Skeleton Letters (32 page)

“Nice to meet you,” said Chef Rami, accepting her hand.

“Great food,” Ava enthused, as she chewed.

“I've been secretly trying to woo Chef Rami away from here and get him to come work for me,” said Quigg. “You know, he's a graduate of CIA.”

Ava swallowed with a gulp and let loose an amused shiver. “Oooh, you used to be a spy?”

“Culinary Institute of America,” Chef Rami told her. “The
other
CIA.”

“Ah,” said Ava. “The other one.”

“By the way,” Quigg said to Carmela, “I love that you brought in a psychic. It gives the whole event a very offbeat touch.”

“Nothing like a string quartet and a psychic to get the party rolling,” Ava chortled.

“Along with a boatload of wine,” added Carmela. She slipped away from the group and surveyed the room. The media had finally swept in like a horde of marauding Mongols and were attacking two of the wine stations. But that was okay. They had dozens of cases of Bayou Sparkler and Sauvignon Silver. No way would this crowd drink their way through everything.

Looking around, Carmela also spotted plenty of restaurateurs and wine shop proprietors. Perfect. Couldn't be better. She knew they were pretty much the decision makers who'd make or break St. Tammany Vineyards. If they decided to stock Quigg's wines or add them to their wine lists, then he was pretty much guaranteed success. And if they didn't ... well, maybe Quigg could let his wine age for a few years in a nice hot shed and go into the vinegar business.

“Carmela!” exclaimed a pretty African American woman. “Remember me?”

“Ardice!” said Carmela, giving her a quick hug. Ardice was midthirties, cute, and dressed in a tailored black cocktail dress. She was the business manager at St. Tammany Vineyards and also did the buying for the gift shop.

“Aren't you the PR whiz,” said Ardice. “You even got some of our local media to show up.”

“That was always the hopeful part of the plan,” said Carmela, pleased that Ardice had noticed.

“That reporter for KBEZ,” said Ardice, “the one with all the blond hair and Botox?”

“Kimber Breeze?” said Carmela.

“She kind of waylaid me outside,” said Ardice. “She asked a couple questions about Quigg's wine, but I think she really wanted to know about you.”

“Oh no,” said Carmela, looking around. “Is she here?” All she needed was to have Kimber Breeze hijack this event. To shift attention from Quigg's wines to the murder investigations.

“She's here somewhere,” said Ardice, her long gold earrings dangling, “so be careful!”

Carmela wandered past the Cabernet station, making sure things were running smoothly, then circled back to Madame Blavatsky's table. That was where she ran smack-dab into Ava, clinging to the arm of Drew Gaspar.

“Look who I found!” crowed Ava. “None other than handsome Mr. Gaspar, a partner in the very amazing Voodoo Couture line.”

“Nice to see you again,” said Carmela. She was friendly, but reserved.

“I was just telling Mr. Gaspar how much I enjoyed modeling his clothes this afternoon,” said Ava.

“I wish I could have been there,” said Gaspar, giving her a wink and a wide grin.

“I wish you could have been there, too,” giggled Ava.

“Have you had a chance to taste any of the St. Tammany wines yet?” Carmela asked.

Gaspar continued to grin at Ava. “Indeed, I have. Very fine quality. I wouldn't mind adding them to my wine list, such as it is.”

“That's what we like to hear,” said Carmela. She gave a business-friendly smile and said, “I take it you're still tinkering with food and wine for Purgatoria?”

“It's never ending,” said Gaspar.

“And the décor?” she asked, thinking about the stolen crucifix.

“We can always find a niche or nook for another gargoyle or candlestick,” said Gaspar, happily. “It's that kind of place.”

“I'm sure it is,” said Carmela. “By the way, our host tonight, Quigg Brevard, is spearheading a restaurateurs' food donation drive.”

“He is?” said Ava.

Carmela was completely winging it now as her words poured out. “He's going to be asking restaurants to donate extra staples to the Storyville Outreach Center.” She paused for a beat. “Does that interest you?” She watched for any flicker of familiarity and saw none. Either Gaspar was an exceedingly good liar or he'd never heard of the place.

“Count me in,” said Gaspar. “I'm always willing to help out.”

“Kind of you,” said Carmela. “I'll be sure to pass that along to Quigg.”

“Do that,” said Gaspar. He whispered something in Ava's ear, then slipped away from her.

“You're getting close to him,” said Carmela, in a slightly accusing tone. “You know that worries the heck out of me.”

“He didn't
do
anything,” said Ava. “Really. He's just a good guy. You wait and see. Any suspicions you have are completely unfounded.”

“I hope so,” said Carmela, as they threaded their way through the press of guests. Pretty much everyone had tasted each of the different wines by now, which added up to a whole lot of merriment.

Unfortunately, all of Carmela's feelings of accomplishment burst like a soap bubble when she ran smack-dab into Rain Monroe.

“Rain!” Carmela exclaimed. “What are you doing here?” Carmela was dismayed to see her, Rain being the killjoy that she was. And Ava, with a few drinks under her belt, might just decide to haul off and smack her.

Rain put a hand on her hip and postured grandly in her sleek ivory cocktail dress. “I came with Peter Johns, owner of Griffin Bistro.”

“Wonderful,” said Carmela, though her words lacked enthusiasm. Ava just stood at Carmela's elbow, giving Rain a cold, calculating stare.

“Although,” Rain continued in a bored tone, “I doubt we'll stay long.” Now her true colors began to emerge as she shook her head and asked, “Have you actually
tasted
this wine?” Rain's upper lip curled in sublime distaste. “From St. Tammany Vineyards?”

“Yes, Rain, I have,” said Carmela. “In fact, I organized this event.”

“Too bad for you,” Rain continued. “The Sauvignon is reminiscent of paint thinner, and please don't get me started on that presumptuous Cabernet.”

“I'm sorry it's not to your liking,” said Carmela, as Ava gave her a subtle nudge. “But, truth be told, we've been getting raves.”

“I suppose there's no accounting for taste,” Rain sniffed.

“You know, Rain,” said Ava, her eyes glimmering wickedly, “that's a very interesting dress.”

“Why ...thank you,” Rain said, startled by Ava's comment.

Ava took a step back, as if to study Rain's cocktail dress and matching clutch purse. “But I'm thinking that dress would look better with a black bag—over your head.”

The look of pure shock on Rain's face was the delicious swirl of frosting on Carmela's evening.

Rain, on the other hand, let loose a howl. “Well, I never!” she cried, then flounced away, her heels clicking like angry castanets.

“Good one,” said Carmela, giving Ava a discreet high five. “But why does she have this hunger inside that drives her to be so mean and snarky?”

“She's a lily-livered snake,” Ava explained. “She slithers around, making observations that pretend to sound learned, but beneath it all she's just a tired old cottonmouth.”

By ten o'clock the crowd had thinned considerably. By ten thirty, the event was virtually over. Only about a half-dozen hangers-on remained, chatting with Quigg as they continued to quaff glasses of wine. Even though Carmela hoped they were talking business, they probably weren't.

“My feet are killing me,” Ava lamented, as they waited for the valet to bring Carmela's car around. “I've probably got at least a dozen hammertoes.”

“You suddenly grew extra digits?”

Ava gave a lopsided grin. “Okay, smarty, ten hammertoes.”

“That's what you get for wearing sky-high stilettos.”

“Which, I might add, earned me invitations to three dinners and one concert.”

Carmela peered down at Ava's shoes. “What do you know, they're even more magical than ruby slippers.”

Just as they pulled away from the Belle Vie, the rain started up again.

“Right on cue,” said Carmela.

“At least it didn't rain on your step-and-repeat.”

“Why does that sound like a country-western song?” asked Carmela.

“Don't let it rain on my step-and-repeat,” Ava sang with off-key gusto. “Don't want the party to go downbeat. Walkin' and talkin' and struttin' my stuff ...am I really askin' that much?”

“Nice try, Dolly Parton.”

“Doesn't work?”

“Um, let's say songwriting's not exactly your forte.”

“Singing?”

“Let's say it's right up there with the one-hit wonders some of those Real Housewives recorded.”

“Okay,” said Ava, sinking back in her seat. “' Nuff said.” She was relaxed and sated from an evening of food, wine, and compliments. All in all, not a bad combination.

“Where did Jekyl and company run off to?” asked Carmela, as they spun down Bourbon Street. The blue, red, and yellow neon lights from the bars and clubs reflected brightly in the wet street, giving the illusion of a parallel universe. A universe that was probably just as rowdy and bawdy.

“He and his buddies went to this big party over in—” began Ava.

Her words were suddenly cut short by the earsplitting clang of a bell. A clang that spun out into a metallic hammering that sounded as if a gigantic alien spacecraft had just crash-landed.

“Holy angels!” cried Ava. “What was that?” The noise continued to reverberate like some kind of dour warning.

“I bet one of the church towers got hit by lightning,” said Carmela. She was relieved they were in her car, grounded by four fat rubber tires.

“Do you think it was St. Tristan's?” asked Ava, her happy mood suddenly evaporating.

“I don't know,” said Carmela, squinting at the road ahead. “Maybe.”

“What if it's, like, some kind of ghostly warning from the netherworld?” said Ava. “Protesting Byrle's murder.” She hesitated. “Or maybe the world's coming to an end?”

“Naw,” said Carmela, as she turned and crept down her back alley. “That's not going to happen for a long, long time.”

Rain continued to pound down as they scurried across the courtyard, heading for Carmela's front door.

Ten feet away, they heard the dogs barking frantically. Deep, angry, if-I-could-just-sink-my-teeth-into-you barks.

“Sounds like something got them riled,” said Ava. “Maybe that bell scared the livin'—”

“Oh crap,” said Carmela, as they ducked beneath the overhang that stuck out above her front door. “Somebody left a note.”

“Maybe Babcock?” Ava asked, as they huddled together. “What's it say?”

Carmela reached up and grabbed the note that had been tucked in the metal grating. As she touched heavy, crisp paper, she was also aware of something wet and sticky.

“What's that dripping from the note?” asked Ava. “Ink that smeared?”

Carmela held the note under the faint light of the outside brass lamp. Something red had stained her fingers and smeared the note. She gaped at the mess, not quite believing what she saw. “I . . . I think it's blood.”

“What!” yelped Ava. “Jeez ...that's crazy creepy!” Her eyes were huge and darting from side to side. “What's the note say?” She made a nervous hand gesture.

Carmela flipped open the bloodied note and read it. Color drained from her face. “It says—
You've been warned
.”

“Holy chimichanga!” said Ava. “Who would write ...?” Her words ended as a strangled choke. “Who would smear their own
blood
on something like this?”

Carmela stared into the darkness of the courtyard, wondering if someone might be lurking in the swirl of shadows, just on the other side of the archway. “I don't know,” she said, slowly. “Probably ...a crazy person?”

S
O, of course, they were once again forced to call Babcock.

“Well, this is fairly bizarre,” he told them, as he stood dripping on Carmela's carpet, studying the strange note. “Obviously, you've stepped down hard on someone's toes.”

“Carmela wouldn't do that,” said Ava.

“Of course, she would,” said Babcock. He edged closer to Carmela and asked, “Where have you been snooping this time?”