Skeleton Letters

by Laura Childs

  “It’s bad enough you’re here,” snarled Rain. “But to bring your trampy friend along—shame on you.”

  “I’m guessing,” said Carmela, “that your rather uncharitable reference is to Ava here?”

  Rain gave an acknowledging shrug.

  “Aw,” said Ava, “and here I was afraid you hadn’t even noticed me. Boo-hoo.”

  “Ava’s a guest in Baby’s home,” said Carmela, trying to remain calm. “As such, she should be accorded the utmost courtesy.”

  This time Rain let loose an audible snort.

  “And since we have a moment before the meeting begins,” said Carmela, “I’d like to talk to you about a couple of things.”

  “What do you mean?” Rain demanded. She’d gone from looking outraged to being fidgety.

  “You’re on the board at St. Tristan’s,” said Carmela. It was a statement, not a question.

  Rain’s nod was almost imperceptible.

  Carmela dove in. “Monday morning, the morning Byrle was killed, did Brother Paul appear at your board meeting?”

  Rain plucked an imaginary piece of lint from her dress. “What’s it to you?”

  Carmela tried to ignore Rain’s rudeness. “Was he requesting funding for the Storyville Outreach Center?”

  Now Rain just looked bored. “He might have.”

  “Excuse me,” said Carmela, “this information isn’t exactly a closely guarded state secret. Either he did or he didn’t. Now which is it?”

  “He did,” said Rain, “but the board turned him down flat. Brother Paul’s work just didn’t align with our interests.”

  “Charity isn’t one of your interests?” Carmela asked, her tone bitingly crisp. Then she directed her gaze toward Ava and inclined her head sideways. A signal for Ava to leave her alone with Rain. Ava’s brows shot up in surprise, but after a few seconds she slipped away.

  “You know what I mean,” said Rain, backpedaling a little, trying not to look like a complete philistine. “We’re a poor parish, still fighting the bouts of a bad recession. We can’t be expected to fund every little thing.”

  “Whatever,” said Carmela. “Next question. Since you’re an influential board member at St. Tristan’s, I was wondering if you could find it in your heart to have Ava reinstated?”

  Rain clenched her jaw so hard, Carmela could hear her mandibles click.

  “Are you serious?” was Rain’s terse reply.

  “Dead serious,” said Carmela. She’d made up her mind to be polite to a fault, but no way was she going to wheedle or beg. This was just a simple request.

  “Not a chance,” Rain spat out. She paused to gather a small amount of outrage, then said, “Do you know what she does?”

  “Of course,” said Carmela. “Ava helps dust benches and altars at St. Tristan’s. Sometimes she brings in fresh flower arrangements and passes out palm branches on Palm Sunday.”

  “She runs a voodoo shop!” Rain shrilled. “How do you think that looks?”

  “Are you serious?” said Carmela, trying hard to contain her rapidly building fury. “Half the people in New Orleans have been through Ava’s shop. Buying crazy things for their Mardi Gras or Halloween parties. It’s basically a gift shop with saint candles and harmless little red silk bags filled with aromatic herbs and spices. The kind you probably stuff inside your turkey every Thanksgiving.”

  “And now she’s got a psychic working there!” spat out Rain. “A woman who purports to tell fortunes! Who claims she can see into the great beyond!”

  “What do you want me to do?” asked Carmela. “Report Ava to the paranormal police?”

  Rain glared as she fingered the silver cross that was strung around her neck on a black silk cord. “You have to understand, Carmela, I’m a very devout person.”

  “Then as a charitable act, could you please . . . ?”

  “No!” screamed Rain, and this time a few people turned to look at them. “No,” Rain said, dialing back the volume. “That’s never going to happen.”

  After all the contentious rankling, the meeting itself was practically an afterthought. Baby sat primly and took copious notes, ducking her head from time to time to whisper questions to Carmela. Ava drifted in and out, almost always with a full glass of champagne in hand. A gaggle of old money and nouveau riche haggled over allocations of money to theater groups, dance companies, and artist consortiums. Once they’d drawn up a sort of short list, they began arguing about amounts. Finally, at ten o’clock, with amounts still not decided and not much accomplished in the way of fostering the arts, the committee chairman thanked everyone for their hard work and declared the meeting over.

  “Thank goodness,” said Carmela, as they headed for her car. The cool air felt welcome and refreshing, even though little splotches of rain had started to plop down again.

  “Thanks for talking to Rain,” said Ava, as they both walked along, stiff-legged and a little hunched over from sitting so long. “At least you scored an A for effort.”

  “Little good it did us,” said Carmela, pulling open the driver’s-side door and hopping in.

  Ava folded her long legs into the passenger seat. “Still, you gave it a shot.”

  “Rain says she’s upset over the voodoo thing,” said Carmela. “Claims she’s very religious.”

  “Maybe Rain is religious like Mel Gibson’s religious,” said Ava. She twirled a finger next to her ear. “A little . . . over the edge.”

  Carmela drove slowly down Third Street, then turned onto Annunciation. “We’ll be back here tomorrow,” she murmured. She wasn’t looking forward to the photo shoot one bit. Even though scrapbooking was all about displaying photos in exciting, creative ways, she pretty much dreaded being the subject of a photo. Probably, Carmela decided, that discomfort harked back to third grade and a disastrous school picture that had made her look like a scrawny kid with spiky, artichoke-inspired hair. Then again, maybe everyone had a bad class picture experience buried deep down inside their flawed childhood psyche.

  They hit Jackson, then hung a right on Rousseau and bumped along near the river. Carmela’s father had made his living working on river barges. And even though he’d been killed many years ago, she still felt a certain kinship with this industrial, riverfront part of New Orleans. Maybe, out there in the spirit realm, her father’s ghost still hovered, keeping a watchful eye on Mississippi barge traffic.

  “Spooky over here,” said Ava. “All these dark, lurking warehouses.”

  “It’s just the industrial side of New Orleans,” said Carmela, as her little car skirted a pothole. “After all, we’re a major port city that moves five hundred tons of cargo every year.”

  “The stuff tourists never see,” said Ava. “Oh man!” she squeaked, as they rattled over another stretch of bumps and potholes. “You could bust an axle on this road.” New Orleans’s streets were notorious for being pebbled, pocked, and pitted, and this route seemed to sport more potholes than autos.

  Carmela glanced up sharply and squinted into her rearview mirror. “I just wish that jerk would stop tailgating us.”

  “Maybe it’s the protective tail Babcock put on you,” Ava suggested.

  Carmela had practically forgotten about the police tail. She’d been far more concerned with business at her shop, Brother Paul’s murder, and Baby’s arts meeting.

  “Maybe it’s somebody cute,” said Ava. She shook her hair back and let loose a girlish giggle. “Nothing like a tall, dark, handsome man in uniform.”

  “Unless he’s in plainclothes,” said Carmela.

  “I can take care of his clothes,” grinned Ava.

  “Probably,” said Carmela, “it’s some poor schlump who’s simply driving home after a hard day at work.”

  Ava swiveled in her seat. “He is following close.”

  “He sure is.” Carmela touched her toe to her brake pedal. She knew if her brake lights flared, the average person’s response would be to hit their brakes and drop back.

  This guy stuck li
ke a burr.

  “Who is that?” she wondered aloud.

  “Somebody really following you?” asked Ava. She digested this for a millisecond, then said, “Following us?”

  “I hope not,” said Carmela, just as the heavens seemed to open and spill down a torrent of rain.

  “Yipes!” Ava cried, as rain pinged furiously on the roof of the car and sloshed across the windshield in undulating waves. Carmela’s windshield wipers were suddenly working overtime, barely keeping up. “This downpour oughta make him back off,” she added.

  But the car following closely behind them didn’t back off one iota.

  “Doggone,” said Carmela, fighting to make out the boundaries of the road while still managing a quick glance in the mirror. “I think that idiot is going to . . .”

  Crunch! Metal scraped against metal.

  “Hit us!” Carmela cried. “Doggone, he did hit us!”

  “Tapped your bumper, anyway,” said Ava. “He probably lost sight of us in this downpour.” She leaned forward and peered out the front window. “Hard to see anything out there!” Ava gathered part of her sleeve in her hand and wiped at the window.

  Carmela reached down and flipped her defroster to high.

  “Better,” said Ava.

  But it wasn’t. Not really.

  Once again the car approached them from behind and nudged against Carmela’s back bumper. Harder this time.

  A little shot of adrenaline squirted through Carmela’s body, pushing her into fight-or-flight alert. She reacted instantly by tromping down hard on the accelerator. Everything inside her told her to shake this guy, to try to lose him.

  “Holy moly!” Ava cried, “that was intentional! He wants to run us off the road!”

  Carmela accelerated into a turn. “Try to read his license plate, okay?”

  Ava turned and squinted as the car spun through the turn with them. “I can’t quite make it out; he’s just far enough back and it’s raining too hard.”

  “Okay, then peek out the back window and see if you can figure out what kind of car it is.” If she could get the model and make, she could call in a report to the police. Yes, the police. Where are they? Where’s the security tail Babcock supposedly arranged? Taking a break? Just when I need them most?

  Ava pulled her knees up and swiveled around in her seat again. Scrunched up and hanging over the back of the seat, she peered out the back window. “It’s, like, really big and black.”

  “Like an SUV?” Carmela edged her speed up to forty-five. Off to her right, dingy warehouses flew by.

  Ava shook her head. “No, I think it’s a regular car.”

  “What’s the make? Can you tell?”

  “Uh, maybe a Ford?”

  “You sure about that?” Who do I know drives a big black Ford? Basically...nobody.

  “Or,” said Ava, “it could be a ... BMW?”

  “Ava, there’s a world of difference between a Ford and a BMW!”

  Ava swung back around, frustrated. “Not to me there isn’t! Last I looked, I wasn’t a contributing editor to Car and Driver. All I care about is if a car gets me from point A to point B.”

  “Well, whoever’s trying to cream my bumper,” said Carmela, “means business!” The car was about thirty feet behind them now, but was steadily keeping pace.

  “Can’t you lose them?” asked Ava, pulling her seat belt across and snapping it closed. “Or, better yet, lay down a spray of tacks or an oil slick?”

  “Only if I were James Bond or Batman,” said Carmela. “But I’m gonna try to outrun him.” Carmela cranked her wheel hard, sending them into a tight turn down Tchoupitoulas. “Maybe we can lose them along here,” she cried, the Mississippi hard on their right.

  “Lordy, Lordy,” mewled Ava. “Tell me we’re not gonna do a Thelma and Louise and jump this car into the river!”

  “Not a chance,” said Carmela. She cranked her steering wheel hard again and flew down Felicity. Somewhere ahead, she knew there was a little café with a narrow cobblestone alley running directly behind it. Her Mercedes was small and nimble and cornered like a race car. If she could hit that turn and slip down the alley, she could outmaneuver this joker once and for all!

  “You gained a pretty good lead on that last turn,” said Ava, whipping her head around, “but he’s still following.” She gulped. “Oops, coming on stronger now.”

  “Not for long,” Carmela muttered, through clenched teeth. She blinked and poked her head forward, searching frantically for that café. But all she saw was darkness, plunging trees, and rain slashing down. “Gotta be here,” she muttered, unless she was completely turned around in her directions.

  “He’s pulling closer,” said Ava, fear tingeing her voice.

  Carmela ground her teeth together in frustration. If only she could . . .

  Suddenly, she spotted the colorful purple-and-orange painted sign of the Xanadu Café. Here was her chance to outmaneuver and outsmart this creep! Wrenching the steering wheel, she bumped the right side of her car up and over the curb, jolting them hard, like the starting jerk of a roller coaster. Then Carmela was pretty much driving straight down the cracked sidewalk, her car pointed directly at a dejected banana tree and five small wrought-iron tables that made up Xanadu’s outdoor café. The closer she came, the harder she gunned her engine.

  “You’re gonna hit ...!” Ava cried.

  Carmela’s front bumper missed the tables by inches and, instead, dinged the tall, metal outdoor heater. The six-foot-high heater teetered back and forth on its base like a giant sippy cup, and then Carmela slipped by and was bumping hard down the alley. Directly behind her, the outdoor heater toppled over and clattered against the cobblestones, forming a nifty, temporary barricade.

  A metallic crunch rang out as the black car smacked nose first against the fallen heater, then came to an abrupt, jouncing stop.

  “Holy Coupe de Ville!” came Ava’s excited shriek. “You did it!”

  Chapter 23

  A WEB of photographer’s lights and aluminum stands formed a cluttered, shiny barricade in the living room of Carmela’s Garden District house. Accompanying hoods, snoods, scrims, and battery packs were scattered everywhere. Off in the dining room, a professional makeup artist had set up a temporary studio on Carmela’s heirloom dining room table. Palettes of eye shadow, blush, and highlighter glistened in sparkly, almost Crayola-like colors.

  “You call this low key?” Carmela gasped. She sat ramrod stiff in a chair, bare face tilted upward as if in supplication, a towel draped across her front and shoulders. Besides Jilly, the hair and makeup artist who’d just begun working on her, Jekyl and Ava hovered nearby. The photographer, his assistant, and a lighting guy popped strobe lights and conferred over test shots.

  Gazing at Carmela’s unhappy, naked face, Jekyl muttered, “Thank goodness I hired Jilly.”

  “She doesn’t look half bad,” observed Ava. “Dab a little concealer under her eyes and they’ll brighten right up.”

  “She’s got great bone structure,” Jilly told them, “so I intend to play that up.” Jilly looked exactly like you’d imagine a movie makeup artist would look. Slat thin, spiked blond hair, eyeliner (guyliner?), tight white T-shirt, designer jeans, and an upper arm covered with elaborate tribal tattoos.

  “That’s right,” said Carmela, hating all the fuss, knowing it would only get worse once the photographer started shooting. “Go ahead and talk about me like I’m not even here.”

  “Sorry, love,” said Jilly, as he twiddled a brush.

  “So let’s just spackle my face and get it over with.” Carmela sounded just this side of cranky.

  Jilly leaned forward, a sympathetic look on his face. “What do you usually use?” he asked. He had a slightly high, crackly voice.

  “Just a little foundation and mascara,” Carmela told him.

  Jilly poured a puddle of light beige liquid into his hand. “But we’re making you up for the camera lens, which reads differently than the human eye. S
o we’ll have to go a little more dramatic, a little more extreme.”

  “Which means what?” asked Carmela, finally favoring him with a half-smile. For some reason, she felt she could trust this young man with his endearing, crackly voice.

  Jilly took a wedge-shaped sponge and began daubing makeup onto Carmela’s face. “First I’ll do a light base coat to even out the skin tone, then I’ll apply foundation and a few dabs of highlighter.”

  “Sounds like an artist gessoing a canvas,” Carmela observed.

  “That’s a fun analogy,” said Jilly, working swiftly.

  “And don’t forget eyeliner,” said Ava, hovering close by. “Give her lots and lots of eyeliner and mascara.”

  “But no tarantula eyes,” said Carmela, glancing at Ava as Jilly continued to daub away. Ava could sometimes overdo it on mascara.

  “No tarantula,” Ava agreed. “For you, just—kaboom—big, dramatic eyes!”

  Minutes later, Jekyl bustled in, holding up two long dresses that swished and rustled in his arms. “I took the liberty of bringing along a couple of gowns for you to choose from.” One gown looked like liquid pewter; the other was a midnight-blue velvet.

  This was news to Carmela. “I can’t wear what I have on?”

  Jekyl rolled his eyes. “Sweetie, c’mon. You’re wearing beige slacks and a sweater. How let’s-drive-to-the-mall-in-the-minivan is that?”

  “Camel,” Carmela said, in an insistent tone. “Not beige. Camel is very in this season.”

  Jekyl let loose a deep sigh and said, deadpan, “Yawn.”

  “Not yawn,” said Carmela. “Classic.”

  “Honey,” said Jekyl, “the name of the magazine is Delta Living, not Night of the Living Dead.”

  Ava knelt at Carmela’s side. “Just try the gowns, cher. I know one of them is going to look super fantastic on you!”

  “And pin a little extra hair on her, too,” Jekyl advised.

  Carmela’s hands flew to her head. “What!” she squawked. “Now I need hair?”