Skeleton Letters (10 page)

“I hope you didn't bet the farm on this vineyard venture,” said Carmela. Success in one arena didn't necessarily guarantee success in another.

Quigg gave a laconic shrug that said, of course he had. “Go big or go home,” he told her. “That's what I always say.”

“And I prefer to think big but take smaller steps.”

“Same goal, different philosophies,” said Quigg. His brows arched. “So you've got everything squared away with the folks at the Belle Vie Hotel?” He'd wanted to hold the wine tasting and launch party at one of his own restaurants, but Carmela had convinced him that the rather grand Marquis Ballroom at the Belle Vie would be an even more impressive venue. She sincerely hoped she was right.

“I've got a final meeting with the catering manager Thursday afternoon,” Carmela told him. “After that, we cross our fingers and cast our fate to the wind.”

“I'm all for that,” said Quigg.

“Oh,” said Carmela. “You remember you wanted to know about swag bags?”

Quigg nodded. “Yeah?” He'd wanted to give something to each guest to take home with them, a kind of remembrance of the event. Carmela had told him she'd design something only if she had time.

“Well, I came up with this.” Carmela turned back to her desk, grabbed a tubular cardboard wine carrier, and handed it to him.

“A cardboard wine carrier,” said Quigg. He juggled it in his hands, not all that impressed with its basic brown kraft-paper look.

“That was my template,” Carmela told him. She reached back and grabbed her finished piece. “And this is what it looks like when you apply design principles and glitz it up.”

“Wow!” said Quigg. Carmela had covered the cardboard tube with shiny tortoiseshell-printed paper, then added embossed gold metallic bands at the top and bottom. A polymer clay medallion of a Bacchus face was adorned with gold leaf and stuck on the very top. A parchment tag with gold lettering was attached with gold thread.

Quigg cradled the elegant wine container in his hands. “This is sexy!”

“Glad you approve,” said Carmela, handing him a small brochure. “And this promo piece gets rolled up and popped inside along with a bottle of your wine.”

“What is it?” asked Quigg.

“A three-fold brochure that basically describes your different varieties of wine. So when it's all put together we end up with a combination swag bag and PR kit.”

“It's so professional and artistic looking,” said Quigg, tapping the tortoiseshell paper with his thumbnail. “I'm stunned.”

“If it's okay with you,” said Carmela, “I'll e-mail the artwork to my service bureau and have everything printed out.”

“Just like that?”

“Your people will have to do some final wrapping and gluing on Friday, but it shouldn't be a big deal,” Carmela told him.

Quigg was still grinning, still turning the wine container over in his hands. “I knew I could count on you,” he told her.

“No problem,” said Carmela, plucking the wine container from his hands as she stood up.

“You're really great, you know?”

Something in his tone put Carmela on alert.

“Are you . . . still dating that beat cop?” Quigg asked. He moved a step closer to her, the better to crowd her.

“Homicide detective,” said Carmela, correcting him. “And, yes, we're still seeing each other.” She took a half-step back, then felt her hip press tightly against the edge of her desk.

“Too bad,” said Quigg, giving a regretful shake of his head.

“Why's that?” asked Carmela, pretty much knowing what he was going to say.

“I always figured you and I would get together,” said Quigg, giving her a deep, soulful look.

“We did get together,” Carmela reminded him. “As I recall, it wasn't exactly love at first sight.”
Or even second or third sight.

Quigg slapped a hand over his heart as if to register deep and profound shock. “Am I that big a jerk?” he asked.

Carmela smiled. “Yes. Sometimes you are.”

W
E really should put our heads together,” Carmela told Gabby. “Since we've got our calligraphy seminar tomorrow.”

Gabby set down a holiday card she'd been working on, dabbing bronze ink on the edges of the blue card stock. “I am feeling a slight flutter of worry,” she admitted, “wondering if you . . .”

“Had it all figured out?” asked Carmela.

Gabby nodded. “Do you?”

Carmela cocked her head and gazed at the front window, which held a display of silver-and-gold angels, made from an assemblage of Paperclay, papier-mâché, and filmy ribbons. “I
think
I do. Still, we should run through our projects and make sure we're both on the same page.”

“That's funny,” said Gabby. “
Same page
, seeing as how it's calligraphy.”

“And tricky calligraphy at that,” said Carmela. “Skeleton letters.” She thought for a moment. “You've got the paper and pens set aside?”

Gabby nodded. She'd put in the order a month ago. “And we're still going to have the two sessions, morning and afternoon?”

“Right, but most people signed up for both.”

“You mean Baby and Tandy signed up for both,” said Gabby. “Like they always do.”

“They're hardcore crafters,” agreed Carmela. No matter what type of seminar they held at Memory Mine—Paper Moon, Memory Boxes, Card Making, or Collages—Baby and Tandy were always front and center.

“What I want to do in the morning session,” said Carmela, “is focus on teaching basic calligraphy letters. Then, in the afternoon, we'll show them how to incorporate calligraphy into scrapbooking, cards, and decoupage.”

“Sounds like you've got the crafts part pretty much figured out,” said Gabby.

“Pretty much,” said Carmela.

“If you make a list of materials, I'll start pulling paper and things right now.”

“A sensible plan,” said Carmela, as two women who were sort of regulars pushed their way into her shop. While Gabby helped one woman sort through packets of charms, Carmela helped the other woman, an older lady with spiky white hair who went by the name of Ricky.

“You're so good at paper crafts,” said Ricky, “are you as talented at needle crafts?”

“No, I'm not,” said Carmela. “For some reason, I've never been very skillful at sewing.”

“The thing is,” said Ricky, looking hopeful, “I'm trying to make fabric-covered buttons.”

“Oh,” said Carmela, “I do know how to do that.”

“Really?”

“It's actually pretty simple,” said Carmela. “Want me to show you?”

Ricky nodded.

“First of all,” said Carmela, “you have to use a button with a shank.” Carmela reached over and grabbed a stray button, then placed it on a square of paper for demonstration purposes.

“Okay,” said Ricky.

“You lay the button on your fabric,” Carmela told her, “then draw a circle around it, allowing for a little extra fabric. You cut out your fabric circle, then take a needle and thread and do a running stitch around the edge of the circle. Once you have that done, just place your button in the middle of your fabric circle and pull the string. You'll have to, you know, kind of ease the folds around the edge of the button and smooth it in back. But when it all looks right, just pull your thread tight and tie a knot.”

“You make it sound so easy,” said Ricky.

“Crafting doesn't always have to be tricky,” said Carmela. She took her demo button and placed it in Ricky's hand. “Here. Take this home and give it a try.”

“I will,” said Ricky, looking inspired.

 

 

Ten minutes later, Louise Applegate, the woman who was overseeing the dig at St. Tristan's, dropped by.

Applegate didn't look like an archaeologist. In fact, with her warm smile, sunny blond hair, and wrist full of gold bangles, she looked more like a housewife. But she was wearing khaki, a nicely tailored skirt and jacket with the requisite epaulets. Not exactly field gear, but it did project a certain note of archaeological authenticity.

“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice,” said Applegate, after they'd made their introductions.

Leading her back to her office, Carmela said, “Sorry I was so testy on the phone earlier.”

Applegate waved a manicured hand. “It's completely understandable, considering what you've been through. Must have been awful for you, finding your friend like that.”

Seeing my friend die
, thought Carmela.

“So,” said Carmela, settling into her leather swivel chair, “your being here obviously has something to do with the dig that's going on at St. Tristan's. And . . . yesterday's murder?”

“That's right,” said Applegate. “Our archaeologists were the ones who excavated the churchyard and discovered the old foundation along with a number of antiquities.”

“One of the antiquities being Père Etienne's crucifix?” said Carmela.

“We haven't verified his ownership one hundred percent,” said Applegate, “but my gut tells me it did belong to the good padre. There are also a number of old records that reference the crucifix and, of course, his grave is close by.”

“How do I fit into all of this?” asked Carmela.

Applegate licked her lips and leaned forward slightly. “You were there.”

Carmela grimaced. “People keep saying that.”

“And according to the police report . . .”

“You read the police report?” Carmela blurted out.

“Yes, in fact I was given a portion of it.”

“May I see it?”

“Well, that would be somewhat irregular . . . ,” began Applegate.

Carmela settled back in her chair, rested her hands casually in her lap, and gave a helpless shrug. Body language that indicated this conversation was all but over.

Sensing that the door might slam abruptly in her face, Applegate said, in a hasty tone, “In your case, I could probably make an exception.”

“Excellent,” said Carmela, leaning forward as Applegate dug into her briefcase.

“But please don't tell anyone,” said Applegate, handing Carmela a sheaf of papers.

“My lips are sealed,” Carmela assured her, as she set about taking a quick scan of the papers. By the second page, Carmela was completely unnerved. It was one thing to read about a murder in the newspaper, and another to witness a murder with your own eyes. But to read about it in factual, nonemotional, cut-and-dried police lingo chilled her to the bone.

“This report makes it sound so impersonal,” Carmela murmured.

“I'm sorry, this must be very difficult for you,” said Applegate, sensing that Carmela needed some soothing.

Carmela handed the report back to her. “What could you possibly want from me? It seems like you have a serious amount of information right here.”

Applegate put her hands on her knees and leaned forward slightly. “We've had . . . how shall I phrase this? . . . other items go missing.”

“You mean from the St. Tristan's site?” asked Carmela. “Or from other digs?”

“Both,” said Applegate. “It seems that whenever we unearth a tasty item, then get the metallurgic report back attesting to its authenticity, we have . . . how shall I phrase this? . . . another theft.”

“You're thinking an inside job?” Carmela asked. If so, this information could put a whole new spin on things.

“It's crossed my mind,” said Applegate, giving a little frown.

“Again, what do you want from me?”

“Really,” said Applegate, “I'm just trying to get an
impression
of what you might have seen.”

“I didn't see much,” said Carmela.

“Man? Woman?” asked Applegate.

“It's in the report,” Carmela said. She leaned back in her chair and gave a couple of nervous bounces. “But I'm pretty sure it was a man.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Just the way he moved. A certain . . . strength. A sureness. And he seemed taller than Byrle. Huskier.”

“But the assailant was wearing a robe,” said Applegate.

“That tosses a wrench into things,” Carmela admitted. “A monk's robe does add a good deal of volume.”
And maybe hides a smaller figure?

“Anything else come to mind?” asked Applegate. “Anything you recall, any feeling you had?”

Carmela let her mind wander back to St. Tristan's, and the vision of Byrle's struggle suddenly played in her head like a bad YouTube video. “Just that the whole thing felt incredibly vicious,” Carmela finally said.

The two of them sat there for a few moments, the murder hanging in the air between them like some kind of shared bad dream. Then Applegate rose from her chair and said, “You've been a big help.”

No, I haven't
, thought Carmela.

“Do the police know about the other missing items?” Carmela asked.

“They do. Although I can't say they've taken our reports all that seriously.”

“Which is why,” said Carmela, “you're talking to me?”

Applegate stuck out a hand. “Thanks again. I appreciate your input.”

 

 

“Oh, that's cool,” said Gabby, peering over Carmela's shoulder at the repeated image on her iMac screen. “What is it?”

“A step-and-repeat,” said Carmela, continuing to click away.

“A step and what?”