Skeleton Letters (5 page)

“Be still my heart,” said Carmela. She slid into her chair, then suddenly popped up. “We need a refill on wine.”

“Excellent idea,” said Ava. “And bring the rest of the bread. Remember, no carb left behind.”

Carmela popped the cork on a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and carried it to the table, where she poured out a half-glass for Ava. “This is something new,” she told her friend.

Ava helped herself to a generous sip. “Mmm.”

“You like it?”

“It's good,” said Ava. “Is this from . . . ?”

“St. Tammany Vineyard,” said Carmela. St. Tammany Vineyard was owned by Quigg Brevard, a previous beau of Carmela's and a dashing restaurateur who owned Bon Tiempe in the Bywater district and Mumbo Gumbo in the French Quarter. “It's called Sauvignon Silver.”

“Ah,” said Ava, taking another sip and this time savoring it. “Don't you have some sort of wine event coming up?”

Carmela rolled her eyes. “Oh man, do I ever. This Saturday night at the Belle Vie Hotel. A big wine-tasting and press party.”

“I thought you didn't do event planning,” said Ava, dipping her spoon into the gumbo. “I thought when you took the occasional sidestep outside your scrapbooking world, you only did design work.” As she swallowed her first spoonful of gumbo, she quickly fluttered a hand in front of her mouth. “Yowza! This is some kick-butt gumbo!”

“Too spicy for you?”

“Naaah,” Ava choked, still fanning.

“Glad to hear it,” chuckled Carmela. “And as far as the event planning goes, well, I got suckered in once again.”

“Yeah?”

Carmela sighed. “It's the same old story. I started off designing Quigg's logo, which led to designing five different wine labels. And somehow that whole thing snowballed into my planning a red carpet media event.”

“Sounds like a powerful amount of work.”

Carmela sighed again. “It is.”

“So you invited real live media to this big froufrou party? Like guys from radio and TV?” Now Ava was definitely interested.

“Yes, we did,” said Carmela. “And it's amazing how many of them actually RSVP'd. My plan of action being to stage a truly elegant wine-tasting event that scores as much free publicity as possible.”

“I'll bet you do get a few write-ups,” enthused Ava.

“If Quigg's wines and vineyard can get even a small sidebar in the
Times-Picayune
or get picked up as a feature story by one of the local TV stations, it'll really help with the launch of his initial five wines,” said Carmela. “Of course, we also invited a whole bunch of local restaurateurs and liquor store owners to the event. If enough of them start stocking his wine, then there's a good chance the St. Tammany brand is off and running.” Carmela stopped and took a breath. “It's the old push-pull marketing technique. We push Quigg's wine to the wine shops and restaurants, and then the TV and print media get consumers interested enough so they request it.”

“Consumers requesting the wine is the pull?” said Ava.

Carmela hesitated. “I
think
that's right. But you know I was a design major, not a marketing person.”

“So . . . can anyone wangle an invite to this fancy shindig?” asked Ava. “And by anyone I mean
moi
.”

“I'd love it if you came,” said Carmela.

“And I'm guessing it's formal,” said Ava. “Hint, hint.”

“So you can dress to the nines or whatever number your little heart desires,” said Carmela. “And if you choose to swoop in wearing one of your Goth gowns, that's fine, too.” Ava's overstuffed closets contained more black velvet, crepe, and silk than the entire wardrobe department at Paramount.

“Is there going to be a red carpet?” asked Ava, suddenly all a-twitter.

“A small one, with a step-and-repeat background.” Carmela could definitely see the wheels turning in Ava's head.

“Then I should wear a gown with an opera cape.”

“I think that would be apropos,” said Carmela. “For you, anyway.” Ava was known to wear a long gown and opera cape at the drop of a hat. To the local pancake house, the hardware store, even scooping up beads at a Mardi Gras parade.

Ava grinned happily. “Dang, this gumbo is good. The bread, too. Really hits the spot on a night like this.”

“Still coming down out there,” observed Carmela. The thunder had abated somewhat, but rain was beating down and lightning still strobed away.

They finished their gumbo, carried their dishes into the kitchen, and dumped them into the dishwasher. Then, with wineglasses refilled, they retreated to Carmela's living room.

“Cozy in here,” said Ava. She plunked herself down on the leather chair with matching ottoman, stuck a tapestry pillow behind her head, and, with a delicious little shiver, stretched all the way out. “Is that a new painting,
cher
?” Ava cocked a forefinger at an oil painting that hung on the nearby dusty redbrick wall. It was a depiction of two shrimp boats in a bayou. Done in rich reds, golds, and yellows, and crackled with age, it gave the impression of shrimpers, their nets up, returning at sunset.

“I picked that up in the scratch-and-dent room at Dulcimer's Antiques,” said Carmela, pleased that Ava had noticed her new acquisition. She adored original oil paintings, even the ones where the canvas was worn thin and the paint needed some judicious restoration. This particular seascape also featured a spectacular gold Baroque frame.

“Dulcimer's . . . ,” said Ava, searching her brain.

“Place on Royal Street,” said Carmela. “Just down from my shop. Owner's a chubby guy with a ponytail. You know, the guy who's always lugging that cutesy little dog around with him?”

Ava snapped her fingers. “Mimi. The pug.”

“That's it,” said Carmela. She grabbed a lighter, flicked it on, and touched the flame to the wicks of two tall red pillar candles that she'd decorated with Celtic cross charms. “Just in case this crazy storm knocks out our electricity,” she told Ava.

“Didn't you get your highboy at Dulcimer's, too?” asked Ava.

Carmela turned to admire the fruitwood highboy that held thirty books, part of her prized antique children's book collection, as well as two bronze dog statues. “Mmm, I did. And at a good price, too.”

Carmela's apartment was her little oasis of sanity in the French Quarter. Tucked away in a hidden courtyard with bent-over live oak tree and burbling fountain, it rubbed shoulders with elegant old-world hotels, esteemed restaurants, and posh antique shops brimming with oil paintings, family silver, fine furnishings, and the crème de la crème of estate jewelry.

And, as luck would have it, it was located directly across from Ava's voodoo shop. As they say in real estate, location, location, location.

After several years of designing, decorating, and collecting an assemblage of fine things, Carmela's apartment now exuded a lovely belle époque sort of charm. Walls that Carmela had come to think of as museum walls now displayed an ornate, gilded mirror, old etchings of the New Orleans waterfront during the antebellum period, and a heroic piece of wrought iron, probably from some long-ago French Quarter balcony, that served as a bookshelf.

Carmela padded across the room, shuffled through a stack of CDs, and popped one in the CD player. And just as the mellow strains of Norah Jones filled the room, just when everything was all quiet and relaxing, Boo and Poobah suddenly leaped straight into the air, ears flat against their little heads, and howled at full volume.

So much for peace and contentment.

“H
OLY shih-tzu!” Ava cried, as Poobah tumbled across her legs like a circus acrobat. “What a racket!” The dogs were barking nonstop, spinning in circles.

Carmela's head periscoped up from where she'd been slumped in a wicker king chair. “Somebody must be out in the courtyard.”

“Babcock,” said Ava. She gave a knowing grin. It wouldn't be the first time Edgar Babcock had come pussyfooting across the courtyard at night. And since her apartment was tucked in a cozy little garret above the courtyard, Ava had a bird's-eye view of Babcock's comings and goings. Of everyone's comings and goings.

“No,” said Carmela, scrambling to her feet, “I don't think so. At least Babcock didn't mention anything about dropping by.”

Ava shrugged a tangle of dark hair off her forehead. “Then who?”

Padding to the nearest window, Carmela pushed back filmy draperies and peered through rain-streaked glass into the courtyard. And was pretty sure she recognized the hooded Burberry coat as well as its wearer, who was skipping and dodging across wet flagstones. Then, a sudden flash of lightning illuminated the figure, as well as the live oak tree and pots of bougainvilleas, giving everything a film noir, color-leached feeling, and Carmela knew for sure who her visitor was.

“It's Baby,” Carmela exclaimed, at the exact moment a loud bang sounded at her front door.

Which triggered a second cacophony of barking and howling as the dogs tripped over each other, heading for the door.

“Boo! Poobah!” Carmela commanded in a loud, take-noprisoners voice. “Sit!” When they hesitated, she yelled, “Do it NOW!”

“Jeez,” said Ava, who'd started to get up, “when you yell like that, even I feel compelled to sit.”

“At least somebody around here minds,” Carmela muttered.

Carmela finally corralled the dogs, got their furry little butts plunked squarely on the floor, and pulled open the door.

It was, indeed, Baby Fontaine, one of her scrapbook regulars and a very dear friend.

But this wasn't the happy-go-lucky Baby who was the matron and self-proclaimed booster of the Garden District, the Baby who giggled and flashed her megawatt smile as she effortlessly hosted elegant parties and gourmet dinners for three hundred. This Baby looked sad, tearful, and practically desperate.

“Oh, sweetie . . . ,” said Carmela, sweeping Baby into her arms.

They hugged for a few moments, and then Baby, her voice registering the same pain that was so evident on her face, said, “Carmela, you have to help!”

“Come in,” Carmela said in a soft voice. “Take off your coat and we'll talk.”

“Oh, I'm dripping wet,” Baby said, in an anguished tone. “And, look, I got you all soggy.”

“Not a problem,” said Carmela, brushing herself off.

Baby slipped out of her raincoat and ran a hand through her pixie-cut blond hair. She was on the far side of fifty, but her tiny figure, smooth complexion, and genteel accent gave her an upbeat, youthful aura. And Baby's good friends, in no hurry to abandon the familiar, endearing moniker that she'd earned back in her sorority days at Tulane, continued to call her Baby.

“You know,” said Carmela, leading Baby over to where Ava was now sitting cross-legged, “Babcock is already working on this. Along with Bobby Gallant and a number of other officers. They're taking it very, very seriously.”

“Probably the folks at St. Tristan's are, too,” added Ava. “Hi, honey.” She gave a little wave.

“Hi, Ava,” said Baby. She was quick to return Ava's smile but still seemed agitated and sad as she groped her way through the initial throes of mourning. “Yes, I understand all that,” she said, settling into a chair. “And I'm grateful the police have put their full weight behind this. But, Carmela, I'd feel a whole lot better if you could sort of nose around, too. I mean . . .” She reached up and gently massaged her temples with her fingertips. “Byrle getting murdered . . . right in the heart of the French Quarter. Inside St. Tristan's!”

“Terrible,” agreed Ava.

“It's a nightmare,” Baby said in a whispery voice.

Carmela stood up, went to the cupboard, and grabbed another wineglass. When she returned, she held out a half-glass of white wine for Baby. Baby stared at the glass for a few moments, then finally accepted it and took a small sip.

Then Baby's gaze returned to Carmela. “Plus, Byrle is one of us.”
Us
, of course, meant a fellow scrapbooker.

“I know all that,” said Carmela, “and I've been thinking about this nonstop.”

“We both have,” said Ava. “It's like I've got theater chase lights in my brain. The notion of Byrle's murder just keeps zooming round and round, faster and faster.”

“And I feel that since I was right
there
,” said Carmela, “I should be able to put my finger on something more definite. More . . . concrete.”

“But you can't?” Baby's words came out in a plaintive plea.

“Afraid not,” said Carmela. “We just didn't see enough.” Carmela had racked her brain, trying to recall details. But it was still mostly a bad blur.

“But I thought you two were
eyewitnesses
!” exclaimed Baby. “When Gabby called me this morning, she made it sound like you two saw the whole thing unfold!”

“We were there,” Carmela said slowly, “but all we saw was Byrle locked in a life-and-death struggle with some guy wearing a brown hooded robe.”

Baby put a hand to her mouth. “Oh dear. That sounds so utterly
visceral
.”

“We've been sitting here trying to figure out the how and the why,” said Ava. “Trying to understand just what the heck went down.”

“Who would want to murder Byrle?” Baby demanded. “She was one of the dearest, most peaceable souls I've ever known.”

“Technically,” said Carmela, “it was a homicide, not a murder. Poor Byrle was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. A robbery gone bad.”