by Laura Childs
“Jekyl would be my first choice,” said Gabby. “Of course, he’s always a little whirlwind with his antiques appraisal business, so there’s no telling if he even has time to do it.”
“But Jekyl is wild for decorating,” said Carmela, liking the idea. “In fact, he once tried to persuade the post office down on Bourbon Street to paint their walls aubergine and then add a crackle glaze.”
“I’d say he’s your man.”
“I’m going to call him.”
“Do it now,” said Gabby, “before we get too busy.”
“You rang?” said a warm baritone voice in Carmela’s ear.
Carmela smiled to herself. She could pretty much picture Jekyl sitting at his antique spinet desk. Rail-thin, dressed completely in black, with his long dark hair pulled back in a severe ponytail, the better to accentuate his pale, oval face.
“Jekyl, it’s Carmela . . .”
“Oh my goodness!” cried Jekyl. “It really is you. I was just sitting here sipping an espresso and scanning the morning paper. How awful is it about your friend Byrle!”
“Really awful,” agreed Carmela.
“And you were there!” said Jekyl. “An actual witness! Seriously, the whole thing gives me the shivers!”
“Ditto,” said Carmela.
“So, tell me, have you put on your little Sherlock Holmes cap and resolved to track down the perpetrator?”
“Not exactly,” said Carmela, though she knew that he knew she probably would.
“That’s quite an understatement coming from you,” said Jekyl. “Carmela, dear, I know you. You were probably skulking around that church bright and early this morning searching for clues.”
Whoa. He really did know her.
“Now that you bring it up . . . ,” said Carmela.
“On the other hand,” said Jekyl, “you’ve got your own little direct pipeline to the police. With your own little hippocket detective.”
“I wish,” said Carmela.
“Still,” said Jekyl, sympathy evident in his voice, “it’s a terrible tragedy.” He paused. “Do you know when the funeral is?”
“Baby thought maybe Thursday,” said Carmela.
“Well, do let me know, will you?”
“Of course,” said Carmela. She cleared her throat. “What I really called about is a little home-decorating advice.”
“You’re not serious,” said Jekyl. “Don’t tell me you’re finally going to put that white elephant of a house up for sale? Be still my heart.”
“It’ll go on the market eventually, yes,” said Carmela. “But not until after the holidays. You see, Baby twisted my arm and now the Garden District house is officially part of the Holidazzle Tour.”
“Ewwww,” said Jekyl. “Wherein all the have-nots get to amble through the rich folks’ homes and turn pea green with envy?”
“When you put it that way,” said Carmela, “it doesn’t sound very . . . democratic. Besides, judging from my apartment, which is furnished with the nonpareil of local scratch-and-dent rooms, you know I’m not exactly one of the rich folks.”
“No, you just married well and divorced even better,” said Jekyl. “Which is what I’d better do one of these days if I want to maintain my luxurious Rolex-Lexus lifestyle.”
Carmela chuckled. Jekyl drove a vintage 1978 Jaguar XKE, British racing green. It pretty much coughed and belched its way around town, trailing noxious exhaust fumes. Of course, it wouldn’t hurt if Jekyl deigned to change the oil once in a while and didn’t have his exhaust pipes bound up with duct tape.
“Okay,” said Jekyl, “so I don’t drive a Lexus. But my left wrist is adorned with a classic Rolex, thanks to the generosity of my dear departed uncle Aloysius. Classic meaning ‘old,’ of course.”
“Back to the house,” said Carmela. Sometimes trying to keep Jekyl on task was like herding cats. “Some serious holiday decorating is going to be needed.” She paused. “Will you help? Can you help?”
“Of course, I can, lovey,” said Jekyl. “In fact, I’m dying to get my hands on that mausoleum of yours. Unless, of course, you have your pitty-patty little heart set on . . . oh, horrors! . . . mundane red felt doorknob covers and bilious green Christmas tree skirts. In which case I’m afraid I’d have to take a pass.”
“Nothing that conventional,” said Carmela. “Fact is, I’d hang twinkle lights from the rafters if you thought it would glam up the old place.”
“Still too tacky,” purred Jekyl.
“Then how about this,” said Carmela. “I’ll give you carte blanche. You can bring in live reindeer, ice sculptures, or whatever you want.” She paused. “Of course, we’ll still need to create some sort of master plan to float past Baby.”
“Child’s play,” said Jekyl. “What say we get together at your white elephant and put our heads together for a groupthink. If you’re not going to be out clubbing later, maybe we could even get together tonight.”
“I can do tonight,” said Carmela. “Maybe sevenish?” She glanced up, saw Gabby gesturing. She had another call waiting. “Thanks, Jekyl, I really appreciate it.”
“Toodles,” said Jekyl.
Carmela immediately punched the second button. “This is Carmela, how can I help you?” She fully expected the caller to be one of her scrapbook regulars, asking if she could order some rice paper or inquiring about stencil classes. But it wasn’t. Not even close.
“Carmela?” said the voice. “Mrs. Bertrand?”
“You were right the first time. Carmela is just fine. And you are ... ?”
“This is Louise Applegate from the State Archaeology Board.”
“Okay,” said Carmela.
“I understand you were present at St. Tristan’s yesterday when Père Etienne’s crucifix was stolen?”
Carmela felt her jaw tighten so hard she was afraid she’d pop a filling. “You mean was I there when my friend Byrle was murdered?” Her tone was cool bordering on icy.
“Excuse me!” came the woman’s startled reply. “I certainly didn’t mean to imply that Mrs. Coopersmith’s death was in any way secondary. Oh my goodness, no. It was a terrible tragedy!”
Great, thought Carmela, that’s the second time today I’ve jumped down somebody’s throat for no reason. Time to do a little deep breathing and calm down! Ohmmm me, ohmmm my.
“You know what?” said Carmela, deciding to come clean. “This isn’t the first conversation I’ve had today that sent me off the deep end, and it probably won’t be the last. So apologies for overreacting and, uh, could we please start fresh?”
There was a long pause and then Louise Applegate said, “Absolutely. I was just calling to see if I could steal a few moments of your time. But if this is a bad time, and it seems like it might be, then perhaps . . .”
“No,” said Carmela, “it’s okay. Now I’m just moderately freaked out.”
“That’s understandable,” said Applegate. “I just wanted to have a short conversation with you and get some facts straight.”
“I take it,” said Carmela, “your archaeology office has some questions?”
“Yes, we do,” replied the woman, sounding relieved.
“And your office is where?” Carmela asked.
“We’re at Marais and Pauger,” responded Applegate.
“Just a few blocks away,” Carmela murmured. She glanced at her watch. “If you wanted to drop by my shop around four o’clock or so, that would work for me. You know where we are? Memory Mine on Governor Nicholls Street?”
“Of course,” said Applegate. “See you then.”
Carmela hung up the phone, took a deep breath, and spun her chair around.
“Hi,” came a deep voice.
“Eeeyh!” Carmela jerked upright as if a red-hot wire had been run up the inside of her leg.
Quigg Brevard held both hands in front of himself in an appeasing gesture. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you like that.”
“Well, you did,” said Carmela, sounding as cranky as she f
elt unsettled. Honestly, what was it in men’s DNA that caused them to sneak up and surprise women like that? Didn’t they know women hated to be spooked? Obviously they didn’t. Or maybe . . . maybe they just didn’t care. Maybe it was done in sport.
Quigg took a tentative step into her office. He was a truly handsome man; his olive complexion set off dark, snapping eyes and a sensuous mouth. With his broad shoulders and big-cat way of moving, he could almost take your breath away. Almost.
“What do you want?” Carmela asked, still feeling crabby.
“Just checking in,” said Quigg. “As you recall, we have our big media event this Saturday night.”
“Yes, yes,” said Carmela, giving a sort of offhand wave. “I’m well aware of that.”
“So is everyone we invited,” said Quigg. He grinned and showed a row of even white teeth, like Chiclets. “Can you believe we have over one hundred people coming?”
“Sounds right,” said Carmela. She’d designed the invitations, after all, and sent them out to the media as well as a restaurateur and bottle shop list they’d developed together.
“Well, it’s darned exciting,” said Quigg. He’d launched two restaurants in the last couple of years and had enjoyed a whirlwind of success that included rave reviews and a backlog of reservations. But launching St. Tammany Vineyard was a tricky proposition. These days a vintner didn’t just compete with California and European wines. Now there were more than three thousand commercial wineries, with at least one in each of the fifty states. And good wines were being imported from South Africa, Australia, and even Argentina.
“I hope you didn’t bet the farm on this vineyard venture,” said Carmela. Success in one arena didn’t necessarily guarantee success in another.
Quigg gave a laconic shrug that said, of course he had. “Go big or go home,” he told her. “That’s what I always say.”
“And I prefer to think big but take smaller steps.”
“Same goal, different philosophies,” said Quigg. His brows arched. “So you’ve got everything squared away with the folks at the Belle Vie Hotel?” He’d wanted to hold the wine tasting and launch party at one of his own restaurants, but Carmela had convinced him that the rather grand Marquis Ballroom at the Belle Vie would be an even more impressive venue. She sincerely hoped she was right.
“I’ve got a final meeting with the catering manager Thursday afternoon,” Carmela told him. “After that, we cross our fingers and cast our fate to the wind.”
“I’m all for that,” said Quigg.
“Oh,” said Carmela. “You remember you wanted to know about swag bags?”
Quigg nodded. “Yeah?” He’d wanted to give something to each guest to take home with them, a kind of remembrance of the event. Carmela had told him she’d design something only if she had time.
“Well, I came up with this.” Carmela turned back to her desk, grabbed a tubular cardboard wine carrier, and handed it to him.
“A cardboard wine carrier,” said Quigg. He juggled it in his hands, not all that impressed with its basic brown kraft-paper look.
“That was my template,” Carmela told him. She reached back and grabbed her finished piece. “And this is what it looks like when you apply design principles and glitz it up.”
“Wow!” said Quigg. Carmela had covered the cardboard tube with shiny tortoiseshell-printed paper, then added embossed gold metallic bands at the top and bottom. A polymer clay medallion of a Bacchus face was adorned with gold leaf and stuck on the very top. A parchment tag with gold lettering was attached with gold thread.
Quigg cradled the elegant wine container in his hands. “This is sexy!”
“Glad you approve,” said Carmela, handing him a small brochure. “And this promo piece gets rolled up and popped inside along with a bottle of your wine.”
“What is it?” asked Quigg.
“A three-fold brochure that basically describes your different varieties of wine. So when it’s all put together we end up with a combination swag bag and PR kit.”
“It’s so professional and artistic looking,” said Quigg, tapping the tortoiseshell paper with his thumbnail. “I’m stunned.”
“If it’s okay with you,” said Carmela, “I’ll e-mail the artwork to my service bureau and have everything printed out.”
“Just like that?”
“Your people will have to do some final wrapping and gluing on Friday, but it shouldn’t be a big deal,” Carmela told him.
Quigg was still grinning, still turning the wine container over in his hands. “I knew I could count on you,” he told her.
“No problem,” said Carmela, plucking the wine container from his hands as she stood up.
“You’re really great, you know?”
Something in his tone put Carmela on alert.
“Are you . . . still dating that beat cop?” Quigg asked. He moved a step closer to her, the better to crowd her.
“Homicide detective,” said Carmela, correcting him. “And, yes, we’re still seeing each other.” She took a half-step back, then felt her hip press tightly against the edge of her desk.
“Too bad,” said Quigg, giving a regretful shake of his head.
“Why’s that?” asked Carmela, pretty much knowing what he was going to say.
“I always figured you and I would get together,” said Quigg, giving her a deep, soulful look.
“We did get together,” Carmela reminded him. “As I recall, it wasn’t exactly love at first sight.” Or even second or third sight.
Quigg slapped a hand over his heart as if to register deep and profound shock. “Am I that big a jerk?” he asked.
Carmela smiled. “Yes. Sometimes you are.”
Chapter 9
WE really should put our heads together,” Carmela told Gabby. “Since we’ve got our calligraphy seminar tomorrow.”
Gabby set down a holiday card she’d been working on, dabbing bronze ink on the edges of the blue card stock. “I am feeling a slight flutter of worry,” she admitted, “wondering if you . . .”
“Had it all figured out?” asked Carmela.
Gabby nodded. “Do you?”
Carmela cocked her head and gazed at the front window, which held a display of silver-and-gold angels, made from an assemblage of Paperclay, papier-mâché, and filmy ribbons. “I think I do. Still, we should run through our projects and make sure we’re both on the same page.”
“That’s funny,” said Gabby. “Same page, seeing as how it’s calligraphy.”
“And tricky calligraphy at that,” said Carmela. “Skeleton letters.” She thought for a moment. “You’ve got the paper and pens set aside?”
Gabby nodded. She’d put in the order a month ago. “And we’re still going to have the two sessions, morning and afternoon?”
“Right, but most people signed up for both.”
“You mean Baby and Tandy signed up for both,” said Gabby. “Like they always do.”
“They’re hardcore crafters,” agreed Carmela. No matter what type of seminar they held at Memory Mine—Paper Moon, Memory Boxes, Card Making, or Collages—Baby and Tandy were always front and center.
“What I want to do in the morning session,” said Carmela, “is focus on teaching basic calligraphy letters. Then, in the afternoon, we’ll show them how to incorporate calligraphy into scrapbooking, cards, and decoupage.”
“Sounds like you’ve got the crafts part pretty much figured out,” said Gabby.
“Pretty much,” said Carmela.
“If you make a list of materials, I’ll start pulling paper and things right now.”
“A sensible plan,” said Carmela, as two women who were sort of regulars pushed their way into her shop. While Gabby helped one woman sort through packets of charms, Carmela helped the other woman, an older lady with spiky white hair who went by the name of Ricky.
“You’re so good at paper crafts,” said Ricky, “are you as talented at needle crafts?”
“No, I’m not,” said Carmela
. “For some reason, I’ve never been very skillful at sewing.”
“The thing is,” said Ricky, looking hopeful, “I’m trying to make fabric-covered buttons.”
“Oh,” said Carmela, “I do know how to do that.”
“Really?”
“It’s actually pretty simple,” said Carmela. “Want me to show you?”
Ricky nodded.
“First of all,” said Carmela, “you have to use a button with a shank.” Carmela reached over and grabbed a stray button, then placed it on a square of paper for demonstration purposes.
“Okay,” said Ricky.
“You lay the button on your fabric,” Carmela told her, “then draw a circle around it, allowing for a little extra fabric. You cut out your fabric circle, then take a needle and thread and do a running stitch around the edge of the circle. Once you have that done, just place your button in the middle of your fabric circle and pull the string. You’ll have to, you know, kind of ease the folds around the edge of the button and smooth it in back. But when it all looks right, just pull your thread tight and tie a knot.”
“You make it sound so easy,” said Ricky.
“Crafting doesn’t always have to be tricky,” said Carmela. She took her demo button and placed it in Ricky’s hand. “Here. Take this home and give it a try.”
“I will,” said Ricky, looking inspired.
Ten minutes later, Louise Applegate, the woman who was overseeing the dig at St. Tristan’s, dropped by.
Applegate didn’t look like an archaeologist. In fact, with her warm smile, sunny blond hair, and wrist full of gold bangles, she looked more like a housewife. But she was wearing khaki, a nicely tailored skirt and jacket with the requisite epaulets. Not exactly field gear, but it did project a certain note of archaeological authenticity.