Skeleton Letters

by Laura Childs

  Carmela smiled to herself as she helped select foil paper for another customer, rang up a couple of sales, and greeted the FedEx man, who was delivering what was probably a whole new batch of rubber stamps. The angels, wheat bundles, and slightly biblical-looking stamps that she’d ordered for Christmas. And just in the nick of time, so to speak.

  For the most part, Carmela didn’t believe in premonitions, but standing at the front counter, pulling a package of silver and turquoise charms off a rack, she suddenly felt the tiny hairs on the back of her neck start to lift and prickle. And just when she was beginning to chide herself, just as she was telling her inner self to shrug it off, the front door flew open and Kimber Breeze from KBEZ-TV came storming in.

  “What the . . . ?” said Gabby, glancing up.

  “Oh no,” Carmela muttered, under her breath. She’d had dealings with this crazy TV reporter before.

  Lacquered blond hair swirling about her head, lips a bloodred pout, her forehead Botoxed until it was skatingrink smooth, Kimber Breeze quick-stepped toward Carmela. Her camera man, Harvey, video camera hoisted high on his shoulder, was but a half-pace behind.

  Kimber raised a microphone to her burnished lips and, without preamble, began her report. “This is Kimber Breeze for KBEZ-TV reporting live from Memory Mine scrapbook shop in the heart of the French Quarter. We’ve just been told by a highly placed police official that the owner of this small shop was an actual eyewitness to the murder of Byrle Coopersmith, who was tragically bludgeoned in the hallowed sanctity of nearby St. Tristan’s Church.”

  Kimber paused, took a deep breath, and then stuck the microphone in front of Carmela. Her look was sly and expectant.

  “No,” said Carmela.

  “No what?” said Kimber. She tried to frown, but the stiffness from the Botox injections only allowed her an expression of mild concern.

  “I wasn’t an eyewitness and I have nothing to say to you,” Carmela said, as she spun on her heels.

  Kimber grimaced, then turned to Harvey and made a slashing-finger motion across her throat.

  Nonplussed, Harvey lowered his camera and waited patiently. Harvey was no fool; he knew Kimber would poke and prod and eventually stir up her usual hornet’s nest.

  Kimber held her microphone at her side as she followed Carmela back to the craft table. “You’d be doing a public service,” Kimber cajoled. “We’ve been asked by the chief of police, no less, to assist in drawing out any additional witnesses.”

  Carmela bristled. “I told you, I wasn’t a witness.”

  “But you were there,” Kimber pushed.

  “Along with something like twenty other people,” said Carmela, “so why don’t you go pester one of them?”

  “I probably will,” said Kimber, managing a smarmy smile, “but you’re at the top of my list.”

  “Then make a new list,” said Carmela. She pulled a piece of mulberry paper from a flat file and slid the drawer shut with a bang.

  “You’re not helping,” Kimber pouted.

  “Neither are you,” said Carmela. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have customers to tend to.” Carmela brushed past Kimber, heading back toward the front counter where Gabby waited nervously.

  “Just one more question,” said Kimber, gesturing for Harvey to shoulder his camera and resume shooting.

  “No way,” Carmela called over her shoulder.

  “Please?” Kimber called, as she stumbled after her. That one word of politeness must have killed her.

  “No,” Carmela said again.

  Gabby, who’d watched the entire exchange, waggled her fingers at the intruding but hapless Kimber. “Good-bye, Kimber. Time to exit stage left.”

  “Thanks for nothing,” Kimber muttered, as she threw them both a dirty look and stalked toward the door. Her perfectly made-up face now carried red blotches; her eyes were narrow slits. Then she turned to Harvey and muttered, “Change of plans, Harv. Let’s head over to Big Haul Trucking and see if we can get something out of Johnny Otis.”

  “Sure thing,” said Harvey. He’d kept the camera up on his shoulder, ready to shoot. “You want I should get an establishing shot, just in case you can pull something usable?”

  “Do that,” said Kimber, her hand wresting open the front door.

  “No, don’t do that!” said Gabby. She grabbed a broom that had been propped against the wall and gave a menacing shake in Harvey’s direction. “Shoo! Get out of here!”

  Harvey jumped back as if stung by a bee. “Jeez, lady, you almost clobbered me! And, if you don’t mind, this equipment is expensive!”

  Unfazed, Gabby shook her broom at him again. “I mean it, get out of this shop!”

  Harvey backed out, but as he did, he continued to roll tape.

  “Atta boy,” Kimber chortled from out on the street, “that’s going to make great footage!”

  “Gabby!” exclaimed Carmela, “that was very noble of you to come to my defense. Thank you.”

  “Kimber Breeze is a totally nasty person,” Gabby grumbled. “I don’t know how you tolerate her.”

  “I don’t,” said Carmela. “The trick is to not answer any questions, and just keep turning your back on her.”

  Gabby still looked angry. “You think the police really asked the media for help in finding witnesses?”

  “I know they did,” said Carmela. “Babcock told me they did.”

  “Then it’s a sad day for the New Orleans Police,” said Gabby, “to enlist the aid of TV people like that.” She shook her head. “I really doubt they’re going to shake anything loose or drum up new information.”

  “Actually,” said Carmela, “Kimber just passed on a valuable piece of information.”

  “What?” Gabby looked puzzled. “Excuse me, did I just miss something?”

  “She just revealed that Johnny Otis is employed by Big Haul Trucking.”

  Gabby blinked. “Okay.”

  Carmela’s mouth pulled into a thin smile. “So that’s where I’m going to look, too.”

  Chapter 17

  FIRST, however, Carmela had to dash over to the Belle Vie Hotel where she had a two o’clock meeting with Alex Goodman, the catering manager.

  The Belle Vie was an elegant, four-star, antique-filled hotel nestled in the heart of the French Quarter. Its spendy rooms were lush and luxurious, its three sun-dappled courtyards filled with babbling fountains, baskets of bougainvilleas, and tropical banana trees. Here you could order a Sazerac cocktail, mint julep, or Ramos gin fizz and have it expertly prepared by a bartender who’d probably tended to celebrities, presidents, and even royalty.

  Alex Goodman greeted her in the rather grand lobby with its painted murals, sparkling chandelier, and white marble floor.

  “Alex,” said Carmela, “sorry if I’m a little late.”

  With his ramrod posture, tweedy suit, and bow tie knotted snugly about his neck, Goodman smiled a pat hotelier’s smile. “Not at all,” he told her. Goodman, though he’d grown up in Dubuque, Iowa, always affected a slight British accent. All it had taken was that one trip to London, the Cotswolds, and Windsor, and that distinctive British accent had stuck to him like glue.

  Still, as Goodman guided her toward the Marquis Ballroom, he was most genial and accommodating.

  “This,” Goodman said, pushing open a pair of gold double doors, “should easily accommodate your event.”

  Carmela strode into the Marquis Ballroom and spun around. With its chandeliers, murals, and velvet-swagged windows, it was as grand and gaudy as she remembered it, and it was darn near perfect for Quigg’s event.

  “And you’ll have it set up just the way we talked about?” said Carmela.

  “String quartet at that end,” Goodman told her, gesturing with one hand. “Then the four different wine stations, one in each corner, for St. Tammany Vineyard’s best. The sparkling, the Sauvignon, the Syrah and Shiraz blend, and the Cabernet.”

  “With corresponding appetizers.”

  “Of course,” said Goo
dman.

  “And those will be . . . ?”

  Goodman was already pulling out his cell phone. “Let’s get Chef Rami down here to go over them with you personally.”

  “Tell him to meet us in the lobby,” said Carmela, “then we can go over the red carpet setup, as well.”

  Chef Rami was a large African American man with twinkling eyes and a deep bass voice. The Michelin Guide had hailed him as the new Emeril, and Carmela figured it wouldn’t be long before the good chef was honchoing a restaurant of his own.

  “I’m surprised Quigg didn’t want to do his own appetizers,” Chef Rami said to Carmela, as he pulled a small piece of paper from the breast pocket of his extra-large white chef’s jacket.

  “He did,” said Carmela. “I had to talk him out of it.”

  “We’re glad you did,” said Goodman. “This is a great opportunity for us, too.”

  “We don’t usually get to do this kind of PR event,” said Chef Rami. “With celebrities.”

  “I don’t know how many celebrities will actually show up,” said Carmela. “Mostly it will be fellow restaurateurs, wine sellers, and the media.”

  “The media loves anything that’s free,” said Goodman, who’d been around that block more than a few times.

  “Don’t they just,” agreed Carmela. She smiled at Chef Rami. “So . . . the appetizer and wine pairings?”

  Chef Rami turned serious. “For the Bayou Sparkler, the champagne, I want to do tuna carpaccio on toast crisps. And to accompany the Sauvignon, a tempura lobster roll.”

  “Perfect,” said Carmela. Two down, two more to go.

  “With the Syrah and Shiraz blend,” said Chef Rami, “I’m recommending duck drummies. And with the Cabernet, I’m thinking blue cheese bites rolled in pecans.”

  “They all sound like perfect pairings,” Carmela told him. “Couldn’t be better.”

  “That went smoothly,” said Goodman, obviously pleased.

  “That’s because you guys are pros,” Carmela told him. She glanced down the set of low marble steps, her mind whirring. “Now, let’s talk about the red carpet.”

  Chef Rami said his good-bye as Carmela and Goodman descended the half-dozen steps to the semicircular drive that snugged up to the front of the hotel.

  “This should work really well,” said Carmela, making a few quick calculations. “What you’ve got is a grand hotel entrance that allows limos to drive up and dispense guests.”

  “And when they’re dispensed . . . ?” said Goodman.

  “They’ll stroll down a twenty-foot-long red carpet where we’ll have them stop and pose in front of the step-and-repeat.”

  “And when’s your step-and-repeat supposed to arrive?” asked Goodman.

  “The printer promised to deliver it first thing Saturday morning,” said Carmela. “They’re also going to set it up . . .” Carmela glanced around, then made a quick gesture. “Probably against that wall of shrubbery. Is that okay with you?”

  “I’ll be here all day,” said Goodman, “so I’ll make sure it’s positioned properly.” He hesitated. “So . . . are you expecting celebrities?”

  “Probably a few minor celebs just to make things interesting,” said Carmela. “A couple of New Orleans Saints football players, a TV anchorman, the society photographer Nigel Prince, perhaps the mayor, and whatever ward politicians Quigg has invited.”

  “Very impressive,” said Goodman.

  “The celebs will draw media attention,” Carmela told him, “and the presence of the media will make each and every guest feel important.”

  “Nicely done,” said Goodman.

  “In theory, anyway,” said Carmela. She knew that no event ever went off without a glitch or two. Or three or four. But she wasn’t a control freak, so . . . why worry? “Thank you,” she added, shaking Goodman’s hand, then giving a quick wave. “Call me with any question, big or small. Otherwise, I’ll see you Saturday night.”

  Carmela skittered away, grabbed her cell phone out of her shoulder bag, and punched in the number for Edgar Babcock. He answered on the first ring.

  “Your media ploy worked beautifully,” she told him.

  “Huh? Who is this?” A rustle of papers. “Carmela?”

  “Kimber Breeze and her camera man stormed my shop this morning in a reenactment reminiscent of D-Day.”

  “What?” came his reply. “Somebody came to your shop?” He sounded a little foggy, like he’d been interrupted and lost his focus.

  “Yes,” said Carmela, “that idiot, Kimber Breeze. She came galumphing into Memory Mine on the pretext of doing an interview for the good of the public. But what Kimber really wanted to know was how it felt to see my friend murdered right before my very eyes.”

  Babcock exhaled slowly, then said, with genuine sincerity in his voice, “I’m so sorry, Carmela. I had absolutely no idea the media would be that proactive.”

  “Proactive?” said Carmela. “Kimber was a rabid dog. If I’d had a gun handy, I would have shot her and passed it off as euthanasia.”

  “You want me to call the TV station?” asked Babcock. “Talk to her boss and have her reprimanded or something?”

  “You really don’t understand the media, do you?” asked Carmela. “Fact is, if Kimber had gotten her interview, her boss probably would have given her a raise!”

  “Seriously?” said Babcock.

  “I kid you not,” said Carmela.

  “Where are you right now?” asked Babcock. “At the shop?”

  “Um . . . something like that.”

  “Can I call you back?”

  “Anytime, sweetheart.” Carmela punched the Off button on her phone and gazed down Esplanade. It was still cloudy and overcast, and yellow streetlamps glowed in front of Leboux Antiques, Chalmers Map Shop, and the Crooked Crayfish Restaurant. She wondered for a moment if she should just ankle back to her shop and drop this whole investigation. Let it go like so many autumn leaves floating down, then being carried away by a stream. She could retreat back to a calm, relatively peaceful, gratitude-filled life, and let Babcock and his fellow officers deal with the Byrle situation.

  That was the ideal scenario, of course, except for one thing.

  Carmela had made a solemn promise to Baby.

  “Dispatch,” said a gravelly voice on the other end of the line.

  “Yes,” said Carmela, clutching her cell phone, “is this Big Haul Trucking?”

  “You got it,” said the voice.

  “I’m trying to get hold of Johnny Otis,” said Carmela.

  “You from the TV?” asked a man. He sounded weary and a little gun-shy, as if he’d already fielded a couple of similar calls.

  “That’s right,” said Carmela. Little white lie? Oh, for sure.

  “Johnny’s busy right now,” said the dispatcher. “He’s out on a delivery.”

  “I figured that,” said Carmela, “which is why I called you.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Because I really need to speak with Johnny,” said Carmela. “And I give you my solemn promise that I won’t hold Johnny up or anything. I just need a minute of his time.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” There was hesitation in the dispatcher’s voice.

  “Just a couple of quick questions.” Carmela hesitated. “There’s a rumor going around that the police may have cleared him.” And chalk up yet another white lie.

  “That so?” said the dispatcher, sounding a little less defensive.

  “So you can see,” said Carmela, “I’m only trying to set the record straight.”

  The dispatcher hesitated, then said, “According to my schedule, Johnny’s over at Evangeline Furnishings right about now. So if you run into him, talk fast. Then we can get this whole episode over with and he can get his mind back on driving. Okay?”

  “You got it,” said Carmela.

  Luckily for Carmela, Evangeline Furnishings was located in the French Quarter, about two blocks from where she was standing. She hotfooted down Esplanade and cut over on
Chartres. Five minutes later she was standing directly in front of Evangeline Furnishings, staring at an obviously faux Louis XVI fainting couch that dominated the front window.

  She spun around. There were parked cars, but no delivery truck.

  “Back alley,” Carmela said out loud, then dashed around the corner.

  And found Johnny’s truck, a rumbling white truck that belched purple gluts of oil. But no Johnny. Still the truck was running, so . . .

  As if on cue, a man wearing blue coveralls, with lank, dark hair hanging down over the side of his face, emerged from the back door.

  “Johnny Otis,” she called out.

  Otis steeled his shoulders and turned away from her. He was a narrow, wiry man with ropy muscles in his arms.

  Carmela figured she didn’t have anything to lose. “I heard you were at St. Tristan’s on Monday when Byrle Coopersmith was killed.”

  Johnny Otis turned to stare at her with suspicious, hooded eyes. “So what,” he said. “A lot of folks were at that church.” He peered at her. “Maybe you were at that church.”

  Carmela pressed forward, even though his anger and hostility were so palpable he was positively frightening. “I understand you have a police record.”

  “That’s all behind me.” Johnny shrugged, as he pulled open the driver’s-side door and stuck the toe of a dirty work boot on the ledge. “Now I’m just a regular working stiff like everybody else.” He offered her a barracuda smile. All teeth, no humor.

  “An honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay?”

  “That’s right,” said Johnny.

  “No more shortcuts?” asked Carmela. “No more breaking and entering?”

  Johnny stared at her with hatred suddenly flickering in his eyes. “Who are you again?”

  “Carmela.”

  “Got a last name?” he snarled.

  “Carmela . . . Meechum.” At the last minute she decided it was safer to toss out her ex-husband’s name. Let good old Shamus absorb any possible fallout.

  Johnny hoisted himself up into the truck cab. “Anybody ever tell you to mind your own business, Carmela Meechum?”