Skeleton Letters (20 page)

Louise still wasn't convinced. “Such as?”

Carmela grabbed a second pack of wine-red note cards. “Better yet, start with something really festive like these red note cards. Then maybe stencil on a gold fleur-de-lis.” She reached over, grabbed a spool of wine-colored velvet ribbon, and spun it out. “Attach a bit of ribbon to the front of your card, use a dab of gold sealing wax in the center, and maybe stamp it with an angel seal.”

“Ooh, I love that,” cooed Louise. “And not so tricky.”

“Or,” said Carmela, “you can cut a few rough pieces of red brocade fabric, stick them inside your card, and then add a romantic photo or sentiment surrounded by bits of lace. And if you really want to kick things up a notch, just arrange
two
pieces of contrasting brocade fabric, one a bit smaller than the other, then add an even smaller piece of vellum, and then . . .”

“Add my photo and lace,” finished Louise.

“That's right,” said Carmela. “That will give you lots of interesting layers and textures.”

“You're giving me some wonderful ideas,” said Louise. “Got my brain percolating.”

“That's why I'm here,” said Carmela. She grinned, then moved off to help another customer, feeling more than a little fulfilled.

That was what this business was all about, of course. Helping people express their creativity, helping to open their eyes to all the various fun possibilities. And, if a customer needed a little nudge in the right direction, well, that was really the best part of owning a scrapbook shop, wasn't it?

Carmela smiled to herself as she helped select foil paper for another customer, rang up a couple of sales, and greeted the FedEx man, who was delivering what was probably a whole new batch of rubber stamps. The angels, wheat bundles, and slightly biblical-looking stamps that she'd ordered for Christmas. And just in the nick of time, so to speak.

 

 

For the most part, Carmela didn't believe in premonitions, but standing at the front counter, pulling a package of silver and turquoise charms off a rack, she suddenly felt the tiny hairs on the back of her neck start to lift and prickle. And just when she was beginning to chide herself, just as she was telling her inner self to shrug it off, the front door flew open and Kimber Breeze from KBEZ-TV came storming in.

“What the . . . ?” said Gabby, glancing up.

“Oh no,” Carmela muttered, under her breath. She'd had dealings with this crazy TV reporter before.

Lacquered blond hair swirling about her head, lips a bloodred pout, her forehead Botoxed until it was skatingrink smooth, Kimber Breeze quick-stepped toward Carmela. Her camera man, Harvey, video camera hoisted high on his shoulder, was but a half-pace behind.

Kimber raised a microphone to her burnished lips and, without preamble, began her report. “This is Kimber Breeze for KBEZ-TV reporting live from Memory Mine scrapbook shop in the heart of the French Quarter. We've just been told by a highly placed police official that the owner of this small shop was an actual
eyewitness
to the murder of Byrle Coopersmith, who was tragically bludgeoned in the hallowed sanctity of nearby St. Tristan's Church.”

Kimber paused, took a deep breath, and then stuck the microphone in front of Carmela. Her look was sly and expectant.

“No,” said Carmela.

“No what?” said Kimber. She tried to frown, but the stiffness from the Botox injections only allowed her an expression of mild concern.

“I wasn't an eyewitness and I have nothing to say to you,” Carmela said, as she spun on her heels.

Kimber grimaced, then turned to Harvey and made a slashing-finger motion across her throat.

Nonplussed, Harvey lowered his camera and waited patiently. Harvey was no fool; he knew Kimber would poke and prod and eventually stir up her usual hornet's nest.

Kimber held her microphone at her side as she followed Carmela back to the craft table. “You'd be doing a public service,” Kimber cajoled. “We've been asked by the chief of police, no less, to assist in drawing out any additional witnesses.”

Carmela bristled. “I told you, I wasn't a witness.”

“But you were
there
,” Kimber pushed.

“Along with something like twenty other people,” said Carmela, “so why don't you go pester one of them?”

“I probably will,” said Kimber, managing a smarmy smile, “but you're at the top of my list.”

“Then make a new list,” said Carmela. She pulled a piece of mulberry paper from a flat file and slid the drawer shut with a bang.

“You're not helping,” Kimber pouted.

“Neither are you,” said Carmela. “And now, if you'll excuse me, I have customers to tend to.” Carmela brushed past Kimber, heading back toward the front counter where Gabby waited nervously.

“Just one more question,” said Kimber, gesturing for Harvey to shoulder his camera and resume shooting.

“No way,” Carmela called over her shoulder.

“Please?” Kimber called, as she stumbled after her. That one word of politeness must have killed her.

“No,” Carmela said again.

Gabby, who'd watched the entire exchange, waggled her fingers at the intruding but hapless Kimber. “Good-bye, Kimber. Time to exit stage left.”

“Thanks for nothing,” Kimber muttered, as she threw them both a dirty look and stalked toward the door. Her perfectly made-up face now carried red blotches; her eyes were narrow slits. Then she turned to Harvey and muttered, “Change of plans, Harv. Let's head over to Big Haul Trucking and see if we can get something out of Johnny Otis.”

“Sure thing,” said Harvey. He'd kept the camera up on his shoulder, ready to shoot. “You want I should get an establishing shot, just in case you can pull something usable?”

“Do that,” said Kimber, her hand wresting open the front door.

“No, don't do that!” said Gabby. She grabbed a broom that had been propped against the wall and gave a menacing shake in Harvey's direction. “Shoo! Get out of here!”

Harvey jumped back as if stung by a bee. “Jeez, lady, you almost clobbered me! And, if you don't mind, this equipment is expensive!”

Unfazed, Gabby shook her broom at him again. “I mean it, get out of this shop!”

Harvey backed out, but as he did, he continued to roll tape.

“Atta boy,” Kimber chortled from out on the street, “that's going to make great footage!”

 

 

“Gabby!” exclaimed Carmela, “that was very noble of you to come to my defense. Thank you.”

“Kimber Breeze is a totally nasty person,” Gabby grumbled. “I don't know how you tolerate her.”

“I don't,” said Carmela. “The trick is to not answer any questions, and just keep turning your back on her.”

Gabby still looked angry. “You think the police
really
asked the media for help in finding witnesses?”

“I know they did,” said Carmela. “Babcock told me they did.”

“Then it's a sad day for the New Orleans Police,” said Gabby, “to enlist the aid of TV people like that.” She shook her head. “I really doubt they're going to shake anything loose or drum up new information.”

“Actually,” said Carmela, “Kimber just passed on a valuable piece of information.”

“What?” Gabby looked puzzled. “Excuse me, did I just miss something?”

“She just revealed that Johnny Otis is employed by Big Haul Trucking.”

Gabby blinked. “Okay.”

Carmela's mouth pulled into a thin smile. “So that's where I'm going to look, too.”

F
IRST, however, Carmela had to dash over to the Belle Vie Hotel where she had a two o'clock meeting with Alex Goodman, the catering manager.

The Belle Vie was an elegant, four-star, antique-filled hotel nestled in the heart of the French Quarter. Its spendy rooms were lush and luxurious, its three sun-dappled courtyards filled with babbling fountains, baskets of bougainvilleas, and tropical banana trees. Here you could order a Sazerac cocktail, mint julep, or Ramos gin fizz and have it expertly prepared by a bartender who'd probably tended to celebrities, presidents, and even royalty.

Alex Goodman greeted her in the rather grand lobby with its painted murals, sparkling chandelier, and white marble floor.

“Alex,” said Carmela, “sorry if I'm a little late.”

With his ramrod posture, tweedy suit, and bow tie knotted snugly about his neck, Goodman smiled a pat hotelier's smile. “Not at all,” he told her. Goodman, though he'd grown up in Dubuque, Iowa, always affected a slight British accent. All it had taken was that one trip to London, the Cotswolds, and Windsor, and that distinctive British accent had stuck to him like glue.

Still, as Goodman guided her toward the Marquis Ballroom, he was most genial and accommodating.

“This,” Goodman said, pushing open a pair of gold double doors, “should easily accommodate your event.”

Carmela strode into the Marquis Ballroom and spun around. With its chandeliers, murals, and velvet-swagged windows, it was as grand and gaudy as she remembered it, and it was darn near perfect for Quigg's event.

“And you'll have it set up just the way we talked about?” said Carmela.

“String quartet at that end,” Goodman told her, gesturing with one hand. “Then the four different wine stations, one in each corner, for St. Tammany Vineyard's best. The sparkling, the Sauvignon, the Syrah and Shiraz blend, and the Cabernet.”

“With corresponding appetizers.”

“Of course,” said Goodman.

“And those will be . . . ?”

Goodman was already pulling out his cell phone. “Let's get Chef Rami down here to go over them with you personally.”

“Tell him to meet us in the lobby,” said Carmela, “then we can go over the red carpet setup, as well.”

 

 

Chef Rami was a large African American man with twinkling eyes and a deep bass voice. The Michelin Guide had hailed him as the new Emeril, and Carmela figured it wouldn't be long before the good chef was honchoing a restaurant of his own.

“I'm surprised Quigg didn't want to do his own appetizers,” Chef Rami said to Carmela, as he pulled a small piece of paper from the breast pocket of his extra-large white chef's jacket.

“He did,” said Carmela. “I had to talk him out of it.”

“We're glad you did,” said Goodman. “This is a great opportunity for us, too.”

“We don't usually get to do this kind of PR event,” said Chef Rami. “With celebrities.”

“I don't know how many celebrities will actually show up,” said Carmela. “Mostly it will be fellow restaurateurs, wine sellers, and the media.”

“The media loves anything that's free,” said Goodman, who'd been around that block more than a few times.

“Don't they just,” agreed Carmela. She smiled at Chef Rami. “So . . . the appetizer and wine pairings?”

Chef Rami turned serious. “For the Bayou Sparkler, the champagne, I want to do tuna carpaccio on toast crisps. And to accompany the Sauvignon, a tempura lobster roll.”

“Perfect,” said Carmela. Two down, two more to go.

“With the Syrah and Shiraz blend,” said Chef Rami, “I'm recommending duck drummies. And with the Cabernet, I'm thinking blue cheese bites rolled in pecans.”

“They all sound like perfect pairings,” Carmela told him. “Couldn't be better.”

“That went smoothly,” said Goodman, obviously pleased.

“That's because you guys are pros,” Carmela told him. She glanced down the set of low marble steps, her mind whirring. “Now, let's talk about the red carpet.”

Chef Rami said his good-bye as Carmela and Goodman descended the half-dozen steps to the semicircular drive that snugged up to the front of the hotel.

“This should work really well,” said Carmela, making a few quick calculations. “What you've got is a grand hotel entrance that allows limos to drive up and dispense guests.”

“And when they're dispensed . . . ?” said Goodman.

“They'll stroll down a twenty-foot-long red carpet where we'll have them stop and pose in front of the step-and-repeat.”

“And when's your step-and-repeat supposed to arrive?” asked Goodman.

“The printer promised to deliver it first thing Saturday morning,” said Carmela. “They're also going to set it up . . .” Carmela glanced around, then made a quick gesture. “Probably against that wall of shrubbery. Is that okay with you?”

“I'll be here all day,” said Goodman, “so I'll make sure it's positioned properly.” He hesitated. “So . . .
are
you expecting celebrities?”

“Probably a few minor celebs just to make things interesting,” said Carmela. “A couple of New Orleans Saints football players, a TV anchorman, the society photographer Nigel Prince, perhaps the mayor, and whatever ward politicians Quigg has invited.”

“Very impressive,” said Goodman.

“The celebs will draw media attention,” Carmela told him, “and the presence of the media will make each and every guest feel important.”

“Nicely done,” said Goodman.

“In theory, anyway,” said Carmela. She knew that no event ever went off without a glitch or two. Or three or four. But she wasn't a control freak, so . . . why worry? “Thank you,” she added, shaking Goodman's hand, then giving a quick wave. “Call me with any question, big or small. Otherwise, I'll see you Saturday night.”

Carmela skittered away, grabbed her cell phone out of her shoulder bag, and punched in the number for Edgar Babcock. He answered on the first ring.