Skeleton Letters (21 page)

“Your media ploy worked beautifully,” she told him.

“Huh? Who is this?” A rustle of papers. “Carmela?”

“Kimber Breeze and her camera man stormed my shop this morning in a reenactment reminiscent of D-Day.”

“What?” came his reply. “Somebody came to your shop?” He sounded a little foggy, like he'd been interrupted and lost his focus.

“Yes,” said Carmela, “that idiot, Kimber Breeze. She came galumphing into Memory Mine on the pretext of doing an interview for the good of the public. But what Kimber
really
wanted to know was how it felt to see my friend murdered right before my very eyes.”

Babcock exhaled slowly, then said, with genuine sincerity in his voice, “I'm
so
sorry, Carmela. I had absolutely no idea the media would be that proactive.”

“Proactive?” said Carmela. “Kimber was a rabid dog. If I'd had a gun handy, I would have shot her and passed it off as euthanasia.”

“You want me to call the TV station?” asked Babcock. “Talk to her boss and have her reprimanded or something?”

“You really don't understand the media, do you?” asked Carmela. “Fact is, if Kimber
had
gotten her interview, her boss probably would have given her a raise!”

“Seriously?” said Babcock.

“I kid you not,” said Carmela.

“Where are you right now?” asked Babcock. “At the shop?”

“Um . . . something like that.”

“Can I call you back?”

“Anytime, sweetheart.” Carmela punched the Off button on her phone and gazed down Esplanade. It was still cloudy and overcast, and yellow streetlamps glowed in front of Leboux Antiques, Chalmers Map Shop, and the Crooked Crayfish Restaurant. She wondered for a moment if she should just ankle back to her shop and drop this whole investigation. Let it go like so many autumn leaves floating down, then being carried away by a stream. She could retreat back to a calm, relatively peaceful, gratitude-filled life, and let Babcock and his fellow officers deal with the Byrle situation.

That was the ideal scenario, of course, except for one thing.

Carmela had made a solemn promise to Baby.

 

 

“Dispatch,” said a gravelly voice on the other end of the line.

“Yes,” said Carmela, clutching her cell phone, “is this Big Haul Trucking?”

“You got it,” said the voice.

“I'm trying to get hold of Johnny Otis,” said Carmela.

“You from the TV?” asked a man. He sounded weary and a little gun-shy, as if he'd already fielded a couple of similar calls.

“That's right,” said Carmela.
Little white lie? Oh, for sure.

“Johnny's busy right now,” said the dispatcher. “He's out on a delivery.”

“I figured that,” said Carmela, “which is why I called you.”

“Yeah?”

“Because I really need to speak with Johnny,” said Carmela. “And I give you my solemn promise that I won't hold Johnny up or anything. I just need a minute of his time.”

“Yeah, well . . .” There was hesitation in the dispatcher's voice.

“Just a couple of quick questions.” Carmela hesitated. “There's a rumor going around that the police may have cleared him.”
And chalk up yet another white lie.

“That so?” said the dispatcher, sounding a little less defensive.

“So you can see,” said Carmela, “I'm only trying to set the record straight.”

The dispatcher hesitated, then said, “According to my schedule, Johnny's over at Evangeline Furnishings right about now. So if you run into him, talk fast. Then we can get this whole episode over with and he can get his mind back on driving. Okay?”

“You got it,” said Carmela.

Luckily for Carmela, Evangeline Furnishings was located in the French Quarter, about two blocks from where she was standing. She hotfooted down Esplanade and cut over on Chartres. Five minutes later she was standing directly in front of Evangeline Furnishings, staring at an obviously faux Louis XVI fainting couch that dominated the front window.

She spun around. There were parked cars, but no delivery truck.

“Back alley,” Carmela said out loud, then dashed around the corner.

And found Johnny's truck, a rumbling white truck that belched purple gluts of oil. But no Johnny. Still the truck was running, so . . .

As if on cue, a man wearing blue coveralls, with lank, dark hair hanging down over the side of his face, emerged from the back door.

“Johnny Otis,” she called out.

Otis steeled his shoulders and turned away from her. He was a narrow, wiry man with ropy muscles in his arms.

Carmela figured she didn't have anything to lose. “I heard you were at St. Tristan's on Monday when Byrle Coopersmith was killed.”

Johnny Otis turned to stare at her with suspicious, hooded eyes. “So what,” he said. “A lot of folks were at that church.” He peered at her. “Maybe
you
were at that church.”

Carmela pressed forward, even though his anger and hostility were so palpable he was positively frightening. “I understand you have a police record.”

“That's all behind me.” Johnny shrugged, as he pulled open the driver's-side door and stuck the toe of a dirty work boot on the ledge. “Now I'm just a regular working stiff like everybody else.” He offered her a barracuda smile. All teeth, no humor.

“An honest day's work for an honest day's pay?”

“That's right,” said Johnny.

“No more shortcuts?” asked Carmela. “No more breaking and entering?”

Johnny stared at her with hatred suddenly flickering in his eyes. “Who are you again?”

“Carmela.”

“Got a last name?” he snarled.

“Carmela . . . Meechum.” At the last minute she decided it was safer to toss out her ex-husband's name. Let good old Shamus absorb any possible fallout.

Johnny hoisted himself up into the truck cab. “Anybody ever tell you to mind your own business, Carmela Meechum?”

“All the time, Johnny. All the time.”

Carmela had every intention of returning to Memory Mine. She'd been walking purposely down Governor Nicholls Street, stopping just for an instant to admire a string of pistachio-colored baroque pearls in a jewelry shop window. That was when her cell phone rang.

“Get over here!” Ava shrilled into her ear.

The intensity of Ava's words jolted Carmela, the pearls suddenly forgotten. “Ava, what's wrong? Don't tell me Rain Monroe is making trouble for you again!”

With more urgency, Ava begged, “Please, just get over here!”

Ten minutes later, Carmela came crashing through Ava's front door for yet another emergency. “What?” she called out. “What's wrong?” She glanced around the dim little incense-filled shop, expecting to find Ava cowering and whimpering in a puddle of salty tears. Instead Ava was posturing and grinning like the proverbial Cheshire cat.

“I've got news,” Ava chortled. “
Big
news.”

Carmela's mind flashed immediately to Byrle's murder. And, for a split second, she figured there must have been a sudden break in the case. Maybe Babcock had called Ava's shop looking for her? Then dropped the welcome news on Ava?

“What?” asked Carmela, brushing at her flyaway hair, trying to pat it into submission.

“You know that exceedingly charming restaurant owner we met the other night?” Ava asked, dimpling prettily. “The one who owns Purgatoria?”

“Drew Gaspar,” said Carmela, feeling suddenly let down. Was this big emergency because Ava had been asked out on a date? But Ava went on dates all the time and didn't get nearly this revved up.

“Turns out,” said Ava, “Gaspar is a partner in a brandnew fashion line.”

“Fashion?” Carmela's words came out in a squeak.
The news was about fashion?

Ava wrapped her arms around herself and let loose a high-pitched giggle. “Gaspar and his partners are calling their new line Voodoo Couture . . . and guess what!”

Carmela took a step backward. “What?”

“They want
me
to be their muse!” Ava delivered the news like she'd just struck gold by winning the lottery.

“A muse,” said Carmela, a little stunned. This was clearly not the news she'd been hoping for. Not even close.

“Isn't that incredible!” Ava squealed. “Little old me . . . a fashion muse!”

“Um . . . what exactly does a muse do?” Carmela wondered out loud.

Ava spread her hands apart and wiggled her varnished red fingertips. “I have no earthly idea. But doesn't it
sound
utterly peachy? Like I'm some kind of wild, intuitive creative spirit?”

“Sure,” said Carmela. “It's great.”

Ava's smile slipped off her face as she peered across a pile of black plastic shrunken heads. “I wish your tone carried a little more oomph and enthusiasm, Carmela.” Her fingers reached out and toyed with the goat hair on the shrunken heads. “Are you not happy for me?”

Carmela leaned forward and put her hands on Ava's shoulders. “I'm thrilled for you, really. I can't think of a more . . .
appropriate
person to represent this Voodoo Couture clothing line.”

“Thank you,” said Ava.

Carmela released her hold on Ava. “What I'm not so thrilled about is Drew Gaspar.”

Ava's lips crinkled into a semi-pout. “What are you talking about?”

“Frankly, Gaspar makes me a little nervous.”

“Because he's handsome and urbane?” asked Ava. “Because he's a go-getter?”

“No,” said Carmela. “Because his whole Purgatoria concept is slightly weird. Even Gabby thinks so. She met him when he dropped by my shop yesterday afternoon.”

“Really?” Ava looked surprised. “Gabby didn't like him? But she likes
everybody
.”

“That's right,” said Carmela. “Gabby's outlook is pretty much rainbows and dancing unicorns. But, quite honestly, she was put off by Gaspar. And, after hearing her reasoning, I have to confess that I am, too.”

Ava cocked her head and said, “Explain, please. What are you talking about?”

Carmela swallowed hard. This wasn't going to be easy. “After I told Gabby about the . . . what would you call it? The
decorating
motif at Purgatoria, the gargoyles and church benches and crosses, Gabby thought maybe the police should take a hard look at Gaspar.”

Ava gave a questioning glance. “For what?”

“For the murder of Byrle.”

Ava's face crumpled. “Are you serious?”

“I'm afraid so.”

A
VA had been so upset by Gabby's harsh accusation of Drew Gaspar that Carmela Bertrand, booster of frayed egos, rescuer of stray dogs, and picker-upper of trounced self-esteem, had invited Ava over for dinner tonight. She'd been chopping, stirring, and sautéing for the last forty-five minutes, planning to serve drunken pecan chicken along with corn pancakes. That is, if Boo and Poobah didn't storm the kitchen and snarf everything up first.

Ava's signature knock sounded at the front door.

“It's open,” Carmela called out. “Just watch out for—”

“Boo! Poobah!” Ava sang out.

“—the dogs,” finished Carmela.

Ava stuck her head around the corner. “Guess the little darlings didn't eat yet, huh? 'Cause their little pink tongues are lickin' me to death.”

“They ate,” said Carmela, as she tossed an extra tablespoon of butter into the frying pan. “Enough for four Great Danes and a Portuguese water dog thrown in for good measure.” She watched the butter melt, then poured it over her mixture of sweet corn, red pepper, and onions.

“Boo, baby, stop it,” Ava giggled, as the wiggly little Shar-Pei snuffled around Ava's bare ankles. “That tickles.”

“Try to ignore her,” said Carmela, as Ava held out a brown paper sack to her. “What's this?” she said, accepting the gift.

“Peace offering,” said Ava.

“Did one of us break a treaty or something?” asked Carmela. She pulled a bottle of Beaujolais from the bag and nodded. “Because I sure don't remember . . .”

“It's an apology bottle,” said Ava. “Because I was so grumpy earlier today.”

“Oh, no problem,” said Carmela. She carried the wine into the kitchen, opened a drawer, and pulled out her corkscrew.

“I was just, you know, disappointed,” said Ava. “I thought I'd really scored a huge coup with the Voodoo Couture thing.”