Skeleton Letters

Table of Contents

 

 

 

DEATH BY DARJEELING
GUNPOWDER GREEN
SHADES OF EARL GREY
THE ENGLISH BREAKFAST MURDER
THE JASMINE MOON MURDER
CHAMOMILE MOURNING
BLOOD ORANGE BREWING
DRAGONWELL DEAD
THE SILVER NEEDLE MURDER
OOLONG DEAD
THE TEABERRY STRANGLER
SCONES & BONES

 

 

KEEPSAKE CRIMES
PHOTO FINISHED
BOUND FOR MURDER
MOTIF FOR MURDER
FRILL KILL
DEATH SWATCH
TRAGIC MAGIC
FIBER & BRIMSTONE
SKELETON LETTERS

 

 

EGGS IN PURGATORY
EGGS BENEDICT ARNOLD
BEDEVILED EGGS

 

 

DEATH BY DESIGN

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This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

 

PUBLISHER'S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reaction to the recipes contained in this book.

Copyright © 2011 by Gerry Schmitt & Associates, Inc.

 

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

 

Childs, Laura.

p. cm.

Includes scrapbooking tips and recipes (p.317).

ISBN : 978-1-101-55442-5

1. Bertrand, Carmela (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. 3. Theft—Fiction. 4. Scrapbooking—Fiction. 5. New Orleans (La.)—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3603.H56S57 2011

813'.6—dc22 2011016736

 

 

Many thanks to Sam, Tom, Jennie, and Bob, as well as all my readers, scrapbooking friends, bloggers, reviewers, scrapbook magazine editors and writers, and scrapbook store owners.

C
ARMELA Bertrand stepped into the dark interior of St. Tristan's Church and uttered one word. “Spooky.” Not only was this historic pile of stones tucked discreetly into New Orleans's freewheeling French Quarter, but it lent a note of Gothic sobriety. Dim overhead lights spilled muddy puddles of light down the center aisle. An ornate wooden altar with a large gold cross and tabernacle loomed at the far end, flanked by two red lamps. Tucked down both sides of the church were small chapels and prayer nooks where flickering vigil lights cast dancing shadows across the faces of painted, peeling statues, giving them an uncanny animated look. All around were the rustlings of unseen people as beads rattled, doors closed softly, and footsteps whispered on slate floors. Choir practice had just concluded, and it felt like the final notes of “Abide with Me” still hung thick in the air.

Blinking rapidly, Carmela fought to adjust her eyes and take in the vaulted arches, dark confessionals, and gigantic pipe organ, which all seemed to impart an air of monastic seclusion and deep solemnity. “It's almost like something out of
Phantom of the Opera
,” she murmured to her friend, Ava Gruiex, who was a step behind, juggling a large hand-lettered poster.

“Or
The Hunchback of Notre Dame
,” Ava offered. “You remember that poor, twisted creature scrabbling around in the bell tower . . . ?”

“I remember,” said Carmela, and wished she hadn't. St. Tristan's had a bell tower, too. A tall, spindly structure with ancient bronze bells that clanged out their soliloquy above the French Quarter three times a day.

“Still,” said Ava, gazing about the church with an almost beatific expression on her face, “I love it here. It's particularly meaningful, now that I'm volunteering with the Angel Auxiliary.”

Carmela, a youthful blonde of not-quite-thirty, directed a skeptical sideways glance at her best friend, whose va-va-voom figure was sheathed in tight black leather slacks and a plunging yellow T-shirt with sequined court jester motif on the front. She herself was dressed in Republican beige and had worn sensible low-heeled shoes, quite appropriate considering her churchy errand today. But Carmela, who fancied herself conservative and worried that she was plain in a city where moonlight and magnolias were the norm, was really quite lovely in her own right. Her skin glowed with a peaches-and-cream luminosity, bluegray eyes mirrored the color of the Gulf of Mexico, and she projected an upbeat air of barely contained mirth and energy. And, upon certain occasions, generally a fanciful Mardi Gras ball, Carmela wasn't afraid to fling caution to the wind and jack her five-foot-six-inch frame onto tottering four-inch stilettos to hang out with the tall gals. And the tall guys, naturally.

Still, the fact remained . . . when Ava strutted her stuff with the assurance of a peacock, Carmela sometimes felt like a little brown wren.

Got to ratchet up the sizzle
, Carmela told herself.
Buy a Wonderbra or a purple silk teddy. Spritz on a cloud of Chanel No. 5. Keep that boyfriend of mine on his toes. Although maybe I shouldn't be thinking about all this . . . in church.

“People don't realize,” said Ava, dipping two fingers into a marble holy water font, crossing herself, then turning innocent, practically guileless eyes on Carmela, “that I'm a very strict Catholic.”

“Really.” Carmela's tone was purposefully flat. No question intended, no judgment made. Just a bushel basket full of curiosity. Like . . . had the church elders ever dug into Ava's background? Did they know she was the proprietor of the Juju Voodoo shop? Carmela thought not. But, seriously, what
was
the harm in a voodoo shop owner working as a docent in church? Nothing really. Because Ava was Ava, a retired beauty queen who partied her brains out and was known to enjoy a romantic fling or two. Or eight or nine.

“It's so peaceful in here,” said Ava, as they slipped silently up a side aisle and stopped in front of a low wooden table scattered with books, hymnals, and pamphlets. “And I can't thank you enough for hand-lettering this poster.” She reached behind the table, slid out a wooden easel, and plunked the poster onto it. “A perfect display,” she declared.

Carmela pushed aside a hunk of artfully honeyed blond hair and directed a smile at Ava. “Always glad to help out.” She'd been brushing up on her calligraphy like crazy anyway, gearing up for an upcoming seminar at her scrapbook shop, Memory Mine.

Ava set about straightening the little stacks of pamphlets, while Carmela gazed up at a stained-glass window that depicted a tall, stern-looking angel cradling a lamb. What should have been resplendent panes of red, blue, and yellow glass, with thin November sunlight streaming through, only looked dull and muted today. Rain poured down outside, as it had for the past three days, encasing all of New Orleans in a soggy gray amorphous cloud. Even in here, Carmela could hear rain drumming against the roof and gurgling down drain spouts. For a moment, Carmela wondered if, way at the tippytop of the roofline, St. Tristan's might not have gargoyle drain spouts, much like the great churches of Europe?

And why not? This was an old church built at the turn of the century, not this century, but two gone past, by the hands of the same type of good and God-fearing men who'd supervised the construction of landmark cathedrals and abbeys. Using the tried-and-true Romanesque plan of long nave and short transept, they'd built this fine edifice, established an adjoining graveyard, and buried their noteworthy followers in crypts beneath these very same floors where today's worshippers now walked.