Skeleton Letters (26 page)

Tap tap tap.
Someone was pecking gently at the front door.

Leaning forward, Gabby called out, “We're not open yet.”

But Carmela had already slipped off her stool and was spinning the big brass latch. “It's Devon,” she told Gabby, who was still tucked behind the counter.

A grin split Gabby's face. “Did he bring Mimi along?”

“Did I bring Mimi?” came a friendly, high-pitched voice. “Do I go anywhere without my sweet little princess?” Devon Dowling, the antiques dealer who owned Dulcimer's Antiques just around the corner, came strolling in with Mimi the pug tucked securely in his pudgy arms. “I never leave my baby girl at home.” He tilted his head forward and planted a kiss on Mimi's furry, wrinkled forehead.

Gabby scurried around the counter, the better to greet Mimi. “Hello, sweetheart,” she cooed, as Devon transferred the imperious, flat-faced, wide-eyed Mimi into Gabby's outstretched arms.

“What brings you out so early?” asked Carmela. As if she couldn't guess. Devon Dowling was the neighborhood gossip. Correction, make that neighborhood snoop. Nothing got by Devon that didn't warrant an acerbic comment or probing question. And, probably, Devon's probing questions were about to commence right now.

Devon stuck a hand on one hip, posturing grandly, as he said to Carmela, “You were on television last night, you naughty girl.”

“Not my doing,” said Carmela. She knew she was going to get fallout, she just didn't realize it would come spattering down on her head so quickly.

“Realize,” continued Devon, “it's not such a big deal to witness one murder in New Orleans.” He shrugged, rolled his eyes heavenward, and threw up a hand in a casual gesture to clearly indicate that times were, indeed, trying. “The crime rate being what it is in our fair city. But
two
murders in one week! That sort of accomplishment should be listed in the
Guinness Book of World Records
.”

“I didn't actually witness two murders,” Carmela told him. “Ava and I were in the vicinity when Byrle was killed at St. Tristan's, and then we kind of stumbled upon the aftermath of last night's murder.”

“
Aftermath
being a dead body,” said Devon.

“Well, yes,” said Carmela.

“And you were at that awful place just off Paris Street,” said Devon, visibly flinching.

“Not so awful,” Carmela told him, “if you're homeless and hungry. Then the Storyville Outreach Center might be a welcoming sight.”

“But will it remain welcoming?” Devon asked.

Carmela shrugged. “Good question. My guess is Brother Paul was probably the driving force behind it, but we can only hope there are other committed volunteers. People who recognize the good that's being done there and who'll work to keep it open.”

“Ooh,” said Devon, touching a roll of silk ribbon with his fingertips. “This is lovely.”

“Charmeuse silk,” said Carmela, eager to change the subject.

“Very classy,” said Devon, cocking his head sideways in thought. “You think I could use something like this to attach my price tags?”

“I think it would be perfect,” said Carmela. “You want me to order a couple of rolls for you?”

“Do that,” said Devon, looking pleased. Then he focused intently on Carmela again. “If you ask me, this trouble all harks back to that stolen crucifix.”

This time, Carmela all but pounced on Devon's words. “Yes! That's exactly what I think, too! But why do
you
say that?”

“Because of all the enormous publicity when that silver crucifix was unearthed,” said Devon. “Especially among the arts and antiques community. Père Etienne and all that early French Quarter history. And now,
quelle horreur
, some aficionado has actually gone ahead and
collected
the crucifix. And I use that term loosely.”

“You think the crucifix was stolen by a collector?” asked Carmela.

Devon cupped a hand to one ear. “Is there an echo in here?”

“Why a collector?” asked Gabby, sidling over to join them as she continued to cradle a snuggled-up Mimi.

“Because, dear ladies, collectors tend to be crazier than bedbugs,” Devon proclaimed. “I've met collectors who would walk barefoot across a bed of hot coals just to acquire a rare postage stamp, a carved Japanese netsuke, or even a sixteenth-century doubloon. Do you know, there was even a natural history museum in England that had its rare bird collection stolen? And we're talking
taxidermy
birds—skins or pelts or whatever the sad little things were—all because a collector coveted them!”

“Thou shall not covet thy neighbor's goods,” murmured Gabby. Mimi was nestled against her shoulder and appeared to be half-asleep, lulled by the conversation and Gabby's swaying movements.

Devon turned toward Gabby. “But people do covet, don't they? And they always will. It's simply human nature.”

“Devon,” said Carmela, “do you know any collectors who are crazy over religious icons?”

Devon looked a little insulted. “Realize, please, that I deal predominantly in high-end French and English antiquities.” He pursed his lips, then added, “Of course, there is the odd Early American andiron or crock that creeps into my shop, but that's another story entirely.”

“Religious icons?” said Carmela, trying to bring the conversation back to the subject at hand.

“Oh, I run across the occasional collector,” said Devon. “Someone who pops in, looking for old statuary or religious oil paintings.”

“Could you share any names?”

Devon looked annoyed. “No one person comes to mind at the moment, but if you want to wander over sometime, we can prowl through my customer list. Who knows? Maybe something will ring a bell.”

“Couldn't hurt,” said Gabby, gazing at Carmela.

Just as Gabby finally relinquished the adorable Mimi, Shamus called.

“What?” said Carmela, impatience evident in her voice. A call from her ex was the last thing she needed today. But Shamus never missed a chance to criticize or snoop.

“What's this happy crap I saw on TV last night?” Shamus demanded. “You're involved in some murder investigation?”

“Not really,” said Carmela.

“Babe,” said Shamus, “that's what they said on TV.”

“You know how the media confuses things,” Carmela told him.

“They didn't sound confused,” Shamus countered. “They made it sound like you were Johnny-on-the-spot for both murders.”

“Shamus,” said Carmela, “was there something you specifically wanted? Because I'm awfully busy right now.”

“That's what you always say,” Shamus whined. “You're always too busy.”

And you were too busy to pay attention to our marriage
, thought Carmela.

“Sorry,” said Carmela, “what did you want?”

“You're still hosting that wine thing tomorrow night?”

“Something like that,” said Carmela.

“Think I could wangle an invitation?” Now he was using his aw-shucks, I'm-a-good-old-boy voice.

“
Invitation
singular?” asked Carmela. “Or
invitations
?” Of course, he wanted to bring a date. Wanted to show off.

“Okay,” said Shamus. “Invitations. You win. You always win.”

“It isn't about winning, Shamus.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Come if you want,” said Carmela. “Bring a guest if you want. Just don't . . .”

“Don't what?” asked Shamus.

“Don't get in my hair.”

 

 

Business turned brisk that Friday morning. Three regulars came in, laden with scrapbook tote bags, and promptly took up residence at the craft table in back. A couple of tourists wandered in, glanced about expectantly, then proceeded to go absolutely crazy when they discovered Carmela's cache of unusual fibers and ephemera.

Andrea Banning, a customer who was planning a large holiday dinner, came rushing in to ask Carmela for help in designing name cards. After determining that Andrea's tablescape colors were cream, gold, and white, Carmela helped her select a paper made with fibers of Irish moss, then showed her how to stencil a gold border design around the edge of the cards.

“I wish there were something else I could do,” Andrea said to Carmela. “Something that relates to the whole notion of thankfulness and Thanksgiving.”

“What if you wrote quotations or interesting sayings on slips of paper and put them in a small glass vase? Then everyone could draw out a slip and read it?”

“I love the idea,” said Andrea. “You have paper for something like that?”

“What about linen paper?” said Carmela.

Around ten thirty, Baby came rushing in, a tiny blond dynamo in a stylish coral tweed suit with a matching Chanel bag swinging against her hip.

“How's it going?” Baby asked Carmela in a stage whisper. “Any fallout from last night?”

“Not so much,” Carmela told her. “At least I haven't had any TV reporters parachute in yet.”

Baby glanced around the shop, taking stock of the dozen or so customers who were shopping and crafting. “And your shop is busy. Nice.”

“Remember a couple of days ago,” said Carmela, “when we talked about mini clipboards?” Baby had asked about designing special clipboards to give to all the homeowners she'd roped into participating in Holidazzle.

Baby waved a hand. “You don't have time for that now.”

“Actually,” said Carmela, “I gave it a little thought. And came up with kind of a neat idea.”

“Really?” said Baby, suddenly intrigued.

Carmela led Baby back to her office and grabbed a small Lucite clipboard. “Mini clipboards,” she said, handing one to Baby. “But we jazz it up by covering it with some interesting paper.”

“Maybe that neat snowflake-and-swirl pattern you just got in?” asked Baby.

“Perfect,” said Carmela. “Then we loop white velvet ribbon around the clip, make a poufy bow, and attach a white silk flower. At the bottom of the clipboard, we'll stencil on some letters that spell out
Holidazzle
.”

“I like it,” enthused Baby. “We could even attach a mini pen.” She nodded to herself. “Very crafty.”

“The clipboards pretty much work for anything,” said Carmela. “You can personalize clipboards for your grandkids, garden club, tea club . . . well, you get the idea.”

But Baby had other things on her mind, too.

“You're still coming to the meeting tonight, right?” asked Baby.

“Are you sure you need my help?” said Carmela. Considering the two murders and Babcock being upset with her, it seemed like a fine night to snuggle in at home. Put on a comfy T-shirt and jammie bottoms and just flake out in front of the TV.

“No, no,” Baby proclaimed. “You're my ace in the hole. I'm the new kid on the block as far as the mayor's Cultural Advisory Board is concerned, but you're the one with credibility.”

“Not really,” said Carmela. The lure of jammies and a movie still loomed large.

“Sure, you do,” said Baby. “You've done freelance projects for the Art Institute, served on the board of the Children's Art Association, and done fund-raising for a couple of local theaters. Plus, you're a bona fide designer.”

“Scrapbook shop owner now,” smiled Carmela.

“Don't try to wiggle out of it,” said Baby. “Fact is, you're a wildly creative woman who's vitally connected to the arts.”

“Such as they are,” said Carmela, remembering how the budget for the Oliphant Theater had been obliterated.

 

 

It was three in the afternoon when Ava called. Carmela had been busy all through lunch and well into the early afternoon. In fact, she'd managed to wolf down only half a roast beef po'boy. But Ava was seriously jazzed and asking her to hurry over.

“You mind if I take off?” Carmela asked Gabby.

“It's Friday,” said Gabby, “and you're the boss.”

“Not really,” said Carmela. “It feels like we're in this together.”

“The shop, yes. Your murder investigation . . . investigations . . . no.”

“Ava's got her undies in a bunch over something and wants me to swing by. Yet again.”

“Then you'd better swing by,” said Gabby.

After checking on a couple of scrapbookers, Carmela slipped out the back door and hurried down the back alley. And when she pulled open the door and entered Juju Voodoo, she found Marilyn Casey standing at the counter, deep in conversation with Ava.

“Ava, hi,” said Carmela. Her eyes skittered over to Marilyn, who seemed to be shuffling a deck of tarot cards. “And Marilyn. How's the writing going? Making progress on your book?”

That was when the cards slipped from Marilyn's hand and her face crumpled.

Ava looked serious. “We need to talk.”

Warning bells clanged in Carmela's head. “Now what's wrong?”

Marilyn shot Ava a worried glance and said, “I'm afraid my book's taken a crazy turn.” She lifted her hands in a helpless, wounded-bird gesture, and added, “It seems like
everything's
taken a crazy turn.”

“What makes you say that?” asked Carmela. “What happened?”

Marilyn hesitated, looking miserable.

“Tell her,” said Ava.

Marilyn cleared her throat. “I'm feeling extremely queasy over Brother Paul's death.”

“Excuse me?” said Carmela.

Marilyn's eyes welled with tears. “I know you two were there last night. At Brother Paul's soup kitchen. I saw it all on the news.”