Tragic Magic

Table of Contents

 

 

 

DEATH BY DARJEELING GUNPOWDER GREEN SHADES OF EARL GREY THE ENGLISH BREAKFAST MURDER THE JASMINE MOON MURDER CHAMOMILE MOURNING BLOOD ORANGE BREWING DRAGONWELL DEAD THE SILVER NEEDLE MURDER OOLONG DEAD

 

KEEPSAKE CRIMES PHOTO FINISHED BOUND FOR MURDER MOTIF FOR MURDER FRILL KILL DEATH SWATCH TRAGIC MAGIC

 

EGGS IN PURGATORY

 

DEATH BY DESIGN

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This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

 

PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

Copyright © 2009 by Gerry Schmitt & Associates, Inc.

 

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

eISBN : 978-1-101-14516-6

1. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. 2. New Orleans (La.)—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3603.H56T’.6—dc22 2009023622

 

 

 

Heartfelt thanks to Sam, Tom, Lance, Jennie, and Bob. And a huge thank-you to all my readers as well as the many scrapbook magazines, Web sites, reviewers, scrapbooking shops, and bookstores who have been so very kind and supportive.

“T
HAT’S the place,” said Carmela Bertrand. Clambering from her car, she pointed at the enormous three-story mansion that loomed in the darkness like some ghostly fun house tilting recklessly on its foundation. “Medusa Manor.” She pushed back a tangle of caramel-colored hair and peered through naked branches with eyes that were the same shifting blue-gray color as the Gulf of Mexico. The sharp outline of turrets, finials, and gables against a faint smudge of pink in the darkening March sky made the old mansion look like it had been rubber-stamped on a piece of midnight-blue vellum from Carmela’s scrapbooking shop.

Another pair of legs, these a little longer and clad in black leather, emerged from Carmela’s red two-seater Mercedes. Then the rest of Ava Gruiex’s shapely body followed. “Spooky,” replied Ava. Gazing at the old mansion, she pulled her sweater closer around her and let loose a little shiver.

“That’s the whole idea,” Carmela replied. “Melody wants
Medusa Manor to be a premier attraction for all the ghost hunters, vampire wannabes, and cemetery fans who flock to New Orleans.”

“And tell me again,
cher
, why we got pulled in?” asked Ava.

Carmela turned to face her friend, and this time a smile danced on her lovely oval face that had been enhanced ever so slightly with a daub of Chanel’s Teint Innocence. “Because Melody’s set designer quit last week and everybody else is locked up a year in advance with Mardi Gras projects.”

“You mean everybody with experience,” laughed Ava. Her lethal-length red fingernails pushed back a tousle of dark, curly hair, and then she carefully gathered the neckline of her red glitter skull T-shirt and adjusted it downward.

“Hey,” enthused Carmela, “we’ve got
beaucoup
qualifications! I own Memory Mine, and you own Juju Voodoo.”

“Career gals,” giggled Ava. “Just put us on the cover of
Ms. Magazine
.”

“Do you actually read
Ms. Magazine
?” Carmela asked.

“Only if they’ve got articles about movie stars and stuff,” said Ava. “But mostly I get my hard news from the
Inquisitor
. I always want to know who’s hiding dimples of cellulite under that red-carpet gown, who’s had their tummy stitched up, and who’s jabbin’ Botox into their wrinkles and crinkles.” Even though both women were not quite thirty and still gorgeous, they were keenly aware of the progression of time and its ensuing consequences.

“Ouch,” said Carmela as she peered at her watch, then started up the walk. “We’re late, better pick up the pace. Melody’s gonna wonder what happened to us.”

“Just tell her Boo and Poobah had veterinarian appointments and I . . .”

“Couldn’t decide what to wear?” finished Carmela, who knew her friend was in a perpetual state of wardrobe flux.

Ava nodded. “Sounds reasonable to me.”

“Of course it does,” said Carmela. Carmela was well
aware that she had a decidedly practical, slightly conservative bent. Witness all those black and beige outfits hanging in her closet and the lack of foot-numbing four-inch heels. Carmela also tried to keep wild shopping splurges down to a minimum, and when she promised to be somewhere at seven, she morphed into a nail-nibbling clock watcher. Couldn’t help herself.

Her dear friend, Ava, on the other hand, was completely laissez-faire. Bills piled up, checking accounts were overdrawn, and when Ava made a commitment, the appointed time could easily slide a half hour either way, depending on her mood. Ava even hated getting pinned down on airline reservations and always requested a flight that was “noonish.”

“Cher,”
drawled Ava, as they tromped up the front walk to the mansion’s enormous double doors, “this place is practically falling down! And I expect to see a contingent of bats circling the towers.”

Ava was spot on about that. The dilapidated old mansion in the artsy Faubourg Marigny section of New Orleans was a wreck. Heat, humidity, and rain had pummeled the wooden exterior, stripping any semblance of paint and rendering it a weathered silver-gray. The front verandah had a dangerous list to it, like a Tilt-A-Whirl car that had jumped its track. A tangle of weeds, crepe myrtle, and azaleas, as well as an overgrowth of banana trees, obscured the front yard. Curls of kudzu ran rampant up one side of the mansion.

But Carmela also knew this air of abandonment would surely be part of the building’s draw. This was New Orleans, after all. A city renowned for its aboveground cities of the dead, ghostly specters, voodoo queens, and haunted bayous dripping with Spanish moss. Hadn’t the Travel Channel even profiled a couple of French Quarter restaurants and hotels on their
America’s Most Haunted
show? Sure they had. If they’d pronounced New Orleans to be seriously haunted, to be populated by ghosts and spirits, then it must be so.

“Melody’s supposed to meet us here?” asked Ava. Squinting
into a lipstick-sized mirror, she was attempting to fluff her hair and apply a second coat of mascara at the same time.

“Supposed to,” said Carmela, making a note of the thorny overgrowth and tumbledown wrought-iron fence. The atmosphere was definitely early Addams Family. So where the heck was Morticia? Or her trusty sidekick, Lurch?

“Place looks deserted, probably
is
deserted,” said Ava. Now a slight hesitancy had crept into her voice.

“Nah,” said Carmela, as they stepped onto the verandah. “Melody’s here. Look, the door’s open.” Indeed, the large wooden door was cracked open an inch or so.

Carmela put a hand on a corroded bronze knocker, a querulous-looking raven, then pulled it back and let it drop. A hollow thud seemed to echo through the house, then boomerang back at them. It was a heckuva welcome.

“You sure Melody’s in there?” asked Ava. Balancing on one leg, she slid one foot out of her four-inch-high red mules and wiggled her brightly painted toes. “New shoes,” she muttered. “Kinda pinchy.”

Carmela’s fingertips touched the inches-open door and pressed gently. The door swung slowly inward, letting loose a hollow groan. “Great sound effect,” she murmured.