Skeleton Letters (2 page)

A sudden soft clunk focused Carmela's eyes on a nearby confessional. Was someone in there? A penitent and priest, conferring over some sins that required forgiveness?

Had those purple velvet draperies stirred just a touch? Or was someone else padding about the church? There was a sense of emptiness in St. Tristan's; the rustlings and bustlings of a few minutes earlier seemed to have faded away. And yet . . .

Carmela touched a hand to Ava's shoulder. “I think we should—”

Like ragged gears scraping against metal, a bloodcurdling scream suddenly ripped through the church. It rose in ghastly screeches, spiraling into high-pitched shrieks.

Ava spun around and caught the eyes of a startled Carmela. Then both women whirled in tight concentric circles, fearful, searching, trying to ascertain where that ungodly scream was coming from.

Ava lifted a hand and pointed across the church. “There!”

Squinting through the darkness, Carmela saw two figures locked in a rough-and-tumble embrace.

“No!” came another piercing scream. Now it was distinctly a woman's scream, a woman who was terrified. “Not the cr—” came her words, and then she broke off in an agonized keening.

Carmela dashed forward a dozen steps, then pulled up quickly. What was going on? Dare she get involved? Was it a robbery of some sort? Was there even anything here to steal?

She was about to leap forward, try to thwart whatever was happening, when Ava suddenly grasped her arm.

“Be careful!” Ava hissed.

Then the woman across the way moaned low and deep.

Ava quickly touched a hand to her mouth. “Oh man, I think she's . . .”

Carmela saw a swirl of brown robe as a cloaked figure forced a smaller figure to its knees. A flash of silver shone in the hooded figure's hands as he swept his arm backward, causing a four-foot-high statue to teeter precariously, then slowly topple from its perch. The statue crashed forward and the woman dropped to the floor like a deadweight as chunks of plaster burst everywhere, knocking over candles, spewing rivulets of hot wax. Then the figure in the hooded robe leaped away and seemed to melt into darkness.

Carmela and Ava dashed between pews toward the small altar, where the woman lay like a tossed and discarded rag doll.

“Call 911!” Carmela shrilled. Ava fumbled frantically in her velvet hobo bag for her cell phone as Carmela sprinted into a turn and smacked her left hip hard against a wooden pillar. Without breaking stride, she careened her way to the wounded woman.

Eyes wide in disbelief, Carmela pulled up short and let loose a startled, “Oh no!”

There, splayed out in front of the small altar like a sacrificial offering, was Byrle Coopersmith, one of her scrapbook regulars!

What? Byrle?
Her mind could hardly grasp this horrendous discovery.

Ava skidded to a stop behind Carmela, immediately recognized Byrle, and shrieked at the top of her lungs, “Dear Lord, it's Byrle! It's Byrle!” She gibbered for another couple of seconds, then caught herself and said, in trembling tones, “What
happened
?”

Carmela was already down on her hands and knees. “Knocked unconscious, anyway,” she said, tersely. Byrle's head was bleeding profusely, her neck was ringed with purple splotches—almost like fingerprint impressions—and her eyes had rolled so far back in her head that Carmela could see only the whites. Worst of all, Byrle didn't seem to be breathing.

“Do something!” Ava implored. “Maybe . . . chest compressions?”

Carmela nodded with the mechanical movement of a bobblehead doll. She laid her hands flat against Byrle's chest and tried to dredge up every morsel of know-how she had regarding CPR and chest compressions.

“Breathe,” Carmela willed, as she pressed her fingers against Byrle's chest, up-down, up-down, working to establish a rhythm, trying to stimulate the poor woman's heart and force some air into her lungs. “Come on, honey, you can do it!” she cried to the woman who was quickly turning a horrible shade of blue. “You
know
you can!”

“Help her!” Ava implored. She squeezed her hands open and shut, as if working in concert with Carmela's efforts.

Carmela's knees scraped against rough stone as she continued to work on Byrle. “Ambulance coming?” she asked. She was filled with panic and starting to tire.

“On its way,” said Ava.

“Can you . . . ?” She kept up her constant mouth-tomouth breathing and repetitive motions of push, push, pump. “Can you . . . spell me for a couple of minutes?” Carmela asked Ava.

“Oooh!” Ava wrapped her arms tightly around herself.

“Never mind,” said Carmela, trying to wipe her damp face against her sleeve. She renewed her efforts even as her back muscles burned, and shouted out loud, “Come on, Byrle,
breathe
!”

“Anything?” Ava wailed, as Carmela, resolutely but with hope failing, continued to pump, pump, pump.

“Doggone,” Carmela muttered through clenched teeth. Because the poor dear wasn't responding at all.

She was too far gone and, undoubtedly, in the Lord's hands now. As hard as Carmela was trying, she was no miracle worker.

“This is
awful
!” Ava whispered. “Beyond belief!”

Carmela could only nod in agreement. Byrle Coopersmith, their friend and fellow scrapbooker, who'd not long ago bought a pack of pink mulberry paper from her shop, now lay lifeless and cold on the unforgiving stone floor of St. Tristan's.

C
ARMELA stared into the earnest hazel eyes of the young detective who had arrived amid a blat of sirens and a brace of uniformed officers. Yet another shocking intrusion into what had been an oasis of calm and contemplative spirituality.

“Blunt-force trauma,” was his quiet pronouncement.

“What?” Carmela asked in a hoarse whisper. Had she really heard Detective Bobby Gallant correctly?

“From the statue,” Gallant told her, giving a downward bob of his head. He was young and earnest looking with dark curly hair and hazel eyes. Because of the cool weather he was dressed in a black leather jacket and chinos.

Ava, hovering directly behind Carmela, increased her viselike grip on her friend's shoulder. “The killer smacked Byrle over the head with St. Sebastian,” Ava sobbed, trying to be helpful, but failing miserably.

“St. . . . ?” Carmela began, as Ava suddenly released her hold and pointed toward the flagstone floor where shards of plaster lay scattered. The statue, the one Ava had positively ID'd as St. Sebastian, lay facedown amid the rubble. Most of its head was missing. Pulverized from the blow, she supposed.

Byrle's body lay prostrate at the foot of the saint's altar where she'd fallen, looking like some kind of unholy martyr who'd given life and limb for the church. And, in a way, she had.

Carmela let loose a deep and shaky sigh. She knew she had to get a grip and pull it together. After all, she'd been a sort of witness. So maybe she could be of some assistance in the investigation? On the other hand . . .

Making a half-spin so she faced Bobby Gallant, Carmela said, “We need Babcock on this.” Her words came out a little more hoarse and a little more demanding than she'd actually intended.

Gallant barely acknowledged her statement concerning his boss. “I'm the one who got the call out,” he murmured.

“The thing is,” Carmela said, gesturing toward Byrle's lifeless body, “we know her. She's a friend.”

“From Memory Mine,” Ava added. “Carmela's scrapbook shop.”

“I'm very sorry to hear that,” said Gallant. And this time he did sound sorry.

“So we need to do everything in our power,” Carmela gulped, “to find whoever did this.”

“Which is exactly what I intend to do,” said Gallant. He glanced around and noticed a uniformed officer standing off to the side, staring at Byrle's dead body. “Slovey!” he barked. “Get something to cover her up!”

Slovey seemed suddenly unhappy. “What do you want me to use?” he asked.

Color bloomed on Gallant's face. “I don't care,” he snapped. “Use your jacket if you have to!”

 

“This isn't happening,” Carmela murmured to Ava. Holding on to each other, they staggered over to the row of church pews that faced the small altar and collapsed together on the hard seat. There, they huddled like lost souls, trying to make sense of it all. At the same time, like some bizarre soap opera, the beginnings of the police investigation played out right before their eyes.

The crime-scene techs arrived, set up enough lights to make it look like a movie set, and began to photograph Byrle's body as well as the damaged saint statue and everything else within a twenty-foot radius.

Uniformed officers were given assignments and hastily dispatched to interview possible witnesses and take statements.

And finally, two EMTs arrived with a clanking gurney to carry Byrle away. Probably, Carmela decided, they were going to transport her to the city morgue. And wasn't that a grim thought!

“Babcock should be here,” Ava said in a low voice. “Working this case.”

Edgar Babcock, homicide detective first class of the New Orleans Police Department was, to put it rather indelicately, Carmela's main squeeze. As Carmela had wrangled through her divorce from her former husband, Shamus, the two had gazed longingly at each other. When Carmela finally separated from her philandering rat-fink husband, she and Babcock finally started seeing each other. And now that Carmela's divorce was signed, sealed, and delivered, they were most definitely an item.

“Don't worry,” said Carmela, “I'm going to call Babcock.” She hesitated. “But Gallant does seem to be doing a credible job.”

“Credible is only good when it comes to talking heads on TV,” said Ava. “For this investigation we need a grade-A detective.”

“Sshhh,” said Carmela. Gallant was suddenly headed straight toward them.

Stepping lightly, Gallant slid into the pew directly ahead of them, settled onto the creaky seat, and swiveled to face them. Only then did Carmela notice the tiredness and deep concern that was etched in his face.

“Something tells me this isn't the only case you're handling,” Carmela said.

Gallant shook his head. “Two drive-bys last night and a floater in the river.”

“Tough job,” said Ava.

“Tough city,” said Gallant.

“What . . . what's happening now?” asked Carmela.

“Well,” said Gallant, “we've got the church and outside area pretty much cordoned off, and my officers are interviewing everyone who was hanging around the church. Plus, we're canvassing the neighborhood.”

“I think some people left before you got here,” said Ava.

Gallant leaned forward. “Did you get a look at them?”

Ava shook her head. “Not really. It was more like hearing them.” She looked suddenly thoughtful. “You know how when you're in church you're
aware
of people nearby, you hear their voices and shufflings and such, but you don't really look at them?”

“I suppose,” said Gallant. He seemed keenly disappointed that Ava wasn't able to give him a complete description. He directed his gaze at Carmela. “You said earlier that you thought the killer was wearing a brown robe?”

“He definitely was,” said Carmela. “Like a monk's robe. Dark brown with a deep cowl and hood.”

“With a white rope knotted around his waist,” Ava added.

“There's a bunch of those robes hanging in the back room on a row of hooks,” Gallant told them.

“That's a problem, then,” said Carmela. “It means anybody could have grabbed one and thrown it on.”

Gallant shifted on the uncomfortably hard pew. “What's the story with the garden and graveyard outside—all the digging and the stakes and ropes and things? Either of you know?”

“It's an archaeology dig,” Ava told him. “Been going on for almost four months now.”

“Do you know who's in charge of it?” asked Gallant.

Ava shrugged.

“I'm pretty sure it's the State Archaeology Board,” said Carmela. “With assistance from students at Tulane.” She paused. “At least that's what the article in the
Times-Picayune
said.”

Gallant jotted something in his notebook. “They find anything?”

“Ten feet down,” said Ava, “they discovered the ruins of the original church. The one Père Etienne founded back in 1782.” Père Etienne had been a Capuchin monk who'd been a much-beloved figure because of his tireless work with the sick and the poor.

Gallant looked mildly interested. “Ruins, huh. Anything else?”

“They also unearthed an antique silver-and-gold crucifix,” said Ava, “believed to have been the personal crucifix of Père Etienne.”

“Which was stolen during the murder,” Carmela said suddenly, almost as an afterthought.

Gallant reared back. “What? A crucifix was stolen?”

“From the saint's altar,” said Ava. “Where Byrle was killed.”

“I think,” said Carmela, “Byrle was struggling with her killer, trying to wrest the crucifix back from him.”

“Why didn't you mention this sooner?” Gallant demanded.

“Because,” said Carmela, “we thought it was more important for you to dispatch your men immediately to hunt down suspects.”

“So a robbery and a murder.” Gallant stroked his chin with his hand. “I wonder . . . was this crucifix terribly valuable?”

“Byrle thought so,” said Carmela. “After all, she gave her life for it.”