Skeleton Letters

by Laura Childs

  “We saw Brother Paul more as a person of interest,” said Carmela. “And we thought . . . hoped, actually . . . that he might have some information for us.”

  “Which is the reason we stopped by last night,” said Ava.

  “You were here last night, too?” said Babcock. “Why?” A vein throbbed in his left temple, and Carmela hoped it wasn’t a precursor to a heart attack.

  “Helping in the kitchen,” said Ava.

  Babcock put his hands on his hips and hunched his shoulders. “Frankly, I don’t care if you were weaving baskets,” he said, in a tight-lipped growl. “Do you two know how bad this looks? Turning up at the scene of two different murders!”

  “Was it murder?” Carmela asked, lifting her chin to indicate Brother Paul’s living quarters. “Or suicide?” She glanced over Babcock’s shoulder, where a team of crime-scene techs were pulling on blue latex rubber gloves and heading in with their equipment.

  Babcock stuck both hands in the pockets of his suede jacket, turned his back on them, and strode forcefully away. He muttered to himself for a few moments, then came shuffling back.

  “Here’s what I want you to do,” said Babcock. “I want you to leave. To go home. And not breathe a word about this to anyone!”

  “You don’t want to debrief us?” Ava asked.

  “I don’t want to even look at the two of you right now!” yelled Babcock.

  It was almost ten o’clock by the time they stumbled into Carmela’s apartment.

  “Well, that was an exciting conclusion to a bizarre evening,” Carmela said, as Boo and Poobah greeted her with exuberant snorts and wet kisses.

  “I’m so upset I’m shaking,” Ava confessed. “Even my toes are vibrating.” Kicking off her muddy boots at the door, she added, “And when I get all wrought up like this, I burn energy like mad.”

  “Which means . . . ?” asked Carmela. She pulled off her sweater and smoothed the white T-shirt she’d worn under it.

  “Well . . . it means I’m hungry,” said Ava. She gave a guilty shrug. “Sorry. Sorry to always be imposing like this. Sorry to always be the needy girlfriend.”

  “You’re not,” said Carmela. “But I think I will put a tip jar on the counter.” When she saw Ava’s morose look, she said, “Don’t worry about it. It’ll do me good to fix us something to eat . . . help my brain refocus.” She added a shaky laugh. “Help me to . . . depressurize.”

  “You’re a good mom,” said Ava, gratefully sinking down on the sofa. She reached a hand out to stroke Boo’s furry forehead. “Isn’t she a good mom? Don’t you lovey-wovey her?”

  “Don’t get too carried away in there,” Carmela called, as she rattled dishes in the kitchen.

  “Can I turn on the TV?” asked Ava.

  “Be my guest. “You want your grilled cheese sandwich with Monterey Jack or cheddar?”

  “Can I have both?” asked Ava. She hesitated. “Do you think Brother Paul was murdered? Or did he commit suicide?”

  Carmela stuck her head around the corner. “Murdered. Definitely. The other is just too horrible to even contemplate.”

  “The sin for which there is no redemption,” Ava muttered to herself, then made a hasty sign of the cross.

  Carmela fixed two grilled cheese sandwiches, plated them, added dill pickle wedges and a handful of kettle chips, then carried everything into the living room.

  “The news is just coming on,” Ava told her, as she grabbed one of the plates.

  They watched a montage of fast-paced graphics that included snippets from Mardi Gras, scenes from Katrina, and a smiling news team standing in front of their mobile van. Then the camera moved in on Don Ankeny, KBEZ-TV’s aging late-night newscaster.

  “I don’t think the TV guys will have picked up the Brother Paul thing yet,” said Carmela, gazing at the newscaster with his eighties-looking hair. “It’s too soon for . . .”

  “Brother Paul Lupori is the latest victim in this city’s rising tide of crime,” announced Ankeny.

  Both women stopped midbite and stared wide-eyed at the TV.

  “Uh-oh,” said Carmela, a bite of sandwich suddenly stuck in her gullet. “Looks like Brother Paul made the news, after all!”

  Chapter 20

  ANKENY, wearing his trust-me-I’m-serious news face, continued: “In an apparent murder at the Storyville Outreach Center, the director was found hanging in his small apartment at the rear of the building.”

  “Babcock’s not gonna be happy about this,” said Ava. She picked up her pickle wedge and crunched loudly, as if to add emphasis to her statement.

  “You never know,” said Carmela. “He could have tipped the TV station himself.”

  “You think?” said Ava. She popped a chip into her mouth and leaned back against the sofa.

  Carmela thought for a minute. “Or maybe not. Babcock’s your basic law enforcement control freak, and he didn’t seem one bit in control an hour ago. So probably the TV guys sniffed this one out on their own.”

  “Uh-oh,” said Ava, pointing at the screen. “Look who else is on. The Wicked Witch of the West. Kimber Breeze.”

  The camera switched from a two-shot of Ankeny and Kimber to a close-up of just Kimber.

  “Does she look different to you?” asked Ava.

  “Maybe . . . the Botox makes her look younger?”

  “No,” said Ava, “to look younger she’d need a time machine.”

  “Shhh,” said Carmela, studying the screen now.

  “In an interesting sidebar,” said Kimber, smiling broadly, “Brother Paul Lupori was also affiliated with St. Tristan’s Church, where the brutal murder of Byrle Coopersmith took place just three short days ago. While it is not known at this time if the two murders are connected, informed sources tell me that Carmela Bertrand, who was an eyewitness in the Coopersmith murder, was also at the scene of tonight’s crime.” Kimber flashed her megawatt smile, then added, “Stay tuned to KBEZ for any and all breaking news.”

  “Well, that’s just fine and dandy!” said Carmela, throwing her hands up. “Now I’m publicly linked to two murders.”

  “Huh,” said Ava. Then she turned to Carmela and said, in a thoughtful, questioning tone of voice, “Do you think maybe that’s a good thing?”

  Carmela exhaled with a loud whoosh. “Why on earth would you say that?”

  “You’ve been poking around anyway,” Ava reasoned.

  “That’s because Baby asked me to. As a favor.”

  “But now it’s all out in the open. Your involvement, I mean.”

  Carmela touched an index finger to her lower lip, trying to decipher Ava’s words. “So you’re saying . . . what? That Kimber’s announcement could shake something loose?”

  Ava nodded. “It’s possible.”

  “But who,” said Carmela, looking pained, “killed these people? I mean, is it the same person or are there two different killers?”

  “No clue,” said Ava.

  “Funny you should say that,” said Carmela, “because that’s exactly what we need. One good, solid clue.”

  “So let’s put our heads together and try to figure out what happened tonight,” said Ava. “Who would do this? Who would hang Brother Paul?”

  “What I want to know is how they did it?” said Carmela. “How do you hang somebody against his will? Force him at gunpoint? Knock him on the head and then string him up? I mean, how do you orchestrate this kind of grisly crime?”

  “Scares the crap out of me just thinking about it,” said Ava. She gathered her legs under her and sat cross-legged, her hand cupping her chin, looking contemplative. “My addled brain keeps circling back to who.”

  “I hear you,” said Carmela. She thought for a few minutes. “Tell me you’re not thinking . . . Frank Crowley from the Seekers?”

  “Dunno,” said Ava.

  “If Crowley engineered Brother Paul’s murder, he had to drive a whole lot faster than we did to even get back to the city.”

  “Maybe Brother Paul’s murder wa
s already in the works,” Ava theorized. “Maybe Crowley and Brother Paul didn’t get along.”

  “I’m positive they didn’t get along,” said Carmela. “Brother Paul seemed to take a certain glee in siccing us on him.”

  “Good point.”

  “On the other hand,” said Carmela, “it still could have been someone like Johnny Otis.”

  “That seems like a shaky theory,” said Ava. “How would Otis figure in with Brother Paul?”

  Carmela shrugged. “Maybe Johnny Otis was the one who killed Byrle and he pegged Brother Paul as a witness? Someone he had to get rid of, just to be sure.”

  Ava considered Carmela’s words. “I can sort of see that.”

  “I can also think of a few other peripheral suspects.”

  “You mean like Drew Gaspar?” asked Ava. She shook her head and her lush hair tumbled down around her face. “Doubtful. I don’t see how Gaspar could have possibly been involved.”

  “If Gaspar collects religious icons,” said Carmela, “he might have stolen the crucifix, killed Byrle in the confusion, and . . .”

  “And what?” said Ava.

  “And Brother Paul could have seen something?”

  “You keep coming back to that,” said Ava. “Brother Paul as witness.”

  “I know that.”

  “That could be it right there,” allowed Ava. “Though the reasoning feels a little forced and thin. Oh man, everything feels thin.”

  “But dead bodies keep piling up,” said Carmela.

  Ava gave a nervous shiver.

  As if on cue, the phone shrilled loudly, causing Ava to flinch. “Gotta be Babcock,” she muttered.

  “Bringing with him tons of fallout,” said Carmela, wincing, as she snatched the receiver off its hook. “Hello?”

  “Oh pussycat,” trilled Jekyl, “I have très exciting news for you!”

  Carmela put a hand over the receiver. “It’s Jekyl. He says he has exciting news.”

  “Tell him about our news,” said Ava.

  “Is that Ava I hear in the background?” asked Jekyl.

  “That’s right,” said Carmela. “And do we ever have news.” Even though Babcock had warned her not to breathe a word about the murder to anyone, Brother Paul’s murder had just been broadcast into every living room in the nearby eight parishes. So . . . it wasn’t exactly a big hairy secret anymore, was it?

  “Okay, lovey,” said Jekyl, sounding intrigued. “You go first.”

  “Well,” said Carmela, “if you turn your TV on right this instant, you might catch the tail end of a story about the murder of Brother Paul.”

  “Brother who?” said Jekyl.

  “This guy who was affiliated with St. Tristan’s,” said Carmela.

  “Wait a minute,” said Jekyl. “The guy you were going to question? You’re saying he’s been murdered?”

  “Just happened,” said Carmela. “And not only that, Ava and I were there. In fact . . . we found him hanging in his room at the outreach center where he works.”

  “All purple and blotchy-faced,” said Ava.

  “What?” screeched Jekyl.

  Carmela filled him in quickly about Brother Paul, as well as how she’d been named by KBEZ-TV as the single eyewitness!

  “That’s awful!” Jekyl sympathized. “For you and for Brother Paul. But you make it sound as if Brother Paul might have been a little . . . intense. Of course, his heart was definitely in the right place.” Jekyl sighed. “Now who’s going to take care of those poor homeless guys?”

  Carmela dropped the phone to her chest and gazed at Ava. “Jekyl wants to know who’s going to take care of all those poor homeless guys now?”

  Ava shook her head vigorously. “Not me, if that’s what he’s asking!”

  “I don’t know,” said Carmela, back on the line again with Jekyl. “They’ll probably fall through the cracks like everything else does in New Orleans.”

  “That’s a rather sour indictment of our city, wouldn’t you say?” said Jekyl.

  “Yes, well . . . there’s a reason we’re known as the Big Easy and not the Big We’re Really on Top of It,” said Carmela. “So . . . what was your news?”

  “Well, certainly not as gruesome as yours,” said Jekyl, “but major, nonetheless.”

  “Okay,” said Carmela.

  “I spoke with my friend Riley Simmonet,” said Jekyl, “who’s the art director at Delta Living magazine? And, guess what, sweetie, he wants to photograph your home!”

  “Um . . . he what?” said Carmela.

  “You know,” said Jekyl, his excitement ratcheting in intensity, “he’s hot to stage an actual photo shoot! With you as the subject! Do a real glamorous lady-of-the-manor-type thing.”

  Carmela’s mouth drooped into a nervous frown. “You’re not serious.” Truth be told, she hated the idea. Posing, being a photographer’s subject, just wasn’t one of her favorite things.

  “You’re making a face, aren’t you?” said Jekyl. “I can tell.”

  “No,” Carmela lied, “I’m really not.”

  “I can absolutely envision the perfect photo layout,” enthused Jekyl. “You wearing a romantic gown, posed in front of your marble fireplace. Or looking very Southern and fey as you lounge on that brocade fainting couch.” He paused to catch his breath. “Exciting, no?”

  “No,” said Carmela.

  “What?” Jekyl squawked. “Don’t tell me you’re not interested!”

  “I’m not interested,” said Carmela.

  “What’s he saying?” asked Ava, plucking at Carmela’s sleeve.

  “Jekyl wants me to do a photo spread for Delta Living,” Carmela whispered.

  “Yes!” said Ava, giving a vigorous fist pump. “You gotta do it!”

  “I told him no,” said Carmela.

  “But it’s a done deal,” came Jekyl’s pleading voice. “I made all the arrangements and scheduled the photo session for Saturday morning.”

  “This Saturday?” Carmela cried.

  “Perfect!” Ava cheered.

  “I really don’t want to do this,” Carmela pleaded. It just didn’t feel right to her. Could she get out of it? She had to get out of it!

  Jekyl let loose a colossal sigh. “Listen, Carmela, you want to sell that house of yours, don’t you?” Now his voice carried an edge.

  Carmela was taken aback. “How is selling my house connected to posing for a magazine?” It sounded stinkyfishy to her.

  “It’s all very intricately connected,” Jekyl assured her. “A photo spread in Delta Living is the most powerful marketing tool you could ask for! Think how prospective buyers will eat it up!”

  Carmela worried her lower lip with her front teeth. Jekyl made a good point. Homes that had been featured in fancy magazines did have a certain cachet attached to them. Fact was, buyers simply adored any publicity that was attached to their purchase.

  “Okay,” Carmela said, slowly. “I’ll do it.”

  “Atta girl!” said Jekyl.

  “On one condition,” Carmela told him.

  “What’s that?”

  “This photo shoot remains extremely low key.”

  “We have to call Baby and tell her about Brother Paul,” said Ava. She’d ferried the dishes into the kitchen and was wiping her hands on a checked dish towel.

  “Why?” said Carmela.

  “Because you promised Baby you were going to investigate,” Ava reasoned. “And tonight’s murder goes hand in hand with your investigation.” She paused, cocked her head, and gave a slightly apologetic smile. “You’re Baby’s secret agent.”

  “Lucky me.”

  “Better hurry up and do it fast,” Ava prompted. “And hope Baby hasn’t already heard about it on the ten o’clock news.”

  But when Carmela called Baby to tell her about stumbling around and finding the Seekers, then going to Storyville Outreach and finding Brother Paul dead, she was shocked beyond belief.

  “No, I haven’t seen the news,” Baby fretted into the phone. “O
h, dear me, another murder.” She paused for a few seconds. “And you think it’s clearly related to St. Tristan’s? That means you’re on to something, Carmela!”

  “If it does, then I’m not aware of what I’m on to,” said Carmela. “There are dozens of loose threads hanging out there, but I don’t seem to be able to pull anything together.”

  “Just that you seem to be getting close is exciting,” said Baby.

  “Not for me,” said Carmela. “I just feel horribly guilty about the Brother Paul thing. Like I might have been somehow responsible!”

  “How on earth do you figure that?” asked Baby.

  “Because,” said Carmela, “it feels like a nasty chain reaction. Brother Paul was the one who told us about the Seekers, and then Ava and I went there tonight and got discovered, and then . . .”

  “Oh, honey, I don’t think . . . ,” said Baby.

  Still, Carmela wasn’t convinced. Her heart just felt sad and leaden.

  “Did you tell Babcock you paid a visit to the Seekers?” asked Baby.

  “No, I did not,” said Carmela. “He was so crazed over Brother Paul’s death and the fact that Ava and I were there that I figured I’d save that little surprise for later.”

  “But you are going to tell him?”

  “I think I pretty much have to,” said Carmela. “It could be related, and, well, I do have a guilty conscience.”

  “You’ll do the right thing,” Baby assured her.

  Ava felt the same way.

  “I agree with Baby,” said Ava. “You have to tell Babcock where we were tonight and about running into the Seekers.”

  “You mean spill my guts about the whole sorry mess?”

  “The whole rotten enchilada,” said Ava. “Of course, I certainly don’t envy you having that conversation with him.” She tossed a furtive glance toward the door, obviously planning her escape route.

  “What?” Carmela yelped. “You’re not going to stick around and help me explain things? I have to go it alone?”

  “He’s your boyfriend!” Gingerly, Ava touched two fingers to her throat and added, “Besides, I think I might be coming down with something. All that traipsing around in the damp woods has left me feelin’ under the weather.”