandy suddenly looked both puzzled and disappointed. “You’re bothered by this?” she asked. “Because, frankly, I thought you’d be thrilled. The fact that Marilyn’s writing a book is going to allow her access to police files.”

  “You really think so?” said Carmela. She didn’t think so.

  Tandy grabbed Carmela’s hand and gave a hard squeeze. “Oh, absolutely, honey. Plus, the Times-Picayune is going to do a write-up on the fact that Marilyn’s integrating the murder into her book. Oh gosh, we thought you’d totally buy into the idea!” Tandy hesitated. “Now I feel like bringing Marilyn here was a huge boo-boo on my part.” Tandy looked ready to cry, and Marilyn just looked embarrassed.

  Carmela weighed the idea for another few moments. Maybe she had made a rush to judgment? Marilyn’s book might fan the flames and keep everyone on their toes—police, witnesses, and suspects. Plus, if Marilyn was busy bugging Babcock and the rest of the homicide department for details, wouldn’t that be a great smoke screen for her? Leave her free to conduct her own quiet investigation? Yes, it might at that.

  “You know what, guys?” said Carmela. “Forget what I just said. I think I’m way guilty of overreacting.” She focused her gaze on Marilyn. “It’s just that Byrle was such a good friend to us. We’re all still a little dazed and confused.”

  “We sure are,” said Tandy. She smiled at Carmela. “So you don’t mind about the book?”

  “No, I don’t,” said Carmela. “And you’re right; Marilyn’s prodding away at the police might be a good thing.”

  “We’d just hope the book would be done tastefully,” said Gabby, jumping in.

  “Oh, you have my complete assurance on that,” said Marilyn. “In fact, I’d be happy to run a few chapters by you. But only if you wanted to read them,” she added hastily.

  “I’d love to,” said Carmela. “When they’re ready.”

  “That sounds more than fair,” said Gabby, ever the peacemaker.

  “So we’re good?” asked Tandy, glancing from Marilyn to Carmela.

  “I was way too hasty,” Carmela said again. She smiled at Marilyn. “Apologies.”

  Marilyn held up a hand. “No apology necessary. And I certainly didn’t mean to burst in on you and upset the apple cart. Really, I know you all must be absolutely heartbroken, losing a dear friend like that.”

  “Since we’re not busy yet,” said Ga
bby, “and I see Tandy brought along a pan of her famous chocolate streusel bars . . . maybe we could all enjoy one with a cup of tea?”

  “Tea would be great,” said Carmela, exhaling.

  “So you’re really okay with Marilyn’s book?” Gabby asked, once Tandy and Marilyn had left.

  “I guess so,” said Carmela. “It was just a little . . . unsettling. That’s all.”

  “But maybe in a good way?” asked Gabby.

  “Maybe,” said Carmela.

  “Anything that pulls attention to a murder case is probably a good thing in the long run,” said Gabby.

  “I suppose.” Carmela spun out a length of ribbon, grabbed a punch, and made two quick holes.

  “You okay? You seem to have a lot on your mind.”

  “I was just thinking about Holidazzle,” said Carmela.

  “What about Holidazzle?” Gabby asked, eager to change the subject.

  “Baby asked me to put the Garden District house on the Holidazzle Tour.” For some reason she always referred to it as “the Garden District house” instead of “my Garden District house.” Classic disassociation, probably. Too many bad memories.

  “I think that’s a splendid idea,” said Gabby. “It’s a perfectly wonderful home for decorating. Plus it’s a good excuse to get you over there and fix in your mind exactly what you want to do with that place. Keep it or sell it.” Gabby knew how much Carmela had been struggling with that decision.

  “There’s only one problem,” said Carmela.

  “What’s that?”

  “A home that isn’t lived in isn’t very holidazzling.”

  “I don’t see that as a huge problem,” said Gabby. “We both know who’d be happy to lend an artful hand.”

  “You mean Ava? She’s already thrown in as a volunteer.” Carmela chuckled. “Or maybe it’s slave labor.”

  Gabby shook her head. “I’m thinking of someone else.” She gave a slightly mysterious smile. “Who do you know that carries paint chips in his wallet and fabric swatches in his car?”

  “Um . . . Jekyl?” said Carmela. Jekyl Hardy, her friend and co-conspirator in the Children’s Art Association, was in real life a professional float designer, antiques appraiser, and allaround arbiter of exquisite taste. His palatial apartment in the to-die-for Napoleon Gardens was a belle époque tour de force with mahogany floors, tinkling crystal chandeliers, and dark blue shellacked walls that displayed antique smoked mirrors in gilded frames. Both the living and dining rooms boasted high-backed leather couches as well as overstuffed chairs slipcovered in rich brocades and dark damask fabrics.