Skeleton Letters (30 page)

And then Twig was at her side, talking to her, coaching her to tilt her head a certain way, showing her how to relax her shoulders and just go with the flow.

“Just remember,” said Twig, “when you want to dissipate tension, put your lips together and make a long, drawn-out hum.”

“What does that do?” asked Carmela.

“Any kind of humming resonates in your nose, mouth, and upper jaw,” Twig told her. “And causes instant relaxation.”

Carmela tilted her head, gently put her lips together, and smiled. “Yummmm. Hummmm.”

“Perfect!” declared Twig.

“Fantastic!” said Jekyl. “To the manor born.”

But Carmela didn't feel like she'd been born with a silver spoon in her mouth. “I'm not totally confident with this pose,” she told Twig. “It feels more like the posture of a madam.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Ava chuckled.

“There's
everything
wrong with that,” Carmela shot back.

 

 

Twenty minutes later it was all over. Carmela was back in her own clothes, though her hair and makeup were still amazingly exotic.

“Will this last until tonight?” Ava asked Jilly. “I mean, Carmela's hair and makeup?”

Jilly gave a vigorous nod. “Between the multiple layers of makeup and hair spray, her look should actually last several days. That's if she sleeps upright in a chair,” he added.

“See, hon?” cooed Ava. “You're already perfectly coiffed and made up for the wine-tasting event tonight.”

“So there really is an upside to all of this,” said Carmela. She strolled back into the parlor, where Twig, his assistant, and the lighting guy were busy packing up. “Thanks so much,” Carmela said to Twig. She gave a little wave. “To all of you.”

“Here,” said Twig, handing her a large black leather portfolio. “If you or your clients ever need a bit of photography, perhaps you'll ...consider hiring me.”

“This is your book?” Carmela asked. From her days as a designer, Carmela was familiar with what was termed in the industry as a
book
. It was generally a large loose-leaf portfolio with plastic sleeves that held samples of an artist's work. Books were commonly used to showcase photographers', designers', and illustrators' samples in hopes of generating future work.

“Besides photographing home interiors,” Twig told her, “my bread and butter is pretty much portrait shots. You'd be surprised at how many wealthy women want their portraits done.”

No, I wouldn't
, thought Carmela. She'd visited countless Garden District and lakeside area homes where the common denominator was often an elaborately done portrait of the lady of the house, usually hung directly above the fireplace for guests to see and admire.

“A lot of women hit forty,” said Twig, “and they think ... Ooh, I need to memorialize this, because from here on it's all downhill.”

“Which it really is,” said Ava.

Carrying the book over to a wing chair, Carmela sat down and started flipping through it. Ten pages in, she came upon a dramatic black-and-white photo of Rain Monroe, posed next to a marble sculpture of an angel. “This is interesting,” said Carmela, trying to keep her voice even, “you shot a portrait of Rain Monroe.”

“Now she was an unusual subject,” said Twig, coming over to join her. “Her dark hair was a tad difficult to light. But her face has lots of angles and planes.”

“That's 'cause Rain's always in skinny-bitch mode,” sniped Ava, from across the room. “Always starving herself to stay a size two.”

“But, honey,” said Twig, giving Ava a quick smile, “
you're
a size six, aren't you?”

Ava's face lit up. “You're right. I am.”

“You did a great job,” said Carmela, as she flipped to the next page. “Oh, here she is again and . . .”

Time suddenly stood still for Carmela as she focused on Rain, who was posed in a long, black, severe-looking dress. But it was the background that stunned Carmela. Directly behind Rain was a stark white wall hung with dozens of crucifixes.

Carmela tried to gather her thoughts. “This is ...an unusual setting,” she finally stammered out. “I take it this backdrop is of some significance to her?”

Twig gave the page a cursory glance. “For sure,” he said. “Ms. Monroe has a huge collection of crosses.” He let loose a discreet sniff. “In fact, she even fancies herself as some kind of amateur archaeologist.”

“Really,” said Carmela. “Isn't that interesting.”

 

 

“Ready to go?” Ava called to Carmela. Carmela had been paging slowly through the rest of Twig's book, looking at photos but not really absorbing them. Her mind was whirring over Rain. Rain, who had been at St. Tristan's when Byrle was murdered. Rain, who, interestingly enough, collected crucifixes.

What did all this mean? Carmela wondered. That Rain was a highly religious person? That Rain had an odd sense of decorating? Or that Rain was a vicious, scheming, possibly murderous woman who would stop at nothing to add to her collection?

Carmela snapped the book closed, slipped out of her chair, and sprinted for the stairway.

“Where are you going?” Ava called after her. She was anxious to get moving. Their next stop was Lacy Lady, where she was supposed to get her first peek at Drew Gaspar's Voodoo Couture line.

Carmela spun around when she hit the landing and held up two fingers. “Two minutes,” she called down to Ava. “I'll be back in two minutes.”

Taking the rest of the stairs two at a time, Carmela hit the landing, then dashed into her old bedroom.

It hadn't changed one bit since Shamus had slipped into his boogie shoes and ducked out of their marriage. The big old sleigh bed still looked cushy and comfortable, the draperies plush and velvety, and the wavering baroque mirror on the opposite wall still gave the whole room a certain edgy elegance.

Carmela put her head down and tried to steel herself from thinking about the moments she and Shamus had shared together in that old sleigh bed—the languid mornings and lush evenings. Instead, she stepped into her walk-in closet, flipped on the light, and looked around. A half-dozen dresses still hung there. Old evening gowns, left over from happier, more carefree times when she'd attended formal parties with Shamus, as well as the Pluvius and Rex Mardi Gras balls. Now the gowns just looked sad and forlorn in a spooky, Miss Haversham sort of way. Probably, they were completely out of style, too.

Carmela dropped to her knees and bent forward. Running her hands across the cushy, cream-colored carpet, she felt around for a few moments. Finally, the tips of her fingers located the seam she knew was there. She gently peeled back the carpet and gazed at the floor. Set into the narrow wooden floorboards was a small metal safe, something Shamus had installed for her in their first rapturous weeks of marriage. His rationale had been that it would be a safe place to keep her good jewelry. Interestingly, not a lot of precious gems, diamonds, or gold had been forthcoming in those early years. So, instead, it evolved into a place to stick her passport, a couple of emergency fifties, and a few mementos.

Spinning the combination—her birth year—Carmela heard a soft click as the tumbler fell into place. Open sesame. She raised the metal lid and gazed inside. She'd long since removed her money, passport, and small cache of jewelry, but had left her gun. A small revolver that, once upon a time, back in their married years, Shamus had given to her for protection and that she'd never had to use.

The gun was small, dull gray, and ugly. Probably Shamus had forgotten all about it. But Carmela hadn't. She hesitated for a moment, then reached down and picked it up between her thumb and forefinger. Gingerly, as if she were handling a dead mouse, she dropped the gun into her purse. A small box of bullets tumbled in after it.

Just in case.

“T
HAT was fairly weird,” said Carmela. They were speeding down Magazine Street, her foot pressed hard against the accelerator, as if she were trying to outrun the memories of this morning's photo shoot.

“Oh yeah,” said Ava. “But really great.” She tapped her bright red nails against the dashboard. “Wish I could do a photo shoot like that.”

“I meant the photos of Rain Monroe,” said Carmela.

Ava ducked her head and squinted at Carmela. “You think Rain had something to do with Byrle's death?”

“I'm not sure what to think anymore.”

“I can see her clobbering poor Byrle,” said Ava. “Maybe she didn't intend to actually
kill
Byrle, but things just got out of hand.” She gave a self-satisfied nod. “So it's still technically murder.”

“Do you think Rain killed Brother Paul, too?” asked Carmela.

“She would if she thought we were following a trail and were getting too close,” said Ava. “Plus she collects crucifixes. And she's crazy.”

“Just because Rain collects crucifixes doesn't mean she's crazy,” said Carmela, backpedaling a little. “I mean, lots of people have religious icons in their home.” She knew that Jekyl had a large statue of St. Stephen in his parlor and an enormous black wrought-iron candelabra in his dining room. Both had been deacquisitioned from churches.

“I think Rain's crazy,” said Ava, “because she really
is
crazy. If that makes any sense.”

“Some,” said Carmela.

“So,” said Ava, “if Rain moves to the head of the line as far as suspects go, would that mean you're less down on Drew Gaspar?”

Carmela lifted her shoulders in an imperceptible shrug. “I guess I'm just taking a wait-and-see attitude.”

“And you're waiting for ... what?” asked Ava.

“I don't know,” said Carmela. “All I hope is we don't . . .”

“There it is!” Ava squealed, cutting off Carmela's sentence. “Lacy Lady!” Lacy Lady was one of the newer boutiques that had sprung up along Magazine Street, a colorful, cosmopolitan part of the city where art galleries, trendy restaurants, and clothing boutiques were clustered.

Carmela nosed her car into an empty parking spot on the street. “Okay,” she said, as the engine ticked down. “Let's hope this all works out for you.”

Ava gave a lopsided grin. “I just hope everything fits!”

“We're the first shop to carry the Voodoo Couture line,” cooed Sally Barnes, the manager of the small, well-edited boutique. Sally had long blond hair and dressed bohemian chic, which meant she wore a skintight tank top and a filmy, flowing designer skirt with her sky-high Manolos.

“And how many pieces in the collection so far?” asked Ava. She was fairly quivering with anticipation.

“Twenty,” said Sally, as she led them past tables piled with cashmere sweaters and silk scarves. “But I expect Voodoo Couture will take off like crazy once the company has its official launch.”

“What does an official launch entail?” asked Carmela.

“Dozens of different components,” said Sally. “But, most importantly, the line needs to have a national network of sales reps, garner some favorable press in the trade papers, and stage an industry-centric fashion show. It doesn't have to be at New York's Fashion Week, but it certainly should be at some of the regional venues.”

“And I'd be the muse,” chortled Ava.

“You'll have to excuse my friend,” said Carmela. “As you can see, she's head over heels.”

“Can't say I blame her,” said Sally.

As Carmela scanned the racks and shelves at Lacy Lady, she was reminded of a sparkling little jewel box. There were racks of Cosabella lingerie, trays of enormous statement rings, fluttering silk scarves, stacks of True Religion jeans, James Perse T-shirts, racks of elegant evening gowns, a rack of colorful faux furs, and a table filled with long leather gloves and Miu Miu purses.

“You have a very tasty selection,” Carmela told Sally.

“Tantalizing,” said Ava. A scarlet peignoir with matching froufrou mules had caught her eye.

“Thank you,” said Sally. “We like to think of ourselves as a carefully edited shop for women with refined taste.”

“And you carry all my favorites,” trilled Ava. “Gucci, Pucci, and Fiorucci.”

“And she can rap, too,” laughed Carmela.

“A lady who knows her labels,” said Sally, smiling.

“Usually,” said Ava, “we shop down the block at The Latest Wrinkle.” She leaned in closer to Sally and said in a stage whisper, “The resale shop.”

“Hey,” said Sally, brightening, “that's a terrific place. I picked up a vintage Ungaro jacket there not so long ago.”