Skeleton Letters

by Laura Childs

  After a quick introduction of Ava, Ava smiled warmly and said, “Oh sure, Tandy told me about you. You’re in her . . .”

  “Book club,” finished Marilyn.

  “But now Marilyn’s an author,” said Carmela. “Writing a French Quarter mystery.”

  “I think,” said Marilyn, “I’m still technically a writer.” The corners of her mouth twitched and she gave a wry smile. “Author status is probably conferred after a person gets published.”

  “I never thought of it that way,” said Ava. “But you may be right.”

  “You hear anything more?” Marilyn asked, focusing her gaze on Carmela.

  Carmela shook her head. “Not really.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Ava, suddenly snapping her fingers, “you’re the one writing the murder mystery. And”—Ava glanced sideways at Carmela, looking for confirmation—“incorporating some of the facts about Byrle?”

  “Trying to work it in,” admitted Marilyn, “but there’s not a lot of information that’s come out yet.”

  “No,” said Ava. “There’s darn little. But . . . you never know.” Marilyn nodded and started to slide away from them. “But hey,” Ava called after her, “if we hear anything we’ll cut you in.”

  “Appreciate that,” Marilyn called back.

  “Her book could be a good thing,” said Ava, as they headed to greet Baby.

  “You think so?”

  “Sure,” said Ava. “Marilyn starts asking questions, snooping around the French Quarter and all, she just might shake something loose.”

  “Carmela!” cried Baby. She threw her arms around Carmela, giving her a big embrace followed by a hard but friendly squeeze. Ava and Rain stood rigidly to one side, eyeing each other with frosty disdain. In fact, Rain looked like she was about ready to spit a rat.

  “Your reading of Emily Dickinson was wonderful,” Carmela told Baby, as her friend loosened her grip.

  Baby raised a manicured hand to the pink Chanel scarf that floated airily about her neck. “Really? Because I was so doggone nervous standing up there. I suppose partly because we were in church . . . and also because so many people showed up.”

  “A full house,” Rain said, through tightly clenched lips.

  “You know,” said Baby, reaching out to touch Carmela’s elbow again, “we were just talking about you.”

  Carmela glanced over at Rain. “Really? I’m a hot topic of conversation?”

  “I was just telling Rain,” continued Baby, “that it would be marvelous to invite you to our cultural advisory meeting.”

  “Marvelous,” echoed Rain, though she didn’t look one bit interested.

  But Carmela wasn’t sure what Baby was talking about.

  “Oh,” said Baby, seeing the confusion on Carmela’s face. “You don’t know.” A little pussycat grin lit her face. “Of course, you don’t know, since I only found out last night myself.” Now she fairly beamed. “The thing is, I’ve been nominated to the mayor’s Cultural Advisory Board.”

  “Congratulations,” said Ava. “It’s great to know that finally, someone with actual culture will be doing the advising.”

  “I’m not sure about that,” laughed Baby, “which is why I was hoping Carmela could join us.” She hesitated. “Could you? Tomorrow night at my house?”

  “She’d love to come,” piped up Ava. “Wouldn’t you, Carmela?”

  “If you think I would be of help,” said Carmela, “then sure. I’ll be happy to join you.”

  “Then it’s settled,” said Baby. She put a hand gently on Ava’s shoulder. “And you come, too, sweetie. For fun.”

  Ava aimed a mirthless smile at Rain, showing her eyeteeth in the process. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world!”

  Carmela had just buttonholed Norton Fried, the choir director, when she suddenly became aware of Babcock circling the outer fringes of the mourners’ group.

  “Excuse me?” said Carmela, blinking at Fried. “What did you say?”

  Fried assumed a put-upon expression and repeated his words: “I said I’m worried that no one suspect sticks out.”

  “That worries me, too,” said Carmela. “Because, personally, I think three or four good suspects have emerged. So it’s difficult to narrow it down to just one.”

  Fried reared back as if he’d been slapped in the face. “Are you serious? You’re telling me there are actual suspects? I didn’t realize there were any besides that awful delivery driver.” His brows beetled together and he leaned forward as if inviting Carmela to share a confidence. “Can you give me any names?”

  Carmela shook her head slowly, as if the whole notion saddened her deeply. “I think that might be awfully premature,” she told him. “And, really, it’s just personal speculation on my part.” She gazed over Fried’s left shoulder and saw that Babcock had edged closer, a bemused expression dancing across his handsome face.

  “I understand,” said Fried, looking grim. “You wouldn’t want to cast aspersions on someone who was entirely innocent.”

  “Excuse me,” said Carmela, slipping past Fried and hurrying to join Edgar Babcock. “Hey, you,” she said, touching a hand to his lapel. Of course, if she’d had her druthers, she would have planted a big old smackeroo right on his face.

  Babcock smiled at her. “Hey, yourself.”

  “You were here?” she asked. “At the service?”

  Babcock shrugged. “Sitting in the back, tucked artfully behind a pillar.”

  “Did any fresh ideas percolate?”

  “Nope.”

  “So you’re not really any closer?” she asked. “You haven’t settled on any particular suspect or suspects?”

  Now Babcock assumed a grumpy expression. “We pretty much had to kick the delivery guy loose.”

  “Why? I thought he was your primo guy.”

  “Couldn’t pin anything on him,” said Babcock. “Anything of substance, that is.”

  “Even though the guy’s got a record?”

  “As long as your arm,” said Babcock. “Still . . . no concrete evidence. As far as this case goes, anyway.”

  “What about DNA?” Carmela asked. “Maybe some of Byrle’s skin or hair was caught under his fingernails.” Was she really having this conversation outside a church? Yes, she was. And at the scene of the crime, no less.

  Babcock shrugged. “Doubtful.”

  “Still,” Carmela persisted, “you ran all your little CSI tests, didn’t you?”

  “We did, yes, but . . .” Babcock shrugged. “It’s going to take a while to process.”

  Carmela found that hard to believe. “Really? I thought you guys could do an analysis . . . like . . . overnight.”

  Babcock gave a rueful smile. “You shouldn’t believe all that whiz-bang, rush-rush stuff you see on TV.”

  “Oh, but I do,” said Carmela. Shows like CSI, Law & Order, and Castle fascinated her. So did reality shows that featured medical examiners and former FBI profilers. A little macabre, perhaps, but they also delivered an interesting jolt of reality.

  “Unfortunately,” said Babcock, “when citizens think we can work magic, that just puts more pressure on the police.”

  “So what now?” asked Carmela, wondering if she should share her suspicions with him. Her unrest about Norton Fried and Brother Paul. The innuendos Brother Paul had dropped about the Seekers. On the other hand, maybe not. Better to just keep snooping by herself.

  “I had a meeting with the police commissioner this morning,” said Babcock, “and it looks like we’re going to ask the media for help. It’s something I don’t relish doing, but if they can get the word out . . . maybe we can begin to find a crack in this case.”

  Carmela wasn’t enthusiastic about the media. “If you ask me,” said Carmela, “TV people only want to get the word out to the public if they also get a big, juicy slice of the story.”

  “I understand that,” said Babcock. “Still, it’s what my boss decided. So we put the facts out there and ask the public for help. Did they s
ee anything? Do they know anything? If so, please call the tip line. That type of thing.”

  “Won’t you get tons of crank calls?” asked Carmela.

  Babcock rolled his eyes. “You have no idea.”

  “Just be careful,” Carmela warned. “Any time you deal with the media, it can come back to bite you in the butt.”

  Chapter 16

  INSTEAD of heading for Memory Mine, Carmela dashed back to her apartment, jumped in her car, and sped off for the New Orleans Art Institute. Since she and Jekyl were official participants this coming Sunday, she’d put together some handouts that detailed the workings of the Children’s Art Association, and she wanted to drop them off with Angela Boynton, one of the organizing curators.

  So, a quick trip, Carmela thought to herself, as she nosed her car into the small parking lot that adjoined the museum. If only she could find . . . ah, a white Lexus was just backing out. Perfect.

  Moments later Carmela was breezing down the marble hallway, feeling upbeat and thrilled to sip the heady and intoxicating aura of oil paintings, sculpture, and fine drawings. When she reached a door marked Curatorial B, she knocked twice, then popped her head into the small office.

  “Is Angie around?” she asked the occupant, a curator who worked in the textile division and shared the small office with Angie. An office that was bursting with posters, brochures, Japanese obis, small Buddhist sculptures, a wall of books, and another wall where a red-and-purple brocade wedding kimono hung from a bamboo rod.

  “Down the hall,” said the woman. “She’s supervising a hanging in the Price Gallery.”

  “Thanks.” Carmela pulled the door shut and continued down the main corridor. She slowed as she passed a glass display case filled with French antiques. It was truly gorgeous stuff: a pair of ornate cobalt-blue vases, a Napoleon III rosewood-and-maple jardinière, and a Falence charger.

  She walked slowly to the next case, admiring a silver dagger and then a silver chalice.

  And that was where Carmela’s progress suddenly ground to a halt. Because on the small white card in front of the chalice, way at the bottom, was a single line that caught her attention: Donated by Norton Fried.

  What? Norton Fried donated this silver? What the . . . heck? Is he an actual collector or silver aficionado? And if so, isn’t this an interesting piece of information?

  Carmela kicked it into high gear as she continued down the hallway and spun into the Price Gallery.

  Angie was there, all right, giving advice to two museum interns who were trying to hang a large, splashy contemporary painting in a vast gallery with a thirty-foot-high ceiling.

  “A little bit lower on the left,” Angie coached. The interns fussed, struggled, moved their ladder, then seemed to get it all figured out. When they’d made their final adjustment, Angie said, “Looks good to me.”

  “Is there no end to your job description?” Carmela asked. Her voice was a hollow echo in the cavernous gallery.

  Angie turned to greet her, and a smile flashed across her lovely face. “With budgets getting slashed every six months, I’m going to be taking out the trash pretty soon,” said Angie. She was a serious-looking woman in her midthirties, with shoulder-length light brown hair, green eyes, and a slight bump on her nose that made her look interesting and highly approachable. Today Angie was dressed in a beige tweed suit with a large, of-the-moment, gold squiggle pin pinned to her lapel.

  “More money worries?” asked Carmela.

  Angie nodded. “Every day seems to get more and more challenging.”

  “The large donors aren’t kicking in like they used to?”

  “No, they’re not,” replied Angie. “They’re still running scared in this economy, just like everyone else. Sheltering assets and getting conservative.”

  “Which isn’t always a bad thing,” said Carmela.

  “It’s not,” said Angie, as they strolled down the hallway together. “A tightening of belts can be a good thing. It makes you more mindful and appreciative of what you do have.” She drew a deep breath. “Still, if the halcyon days of big private donations are over—and they just may be—then we’re all going to have to get a whole lot more creative with our fund-raising.”

  “If there’s anything I can do to help . . . ,” said Carmela.

  “Thanks,” said Angie, “I may take you up on that.”

  Carmela paused in front of the silver chalice that Norton Fried had donated. “I didn’t realize Norton Fried had donated a silver piece to the museum.”

  “Oh my, yes,” said Angie, brightening. “Quite a few, in fact. Enough to quality Mr. Fried for membership in our patrons’ circle.”

  “Really,” said Carmela. Thanks to the generosity of Shamus’s family, Carmela also enjoyed membership in that very same patrons’ circle. No big deal, really; it just meant you received invitations to gallery openings and private member events. Which entitled you to all the cheap white wine and cream cheese–stuffed cherry tomatoes you could gobble.

  Angie gazed at the silver chalice and bobbed her head with enthusiasm. “This one’s really marvelous, isn’t it? It supposedly came from Chartres Cathedral.”

  “Interesting,” said Carmela. For some reason, the notion that Fried was a silver collector was pinging unhappily inside her brain. After all, he’d been in the direct vicinity the morning Byrle had been killed. And, let’s not forget, folks, an antique silver-and-gold crucifix had gone missing.

  “But this isn’t even the best of Mr. Fried’s collection,” Angie told her.

  Carmela shook her head. “Excuse me?”

  Angie glanced around and lowered her voice. “Apparently, Mr. Fried holds the very best pieces for his personal collection.”

  “Really,” said Carmela. “Have you ever seen it? His personal collection, I mean.”

  Angie shook her head. “I don’t know that anyone has. He’s quite secretive about the whole thing.” She smiled. “But that’s the thing about collectors, isn’t it? They’re often a bit . . . quirky.”

  Carmela let this information sift through her brain. A personal collection of antique silver that was secreted away. Somehow that notion smacked of art collectors who locked stolen masterpieces inside a special vault, only to pull them out occasionally for their own personal enjoyment. Wasn’t that what happened to the Rembrandts and Degas drawings that had been stolen from the Gardner Museum in Boston? They’d supposedly been on the so-called shopping list of a private collector? That had been the rumor anyway. The rumor according to Jekyl, who lived and breathed art history mysteries.

  “Thanks,” Carmela told Angie, as she handed her the stack of flyers. She was a little distracted, and new ideas were flying around inside her brain.

  “Thank you,” said Angie, balancing the flyers. “See you on Sunday!”

  “Hey there!” Gabby called out, as Carmela breezed into the shop. “How was the funeral?”

  “Tasteful and reflective,” said Carmela, pausing at the front counter. “And very, very sad.”

  “I’ll bet the church was packed with all sorts of people?” Gabby asked, as she focused bright, inquisitive eyes on Carmela.

  “Yes, it was,” said Carmela. She knew what Gabby was asking, in her subtle, roundabout way. “Unfortunately, no one stood out. Nobody, um, caught my attention.”

  “Too bad,” Gabby murmured.

  “Agreed,” said Carmela. She glanced around and saw that Memory Mine was fairly busy this morning. Two women were perusing paper samples; three more were working away at the back table. And one customer, Louise Pattinson, a sort of regular, was examining specialty paper and sealing wax.

  Carmela stowed her gear and headed for Louise. “Help you?” she asked.

  Louise spun around, surprised, with a hand on her chest. “Oh, hi, Carmela, I didn’t see you before. Probably because I’ve been so engrossed in all these wonderful papers and things.”

  “Lots of reds, bronzes, golds, and greens,” said Carmela. “Perfect for card making, you know.
Perfect for the holidays.”

  “That’s what I was thinking,” said Louise. “I’d love to create my own greeting cards, but . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “But you don’t know where to start?”

  Louise looked glum. “That’s about the size of it.”

  “Card making is easier than you think,” said Carmela.

  “But all that measuring and cutting,” said Louise, looking askance.

  “No way,” said Carmela, pulling down a package of blank white note cards and envelopes. “Just use these and add your own embellishments.”

  Louise still wasn’t convinced. “Such as?”

  Carmela grabbed a second pack of wine-red note cards. “Better yet, start with something really festive like these red note cards. Then maybe stencil on a gold fleur-de-lis.” She reached over, grabbed a spool of wine-colored velvet ribbon, and spun it out. “Attach a bit of ribbon to the front of your card, use a dab of gold sealing wax in the center, and maybe stamp it with an angel seal.”

  “Ooh, I love that,” cooed Louise. “And not so tricky.”

  “Or,” said Carmela, “you can cut a few rough pieces of red brocade fabric, stick them inside your card, and then add a romantic photo or sentiment surrounded by bits of lace. And if you really want to kick things up a notch, just arrange two pieces of contrasting brocade fabric, one a bit smaller than the other, then add an even smaller piece of vellum, and then . . .”

  “Add my photo and lace,” finished Louise.

  “That’s right,” said Carmela. “That will give you lots of interesting layers and textures.”

  “You’re giving me some wonderful ideas,” said Louise. “Got my brain percolating.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” said Carmela. She grinned, then moved off to help another customer, feeling more than a little fulfilled.

  That was what this business was all about, of course. Helping people express their creativity, helping to open their eyes to all the various fun possibilities. And, if a customer needed a little nudge in the right direction, well, that was really the best part of owning a scrapbook shop, wasn’t it?