Skeleton Letters (9 page)

“You know what, guys?” said Carmela. “Forget what I just said. I think I'm way guilty of overreacting.” She focused her gaze on Marilyn. “It's just that Byrle was such a good friend to us. We're all still a little dazed and confused.”

“We sure are,” said Tandy. She smiled at Carmela. “So you don't mind about the book?”

“No, I don't,” said Carmela. “And you're right; Marilyn's prodding away at the police might be a
good
thing.”

“We'd just hope the book would be done tastefully,” said Gabby, jumping in.

“Oh, you have my complete assurance on that,” said Marilyn. “In fact, I'd be happy to run a few chapters by you. But only if you wanted to read them,” she added hastily.

“I'd love to,” said Carmela. “When they're ready.”

“That sounds more than fair,” said Gabby, ever the peacemaker.

“So we're good?” asked Tandy, glancing from Marilyn to Carmela.

“I was way too hasty,” Carmela said again. She smiled at Marilyn. “Apologies.”

Marilyn held up a hand. “No apology necessary. And I certainly didn't mean to burst in on you and upset the apple cart. Really, I know you all must be absolutely heartbroken, losing a dear friend like that.”

“Since we're not busy yet,” said Gabby, “and I see Tandy brought along a pan of her famous chocolate streusel bars . . . maybe we could all enjoy one with a cup of tea?”

“Tea would be great,” said Carmela, exhaling.

 

 

“So you're really okay with Marilyn's book?” Gabby asked, once Tandy and Marilyn had left.

“I guess so,” said Carmela. “It was just a little . . . unsettling. That's all.”

“But maybe in a good way?” asked Gabby.

“Maybe,” said Carmela.

“Anything that pulls attention to a murder case is probably a good thing in the long run,” said Gabby.

“I suppose.” Carmela spun out a length of ribbon, grabbed a punch, and made two quick holes.

“You okay? You seem to have a lot on your mind.”

“I was just thinking about Holidazzle,” said Carmela.

“What about Holidazzle?” Gabby asked, eager to change the subject.

“Baby asked me to put the Garden District house on the Holidazzle Tour.” For some reason she always referred to it as “
the
Garden District house” instead of “
my
Garden District house.” Classic disassociation, probably. Too many bad memories.

“I think that's a splendid idea,” said Gabby. “It's a perfectly wonderful home for decorating. Plus it's a good excuse to get you over there and fix in your mind exactly what you want to do with that place. Keep it or sell it.” Gabby knew how much Carmela had been struggling with that decision.

“There's only one problem,” said Carmela.

“What's that?”

“A home that isn't lived in isn't very holidazzling.”

“I don't see that as a huge problem,” said Gabby. “We both know who'd be happy to lend an artful hand.”

“You mean Ava? She's already thrown in as a volunteer.” Carmela chuckled. “Or maybe it's slave labor.”

Gabby shook her head. “I'm thinking of someone else.” She gave a slightly mysterious smile. “Who do you know that carries paint chips in his wallet and fabric swatches in his car?”

“Um . . . Jekyl?” said Carmela. Jekyl Hardy, her friend and co-conspirator in the Children's Art Association, was in real life a professional float designer, antiques appraiser, and allaround arbiter of exquisite taste. His palatial apartment in the to-die-for Napoleon Gardens was a belle époque tour de force with mahogany floors, tinkling crystal chandeliers, and dark blue shellacked walls that displayed antique smoked mirrors in gilded frames. Both the living and dining rooms boasted high-backed leather couches as well as overstuffed chairs slipcovered in rich brocades and dark damask fabrics.

“Jekyl would be
my
first choice,” said Gabby. “Of course, he's always a little whirlwind with his antiques appraisal business, so there's no telling if he even has time to do it.”

“But Jekyl is wild for decorating,” said Carmela, liking the idea. “In fact, he once tried to persuade the post office down on Bourbon Street to paint their walls aubergine and then add a crackle glaze.”

“I'd say he's your man.”

“I'm going to call him.”

“Do it now,” said Gabby, “before we get too busy.”

 

 

“You rang?” said a warm baritone voice in Carmela's ear.

Carmela smiled to herself. She could pretty much picture Jekyl sitting at his antique spinet desk. Rail-thin, dressed completely in black, with his long dark hair pulled back in a severe ponytail, the better to accentuate his pale, oval face.

“Jekyl, it's Carmela . . .”

“Oh my
goodness
!” cried Jekyl. “It really is you. I was just sitting here sipping an espresso and scanning the morning paper. How
awful
is it about your friend Byrle!”

“Really awful,” agreed Carmela.

“And you were
there
!” said Jekyl. “An actual witness! Seriously, the whole thing gives me the shivers!”

“Ditto,” said Carmela.

“So, tell me, have you put on your little Sherlock Holmes cap and resolved to track down the perpetrator?”

“Not exactly,” said Carmela, though she knew that he knew she probably would.

“That's quite an understatement coming from you,” said Jekyl. “Carmela, dear, I
know
you. You were probably skulking around that church bright and early this morning searching for clues.”

Whoa. He really did know her.

“Now that you bring it up . . . ,” said Carmela.

“On the other hand,” said Jekyl, “you've got your own little direct pipeline to the police. With your own little hippocket detective.”

“I wish,” said Carmela.

“Still,” said Jekyl, sympathy evident in his voice, “it's a terrible tragedy.” He paused. “Do you know when the funeral is?”

“Baby thought maybe Thursday,” said Carmela.

“Well, do let me know, will you?”

“Of course,” said Carmela. She cleared her throat. “What I really called about is a little home-decorating advice.”

“You're not serious,” said Jekyl. “Don't tell me you're finally going to put that white elephant of a house up for sale? Be still my heart.”

“It'll go on the market eventually, yes,” said Carmela. “But not until after the holidays. You see, Baby twisted my arm and now the Garden District house is officially part of the Holidazzle Tour.”

“Ewwww,” said Jekyl. “Wherein all the have-nots get to amble through the rich folks' homes and turn pea green with envy?”

“When you put it that way,” said Carmela, “it doesn't sound very . . . democratic. Besides, judging from my apartment, which is furnished with the nonpareil of local scratch-and-dent rooms, you know I'm not exactly one of the rich folks.”

“No, you just married well and divorced even better,” said Jekyl. “Which is what I'd better do one of these days if I want to maintain my luxurious Rolex-Lexus lifestyle.”

Carmela chuckled. Jekyl drove a vintage 1978 Jaguar XKE, British racing green. It pretty much coughed and belched its way around town, trailing noxious exhaust fumes. Of course, it wouldn't hurt if Jekyl deigned to change the oil once in a while and didn't have his exhaust pipes bound up with duct tape.

“Okay,” said Jekyl, “so I don't drive a Lexus. But my left wrist is adorned with a classic Rolex, thanks to the generosity of my dear departed uncle Aloysius.
Classic
meaning ‘old,' of course.”

“Back to the house,” said Carmela. Sometimes trying to keep Jekyl on task was like herding cats. “Some serious holiday decorating is going to be needed.” She paused. “Will you help? Can you help?”

“Of course, I can, lovey,” said Jekyl. “In fact, I'm
dying
to get my hands on that mausoleum of yours. Unless, of course, you have your pitty-patty little heart set on . . . oh, horrors! . . . mundane red felt doorknob covers and bilious green Christmas tree skirts. In which case I'm afraid I'd have to take a pass.”

“Nothing that conventional,” said Carmela. “Fact is, I'd hang twinkle lights from the rafters if you thought it would glam up the old place.”

“Still too tacky,” purred Jekyl.

“Then how about this,” said Carmela. “I'll give you carte blanche. You can bring in live reindeer, ice sculptures, or whatever you want.” She paused. “Of course, we'll still need to create some sort of master plan to float past Baby.”

“Child's play,” said Jekyl. “What say we get together at your white elephant and put our heads together for a groupthink. If you're not going to be out clubbing later, maybe we could even get together tonight.”

“I can do tonight,” said Carmela. “Maybe sevenish?” She glanced up, saw Gabby gesturing. She had another call waiting. “Thanks, Jekyl, I really appreciate it.”

“Toodles,” said Jekyl.

Carmela immediately punched the second button. “This is Carmela, how can I help you?” She fully expected the caller to be one of her scrapbook regulars, asking if she could order some rice paper or inquiring about stencil classes. But it wasn't. Not even close.

“Carmela?” said the voice. “Mrs. Bertrand?”

“You were right the first time. Carmela is just fine. And you are ... ?”

“This is Louise Applegate from the State Archaeology Board.”

“Okay,” said Carmela.

“I understand you were present at St. Tristan's yesterday when Père Etienne's crucifix was stolen?”

Carmela felt her jaw tighten so hard she was afraid she'd pop a filling. “You mean was I there when my friend Byrle was murdered?” Her tone was cool bordering on icy.

“Excuse me!” came the woman's startled reply. “I certainly didn't mean to imply that Mrs. Coopersmith's death was in any way secondary. Oh my goodness, no. It was a terrible tragedy!”

Great
, thought Carmela,
that's the second time today I've jumped down somebody's throat for no reason. Time to do a little deep breathing and calm down! Ohmmm me, ohmmm my.

“You know what?” said Carmela, deciding to come clean. “This isn't the first conversation I've had today that sent me off the deep end, and it probably won't be the last. So apologies for overreacting and, uh, could we please start fresh?”

There was a long pause and then Louise Applegate said, “Absolutely. I was just calling to see if I could steal a few moments of your time. But if this is a
bad
time, and it seems like it might be, then perhaps . . .”

“No,” said Carmela, “it's okay. Now I'm just moderately freaked out.”

“That's understandable,” said Applegate. “I just wanted to have a short conversation with you and get some facts straight.”

“I take it,” said Carmela, “your archaeology office has some questions?”

“Yes, we do,” replied the woman, sounding relieved.

“And your office is where?” Carmela asked.

“We're at Marais and Pauger,” responded Applegate.

“Just a few blocks away,” Carmela murmured. She glanced at her watch. “If you wanted to drop by my shop around four o'clock or so, that would work for me. You know where we are? Memory Mine on Governor Nicholls Street?”

“Of course,” said Applegate. “See you then.”

Carmela hung up the phone, took a deep breath, and spun her chair around.

“Hi,” came a deep voice.

“Eeeyh!” Carmela jerked upright as if a red-hot wire had been run up the inside of her leg.

Quigg Brevard held both hands in front of himself in an appeasing gesture. “Sorry, sorry, I didn't mean to scare you like that.”

“Well, you did,” said Carmela, sounding as cranky as she felt unsettled. Honestly, what was it in men's DNA that caused them to sneak up and surprise women like that? Didn't they know women
hated
to be spooked? Obviously they didn't. Or maybe . . . maybe they just didn't care. Maybe it was done in sport.

Quigg took a tentative step into her office. He was a truly handsome man; his olive complexion set off dark, snapping eyes and a sensuous mouth. With his broad shoulders and big-cat way of moving, he could almost take your breath away. Almost.

“What do you want?” Carmela asked, still feeling crabby.

“Just checking in,” said Quigg. “As you recall, we have our big media event this Saturday night.”

“Yes, yes,” said Carmela, giving a sort of offhand wave. “I'm well aware of that.”

“So is everyone we invited,” said Quigg. He grinned and showed a row of even white teeth, like Chiclets. “Can you believe we have over one hundred people coming?”

“Sounds right,” said Carmela. She'd designed the invitations, after all, and sent them out to the media as well as a restaurateur and bottle shop list they'd developed together.

“Well, it's darned exciting,” said Quigg. He'd launched two restaurants in the last couple of years and had enjoyed a whirlwind of success that included rave reviews and a backlog of reservations. But launching St. Tammany Vineyard was a tricky proposition. These days a vintner didn't just compete with California and European wines. Now there were more than three thousand commercial wineries, with at least one in each of the fifty states. And good wines were being imported from South Africa, Australia, and even Argentina.