Skeleton Letters (18 page)

“Excuse me?” said Carmela, trying to pull together a connection.

Brother Paul's voice was low and gravelly. “For thirty pieces of silver.”

T
HE last vestiges of rain swirled in the downspouts outside Carmela's apartment. This Thursday morning's walk with Boo and Poobah had been slow and damp as the dogs picked their way miserably down the alley, trying to avoid puddles, phobic about getting their tidy little paws wet. And now Carmela was running late.

“That you?” Carmela called from the bedroom. She was struggling to zip her black skirt, wondering what the problem was.
Too much bread pudding with brandy sauce? Overdoing it on the cheese and crab étouffée? Naw, that couldn't be it.

“It's me!” Ava called, as she let herself in. Carmela heard woofs and snorts, a sure sign the dogs were giving a proper greeting to their aunt Ava.

“Be right out.” Carmela finally got the zipper to close, patted her tummy, and made a solemn vow.
As soon as this rain lets up, we're going to do a whole lot more walking.

“What are you wearing,
cher
?” Ava called.

“Black suit,” Carmela shouted back. At one time she'd considered the black wool Liz Claiborne outfit her power suit, but now it was just her funeral suit. “You?”

“I'm wearing my funeral suit, too,” yelled Ava.

Carmela dipped her hand into a small woven basket that held a nest of necklaces and fished out a single strand of pearls. She clipped them around her neck, then stared into the large, round mirror above her vanity. Did she look properly sedate? Yes. Yes, of course. Hair combed into a conservative bob, lipstick just a dash of pinky-peachy gloss, black wool suit with cuffed white blouse. On the other hand, she knew that New Orleans was a city that adored jazz funerals, jazzed-up funeral processions, and elaborate post-funeral luncheons at Brennan's. So . . . whatever.

“Hold everything,” Carmela exclaimed, as she emerged from her bedroom and got her first glance at Ava, “
that's
what you consider a funeral suit?” Ava was wearing a black wool jacket over black leather pants. A red lacy camisole peeped from beneath the jacket. “It looks a trifle duded up to me.”
Or tarted up.

“It's supposed to,” said Ava, putting a hand on her hip and striking a flirty pose. “This happens to be a particularly trend-conscious look for a funeral. And mark my words, it's going to catch on.”

Carmela shrugged. “Sure. If you say so.”

“We gonna hotfoot it over to St. Tristan's?” asked Ava. “Or drive?”

Carmela peered out the window. The rain seemed to have let up for now. “Let's walk. But we better hurry.” They hustled outside, jamming back eager dog paws as they gingerly pulled the door shut, then hurried across the courtyard and into the street.

“You think any more about what Brother Paul said last night?” asked Ava. “About the silver?” Ava was also wearing black leather boots with playful little gold spurs decorating the heels.

“I pretty much dreamed about it,” said Carmela. She'd been plagued with confusing, stressful dreams all night in which men in brown hooded robes whispered through deserted churches.

“Correct me if I'm wrong,” said Ava, “but Brother Paul seemed to imply that the silver cross stolen from St. Tristan's was probably coveted by the Seekers.”

“That's pretty much what I took away from it.”

Ava looked angry. “He made it sound like there was some kind of cult that targeted the church. I seriously doubt that would happen!”

“How would we know?” asked Carmela. “Since we don't even know who these Seekers are.”

“You think they have, like, spies?” asked Ava. “Or scouts looking for silver religious objects?”

“Search me,” said Carmela.

 

 

“Oh man,” said Ava, when they got within a block of St. Tristan's. “Look at all the big black limos.”

“But no hearse,” said Carmela. According to her family's wishes, Byrle's body had been cremated.

“I think this whole thing is a little weird,” muttered Ava. “Having Byrle's funeral in the exact spot where she was killed.”

“Tandy said the same thing,” said Carmela. “But Baby explained it as a dust-to-dust kind of thing.”

“Still,” said Ava, giving a little shudder, “the whole notion kind of creeps me out.”

They each grabbed a program—the one Carmela had designed and that Baby had taken to a printer—and slipped down the center aisle, taking seats just this side of the midway point. Carmela figured it would put them in the middle of the action, with a good bird's-eye view of all the mourners. She didn't know what she was looking for, of course, but she had a creeping feeling that she'd know it if she saw it. If that made any sense at all.

Ava studied the cover of her program, then said, “I love what you designed.”

“Thank you,” said Carmela. She'd ended up using a stamp of an angel against the background of a Romanesque medieval church, then incorporated a loose freehand sketch of a heart.

“Lots of people here,” Ava said, twisting her neck back and forth. She was tapping her foot and getting a little restless.

“Nice she had so many friends,” Carmela whispered back.

“They're not all friends,” said Ava, a certain gritty tone coloring her voice. “Some of the people here are board members and such.”

“Interesting,” said Carmela. She wondered if the church was worried about getting slapped with some kind of wrongful-death lawsuit. Could happen.

“No, not that interesting,” said Ava. She was still clearly upset at being deposed from the Angel Auxiliary.

A few minutes later the big pipe organ rumbled to life with a swell of notes. Then the choir chimed in with “How Great Thou Art.” Everyone scrambled to their feet and grabbed hymnals so they could sing along. Except for Carmela and Ava. Carmela wanted to observe, while Ava preferred to stage a sort of protest sit-in.

As the notes faded away, Byrle's sister stepped slowly down the center aisle, carrying the ashes in a tall bronze urn. When she got to the low wooden railing that separated the sanctuary from the congregation, she stopped, then placed the urn on a small table covered with a lacy white cloth. A bell tinkled and a priest in black vestments came out to conduct the burial mass.

That was all it took for Ava. She bowed her head, made the sign of the cross, and was suddenly deeply devotional.

Carmela touched her shoulder to Ava's shoulder. “You okay?”

Ava gave a vigorous bob of her head. “It's just so darned sad,” she whispered.

Carmela couldn't agree more. Byrle Coopersmith had been a bright button of joy in their scrapbook shop. She always had a kind word for everyone and possessed an enthusiastic spark for scrapping and crafting. Which made Carmela all the more interested in following up on her investigation. The question, of course, was what to do next. Try to pry more information from Babcock? That was like trying to unlock a rusty old lock.

On the other hand, Brother Paul, with all his mysterious hints and innuendos, had pretty much handed them a clue.

Was it a clue worth following up on? Good question.

Whatever strange group the Seekers were—religious cult, biker club, or book club—Carmela was slowly developing an itch to find out more.

Of course, Brother Paul might just be sending them on a wild-goose chase. There was always that. But why would he do that? What would be the point? To direct suspicion away from himself? She supposed there was that possibility.

Midway through the service, Baby walked primly up to the front of the church and did her reading. In her gray wool suit she looked fragile and small, though her cultured voice rang out through the church with great feeling.

The service continued and then, seemingly all too soon, the giant organ rumbled to life again and the choir sang the closing hymn, “Amazing Grace.”

Everyone clambered to their feet, while Carmela turned around and peered up into the choir loft. Norton Fried was standing there, his back to the mourners, hands cutting through the air with broad, sweeping gestures.

And Carmela thought,
Norton Fried. Up there in your little perch. I wonder.

 

 

Ugly purple-and-gray clouds threatened to unleash a downpour. But for some reason, the rain held off. Encouraged by this small respite in the weather, many of the mourners congregated on the sidewalk outside St. Tristan's, chatting among themselves.

“Do you suppose we should go say something to Byrle's sister?” asked Ava. “Or her husband?”

Carmela hung back. “I don't know. I've never really met them.” She glanced at the people milling about, her eyes bouncing from person to person. What she was really hoping for was . . .

“You're checking everybody out, aren't you,
cher
?” said Ava. “Looking for suspects.” She grabbed Carmela's hand. “Good for you!”

“I'm not sure there are any suspects to be found here,” said Carmela, “but yes, I'm trying to get a fix on somebody . . . anybody.”

“What about Rain Monroe over there?” said Ava. “She was hanging around the church that day, though I don't know what her beef would have been with Byrle.”

Carmela spun on her heels. She hadn't noticed Rain Monroe inside the church, but now Rain was standing with Baby, talking excitedly and making broad hand gestures. “What's she all wound up about?” Carmela wondered.

“Don't know,” said Ava. “Maybe we should wander over and see what we can see?”

“Will you promise to behave?” Carmela asked Ava. Ava could be a real pill when she wanted to be.

Ava looked supremely injured. “Me?” She touched a hand to her chest. “I'm always on my best behavior.”

“Here's the thing,” said Carmela, trying not to sound as if she were lecturing. “If we're going to resolve this Angel Auxiliary thing, you're going to have to play it cool.”

“Okay,” Ava agreed. “I can stay frosty.”

But before they made their move toward Baby, Marilyn Casey intercepted them.

“Carmela!” cried Marilyn. “I thought I might find you here.”

“Hello, Marilyn.” said Carmela. She figured the woman had probably been hunkered in the back of the church, taking frantic notes.

After a quick introduction of Ava, Ava smiled warmly and said, “Oh sure, Tandy told me about you. You're in her . . .”

“Book club,” finished Marilyn.

“But now Marilyn's an author,” said Carmela. “Writing a French Quarter mystery.”

“I think,” said Marilyn, “I'm still technically a writer.” The corners of her mouth twitched and she gave a wry smile. “Author status is probably conferred
after
a person gets published.”

“I never thought of it that way,” said Ava. “But you may be right.”

“You hear anything more?” Marilyn asked, focusing her gaze on Carmela.

Carmela shook her head. “Not really.”

“Wait a minute,” said Ava, suddenly snapping her fingers, “you're the one writing the
murder
mystery. And”—Ava glanced sideways at Carmela, looking for confirmation—“incorporating some of the facts about Byrle?”

“Trying to work it in,” admitted Marilyn, “but there's not a lot of information that's come out yet.”

“No,” said Ava. “There's darn little. But . . . you never know.” Marilyn nodded and started to slide away from them. “But hey,” Ava called after her, “if we hear anything we'll cut you in.”

“Appreciate that,” Marilyn called back.

“Her book could be a good thing,” said Ava, as they headed to greet Baby.

“You think so?”

“Sure,” said Ava. “Marilyn starts asking questions, snooping around the French Quarter and all, she just might shake something loose.”

 

 

“Carmela!” cried Baby. She threw her arms around Carmela, giving her a big embrace followed by a hard but friendly squeeze. Ava and Rain stood rigidly to one side, eyeing each other with frosty disdain. In fact, Rain looked like she was about ready to spit a rat.

“Your reading of Emily Dickinson was wonderful,” Carmela told Baby, as her friend loosened her grip.

Baby raised a manicured hand to the pink Chanel scarf that floated airily about her neck. “Really? Because I was so doggone
nervous
standing up there. I suppose partly because we were in church . . . and also because so many people showed up.”

“A full house,” Rain said, through tightly clenched lips.

“You know,” said Baby, reaching out to touch Carmela's elbow again, “we were just talking about you.”

Carmela glanced over at Rain. “Really? I'm a hot topic of conversation?”

“I was just telling Rain,” continued Baby, “that it would be marvelous to invite you to our cultural advisory meeting.”

“Marvelous,” echoed Rain, though she didn't look one bit interested.

But Carmela wasn't sure what Baby was talking about.

“Oh,” said Baby, seeing the confusion on Carmela's face. “You don't know.” A little pussycat grin lit her face. “Of course, you don't know, since I only found out last night myself.” Now she fairly beamed. “The thing is, I've been nominated to the mayor's Cultural Advisory Board.”

“Congratulations,” said Ava. “It's great to know that finally, someone with actual culture will be doing the advising.”