Skeleton Letters

by Laura Childs

  Rain poured down with greater intensity. Overhead, shards of lightning streaked across the blue-black sky.

  “Not good,” Carmela muttered as she crept forward. Thunder suddenly rumbled and roared, drowning out all night sounds.

  Carmela used her sleeve to wipe rain from her eyes. If she could only get about ten feet closer . . . but first there was a clearing she had to wiggle across.

  She tried to time her leap with the lightning. After the final crackle fizzled out, she dove from one sheltering clump of trees to the next.

  Except it didn’t quite work out that way. Right in the middle of her leap, a second flash of lighting exploded overhead, like a transformer gone haywire.

  And Carmela and Ava were suddenly illuminated. Caught in nature’s spotlight, like terrified actors on a stage!

  Oh no!

  Within moments, they were swarmed by robed figures. Two on either side of Ava, two more bookending Carmela. The robed figures didn’t exactly force them to walk forward, but they weren’t allowing a lot of other options, either.

  “Hey, you goombahs,” Ava screamed, “don’t touch the merchandise!” She shrugged her shoulders and tried to pull away, but her guardians stuck tight as burs.

  “Walk,” ordered one of the hooded men.

  “This is ridiculous!” Ava shrilled. “What’s a bunch of guys like you doing in a dumb old swamp, anyway?” She tossed her head, trying to look coquettish. “I saw a cool roadhouse a couple miles back—Swamp Man Bobby’s? Whaddya guys say we blow this pop stand and go grab ourselves a cold one, huh?”

  Carmela glanced back over her shoulder. “They’re not listening to you, Ava.”

  “I see that!” Ava fussed. “And, quite frankly, I’m shocked, since the two of us girls make a lovely combo platter.”

  “They’re true believers,” said Carmela.

  “Yeah?” said Ava, still struggling. “That’s just peachypoo.” Now her voice rose. “But will somebody please tell me exactly what it is they believe in!”

  Carmela and Ava were marched inside the white barn and ordered to sit on a rough wooden bench. The place smelled of hay and goats, and, interestingly enough, freshly brewed coffee.

  “Stay,” ordered a gruff voice.

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Ava, giving a casual wave. But once the men had moved out of earshot, her fear exploded. “You don’t think they’re gonna drag us into the swamp and tie us to trees so crabs crawl all over us and pick us to death, are they?”

  “No,” said Carmela, “they’re just being cautious. And a little paranoid.”

  “But paranoid people do crazy things.”

  “Don’t worry,” Carmela said, locking onto Ava’s eyes, “nothing’s going to happen. We’re just . . . like . . . visitors.”

  But Ava’s eyes had suddenly shifted elsewhere. “Who are you?” she demanded, gazing up at a tall man who’d pushed back his hood to reveal silvery-gray hair. A group of six more robed members stood behind him in a semicircle, like sentinels.

  “I’m Frank Crowley,” the man told her. He was craggyfaced, with heavy lids and lips. He also had a kind of crazy light dancing in his gray eyes. The kind of light Carmela pretty much characterized as belonging to a religious zealot. Not that there was anything wrong with being a zealot, it was just that they tended to be on the fringe versus the mainstream.

  Carmela jumped to her feet. “I’m afraid your merry little band of men got a little overanxious tonight,” she explained. “Forcibly hauling us down here.”

  “They were under orders,” Crowley barked. “To capture any and all interlopers.”

  “That may be,” said Carmela, “but they were wrong to do so.” Carmela maintained a civil tone as she turned her palms upward, in a calm yet questioning gesture. Better, she decided, to remain peaceable and talk her way out.

  Frank Crowley curled his lip and stuck his face a little too close to Carmela’s face. “What were you two doing crawling around in the woods?” he crooned.

  “They were spying on us!” shrilled a woman, who was standing nearby.

  Now Ava was on her feet, looking shocked and a little indignant. “Don’t get your undies in a twist! Because we . . . we came here in peace.”

  Carmela glanced sharply at Ava. We what? Now what’s she up to? Where’s she going with this?

  “That’s right,” said Ava, winging it like crazy now, “we came out here to join your group!”

  Carmela rolled her eyes. No way were they going to believe a story like that!

  “I don’t believe you,” sneered Frank Crowley.

  Carmela held up a hand. Ava had tossed out a wild fish story, now she had to serve it up and make it palatable. “Here’s the thing. We heard about your group, all good things, of course. And we wanted to do a little investigating on our own.”

  Crowley glared at her. “You heard about the Seekers?”

  “Yes, we did,” said Carmela. She tried for earnest, managed semi-sincere.

  “From whom?” Crowley demanded.

  “A friend,” said Carmela, almost choking on her words. “A highly respectable man who’s, in fact, a member of another religious order.”

  “You’ll have to do better than that,” Crowley said, “for me to believe you.”

  “Listen,” said Carmela, “we’re not here to start any sort of conflict or dispute. Truly. If anything, we’re looking for concordance.”

  “You go, girl,” said Ava, cheering her on. “Throw out some of those SAT words!”

  Frank Crowley stared at Carmela for a few more moments, as if mulling over her words. Then he said, in a low voice, “Go. You’re free to go.” He cocked his head to one side and held up an index finger. “But don’t come sneaking back here if you know what’s good for you.”

  “Big threat,” Ava snarled. “Maybe you wouldn’t be so tough if you didn’t have the seven dwarves there, backing you up.”

  But Carmela grabbed Ava’s arm in a stranglehold and jerked hard, and slowly the two of them edged their way out of the barn.

  When Carmela finally climbed into her car, she let loose a shaky breath. “What a whacked-out scene.” She pulled her seat belt across and turned toward Ava. “And exactly what was that bit about ‘we come in peace’?”

  Ava grimaced. “It was all I could come up with at the moment. But I guess it didn’t play too well.”

  “It sounded more like dialogue out of a fifties sci-fi movie.”

  “Thank you,” said Ava, suddenly sounding pleased. “Because it was. I lifted it from The Day the Earth Stood Still. The original version, not the remake.”

  “Know what I think?” said Carmela, as her engine turned over and she slammed her stick shift into first. “I think they’re all cuckaloo.”

  “You’ll get no argument from me,” said Ava.

  “And you know what else?”

  “What?” said Ava.

  “I think Brother Paul tossed us a big fat red herring.”

  Chapter 19

  THEY were rolling down Royal Street, windshield wipers beating out their syncopation, when Carmela said, “Let’s run over to Storyville Outreach Center and have a little chat with Brother Paul.” She was still smarting from their encounter with the irritable Frank Crowley.

  Ava stretched languidly and yawned. “Waaaah?” She’d practically fallen asleep on the drive home. “You think? Really?”

  “Yeah, I do,” said Carmela. “I want to look directly into Brother Paul’s beady little lying eyes and ask him why, exactly, he sent us on a snipe hunt.”

  “Snipe?” said Ava, tugging at her sweater and pulling herself upright. “What’s this snipe? Some kind of animal?”

  “It’s a bad joke,” Carmela explained. “A trick. Generally played at summer camp by someone with the mind-set of a fifth-grader.”

  “Yeah? How’s it work?”

  “It involves sending your bunk mates out into the dark woods with a flashlight and a pillowcase and telling them to hunt snipe,” said Carmela. Her fi
ngers clutched the steering wheel tighter.

  “Which is basically . . . ,” said Ava.

  “A fool’s errand.”

  “Hah,” said Ava.

  They crunched down Paris Street and pulled into the Storyville parking lot.

  “Think they’re still open?” asked Ava. The parking lot was sodden and dark, the building dimly lit.

  “I know they are,” said Carmela. “I can see people inside sitting on folding chairs.”

  “No place to go, I suppose,” said Ava.

  They slipped inside, where a low-key meeting seemed to be taking place. A dozen people were perched on wobbly folding chairs while a scruffy-looking man with a gray beard read to them from a small blue book. Once in a while, the group would nod en masse and mumble an answer.

  “What is it?” Ava whispered. “A Bible reading?”

  They stood for a few moments, listening, and then Carmela said, “I think they’re making some sort of pledge.”

  “To pull their act together and get a job?” asked Ava.

  “More like never to drink again,” said Carmela.

  Ava grimaced. “Ooh, tough pledge.”

  A silver-haired woman, one they recognized from the kitchen last night, broke away from the group to greet them.

  “You’re back,” she said, but in a cheerful, friendly manner. She wore a plain brown shirtwaist dress, the kind June Cleaver used to wear, once upon a time ago in TV land.

  “We’re looking for Brother Paul,” Carmela told her.

  The woman glanced at her wristwatch, a no-nonsense Timex. “He’s saying devotions right now, so I hate to disturb him.”

  “We have some unfinished business to take care of,” said Carmela.

  The woman shifted from one foot to the other, looking indecisive.

  “We wouldn’t interrupt him if it weren’t important,” Carmela told her.

  Something in Carmela’s words must have resonated with the woman, because she said, “Brother Paul’s quarters are at the back of the building.” She waved at the door they’d just come through. “But you’ll have to walk around outside to get there.”

  “Thanks much,” said Carmela.

  “Yet another challenge,” commented Ava. “First we muck around in a swamp, now we stumble through a muddy parking lot.”

  “Just stick close to the building,” Carmela advised, “where there’s a little more terra firma.”

  “You think?” said Ava. Her toe struck a rock, her right ankle wobbled, and she almost went down. “Man, it’s dark back here!”

  Carmela had to agree. “You think there’d be a light over the door or something.” They fumbled across the back of the building, then finally deciphered the murky outline of a back door.

  Ava peered up. “There is a light. But the bulb’s burned out, I guess.”

  “Or knocked out,” said Carmela. “This isn’t the greatest part of town.”

  “Pesky kids probably broke it,” said Ava.

  Carmela rapped her knuckles against the back door. It was a metal door that telegraphed hollow reverberations back to her.

  “Nobody home?” asked Ava. She was more than ready to turn tail and get out of Dodge.

  “He’s supposed to be here,” said Carmela.

  “But he’s saying devotions,” said Ava. “Maybe Brother Paul gets into one of those religious ecstasy comas, where he’s, like, totally focused.”

  “Or maybe he just doesn’t want to talk to us,” said Carmela. She rapped on the door again. “Brother Paul. You in there?” She had a bone to pick with him and wasn’t about to give up.

  “Try the door,” Ava suggested. “Maybe there’s a hallway or anteroom.”

  Carmela tugged at the door. It swung back easily on its hinges, revealing a ten-foot-long dark hallway with two oldfashioned wooden doors set on either side.

  Carmela and Ava tiptoed in.

  “Which door?” Carmela wondered.

  Ava shrugged, then banged an open hand against the door that was closest to her, the door on the left. It rattled noisily, like the hinges might be loose. She waited a few moments, then said, “See? Nobody home.”

  Carmela crossed the hallway and knocked politely on the opposite door. She was still hoping to rouse Brother Paul. But here, too, there was no answer.

  “Brother Paul’s obviously not around,” said Ava. “Maybe he skipped out for a bite to eat.” She chuckled. “Or to enjoy a little liquid refreshment.”

  “Maybe,” said Carmela. She was still reluctant to leave, so she thought, What the heck. Wrapping her hand firmly around the doorknob, she cranked it to the right and pushed.

  The door swung silently inward.

  “Oh hey!” said Ava.

  They stood together and peered in. The room was a small study with cheap plywood paneling on the walls. A dim reading lamp stood next to a dilapidated purple velvet chair that looked like it had been salvaged from a thrift shop. A sagging bookshelf, laden with books, hunkered next to it.

  “Maybe he is home,” said Ava.

  “Brother Paul?” Carmela called out. The confined space made her voice bounce and echo. “It’s Carmela Bertrand.”

  Ava stepped across the threshold. “And Ava. Remember us? We worked in the kitchen last night? The two goodlookin’ chicks?”

  “That’s helpful,” Carmela whispered.

  Ava shrugged.

  “Brother Paul?” Carmela called again. As she stood there, feeling like an intruder, she gradually became aware that a slightly brighter light was shining through a doorway from an adjoining room.

  “Maybe Brother Paul’s on his knees saying vespers or something,” said Ava. “Maybe he really is in some kind of religious stupor.”

  “Maybe,” said Carmela. She took a step forward and then another. For some reason—she had no idea why—she was drawn to that doorway. “Brother Paul?” she called again. “Are you okay? Because we’re coming in. We are in.”

  Ava reached out and touched a hand to Carmela’s shoulder. “Maybe we shouldn’t be snooping, after all.” Now she was the one getting cold feet.

  But Carmela continued quietly across the room, heading for the adjoining room. When she was four steps from the doorway, she stopped abruptly and let out a surprised gasp. Then her hand flew to her mouth, and she barked out, “No!”

  “Carmela?” Ava’s voice was tremulous. “What’s wrong?”

  When Carmela didn’t answer, Ava tiptoed across the room to see for herself. She gazed into the other room, doing a confused double take, not quite understanding what she was seeing at first.

  Because Brother Paul was home, all right. Standing ramrod stiff in his monastic cell, staring directly at them. Except that his gaze was completely blank, his face was purple and swollen, and his toes dangled six inches above the carpet!

  There was no question whom Carmela would call, of course. She jerked her cell phone from her bag and, in spite of Ava’s frightened mewling and gibbering, called Edgar Babcock.

  The first unit arrived in about two minutes flat. A pair of fresh-faced uniformed officers came dashing in. When they saw what had happened, they escorted Carmela and Ava out of Brother Paul’s room and stashed them in the back of their police cruiser. Then the officers dashed to the front of the building to secure the entire premises.

  Babcock arrived amid a blat of sirens, riding in the passenger seat of another black-and-white. Before the car came to a complete stop, he leaped out, dressed casually in jeans and a brown suede jacket, but looking grim-faced and determined.

  “What are you doing here?” was his first question to Carmela and Ava, as they scrambled out of the patrol car to greet him. “Did you touch anything?” was his rapid-fire second question.

  “We wanted to talk to Brother Paul,” said Carmela.

  “No,” said Ava.

  Babcock looked from one to the other, confused. “Yes, you wanted to talk to him? Or no, you didn’t?” he demanded.

  Flustered, Carmela held up a hand, as mu
ch to stem his flow of questions as to steady her nerves. “Wait a minute. Yes, we stopped by to see Brother Paul. No, we didn’t touch anything.”

  Babcock seemed angered as well as confused by their presence. “Imagine my surprise when this was called in, to learn that you two discovered the body!” He swallowed, angrily. “So why exactly are you here?”

  “We were making an inquiry,” said Carmela. Babcock was doing a slow simmer, but she knew he could explode like a runaway pressure cooker at any minute.

  “It has to do with the circumstances surrounding, um, Byrle’s death,” said Ava, glancing sideways at Carmela.

  “The Coopersmith homicide?” said Babcock, looking startled.

  “That’s right,” said Carmela, fighting to remain calm.

  “You’re investigating,” Babcock spat out. Before Carmela could open her mouth to protest or utter a peep, he said, “That wasn’t a question.”

  “Okay,” Carmela said, sounding properly meek.

  “And you two just happened to discover the director of this place . . .” He glanced at the hastily scrawled notes he’d written on the way over. “You two found Brother Paul Lupori hanging from the rafters in his room?” Babcock was incredulous. “Which means the two of you actually went inside his . . . whatever it is . . . his living quarters, his apartment?”

  “Yes,” Carmela answered.

  “Then you did touch something.”

  “Just the doorknob,” said Ava. “Doorknobs.”

  “This is a bloody mess,” Babcock fumed. He was stressing now, big-time. “Tell me exactly why you were here!”

  “It’s a long story,” said Carmela.

  “Try me,” said Babcock.

  “The thing is,” said Carmela, “we ran into Brother Paul over at St. Tristan’s.”

  “That’s right,” said Ava, jumping in. “The morning after Byrle was murdered.”

  “So, in your mind, that made Brother Paul a suspect?” Babcock asked. He seemed appalled by their faulty deductive reasoning.

  “Well . . . something like that,” said Ava.

  “Not exactly,” said Carmela.

  Babcock was grim. “Please, one at a time. Which is it?”