Skeleton Letters (27 page)

“We weren't really there when the murder took place,” said Carmela, wondering how often she was going to have to repeat herself. “We just sort of
found
him afterward.”

“The weird thing is,” said Marilyn, touching her thumb to her chest, “the reason I'm so upset is because I stopped by his mission yesterday to interview him.”

The earth seemed to tilt crazily on its axis for Carmela. “Seriously?” she said. “Why? What for?”

“Mostly because Brother Paul was present at St. Tristan's the day of Byrle Coopersmith's murder,” said Marilyn. “I kept thinking that his being there had to be somehow relevant. Or that, since a few days had passed, his memory might have dredged up some extra little detail. Something that mattered.” Her brows pulled together. “Something I could include in my book.”

“So you talked to him . . . when?” asked Carmela. “Wait, you already said . . . yesterday afternoon?”

“That's right,” said Marilyn. “I had a two o'clock meeting with him, though he kept me waiting until two thirty.”

“But she still
parlez-voused
with him,” said Ava.

“What kind of questions did you ask?” said Carmela. Could Marilyn's visit have somehow prompted Brother Paul's murder? If so, why? And by whom? The thing was, Marilyn was just a fledgling author, one of thousands who was trying her hand at mystery writing. And probably, Carmela figured, she was just bumbling her way along. Her interview with Brother Paul couldn't have yielded anything significant, could it?

A single tear trickled down Marilyn's cheek. It left a faint trail in her otherwise flawless makeup. “I just asked Brother Paul what he was doing at St. Tristan's the morning of the murder.”

“What did he tell you?” asked Ava, jumping in.

“He said he was puttering around,” said Marilyn. “He'd apparently attended some sort of board meeting where he'd put in a request for funds.”

“Funds for what?” asked Carmela. This came as new information to her.

“I assumed for his soup kitchen,” said Marilyn.

“Outreach center,” said Ava.

“What else did he say?” Carmela asked.

“That's the funny thing,” said Marilyn. “Brother Paul kind of hemmed and hawed. He didn't exactly give me straight answers.”

“Did he mention anything about the Seekers?” asked Ava.

Marilyn's brows furrowed again. “I don't think so. Nothing that I recall.”

“So what time did you leave?” asked Carmela.

“Around three,” said Marilyn. “I went home, typed my notes, and didn't give him another thought until I turned on the ten o'clock news.” She swallowed hard. “That's when I found out that Brother Paul was . . .” She choked on her final word. “Dead.”

Carmela swirled this new information around in her brain for a few seconds. “Did you tell the police that you'd met with Brother Paul?”

“Yes, of course,” said Marilyn, looking alarmed. “In fact, I called them first thing this morning. I figured it was the least I could do, since they've been so cooperative.”

“Hmm,” said Carmela. The police, Babcock specifically, hadn't given her one ounce of cooperation. Then again, she wasn't writing a book. Maybe that was what it took. You had to be a would-be Joseph Wambaugh to grab their attention.

“Anyway,” said Marilyn, “I thought you two would want to know.” She turned mournful eyes on Carmela. “Since you've been digging into things yourself.”

“Thanks,” said Carmela. “I appreciate the information.” She hesitated. “And I'm sorry that all this has thrown you for such a loop.” Maybe writing about true crime was a little too gritty for Marilyn's sensibilities?

“I can't imagine what you two went through last night,” said Marilyn, her eyes going large.

“It was pretty awful,” admitted Ava. “He was all purple and his eyes were kind of poked out.”

Marilyn opened her wallet and pulled out two business cards. She handed one to Ava and the second to Carmela. “Should you need to get in touch . . .” Her words trailed off.

Carmela stared at Marilyn's card. It had a swirly little pen-and-ink logo and listed her name and cell phone number, and a street address over near Tulane. “Okay,” she said. “Thanks.”

Marilyn nodded numbly.

“It's not your fault, you know,” Carmela told her. “Just because you talked to Brother Paul doesn't mean you're in any way responsible for his death. Try not to . . .” She was going to say
obsess
, then amended her words to, “Try not to worry about it.”

Marilyn's voice was filled with genuine misery. “I'll try.”

“Dang,” said Ava, once Marilyn had left her shop. “What do you make of all that?”

“I'd say it pretty much confirms our suspicions,” said Carmela. “That somebody, probably our killer, believes Brother Paul witnessed something.”

“But who dat?” asked Ava, puzzling.

Who indeed
, thought Carmela, as the back door to Ava's shop opened and the sudden suck of air caused overhead felt bats to flutter and white wooden skeletons to click and clack.

“Eldora?” called Ava. She leaned forward over the counter, knocking over a saint candle and almost sending a display of silk voodoo charms crashing to the floor. “Is that you?”

“It's me,” called Eldora, poking her head around a display of blue, purple, and red evil eye necklaces strung on black leather cords. “I've got two readings this afternoon, but I'm a little early. Hope you don't mind, hope I'm not interrupting.”

“No problem,” said Ava, as Eldora slipped quietly toward the back reading room.

“Eldora's still working out?” Carmela asked.

“She's a hoot,” said Ava. Reaching out, she touched a finger to a small white plaster skull that sat on her counter. “My customers couldn't be happier. And she really is a whiz when it comes to interpreting a crystal ball.”

“In that case,” said Carmela, “maybe we
should
ask Eldora what's going on.”

Ava made a face. “I said she was good, I didn't say she was the oracle at Delphi.”

Carmela thought for a minute. “Do you think Eldora would be willing to appear at my wine-tasting event tomorrow night?”

Ava shrugged. “Maybe. If she doesn't have a gig someplace else.”

“Bringing in a psychic would help make it more of a fun social event and less hard sell on the wine.”

“I can see that,” said Ava. “If folks have a good time, they'll come away with nice warm feelings about St. Tammany Vineyard.”

“That would be the general idea.”

“So ask her,” said Ava.

O
PULENT and, at the same time, slightly frayed at the seams, the Garden District remained one of the most photographed, beloved, and coveted neighborhoods in all of New Orleans. Elegant Italianate, Greek Revival, and Moorish-style mansions lined the streets, all looking like giant, delicious cookies that had been painstakingly frosted with squiggles of wrought iron, finials, filigrees, and every other exotic adornment.

“Here we are,” said Carmela, as she nosed her car down Third Street. Wrought-iron streetlamps flickered in the darkness, spilling welcome little puddles of yellow light. She coasted to the curb in front of a stunningly large Italianate home and cut the engine. “Baby's place.” In honor of the occasion, she'd worn a cobalt-blue cowl-neck dress with black suede boots. Ava wore her de rigueur leather pants and a bright red sweater cinched with a studded leather belt.

“Yowza,” said Ava, as they hustled up the front walk. “I can never quite get used to the fact that Baby and her husband have so much money.”

“Does it bother you?” asked Carmela, as she pressed the bell.

“No,” said Ava, “I rather like it.”

And, lucky for Baby Fontaine, she had just as much taste as she had money. And her beautifully furnished home reflected it. In the entry hall, Prussian blue silk covered the walls while shining brass sconces flanked a wall mirror set in a Rococo brass frame with an inlay of tortoiseshell. Carved cypress moldings crowned the entry room, and an enormous crystal chandelier dangled enticingly above a huge circular staircase that curled its way up to the second floor. The overall effect was
Real Housewives of Beverly Hills
meets
Gone with the Wind
.

Baby's husband, Del, greeted them at the door. “Welcome, ladies,” he drawled. “Come in and make yourselves at home.” He was tall, handsome, and effusive, a prominent lawyer from an old New Orleans family and a member of the high-society Comus krewe.

Carmela gave Del a chaste air kiss, while Ava simply said, “I'm just here with Carmela.”

“And we're so glad you are!” enthused Del. He lowered his voice and said, “I don't know what the deal is with this mayor's Cultural Advisory Board. To be perfectly honest, my idea of culture is a fine mahogany-stock rifle, a good bluetick hound, and a smooth twenty-year-old brandy. Not necessarily in that order, of course. Or enjoyed at the same time.”

Ava dimpled prettily. “My idea of culture is Lady Gaga.”

“Nothing wrong with that, my dear,” said Del. “Say, how would you like a glass of champagne?”

“Good stuff?” inquired Ava.

Del winked at her. “I think, perhaps, we could rustle up a flute of Cristal.”

Ava beamed, as if she'd been offered the Hope Diamond. “Oh yeah!”

Rain Monroe confronted Carmela head-on in the front parlor. “I still don't see why
you're
here!” she said in an icy drawl. She wore a tight red knit dress that showed off her hip bones to perfection. Her feet, tucked into black stilettoheeled booties, were planted firmly and wide apart on the wine-red Aubusson carpet. Rain's mouth twitched and she seemed to be itching for a good scrap.

In one smooth move, Baby swept up behind Carmela and entwined a protective arm around her waist. “Carmela's my guest,” said Baby. Her tone was friendly but insistent. “I wanted her here tonight as my personal arts consultant.”

Rain's eyes blazed, then narrowed into unhappy slits. “I can't believe you need an
advocate
,” she spat out. “After all, Baby, a person of your stature in the community has served on countless committees. You're well aware of the protocol for these meetings.”

“But nothing quite this artsy,” purred Baby. She tilted her head, as if she were considering something quite wonderful, then said, “Now, if you ladies are interested, and I do hope you are, I've set out some lovely tea and pastries in my dining room.” She made a genteel shooing motion. “So y'all just run ahead and please help yourself.”

Carmela, who made it a point never to pass on dessert of any kind, met up with Ava in the dining room.

“Champagne,” said Ava, tipping her crystal glass from side to side.

“I see you've been served the finest of the manor.” Carmela grinned. “While I, on the other hand, just had what was practically an eye-gouging conversation with the indomitable Rain Monroe.”

“Oh man,” said Ava, contorting her face, “I'm, like, one hundred percent sure she's the one who got me kicked off the Angel Auxiliary.”

“Which is why I'm going to talk to her,” said Carmela. “See if I can reason with her.”

“Impossible to reason with crazy people,” Ava said in a matter-of-fact tone, then reached out to snare a small square of pecan pie.

“But I'm still going to try,” said Carmela. “Because I know how much that Angel Auxiliary means to you.”

“You're such a good BFF,” said Ava, grabbing a miniature chocolate napoleon.

Carmela placed a mini wedge of cheesecake on her plate, then searched the tabletop for a second goody. She saw bread pudding, pralines, cake with lemon cream, and a pear torte. It would be nice to dig into a slice of each, but not if she wanted to fit into her clothes. Not if she wanted to someday fit into jeans as skinny as Ava's. As she debated caloric merits, Carmela slowly became aware of a woman standing at her left elbow. A large, lumpy woman who was breathing with an exaggerated wheeze. She turned her head slightly, then practically jumped out of her skin when she saw who it was. “Glory!” she exclaimed.

Glory Meechum was Shamus's mean-spirited big sister who, by dint of her senior status in the Meechum family pecking order, now ruled the Crescent City Banks with an iron fist. Never a fashion plate to begin with, Glory wore a severe-looking gray dress that seemed to eerily complement her gray helmet hair. Her feet were encased in a pair of black shoes with squatty little heels. Carmela figured Glory's color wheel had to be gray and black. Or, if you wanted to be kind, anthracite and zinc.