Skeleton Letters (28 page)

“Why is
she
here?” Ava suddenly whispered, at Carmela's other elbow. Ava loathed Glory and considered her the scourge of the planet. Of course, Glory thought Ava was the devil's harlot.

Carmela,” Glory began, in her flat, even bray. “What brings you here?” Glory stuck out her hand to shake with Carmela. It was a stiff gesture, cool and businesslike and devoid of any former-sister-in-law warmth. It was as if Glory had just walked into a deposition and been grudgingly introduced to opposing counsel.

“Baby invited me to sit in on tonight's meeting,” Carmela hastily explained to Glory. “Just as a sort of... consultant.” For some reason, her answer sounded lame to her. But Glory seemed to approve of her presence.

“That's fine,” said Glory, nodding her oversized head. “It's good you're back in your old neighborhood.” Her eyes wonked sideways for a moment, taking in Ava, and then she focused on Carmela again. “It's been rather unseemly, you living in that nasty apartment across from that ridiculous little magic store.”

“Oh, you misunderstand,” said Ava, her voice dripping with a lethal combination of honey and venom. “Carmela's not moving back here. She's putting the Garden District house up for sale.”

Glory clutched a hand at her bosom, as if she'd felt the first painful stirrings of a cardiac infarction. “What? What?” she shrilled, in a pained, hysterical tone of voice. “You're
selling
the house?”

“She sure is,” Ava chortled. It wasn't often she had a chance to drive a stake through Glory's heart, and Ava was relishing every single minute of it.

“This can't be happening,” Glory spat out. Her face had turned ashen and her left eye twitched uncontrollably. “This is . . . catastrophic!”

Glory's theatrics were so over the top, Carmela had to fight hard to keep a straight face. “Glory, surely this news isn't coming at you like a bolt from the blue. I'm positive Shamus mentioned the possibility of my selling the house.” In fact, Carmela was pretty sure she'd had this same conversation with Glory a couple of months ago. With pretty much the same hysterical reaction.

Glory shook her head with unbound fury. Amazingly, her helmet of hair barely moved. Carmela figured Glory must be gelled and shellacked in perpetuity.

“No, no!” cried Glory. “This home sale comes as a complete shock to me!” Her voice trembled with anger fueled by outrage. “If I'd known you were going to
sell
it, I never would have agreed to the terms of your divorce.”

“Sure you would,” said Ava. “Because it was
her
divorce, not yours.”

“Does Shamus know about this . . . um . . . impending sale?” asked Glory.

Carmela was getting tired of playing this little game. Selling the Garden District house, which was legally hers, had been discussed ad nauseam. By any and all parties concerned. “Of course Shamus knows,” said Carmela. “And, truth be told, he really doesn't care that much.” The Meechum family owned three other homes nearby, and Shamus hadn't shown much interest in any of them. Since he'd reverted to his bachelor ways, he'd moved into a bachelor apartment. Doorman, cleaning lady once a week, neighbors who included lots of single ladies.

“That home is his birthright!” hissed Glory.

Carmela glanced up, certain Glory's ferocity was going to cause the overhead chandelier to come tinkling down upon them. Luckily, it was only swaying slightly.

“The divorce is signed, sealed, and duly recorded with the State of Louisiana,” said Carmela. “The Garden District house is mine, free and clear, to do with what I want.”

“Have you no heart?” Glory muttered. She snatched up her dessert plate; hastily piled on cookies, cakes, and bread pudding; then grabbed a double slice of rhubarb torte and toddled away.

“Apparently not,” said Carmela. “But at least I'm not testing the boundaries of coronary disease.”

Still, the evening remained rife with conflict. Because, upon seeing Glory's grumpy departure, Rain Monroe circled back to the dining room to have another go at Carmela.

“It's bad enough you're here,” snarled Rain. “But to bring your trampy friend along—shame on you.”

“I'm guessing,” said Carmela, “that your rather uncharitable reference is to Ava here?”

Rain gave an acknowledging shrug.

“Aw,” said Ava, “and here I was afraid you hadn't even noticed me. Boo-hoo.”

“Ava's a guest in Baby's home,” said Carmela, trying to remain calm. “As such, she should be accorded the utmost courtesy.”

This time Rain let loose an audible snort.

“And since we have a moment before the meeting begins,” said Carmela, “I'd like to talk to you about a couple of things.”

“What do you mean?” Rain demanded. She'd gone from looking outraged to being fidgety.

“You're on the board at St. Tristan's,” said Carmela. It was a statement, not a question.

Rain's nod was almost imperceptible.

Carmela dove in. “Monday morning, the morning Byrle was killed, did Brother Paul appear at your board meeting?”

Rain plucked an imaginary piece of lint from her dress. “What's it to you?”

Carmela tried to ignore Rain's rudeness. “Was he requesting funding for the Storyville Outreach Center?”

Now Rain just looked bored. “He might have.”

“Excuse me,” said Carmela, “this information isn't exactly a closely guarded state secret. Either he did or he didn't. Now which is it?”

“He did,” said Rain, “but the board turned him down flat. Brother Paul's work just didn't align with our interests.”

“Charity isn't one of your interests?” Carmela asked, her tone bitingly crisp. Then she directed her gaze toward Ava and inclined her head sideways. A signal for Ava to leave her alone with Rain. Ava's brows shot up in surprise, but after a few seconds she slipped away.

“You know what I mean,” said Rain, backpedaling a little, trying not to look like a complete philistine. “We're a poor parish, still fighting the bouts of a bad recession. We can't be expected to fund every little thing.”

“Whatever,” said Carmela. “Next question. Since you're an influential board member at St. Tristan's, I was wondering if you could find it in your heart to have Ava reinstated?”

Rain clenched her jaw so hard, Carmela could hear her mandibles click.

“Are you serious?” was Rain's terse reply.

“Dead serious,” said Carmela. She'd made up her mind to be polite to a fault, but no way was she going to wheedle or beg. This was just a simple request.

“Not a chance,” Rain spat out. She paused to gather a small amount of outrage, then said, “Do you know what she
does
?”

“Of course,” said Carmela. “Ava helps dust benches and altars at St. Tristan's. Sometimes she brings in fresh flower arrangements and passes out palm branches on Palm Sunday.”

“She runs a voodoo shop!” Rain shrilled. “How do you think that looks?”

“Are you serious?” said Carmela, trying hard to contain her rapidly building fury. “Half the people in New Orleans have been through Ava's shop. Buying crazy things for their Mardi Gras or Halloween parties. It's basically a gift shop with saint candles and harmless little red silk bags filled with aromatic herbs and spices. The kind you probably stuff inside your turkey every Thanksgiving.”

“And now she's got a psychic working there!” spat out Rain. “A woman who purports to tell fortunes! Who claims she can see into the great beyond!”

“What do you want me to do?” asked Carmela. “Report Ava to the paranormal police?”

Rain glared as she fingered the silver cross that was strung around her neck on a black silk cord. “You have to understand, Carmela, I'm a very devout person.”

“Then as a charitable act, could you please . . . ?”

“No!” screamed Rain, and this time a few people turned to look at them. “No,” Rain said, dialing back the volume. “That's never going to happen.”

After all the contentious rankling, the meeting itself was practically an afterthought. Baby sat primly and took copious notes, ducking her head from time to time to whisper questions to Carmela. Ava drifted in and out, almost always with a full glass of champagne in hand. A gaggle of old money and nouveau riche haggled over allocations of money to theater groups, dance companies, and artist consortiums. Once they'd drawn up a sort of short list, they began arguing about amounts. Finally, at ten o'clock, with amounts still not decided and not much accomplished in the way of fostering the arts, the committee chairman thanked everyone for their hard work and declared the meeting over.

“Thank goodness,” said Carmela, as they headed for her car. The cool air felt welcome and refreshing, even though little splotches of rain had started to plop down again.

“Thanks for talking to Rain,” said Ava, as they both walked along, stiff-legged and a little hunched over from sitting so long. “At least you scored an
A
for effort.”

“Little good it did us,” said Carmela, pulling open the driver's-side door and hopping in.

Ava folded her long legs into the passenger seat. “Still, you gave it a shot.”

“Rain says she's upset over the voodoo thing,” said Carmela. “Claims she's very religious.”

“Maybe Rain is religious like Mel Gibson's religious,” said Ava. She twirled a finger next to her ear. “A little . . . over the edge.”

Carmela drove slowly down Third Street, then turned onto Annunciation. “We'll be back here tomorrow,” she murmured. She wasn't looking forward to the photo shoot one bit. Even though scrapbooking was all about displaying photos in exciting, creative ways, she pretty much dreaded being the subject of a photo. Probably, Carmela decided, that discomfort harked back to third grade and a disastrous school picture that had made her look like a scrawny kid with spiky, artichoke-inspired hair. Then again, maybe everyone had a bad class picture experience buried deep down inside their flawed childhood psyche.

They hit Jackson, then hung a right on Rousseau and bumped along near the river. Carmela's father had made his living working on river barges. And even though he'd been killed many years ago, she still felt a certain kinship with this industrial, riverfront part of New Orleans. Maybe, out there in the spirit realm, her father's ghost still hovered, keeping a watchful eye on Mississippi barge traffic.

“Spooky over here,” said Ava. “All these dark, lurking warehouses.”

“It's just the industrial side of New Orleans,” said Carmela, as her little car skirted a pothole. “After all, we're a major port city that moves five hundred tons of cargo every year.”

“The stuff tourists never see,” said Ava. “Oh man!” she squeaked, as they rattled over another stretch of bumps and potholes. “You could bust an axle on this road.” New Orleans's streets were notorious for being pebbled, pocked, and pitted, and this route seemed to sport more potholes than autos.

Carmela glanced up sharply and squinted into her rearview mirror. “I just wish that jerk would stop tailgating us.”

“Maybe it's the protective tail Babcock put on you,” Ava suggested.

Carmela had practically forgotten about the police tail. She'd been far more concerned with business at her shop, Brother Paul's murder, and Baby's arts meeting.

“Maybe it's somebody cute,” said Ava. She shook her hair back and let loose a girlish giggle. “Nothing like a tall, dark, handsome man in uniform.”

“Unless he's in plainclothes,” said Carmela.

“I can take care of his clothes,” grinned Ava.

“Probably,” said Carmela, “it's some poor schlump who's simply driving home after a hard day at work.”

Ava swiveled in her seat. “He is following close.”

“He sure is.” Carmela touched her toe to her brake pedal. She knew if her brake lights flared, the average person's response would be to hit their brakes and drop back.

This guy stuck like a burr.

“Who is that?” she wondered aloud.

“Somebody
really
following you?” asked Ava. She digested this for a millisecond, then said, “Following us?”

“I hope not,” said Carmela, just as the heavens seemed to open and spill down a torrent of rain.

“Yipes!” Ava cried, as rain pinged furiously on the roof of the car and sloshed across the windshield in undulating waves. Carmela's windshield wipers were suddenly working overtime, barely keeping up. “This downpour oughta make him back off,” she added.