Skeleton Letters

by Laura Childs

  A volunteer named Ruth led them into a back room where they donned long white aprons, plastic hairnets, and plastic gloves.

  “Look at this crappy outfit,” Ava complained, spinning around with her arms outstretched. “It’s like wearing a hazmat suit. Are we supposed to serve dinner or swab out the containment core of a nuclear reactor?”

  “Just think of this as quid pro quo,” said Carmela, as they walked out into the busy kitchen. “We help in the kitchen, then Brother Paul sits down with us and answers a few questions.”

  “If he keeps his word,” said Ava, bending over to sniff one of the pans that sat atop the stove. “Agh!” She straightened up. “This stuff smells like dog food!”

  “I think it’s really, um, beans?” said Carmela.

  “Awful,” said Ava.

  “Still,” said Carmela, grabbing a long-handled spoon and dipping it into the beans for a taste, “if you were homeless and hadn’t eaten for a day or two . . .” She tasted the beans, then made a face. Way too bland.

  “You know what your problem is?” said Ava. “You’re too kindhearted and always see the upside of things.”

  Carmela chuckled. “And that’s a bad thing?”

  “No, I suppose not.” Ava glanced at the beans. “Maybe . . . you should work some of your kitchen magic?”

  “Worth a try,” said Carmela. She scouted around the kitchen, found the walk-in pantry, and proceeded to grab salt, pepper, brown sugar, and a large bottle of hot sauce off the shelves. She carried it all back to the pot of beans, then added ingredients, stirred, tasted, and judiciously added some more.

  “Better now?” asked Ava.

  Carmela nodded. “Lots more savory.” She dipped a clean spoon into the beans. “Care to taste?”

  Ava held up a hand. “Pass.”

  “You ladies gonna eat those beans or serve ’em?” asked Ruth, though she said it with a good-natured smile.

  “Let’s do it,” said Carmela. She and Ava grabbed pot holders, hoisted the pot of beans off the stove, and lugged it over to the cafeteria line.

  “Good job,” said Ruth. She held up an ice-cream scoop. “Who wants to do the honors?”

  “Me,” said Ava. She dipped the scoop into the pot and, as the first folks began shuffling through the cafeteria line, proceeded to dole out big helpings of beans.

  Most of the men and a scattering of women went through the line silently. A few murmured hoarse thank-yous. To Carmela, who’d always been a champion of underdogs, it was heartbreaking. Especially in a city that thrived on parties and wild celebrations, and touted the good life with the motto Laissez les bons temps rouler. Let the good times roll.

  But not so many good times here.

  After fifteen minutes or so, Carmela took over serving, while Ava took a well-deserved break. As Carmela scooped beans, she noticed Ava sidling up to another volunteer, a man with a thatch of unruly blond hair who wore a white chef’s jacket. She grinned. A leopard didn’t change its spots, even in a homeless shelter. And Ava was definitely on the prowl.

  Five minutes later, the line dwindling, Ava came back over to see how Carmela was doing. “Everything cool?” she asked.

  Carmela nodded. “Looks like we’re ready to wrap it up.”

  Ava gave a self-satisfied smile. “Did you see that guy I was talking to?”

  “The one with the Chia Pet hair?” asked Carmela.

  Ava giggled. “Ned’s just a little avant-garde. Besides, he’s the executive director of this place.”

  “No kidding?”

  “Oh yeah,” said Ava, “he was telling me all about it. Basically, he spends most of his day as a big-time fund-raiser. Writing grants, schmoozing donors, that type of thing. He’s the one who really keeps the doors open.”

  “That’s wonderful,” said Carmela. She was always impressed by smart businesspeople who, instead of working plush jobs at big corporations, chose to bring their skills into the nonprofit sector. There had to be a special place in heaven for people like that.

  “Anyway,” said Ava, “I’m ready to hang it up. And I’m not just talking about my apron.”

  But once they’d changed back into civilian clothing, Brother Paul was busy out front, leading his flock in prayer. So Carmela and Ava took seats at the back of the room and bowed their heads, prepared to wait.

  Finally, some twenty minutes later, the prayer session concluded with a hymn, a shaky, slightly off-key rendition of “Rock of Ages.”

  Before the last note had died, Carmela sprang out of her chair and buttonholed Brother Paul. “We need to talk,” she told him, in no uncertain terms.

  “What is it you want from me?” Brother Paul asked. Now he just looked tired.

  “Information,” said Carmela. “Specifically about the rather cryptic words you spoke to us yesterday at St. Tristan’s.”

  “Which words were those?” asked Brother Paul. Now he seemed to be purposefully obtuse.

  “Seekers,” said Carmela. “When we told you we were looking into the murder of our friend Byrle, you referred to the Seekers.” She paused. “I want to know exactly what you meant.”

  “They exist,” said Brother Paul.

  “Is this a group that’s somehow affiliated with St. Tristan’s?” asked Ava.

  Brother Paul let loose a low snort.

  “Then who are the Seekers?” asked Carmela. “Please tell us.”

  “Sounds like a sixties Motown group,” said Ava. She took a step backward, bumped into someone directly behind her, and turned to apologize. Then her eyes lit up as she recognized Ned, the executive director. “Leaving so soon?” she asked. He’d changed into jeans and a blue plaid shirt.

  “Duty calls,” said Ned, giving her a longing gaze. “But do come back and visit us again, won’t you?”

  “I might just do that,” Ava told him. She spun back around, grinned at Carmela and Brother Paul, and said, “Nice guy, your executive director.”

  “You mean Roach?” said Brother Paul. “He’s one of our flock.”

  “What?” Ava screeched. “What do you mean?” Her mouth opened and closed a few times, and then she stammered out, “His name is Roach and he’s homeless?”

  Brother Paul nodded. “Temporarily between dwellings, as we like to say.”

  Ava looked stunned. “Well . . . dang.”

  Brother Paul seemed to be enjoying her discomfiture. “You never can tell about people,” he said.

  “I guess not,” said Ava.

  “Getting back to the Seekers,” said Carmela. She wasn’t impressed by Brother Paul’s slightly snide attitude that had just been revealed.

  “Ah, yes.” Brother Paul crossed his arms and looked properly attuned once more. “The Seekers are a somewhat reclusive group.”

  “I take it they’re some kind of religious organization?” said Carmela.

  “They claim to be,” said Brother Paul. “The group holds their meetings at a makeshift church just off Trempeleau Road, south of here. South of the village of Mayport.”

  “Excuse me,” said Carmela. “Are you implying they’re some sort of cult?”

  Brother Paul’s eyes seemed to gleam. “Their leader is a man by the name of Reverend Frank Crowley. But, I daresay, his title was purchased via the Internet.”

  “This is all very interesting,” said Carmela, “but why would you think these people, the Seekers, are even remotely involved?”

  “Because of the silver-and-gold crucifix,” said Brother Paul. “The Seekers’ basic coda is based on Judas’s betrayal of Christ.”

  “Excuse me?” said Carmela, trying to pull together a connection.

  Brother Paul’s voice was low and gravelly. “For thirty pieces of silver.”

  Chapter 15

  THE last vestiges of rain swirled in the downspouts outside Carmela’s apartment. This Thursday morning’s walk with Boo and Poobah had been slow and damp as the dogs picked their way miserably down the alley, trying to avoid puddles, phobic about getting their tidy little paw
s wet. And now Carmela was running late.

  Knock knock.

  “That you?” Carmela called from the bedroom. She was struggling to zip her black skirt, wondering what the problem was. Too much bread pudding with brandy sauce? Overdoing it on the cheese and crab étouffée? Naw, that couldn’t be it.

  “It’s me!” Ava called, as she let herself in. Carmela heard woofs and snorts, a sure sign the dogs were giving a proper greeting to their aunt Ava.

  “Be right out.” Carmela finally got the zipper to close, patted her tummy, and made a solemn vow. As soon as this rain lets up, we’re going to do a whole lot more walking.

  “What are you wearing, cher?” Ava called.

  “Black suit,” Carmela shouted back. At one time she’d considered the black wool Liz Claiborne outfit her power suit, but now it was just her funeral suit. “You?”

  “I’m wearing my funeral suit, too,” yelled Ava.

  Carmela dipped her hand into a small woven basket that held a nest of necklaces and fished out a single strand of pearls. She clipped them around her neck, then stared into the large, round mirror above her vanity. Did she look properly sedate? Yes. Yes, of course. Hair combed into a conservative bob, lipstick just a dash of pinky-peachy gloss, black wool suit with cuffed white blouse. On the other hand, she knew that New Orleans was a city that adored jazz funerals, jazzed-up funeral processions, and elaborate post-funeral luncheons at Brennan’s. So . . . whatever.

  “Hold everything,” Carmela exclaimed, as she emerged from her bedroom and got her first glance at Ava, “that’s what you consider a funeral suit?” Ava was wearing a black wool jacket over black leather pants. A red lacy camisole peeped from beneath the jacket. “It looks a trifle duded up to me.” Or tarted up.

  “It’s supposed to,” said Ava, putting a hand on her hip and striking a flirty pose. “This happens to be a particularly trend-conscious look for a funeral. And mark my words, it’s going to catch on.”

  Carmela shrugged. “Sure. If you say so.”

  “We gonna hotfoot it over to St. Tristan’s?” asked Ava. “Or drive?”

  Carmela peered out the window. The rain seemed to have let up for now. “Let’s walk. But we better hurry.” They hustled outside, jamming back eager dog paws as they gingerly pulled the door shut, then hurried across the courtyard and into the street.

  “You think any more about what Brother Paul said last night?” asked Ava. “About the silver?” Ava was also wearing black leather boots with playful little gold spurs decorating the heels.

  “I pretty much dreamed about it,” said Carmela. She’d been plagued with confusing, stressful dreams all night in which men in brown hooded robes whispered through deserted churches.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” said Ava, “but Brother Paul seemed to imply that the silver cross stolen from St. Tristan’s was probably coveted by the Seekers.”

  “That’s pretty much what I took away from it.”

  Ava looked angry. “He made it sound like there was some kind of cult that targeted the church. I seriously doubt that would happen!”

  “How would we know?” asked Carmela. “Since we don’t even know who these Seekers are.”

  “You think they have, like, spies?” asked Ava. “Or scouts looking for silver religious objects?”

  “Search me,” said Carmela.

  “Oh man,” said Ava, when they got within a block of St. Tristan’s. “Look at all the big black limos.”

  “But no hearse,” said Carmela. According to her family’s wishes, Byrle’s body had been cremated.

  “I think this whole thing is a little weird,” muttered Ava. “Having Byrle’s funeral in the exact spot where she was killed.”

  “Tandy said the same thing,” said Carmela. “But Baby explained it as a dust-to-dust kind of thing.”

  “Still,” said Ava, giving a little shudder, “the whole notion kind of creeps me out.”

  They each grabbed a program—the one Carmela had designed and that Baby had taken to a printer—and slipped down the center aisle, taking seats just this side of the midway point. Carmela figured it would put them in the middle of the action, with a good bird’s-eye view of all the mourners. She didn’t know what she was looking for, of course, but she had a creeping feeling that she’d know it if she saw it. If that made any sense at all.

  Ava studied the cover of her program, then said, “I love what you designed.”

  “Thank you,” said Carmela. She’d ended up using a stamp of an angel against the background of a Romanesque medieval church, then incorporated a loose freehand sketch of a heart.

  “Lots of people here,” Ava said, twisting her neck back and forth. She was tapping her foot and getting a little restless.

  “Nice she had so many friends,” Carmela whispered back.

  “They’re not all friends,” said Ava, a certain gritty tone coloring her voice. “Some of the people here are board members and such.”

  “Interesting,” said Carmela. She wondered if the church was worried about getting slapped with some kind of wrongful-death lawsuit. Could happen.

  “No, not that interesting,” said Ava. She was still clearly upset at being deposed from the Angel Auxiliary.

  A few minutes later the big pipe organ rumbled to life with a swell of notes. Then the choir chimed in with “How Great Thou Art.” Everyone scrambled to their feet and grabbed hymnals so they could sing along. Except for Carmela and Ava. Carmela wanted to observe, while Ava preferred to stage a sort of protest sit-in.

  As the notes faded away, Byrle’s sister stepped slowly down the center aisle, carrying the ashes in a tall bronze urn. When she got to the low wooden railing that separated the sanctuary from the congregation, she stopped, then placed the urn on a small table covered with a lacy white cloth. A bell tinkled and a priest in black vestments came out to conduct the burial mass.

  That was all it took for Ava. She bowed her head, made the sign of the cross, and was suddenly deeply devotional.

  Carmela touched her shoulder to Ava’s shoulder. “You okay?”

  Ava gave a vigorous bob of her head. “It’s just so darned sad,” she whispered.

  Carmela couldn’t agree more. Byrle Coopersmith had been a bright button of joy in their scrapbook shop. She always had a kind word for everyone and possessed an enthusiastic spark for scrapping and crafting. Which made Carmela all the more interested in following up on her investigation. The question, of course, was what to do next. Try to pry more information from Babcock? That was like trying to unlock a rusty old lock.

  On the other hand, Brother Paul, with all his mysterious hints and innuendos, had pretty much handed them a clue.

  The Seekers.

  Was it a clue worth following up on? Good question.

  Whatever strange group the Seekers were—religious cult, biker club, or book club—Carmela was slowly developing an itch to find out more.

  Of course, Brother Paul might just be sending them on a wild-goose chase. There was always that. But why would he do that? What would be the point? To direct suspicion away from himself? She supposed there was that possibility.

  Midway through the service, Baby walked primly up to the front of the church and did her reading. In her gray wool suit she looked fragile and small, though her cultured voice rang out through the church with great feeling.

  The service continued and then, seemingly all too soon, the giant organ rumbled to life again and the choir sang the closing hymn, “Amazing Grace.”

  Everyone clambered to their feet, while Carmela turned around and peered up into the choir loft. Norton Fried was standing there, his back to the mourners, hands cutting through the air with broad, sweeping gestures.

  And Carmela thought, Norton Fried. Up there in your little perch. I wonder.

  Ugly purple-and-gray clouds threatened to unleash a downpour. But for some reason, the rain held off. Encouraged by this small respite in the weather, many of the mourners congregated on the sidewalk outside St. Tr
istan’s, chatting among themselves.

  “Do you suppose we should go say something to Byrle’s sister?” asked Ava. “Or her husband?”

  Carmela hung back. “I don’t know. I’ve never really met them.” She glanced at the people milling about, her eyes bouncing from person to person. What she was really hoping for was . . .

  “You’re checking everybody out, aren’t you, cher?” said Ava. “Looking for suspects.” She grabbed Carmela’s hand. “Good for you!”

  “I’m not sure there are any suspects to be found here,” said Carmela, “but yes, I’m trying to get a fix on somebody . . . anybody.”

  “What about Rain Monroe over there?” said Ava. “She was hanging around the church that day, though I don’t know what her beef would have been with Byrle.”

  Carmela spun on her heels. She hadn’t noticed Rain Monroe inside the church, but now Rain was standing with Baby, talking excitedly and making broad hand gestures. “What’s she all wound up about?” Carmela wondered.

  “Don’t know,” said Ava. “Maybe we should wander over and see what we can see?”

  “Will you promise to behave?” Carmela asked Ava. Ava could be a real pill when she wanted to be.

  Ava looked supremely injured. “Me?” She touched a hand to her chest. “I’m always on my best behavior.”

  “Here’s the thing,” said Carmela, trying not to sound as if she were lecturing. “If we’re going to resolve this Angel Auxiliary thing, you’re going to have to play it cool.”

  “Okay,” Ava agreed. “I can stay frosty.”

  But before they made their move toward Baby, Marilyn Casey intercepted them.

  “Carmela!” cried Marilyn. “I thought I might find you here.”

  “Hello, Marilyn.” said Carmela. She figured the woman had probably been hunkered in the back of the church, taking frantic notes.