Skeleton Letters (13 page)

“I'm talking dateability,” said Ava. “What's your top line on men?”

“Oh . . . ,” said Carmela. She shrugged. She'd never given it that much thought. “Maybe . . . fifty?”

“How old do you think Drew Gaspar is?”

Carmela raised her eyebrows and gazed at Ava. “Fifty?”

“So I just made it under the proverbial wire,” said Ava.

Carmela reached across the table and put her hand on top of Ava's. “Honey, you don't even know if the man is single.”

“Oh, he's single,” said Ava. “My single-guy radar rarely malfunctions. I can generally spot a single, dateable guy at a thousand paces.”

“I suppose,” said Carmela. They'd once gone to the Gumbo Festival in Bridge City and unattached, single guys smelling of Axe and Paco Rabanne had buzzed around Ava all day. She'd come home with something like fifteen invitations for dates.

“Besides,” said Ava, letting loose a deep sigh, “I've got to think about settling down one of these years. Fact is, I'm aging right before my very own eyes.” She sighed deeply. “I sincerely hope all those mad scientists who are fudging around with DNA and stem cells will hurry up and unlock the secret of perpetual youth. Invent a face cream or a version of Mr. Peabody's Wayback Machine or something.”

“You're not exactly Dorian Gray,” said Carmela. “And you could console yourself with the fact that you're not quite thirty.”

“Still,” said Ava, “time marches on, and eventually it's going to march right across my poor face.”

“We should leave a good tip,” said Carmela, eager to change the subject. Whenever Ava fretted about getting old, she turned a little morose.

“And we should go thank our generous host,” said Ava.

 

 

“My pleasure,” said Gaspar, who, rather than offering a handshake, seemed to delight in kissing the backs of their hands. “Come back soon.” He focused on Carmela. “And you, dear lady, we must certainly talk.”

“Wonderful,” said a less-than-thrilled Carmela.

“And you,” Gaspar said to Ava, his eyes roving up and down her statuesque figure, “I really admire your style.”

“Ava's got personal style like nobody else,” said Carmela. After all, who else could pull off thigh-high boots with such graceful aplomb? Nobody she knew.

“I sure do, sugar,” grinned Ava.

“I actually have another enterprise I'm involved in,” Gaspar said, in a confidential tone. “I can't let the cat out of the bag yet, because I don't want my idea swirling around in the ozone where somebody else could pick it off . . . but I just might call upon
you
for a little project, as well.”

“Aren't you the mysterious one,” cooed Ava.

When Carmela pushed open her door and turned on the light, Babcock was sitting in the dark waiting for her.

“Why didn't you turn the lights on?” she asked, dropping her jacket and bag, then stepping over to give him a kiss.

“You've been out investigating,” he said, without preamble.

“No,” Carmela said, trying to look wide-eyed and innocent, deciding she probably just looked wide-eyed. “I wouldn't do that.”

Babcock's handsome face crinkled into an indulgent smile. “Of course you would.”

“Really,” said Carmela, reaching forward to snap on the lamp, illuminating them both in a warm puddle of light. “I had a meeting with Ava and Jekyl over at the Garden District house. Some . . . business. And then Ava and I stopped to get a bite to eat.”

“You're not thinking of moving back into that place, are you?” Now Babcock looked a little nervous. Carmela figured it was because he probably didn't want to sniff around another man's turf. Even if it was lost-in-the-divorce turf.

Carmela sidled closer to him. “What if I did decide to move?” she asked, playfully. “Is the Garden District not convenient enough for you?”

He grabbed her hand. “I'd miss your little pied-à-terre right here.”

“So would I,” agreed Carmela, scrunching down next to him. “No, we were over there because Baby asked me to decorate the place for the Holidazzle Tour.”

“Seriously?”

Carmela nodded.

Now Babcock threw her a questioning look. “I thought you didn't go in for all that Garden District society stuff.”

“I usually don't,” said Carmela. “But we're talking about Baby, one of my dearest friends. She asked for a favor and I said yes. Simple as that.”

“Mmm,” said Babcock. He hunched his shoulders forward, suddenly looking like he was drained of energy.

“Hard day at the office, dear?”

Babcock offered a halfhearted wave. “Eeh.”

“That's an
mmm
and an
eeh
,” said Carmela. “You're just bubbling with conversation.”

“Hungry,” said Babcock, stretching out his long legs and dangling his left hand over the edge of the chair. Boo promptly sniffed it, then positioned herself beneath his splayed-out fingers, the better to catch a good ear scratch.

“I'll fix you something to eat,” said Carmela. “What would you like?” She quickly ran through her list of leftovers in her head, then said, “Jambalaya? Maybe a sandwich?”

“Sandwich would be great,” murmured Babcock.

“Done,” said Carmela.

She puttered in her kitchen for eight minutes tops and came up with a sort of Big Easy Reuben—corned beef, Swiss cheese, horseradish, and Thousand Island dressing on rye. She plated it, added a dill pickle spear as well as a pickled onion from a jar she'd picked up at the farmers' market last week, and carried it all over to Babcock.

He seemed surprised. “Oh man,” he said, as he pulled himself up. “I didn't expect you'd go to so much trouble.” He swiped the sandwich off its plate and propelled it toward his mouth in one swift move.

“No trouble,” said Carmela. She sat at his feet, watching him eat for a couple of minutes, passing him a paper napkin when Thousand Island dressing threatened to drip onto her leather chair.

“Good,” said Babcock, as he chewed. “What is it exactly?”

“Big Easy Reuben,” Carmela told him.

Babcock looked puzzled, though he continued to munch with gusto. “Never heard of that. Where'd you get the recipe? Which restaurant?”

“I made it up myself,” said Carmela.

“Just now?”

“Well . . . ten minutes ago.”

“Good,” Babcock said again, as he continued to eat.

“So,” Carmela said, when the lines that were etched into his face seemed to finally relax, when he began to lose his hungry, haunted look. “How goes the investigation?”

Babcock finished a last little bit of crust, then fastidiously wiped his mouth with the napkin. “We made some progress.”

“Really?” This was the kind of news she wanted to hear.

“We picked up that delivery guy, Johnny Otis, today and are holding him for questioning.”

“Can you do that? I mean, just hold him, without any concrete evidence?”

Babcock gave a thin smile. “I can do anything I want.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

“You'd be surprised.”

Carmela studied him carefully. Was he a tougher, flintier guy than she'd ever imagined? Maybe so. Just because she'd never seen the full-court-press law enforcement side of him didn't mean it wasn't there. “Why did you single out Johnny Otis?”

Babcock put one arm behind his head and wriggled his shoulders. “Proximity, mostly. Otis was in the area and he gave a fair amount of back talk to the officers who questioned him.” He let loose a discreet burp. “Plus Otis has a record.”

“You mentioned that before.”

“Nothing dramatic. Mostly breaking and entering.”

“Not murder,” said Carmela.

“For your information,” said Babcock, “Mrs. Coopersmith wasn't murdered. At least I don't believe it was premeditated.”

“So her death was technically a homicide?”

Babcock's nod was imperceptible.

“But your hunch about Otis is based on the fact that he's a burglary guy.”

“Right.”

“The thing is,” said Carmela, “nobody broke into St. Tristan's. The church was already open.”

“A B&E generally involves burglary. Stolen goods.”

“Ah, there was that,” said Carmela. “Père Etienne's crucifix is definitely missing.” She waited a couple of beats, then said, “Have you come up with anything on that yet?”

“No,” said Babcock. Now he was the one who waited a couple of beats before he asked, “Have you?”

T
ANDY flashed a broad grin at Carmela as she cruised into Memory Mine. “We wanted to get here early,” she explained.

“This one called me at six thirty this morning!” exclaimed Baby, jerking her thumb at Tandy. “I was like . . . still in REM sleep.”

“Too excited,” said Tandy. “I just couldn't wait.”

“To do calligraphy?” asked Carmela. Her class didn't kick off until nine o'clock and here were Baby, Tandy, and two other women already seated at the big craft table, a half hour early, with Gabby hovering nearby.

“That and I thought there might be an update,” said Tandy, peering at Carmela sharply. “On . . . you know.”

“We should really discuss that later,” Baby said, in a quiet tone. Then she smiled serenely and seemed to refocus. “Can you believe it? Tandy even made early-morning forays to both Café du Monde and Duvall's Bakery.”

“And look at the goodies I brought back!” Tandy exclaimed. She jumped up from her chair, almost knocking it over, and thrust a take-out cup of café au lait into Carmela's hand. Then she reached out and pushed an enormous white bakery box across the table. “Surprise!”

“French almond croissants,” said Gabby. “As well as those delightful little Doberge bites and date bars.” She seemed as excited about the eats as she was about today's class.

“Wow,” said Carmela, taking a sip of her coffee.

“Dig in,” enthused Tandy.

Baby lifted her Gucci tote bag onto the table and pulled out a plastic storage container. “And just in case we don't have enough of the sweet stuff, I brought along some freshbaked chocolate streusel bars.”

“We have enough bakery for twenty people,” Gabby laughed.

“So what?” said Tandy, slyly dipping her hand into the container and pulling out a chocolate streusel bar. “A person can never ingest too much sugar.”

“Or chocolate,” said Baby.

“You think?” said Carmela. “Then how come nutritionists always caution against eating sugar? It's always held up as something that's positively toxic.”

Tandy wrinkled her nose in dismay. “That's because they're wet blankets. Honestly, a day without sugar is like a day without . . .”

“Scrapbooking!” cried Baby.

“Exactly,” said Tandy. Plunking her skinny bottom down on the chair next to Baby, she placed her elbows solidly on the table and proceeded to munch her bar.

Fifteen minutes later the table was completely filled with a dozen paying customers. An electric buzz filled the air as scrappers and would-be calligraphers waited with anticipation. Although when Carmela and Gabby conferred at the flat file, Gabby whispered to Carmela that it seemed more like a sugar buzz.

“Okay,” said Carmela, raising her voice as she stepped to the head of the table. “Time to kick this class into high gear. Let's clear off the food debris and make our worktable as tidy as possible. Tandy, can you gather up the used coffee cups?”

Tandy nodded as she sprang from her chair, definitely a little sugar-buzzed.

“Thank you,” said Carmela. “And Gabby, you go ahead and pass out the pens and graph paper.”

There was an urgent scuffle then, as everyone seemed to shift into serious craft mode.

“First things first,” said Carmela, as all eyes turned toward her. “We're not going to take up pen and ink today, because that's awfully tricky and messy for beginners.”

There were audible sighs of relief.

“The fact is,” said Carmela, “there are lots of great calligraphy pens readily available. Sharpie, Speedball, and Bic Sheaffer all make excellent calligraphy pens. We stock them all, so be sure to try out the various brands to find the one that's most comfortable for you.” She lifted a large cardboard poster that displayed basic alphabet letters onto the table. “And these are the letters we'll be practicing. The skeleton letters.”

“So they're like writing architecture?” asked Tandy, squinting at the poster.