Skeleton Letters (29 page)

But the car following closely behind them didn't back off one iota.

“Doggone,” said Carmela, fighting to make out the boundaries of the road while still managing a quick glance in the mirror. “I think that idiot is going to . . .”

Crunch!
Metal scraped against metal.

“Hit us!” Carmela cried. “Doggone, he
did
hit us!”

“Tapped your bumper, anyway,” said Ava. “He probably lost sight of us in this downpour.” She leaned forward and peered out the front window. “Hard to see anything out there!” Ava gathered part of her sleeve in her hand and wiped at the window.

Carmela reached down and flipped her defroster to high.

“Better,” said Ava.

But it wasn't. Not really.

Once again the car approached them from behind and nudged against Carmela's back bumper. Harder this time.

A little shot of adrenaline squirted through Carmela's body, pushing her into fight-or-flight alert. She reacted instantly by tromping down hard on the accelerator. Everything inside her told her to shake this guy, to try to lose him.

“Holy moly!” Ava cried, “that was intentional! He wants to run us off the road!”

Carmela accelerated into a turn. “Try to read his license plate, okay?”

Ava turned and squinted as the car spun through the turn with them. “I can't quite make it out; he's just far enough back and it's raining too hard.”

“Okay, then peek out the back window and see if you can figure out what kind of car it is.” If she could get the model and make, she could call in a report to the police.
Yes, the police. Where are they? Where's the security tail Babcock supposedly arranged? Taking a break? Just when I need them most?

Ava pulled her knees up and swiveled around in her seat again. Scrunched up and hanging over the back of the seat, she peered out the back window. “It's, like, really big and black.”

“Like an SUV?” Carmela edged her speed up to forty-five. Off to her right, dingy warehouses flew by.

Ava shook her head. “No, I think it's a regular car.”

“What's the make? Can you tell?”

“Uh, maybe a Ford?”

“You sure about that?”
Who do I know drives a big black Ford? Basically...nobody.

“Or,” said Ava, “it could be a ... BMW?”

“Ava, there's a world of difference between a Ford and a BMW!”

Ava swung back around, frustrated. “Not to me there isn't! Last I looked, I wasn't a contributing editor to
Car and Driver
. All I care about is if a car gets me from point A to point B.”

“Well, whoever's trying to cream my bumper,” said Carmela, “means business!” The car was about thirty feet behind them now, but was steadily keeping pace.

“Can't you lose them?” asked Ava, pulling her seat belt across and snapping it closed. “Or, better yet, lay down a spray of tacks or an oil slick?”

“Only if I were James Bond or Batman,” said Carmela. “But I'm gonna try to outrun him.” Carmela cranked her wheel hard, sending them into a tight turn down Tchoupitoulas. “Maybe we can lose them along here,” she cried, the Mississippi hard on their right.

“Lordy, Lordy,” mewled Ava. “Tell me we're not gonna do a Thelma and Louise and jump this car into the river!”

“Not a chance,” said Carmela. She cranked her steering wheel hard again and flew down Felicity. Somewhere ahead, she knew there was a little café with a narrow cobblestone alley running directly behind it. Her Mercedes was small and nimble and cornered like a race car. If she could hit that turn and slip down the alley, she could outmaneuver this joker once and for all!

“You gained a pretty good lead on that last turn,” said Ava, whipping her head around, “but he's still following.” She gulped. “Oops, coming on stronger now.”

“Not for long,” Carmela muttered, through clenched teeth. She blinked and poked her head forward, searching frantically for that café. But all she saw was darkness, plunging trees, and rain slashing down. “Gotta be here,” she muttered, unless she was completely turned around in her directions.

“He's pulling closer,” said Ava, fear tingeing her voice.

Carmela ground her teeth together in frustration. If only she could . . .

Suddenly, she spotted the colorful purple-and-orange painted sign of the Xanadu Café. Here was her chance to outmaneuver and outsmart this creep! Wrenching the steering wheel, she bumped the right side of her car up and over the curb, jolting them hard, like the starting jerk of a roller coaster. Then Carmela was pretty much driving straight down the cracked sidewalk, her car pointed directly at a dejected banana tree and five small wrought-iron tables that made up Xanadu's outdoor café. The closer she came, the harder she gunned her engine.

“You're gonna hit ...!” Ava cried.

Carmela's front bumper missed the tables by inches and, instead, dinged the tall, metal outdoor heater. The six-foot-high heater teetered back and forth on its base like a giant sippy cup, and then Carmela slipped by and was bumping hard down the alley. Directly behind her, the outdoor heater toppled over and clattered against the cobblestones, forming a nifty, temporary barricade.

A metallic crunch rang out as the black car smacked nose first against the fallen heater, then came to an abrupt, jouncing stop.

“Holy Coupe de Ville!” came Ava's excited shriek. “You did it!”

A
WEB of photographer's lights and aluminum stands formed a cluttered, shiny barricade in the living room of Carmela's Garden District house. Accompanying hoods, snoods, scrims, and battery packs were scattered everywhere. Off in the dining room, a professional makeup artist had set up a temporary studio on Carmela's heirloom dining room table. Palettes of eye shadow, blush, and highlighter glistened in sparkly, almost Crayola-like colors.

“You call this low key?” Carmela gasped. She sat ramrod stiff in a chair, bare face tilted upward as if in supplication, a towel draped across her front and shoulders. Besides Jilly, the hair and makeup artist who'd just begun working on her, Jekyl and Ava hovered nearby. The photographer, his assistant, and a lighting guy popped strobe lights and conferred over test shots.

Gazing at Carmela's unhappy, naked face, Jekyl muttered, “Thank goodness I hired Jilly.”

“She doesn't look half bad,” observed Ava. “Dab a little concealer under her eyes and they'll brighten right up.”

“She's got great bone structure,” Jilly told them, “so I intend to play that up.” Jilly looked exactly like you'd imagine a movie makeup artist would look. Slat thin, spiked blond hair, eyeliner (guyliner?), tight white T-shirt, designer jeans, and an upper arm covered with elaborate tribal tattoos.

“That's right,” said Carmela, hating all the fuss, knowing it would only get worse once the photographer started shooting. “Go ahead and talk about me like I'm not even here.”

“Sorry, love,” said Jilly, as he twiddled a brush.

“So let's just spackle my face and get it over with.” Carmela sounded just this side of cranky.

Jilly leaned forward, a sympathetic look on his face. “What do you usually use?” he asked. He had a slightly high, crackly voice.

“Just a little foundation and mascara,” Carmela told him.

Jilly poured a puddle of light beige liquid into his hand. “But we're making you up for the camera lens, which reads differently than the human eye. So we'll have to go a little more dramatic, a little more extreme.”

“Which means what?” asked Carmela, finally favoring him with a half-smile. For some reason, she felt she could trust this young man with his endearing, crackly voice.

Jilly took a wedge-shaped sponge and began daubing makeup onto Carmela's face. “First I'll do a light base coat to even out the skin tone, then I'll apply foundation and a few dabs of highlighter.”

“Sounds like an artist gessoing a canvas,” Carmela observed.

“That's a fun analogy,” said Jilly, working swiftly.

“And don't forget eyeliner,” said Ava, hovering close by. “Give her lots and lots of eyeliner and mascara.”

“But no tarantula eyes,” said Carmela, glancing at Ava as Jilly continued to daub away. Ava could sometimes overdo it on mascara.

“No tarantula,” Ava agreed. “For you, just—kaboom—big, dramatic eyes!”

Minutes later, Jekyl bustled in, holding up two long dresses that swished and rustled in his arms. “I took the liberty of bringing along a couple of gowns for you to choose from.” One gown looked like liquid pewter; the other was a midnight-blue velvet.

This was news to Carmela. “I can't wear what I have on?”

Jekyl rolled his eyes. “Sweetie, c'mon. You're wearing beige slacks and a sweater. How let's-drive-to-the-mall-in-the-minivan is that?”

“Camel,” Carmela said, in an insistent tone. “Not beige. Camel is very in this season.”

Jekyl let loose a deep sigh and said, deadpan, “Yawn.”

“Not
yawn
,” said Carmela. “Classic.”

“Honey,” said Jekyl, “the name of the magazine is
Delta Living
, not
Night of the Living Dead
.”

Ava knelt at Carmela's side. “Just try the gowns,
cher
. I know one of them is going to look super fantastic on you!”

“And pin a little extra hair on her, too,” Jekyl advised.

Carmela's hands flew to her head. “What!” she squawked. “Now I need hair?”

“Couldn't hurt,” said Jilly.

Ava nodded sagely. “There isn't a woman alive who couldn't use a little extra hair.”

Carmela narrowed her eyes and peered at Ava's flowing locks. “You've got extra hair pinned in?”

Ava held an index finger to her lips, as if it were a secret worthy of the Knights Templar. “Just three or four little ol' extensions. But when it's a major occasion, like Halloween or Mardi Gras, watch out! Then I go for the full lioness look!”

“Perfection!” Jekyl declared, when Carmela's hair and makeup was finally finished.

“You think?” Carmela gazed into the smoked mirror on the breakfront, not recognizing the exotic-looking woman who stared back at her. She'd been transformed into a creature with big doe eyes, a pouty mouth, and a wild mane of hair.

“Oh yeah,” said Jekyl, impressed, “a terrific makeover.”

“I think I'd rather just go home now,” said Carmela.

“Not gonna happen,” said Ava, happily. “Now it's time to play dress-up.”

Jekyl tugged on Carmela's arm. “Come on, lovey, slip into one of these gowns, then come and meet Twig. He's in the parlor, doing a final lighting check.”

“What's a Twig?” asked Carmela.

“The photographer,” said Jekyl. “Twig Dillon. Surely you've heard of him?”

Carmela shook her head. “Sorry. No.”

“Goodness,” said Jekyl, taking a deep breath, “Twig's just about the most creative and wildly popular photographer in New Orleans today. Seriously, the man's an absolute genius!”

 

 

Turns out, Twig wasn't just a genius photographer, he was a nice guy, too.

“Photography isn't just about me and the camera,” Twig explained to Carmela. “Ninety percent of my energy is expended in front of the lens, while maybe ten percent is spent behind the lens.”

Curious, Carmela said, “What do you mean? Explain, please.”

“The most important job for a photographer is to put his subject completely at ease,” said Twig. “Because any discomfort or nervousness will be reflected in their face and body language.”

“I can understand that,” said Ava. “Of course, I'm always comfortable in my body.”

“Say I shoot the CEO of a company,” Twig continued. “I chat him up a bit, get him talking about the big deals he's working on, and then ask him to point his belly button toward the Mississippi.”

“You disarm him,” said Carmela.

“Sort of,” said Twig. “But mostly, I try to establish a sense of trust.” He took Carmela's arm, guided her over to where he'd closed a set of blue velvet curtains, and posed her accordingly. “I like that pewter dress, by the way. Makes the color of your eyes more vivid.”

“Is this part of making me feel comfortable?” asked Carmela.

“Yes and no,” said Twig. “From my perspective, you already look comfortable.”

“You're good,” said Carmela.

They tried a few shots in front of the curtains, then reclining on the fainting couch. Then Twig moved Carmela in front of the fireplace.

“The fireplace,” said Jekyl, knowingly, “that's the best pose yet.”

“Maybe rest one hand on your hip and the other on the mantel,” Ava suggested. “Try to look casually elegant.”

Carmela lifted her hand and felt the tickle of dust on the mantel. She grimaced.

“And lift your chin slightly,” Jekyl coached. “Ah, perfection!” he declared, as the shutter snapped and blinding light exploded in Carmela's eyes.

“Can we try that again?” asked Carmela. “I think I ... blinked.”

“Just look this way, sweetheart,” said Twig. “And relax your face—no, now you're scrunching. Just think serene thoughts, but don't be afraid to give me a little attitude, too.”

“Let the fierceness emanate from your eyes,” said Ava. “Think starving supermodel. Pretend you've been living on Red Bull and cigarettes for the last three weeks.”

“And that you're jet-lagged from too many trips to Paris and Milan,” added Jekyl. “Think . . . Kate Moss!”