Skeleton Letters (17 page)
Authors: Laura Childs
“Never?”
“Well, once I worked at the corn factory over in Hamilton. After about two hours of chucking cobs into the husker I realized it wasn't the career path I wanted to pursue. Still, when I left, it was by mutual agreement.”
“You agreed you didn't want to work there anymore,” said Carmela.
Ava giggled. “And they agreed I wasn't very good at chucking cobs.”
“I can understand that,” said Carmela, as they splashed through an enormous puddle.
“This much rain is just plain crazy,” said Ava, peering out. Lookit, your wipers can barely keep up.”
“It's a deluge, all right,” said Carmela. “Thank goodness we're past hurricane season.”
“Seeing this much rain just brings back bad memories,” said Ava, suddenly looking morose again.
Carmela squinted through her windshield as she negotiated a turn onto St. Bernard. “Of Katrina, yeah.” The entire city had been smacked down by the hurricane. And Carmela, doing her very small part in the recovery, had spent months and months helping customers dry out and salvage soggy photos and important documents.
“I hope this rain isn't heralding some kind of bad luck,” commented Ava.
“Have you been listening to Madame Blavatsky's predictions?”
“I'm, like, being serious here,” said Ava. “The lady is relevant. She possesses some very keen insights.”
Carmela wasn't buying it. “You think?”
“Oh yeah, she's definitely in touch with the great beyond. She knew you were going to ask me to help spy on Brother Paul tonight.”
“Maybe she didn't divine it,” said Carmela. “Maybe you just happened to mention that we'd run into him and she made a lucky guess. Sometimes luck is a dandy stand-in for intuition.”
“Maybe,” said Ava, scratching her head. “But I'll tell you one thing. My customers love her. Missy Lafourche has been in three times this week alone.”
“Good for business,” Carmela murmured. “I don't know how good it is for Missy.”
“Some people just like to know what's around the next corner,” said Ava.
“And I'm happy just to see what's directly in front of me,” said Carmela.
They whooshed down Paris, past a row of wrought-iron gaslights strung out like glowing rosary beads. Carmela didn't know if it was an optical illusion caused by the rain and fog, but it felt like she was entering some ethereal magical realm.
And that lasted for about three more minutes, until she turned into the parking lot of the Storyville Outreach Center. She slowed to a halt as a large, ramshackle building that had once been a warehouse loomed in front of them. A few rusted and pockmarked cars sat willy-nilly in a muddy parking lot. Rain continued to pound down.
“This is it?” said Ava. Her upper lip was curled in disgust, distaste evident in her voice. “It looks awful. Like a cootie factory.”
“It's a soup kitchen,” said Carmela, unsnapping her seat belt. “It's not supposed to replicate a plush dining alcove at Antoine's. Stands to reason a place that feeds the homeless is going to look a little rough around the edges.”
“But if it looks this nasty,” said Ava, pulling herself out of the car, “how bad is it going to smell?”
Turned out, not so great.
Pushing their way through the double doors of Storyville Outreach, they were met with the mingled odor of wet clothes, burned coffee, and beef stew. Luckily, the stew was the more prevalent top note.
“I guess they're just serving dinner,” said Ava. All around them, men and women were picking their way toward long trestle tables. They looked tired, downcast, and weatherbeaten.
“Hungry?” said Carmela.
Ava gave a tight shake of her head. “Not really.”
“Oh hey,” said Carmela, noticing Brother Paul acknowledge their grand entrance. “Looks like we've been spotted.”
“What do you think gave it away that we're not exactly in the homeless category?” asked Ava. “Your Louis Vuitton bag or my Ralph Lauren jacket?”
“Hard to say,” said Carmela, as Brother Paul's wary eyes continued to home in on them from across the room. Then he whispered something to an assistant and headed directly for them.
“Peace be with you,” said Brother Paul, as he greeted them. Tonight he was dressed civilian style. Black longsleeved shirt, baggy blue jeans, ragged tennis shoes. His thin gray hair was combed straight back, and his dark eyes remained as piercing as ever.
“You remember us?” asked Carmela.
Brother Paul tilted his head sideways, as if he were deep in thought.
“We met the other day,” said Carmela. “In the basement of St. Tristan's Church.”
“And that must be why you were sent to me,” murmured Brother Paul. “To help serve in our ministry.”
His words lit up Ava. “Serve?” she squawked. “You mean . . . serve dinner?” She uttered the word
dinner
as if she'd been asked to dish up dog poop.
dinner
as if she'd been asked to dish up dog poop.
Brother Paul gestured toward the rows of tables. “I have a hungry and weary flock tonight.”
“Wait a minute,” said Ava. She put a hand on her hip and twisted her body. “You want us to be, like, waitresses?” She looked horrified.
The beginnings of a smile flitted across Brother Paul's stern face. “No, no,” he told her. “First we say a few prayers of thanksgiving, then our flock will proceed through our rather democratic cafeteria line.”
“Maybe we could make this little venture reciprocal,” said Carmela, eager to lob a few questions at Brother Paul. “We help you, then you help us.”
“Perhaps so,” said Brother Paul. He crooked an index finger and they followed him as he threaded his way through an orderly layout of tables, then through a swinging door and into a large industrial kitchen.
“Whoa,” said Ava. “Big place.” Storyville Outreach may have looked shabby from the outside, but the kitchen, with its secondhand stainless steel restaurant counters and shelves, fairly gleamed. Enormous silver pans bubbled atop two large industrial stoves and at least a dozen people, all garbed in white, bustled to and fro in the hot, steamy environment.
A volunteer named Ruth led them into a back room where they donned long white aprons, plastic hairnets, and plastic gloves.
“Look at this crappy outfit,” Ava complained, spinning around with her arms outstretched. “It's like wearing a hazmat suit. Are we supposed to serve dinner or swab out the containment core of a nuclear reactor?”
“Just think of this as quid pro quo,” said Carmela, as they walked out into the busy kitchen. “We help in the kitchen, then Brother Paul sits down with us and answers a few questions.”
“If he keeps his word,” said Ava, bending over to sniff one of the pans that sat atop the stove. “Agh!” She straightened up. “This stuff smells like dog food!”
“I think it's really, um, beans?” said Carmela.
“Awful,” said Ava.
“Still,” said Carmela, grabbing a long-handled spoon and dipping it into the beans for a taste, “if you were homeless and hadn't eaten for a day or two . . .” She tasted the beans, then made a face. Way too bland.
“You know what your problem is?” said Ava. “You're too kindhearted and always see the upside of things.”
Carmela chuckled. “And that's a
bad
thing?”
bad
thing?”
“No, I suppose not.” Ava glanced at the beans. “Maybe . . . you should work some of your kitchen magic?”
“Worth a try,” said Carmela. She scouted around the kitchen, found the walk-in pantry, and proceeded to grab salt, pepper, brown sugar, and a large bottle of hot sauce off the shelves. She carried it all back to the pot of beans, then added ingredients, stirred, tasted, and judiciously added some more.
“Better now?” asked Ava.
Carmela nodded. “Lots more savory.” She dipped a clean spoon into the beans. “Care to taste?”
Ava held up a hand. “Pass.”
“You ladies gonna eat those beans or serve 'em?” asked Ruth, though she said it with a good-natured smile.
“Let's do it,” said Carmela. She and Ava grabbed pot holders, hoisted the pot of beans off the stove, and lugged it over to the cafeteria line.
“Good job,” said Ruth. She held up an ice-cream scoop. “Who wants to do the honors?”
“Me,” said Ava. She dipped the scoop into the pot and, as the first folks began shuffling through the cafeteria line, proceeded to dole out big helpings of beans.
Most of the men and a scattering of women went through the line silently. A few murmured hoarse thank-yous. To Carmela, who'd always been a champion of underdogs, it was heartbreaking. Especially in a city that thrived on parties and wild celebrations, and touted the good life with the motto
Laissez les bons temps rouler
. Let the good times roll.
Laissez les bons temps rouler
. Let the good times roll.
But not so many good times here.
After fifteen minutes or so, Carmela took over serving, while Ava took a well-deserved break. As Carmela scooped beans, she noticed Ava sidling up to another volunteer, a man with a thatch of unruly blond hair who wore a white chef's jacket. She grinned. A leopard didn't change its spots, even in a homeless shelter. And Ava was definitely on the prowl.
Five minutes later, the line dwindling, Ava came back over to see how Carmela was doing. “Everything cool?” she asked.
Carmela nodded. “Looks like we're ready to wrap it up.”
Ava gave a self-satisfied smile. “Did you see that guy I was talking to?”
“The one with the Chia Pet hair?” asked Carmela.
Ava giggled. “Ned's just a little avant-garde. Besides, he's the executive director of this place.”
“No kidding?”
“Oh yeah,” said Ava, “he was telling me all about it. Basically, he spends most of his day as a big-time fund-raiser. Writing grants, schmoozing donors, that type of thing. He's the one who really keeps the doors open.”
“That's wonderful,” said Carmela. She was always impressed by smart businesspeople who, instead of working plush jobs at big corporations, chose to bring their skills into the nonprofit sector. There had to be a special place in heaven for people like that.
“Anyway,” said Ava, “I'm ready to hang it up. And I'm not just talking about my apron.”
But once they'd changed back into civilian clothing, Brother Paul was busy out front, leading his flock in prayer. So Carmela and Ava took seats at the back of the room and bowed their heads, prepared to wait.
Finally, some twenty minutes later, the prayer session concluded with a hymn, a shaky, slightly off-key rendition of “Rock of Ages.”
Before the last note had died, Carmela sprang out of her chair and buttonholed Brother Paul. “We need to talk,” she told him, in no uncertain terms.
“What is it you want from me?” Brother Paul asked. Now he just looked tired.
“Information,” said Carmela. “Specifically about the rather cryptic words you spoke to us yesterday at St. Tristan's.”
“Which words were those?” asked Brother Paul. Now he seemed to be purposefully obtuse.
“Seekers,” said Carmela. “When we told you we were looking into the murder of our friend Byrle, you referred to the Seekers.” She paused. “I want to know exactly what you meant.”
“They exist,” said Brother Paul.
“Is this a group that's somehow affiliated with St. Tristan's?” asked Ava.
Brother Paul let loose a low snort.
“Then who are the Seekers?” asked Carmela. “Please tell us.”
“Sounds like a sixties Motown group,” said Ava. She took a step backward, bumped into someone directly behind her, and turned to apologize. Then her eyes lit up as she recognized Ned, the executive director. “Leaving so soon?” she asked. He'd changed into jeans and a blue plaid shirt.
“Duty calls,” said Ned, giving her a longing gaze. “But do come back and visit us again, won't you?”
“I might just do that,” Ava told him. She spun back around, grinned at Carmela and Brother Paul, and said, “Nice guy, your executive director.”
“You mean Roach?” said Brother Paul. “He's one of our flock.”
“What?” Ava screeched. “What do you mean?” Her mouth opened and closed a few times, and then she stammered out, “His name is
Roach
and he's
homeless
?”
Roach
and he's
homeless
?”
Brother Paul nodded. “Temporarily between dwellings, as we like to say.”
Ava looked stunned. “Well . . . dang.”
Brother Paul seemed to be enjoying her discomfiture. “You never can tell about people,” he said.
“I guess not,” said Ava.
“Getting back to the Seekers,” said Carmela. She wasn't impressed by Brother Paul's slightly snide attitude that had just been revealed.
“Ah, yes.” Brother Paul crossed his arms and looked properly attuned once more. “The Seekers are a somewhat reclusive group.”
“I take it they're some kind of religious organization?” said Carmela.
“They claim to be,” said Brother Paul. “The group holds their meetings at a makeshift church just off Trempeleau Road, south of here. South of the village of Mayport.”
“Excuse me,” said Carmela. “Are you implying they're some sort of cult?”
Brother Paul's eyes seemed to gleam. “Their leader is a man by the name of Reverend Frank Crowley. But, I daresay, his title was purchased via the Internet.”
“This is all very interesting,” said Carmela, “but why would you think these people, the Seekers, are even remotely involved?”
“Because of the silver-and-gold crucifix,” said Brother Paul. “The Seekers' basic coda is based on Judas's betrayal of Christ.”
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