Tragic Magic

by Laura Childs

  Baby had started with two twelve-by-twelve sheets of pink-and-white-striped paper and added bits of white lace at the top and bottom. Die-cut hearts framed her photographs, and she’d used a gold pen to form a fanciful, loopy script that read, Let me call you Sweetheart.

  “What I’m thinking,” said Baby, “is maybe gluing candy hearts at the bottom of the page. You know, those hearts with the fun sayings?”

  “I like your idea,” said Carmela, suddenly aware that the front bell was dinging like crazy and the phone was jangling. “But you might want to give them a coat of Mod Podge.”

  “Carmela,” Gabby called from behind the front counter. “Phone call.” She held up the phone, waggling the receiver in her hand.

  Carmela hurried to the front and grabbed the phone. She figured it was Babcock. “Yes?”

  “Carmela?” said a subdued male voice. “It’s Garth.”

  “Garth!” exclaimed Carmela, spinning around to face a floor-to-ceiling display of albums. “Oh my gosh, are you okay? Where are you? I was going to call you!”

  “I’m at the police station right now,” said Garth. And this time the strain was evident in his voice.

  “What’s going on?” asked Carmela. They weren’t trying to beat a confession out of an innocent man, were they?

  Garth gave a weak chuckle that turned into a sob. “I’m trying to answer as many questions as possible so the police can get on with the sad business of catching Melody’s killer.”

  “Do you want me to come over there?” Carmela asked. “Can I help you in any way?”

  “No, no,” said Garth. “I just called to see how you were doing. When Detective Babcock told me you and your friend were there last night, I was completely stunned. Must have been awful for you. Of course, it’s awful for all of us, but . . .” Garth Mayfeldt seemed to run out of words.

  Carmela grimaced. “You sure you don’t want me to run over there?” She knew Babcock would probably hate it, would resent her presence deeply. But if she could be a comfort to Garth, that’s what really mattered.

  “No,” said Garth. “We’ll be finished here soon. Olivia is here, too, of course.”

  “Olivia . . .” said Carmela.

  “Olivia Wainwright,” said Garth. “Melody’s partner. Well, silent partner, really. Olivia was the one putting up the money. I don’t exactly . . . uh . . . know what Olivia has in mind. I suppose it’s possible she might want to continue with Medusa Manor.”

  “You think so?” said Carmela. Somehow, it didn’t sound like such a good idea. When something had veered that much off course, sometimes it was better to just let it go. Give the bad karma some time to dissipate.

  “But I don’t know anything for sure,” muttered Garth. He seemed to be running out of steam. “Who knows what’ll happen? Anyway, I just wanted to see how you were doing. Thank you for being there.”

  “I didn’t do anything,” said Carmela. “I wish I—”

  “I have to go now,” said Garth. “The detectives are back.”

  “Sure,” said Carmela as he hung up. “Good luck with everything.”

  When Carmela mentioned her conversation with Garth to Tandy and Baby, they nodded sympathetically. When she told them that Garth thought Olivia Wainwright might even want to push ahead with Medusa Manor, they displayed a surprising amount of enthusiasm.

  “Oh sure,” said Baby. “This is New Orleans, after all. The most haunted city in America.”

  “Everybody pretty much knows about Sultan’s Palace and Père Antoine’s Alley,” said Tandy, naming a couple of famously haunted places. “Some folks have even seen actual apparitions!”

  “Don’t forget St. Roch Cemetery and Marie Laveau’s tomb,” added Baby. “Very spooky.”

  “I think the idea of continuing with Medusa Manor is a little creepy,” put in Gabby. The customer hubbub had died down and she’d come back to join them. “After all, Melody was murdered there.”

  “It’s creepy, but it’s also authentically New Orleans,” responded Tandy. “Think about it. A mysterious murder might just add to the mystique of the place.”

  Gabby fidgeted with a couple of spools of pink gauze ribbon and some miniature silk flowers. “I never thought of it that way.”

  “Oh, sure,” said Tandy. “Medusa Manor might prove to be a very popular place.”

  Seeing the uncertain looks on Carmela’s and Gabby’s faces, Baby asked, “Are we still going to work on collage disks today?” It was a project Carmela had mentioned to them last week.

  Carmela smiled at Baby, grateful to change the subject. “Sure, if you want to.”

  “We’ll understand if you don’t feel like it,” said Baby, gracefully giving Carmela an out.

  “No,” said Carmela, “let’s do it. Help take my mind off Melody.”

  “So,” said Gabby, always at the ready to grab supplies. “What do we need?”

  “Grab that big box of scrap paper,” said Carmela, “and those new angel stickers. And some of the rubber stamps that have smaller images. Oh, and why don’t we just bring that entire rack of charms and jewelry findings over here.” She reached behind her and grabbed a box from the top of the large flat file, then dumped it on the table. Out spilled a couple of dozen disks that had been punched from white card stock, each about two inches across.

  “Okay,” said Tandy. “I get that we’re going to create miniature collages on these disks. But then what do we do with them?”

  “That’s the fun part,” Carmela told her. She held up two collaged disks that she’d made earlier, and the three women breathed a collective “Oh.”

  Carmela had covered both discs with floral paper and added a tiny snippet of sheet music, a floral sticker, and a portion of a flower-themed postage stamp. Then she’d gilded the edges, inserted eyelets, and connected the two disks with small gold jump rings. The bottom disk also had a series of jump rings that held a few green and gold beads and a tiny brass leaf.

  “Wow,” said Gabby, clearly impressed. “When did you do that?”

  “In between customers,” said Carmela. Then she added, “Once you’ve got your disks collaged the way you want them, you can string them together to make bookmarks, tags for packages, or just fun embellishments for gift boxes.”

  “I think,” said Tandy, perusing the rubber stamps and digging into the box of scrap paper, “that I want to do something with a Parisian theme.”

  Gabby held up a rubber stamp. “Got an Eiffel Tower stamp here.”

  “Excellent,” said Tandy.

  “And here’s a sticker of a champagne label,” said Gabby. “Though you’ll have to trim it some.”

  “That’s okay,” said Tandy. “I’m gonna make at least a dozen of these things.”

  Baby reached for one of the packages of charms. “Think I could use this miniature picture frame?” she asked. “Slip a tiny photo in and attach it to the bottom of a disk?”

  “I think that would be adorable,” said Carmela.

  As the women worked away on their projects, talk turned to the Galleries and Gourmets celebration that was being held in the French Quarter this Saturday and Sunday. Galleries and Gourmets was a promotion dreamed up by the local gallery owners to draw people into the French Quarter, and hopefully into their art galleries and antique shops. To sweeten the pot, almost fifty different sidewalk food booths would be offering tempting treats including fried oysters, shrimp gumbo, and muffuletta sandwiches, and there would be outdoor performances by jazz, rock, and zydeco groups.

  “Sweet Caroline is going to be doing a crawfish boil,” said Baby, naming one of her favorite restaurants.

  “And I hear that Porta Via will be doing their famous eggs Hussarde,” said Gabby. Eggs Hussarde was New Orleans’s own version of eggs Benedict that featured marchand de vin, a wine sauce, instead of hollandaise. Gabby glanced toward Carmela. “Is your friend Quigg having a booth, too?”

  “Yes he is,” said Carmela. Fact was, she had been talked into designing a flyer for hi
s French Quarter restaurant, Mumbo Gumbo. But so far, Quigg’s flyers had been relegated to the back burner.

  “And they’re going to do televised art and antiques appraisals, too,” exclaimed Baby. “It’s going to be New Orleans’s version of Antiques Roadshow.”

  “I only care about the food,” said Tandy, putting hands on skinny hips. “Speaking of which, should we call Pirate’s Alley Deli and order lunch?”

  Chapter 5

  CARMELA was arranging a display of leather-bound albums when Olivia Wainwright came sailing into her shop. She immediately recognized the woman’s white trench coat—maybe something from Burberry?—and Olivia’s long, dark hair. Olivia also seemed to have a distinct air of determination about her, a far cry from her tearful grieving last night.

  Carmela watched as Olivia hesitated briefly at the front counter, speaking quietly with Gabby. Then Gabby made a slight hand gesture, pointing back toward Carmela, and Olivia spun around to face her.

  Carmela started for the front of the store and met Olivia halfway.

  “I’m Olivia Wainwright,” said the woman, extending her hand.

  “Carmela Bertrand,” said Carmela, taking her hand, noting that she wore no less than five hefty gold-link bracelets. “And I’m so sorry about your partner. About Melody.”

  “Thank you,” murmured Olivia, appraising Carmela with dark, intelligent eyes. “As you can imagine, the last twenty hours or so have been quite a shock. I’ve been talking to the police nonstop and I . . .” She sighed heavily and seemed to run out of words.

  “Are you okay?” asked Carmela. “Can I get you a cup of coffee? Glass of water?”

  Olivia shook her head. “No, thank you.” Then she peered sharply at Carmela. “Excuse me, but you said your name was Bertrand? I thought you’d married into the Meechum family.”

  “I did,” Carmela told her, “but never changed my name. Now, I’m slowly . . . what would you call it? . . . extricating myself from that part of my life.”

  “An independent woman,” said Olivia. A slight smile of approval hovered on her elegant oval face.

  “Hopefully,” said Carmela. She was oddly fascinated by this woman who spoke with a Southern drawl that seemed to mask a slightly East Coast accent. And now that Olivia Wainwright knew about her failed marriage to Shamus, Carmela decided to ask a couple of questions of her own. “You’re originally from New Orleans?”

  Olivia shook her head. “Oh no. I grew up outside Wooster, Massachusetts. Went to school up there, too. In fact, that’s where I met my husband, Stanford. We were at Boston University together. Although he was three years ahead of me.”

  Carmela knew that Stanford Wainwright was a doctor, a dermatologist. He had been named one of the top docs in New Orleans by NOLA Today, one of the local city magazines.

  “So,” continued Olivia, “Garth told me you were there last night. At Medusa Manor.” Now her face sagged again and sadness crept into her eyes. “Such a bizarre tragedy.” She bit her lip to keep from crying, but her eyes welled with tears anyway.

  “Let’s go back to my office,” suggested Carmela. “Where we can have some privacy.” Carmela led Olivia past rows of stamp pads, markers, and tote bags and into her small office. She grabbed a stack of scrapbook-supply catalogs off her side chair, plopped them atop her messy desk, and gestured for Olivia to take a seat.

  Olivia eased herself down into a red leather director’s chair, pulled a hanky from her pocket, and dabbed gingerly at her nose.

  “I’m sorry about Medusa Manor,” Carmela told Olivia. “It would have been a fun thing to work on.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” said Olivia, taking another deep breath and obviously trying to pull herself together. “I’d like you to remain on the project. You and your associate.”

  “Oh, man,” said Carmela, wrinkling her nose. She really hadn’t anticipated this. She’d figured Olivia’s dropping in today was just a pro forma visit. Garth had mentioned her name to Olivia, so Olivia had felt some small obligation.

  “Last I spoke with Melody,” said Olivia, “she was very enthusiastic about you and Avon.”

  “Ava,” said Carmela.

  “Ava,” repeated Olivia. “Melody said you two had lots of experience with float building and that you did a masterful job last year of turning Moda Chadron into a haunted boutique.” She looked around, surveying the sketches, photos, printed design pieces, and scrapbook pages that hung on the walls of Carmela’s office. “And of course you’re a designer and scrapbook maven and your friend owns the voodoo shop.” Olivia managed a wan smile. “Seems like a good fit.”

  “I’m not so sure,” said Carmela. “After what happened last night and . . . well, wouldn’t you be happier with real set designers? We’re kind of pretend set designers.”

  Olivia stared at her. “I’d prefer the two of you stay on.”

  “But what about the fire in the tower room?” asked Carmela. “Isn’t there a lot of damage?”

  “I’m told there was no real structural damage,” said Olivia. “Nothing that can’t be repaired.”

  “It’s not really our cup of tea,” Carmela protested weakly.

  “Frankly, I think you’re absolutely perfect,” said Olivia. She leaned forward in her chair. “I know what you’re thinking, Carmela. Bad luck, bad timing, bad karma, the whole ball of wax. The thing of it is, Medusa Manor is really half done, but it needs a couple of smart, organized people who have a slight sense of the absurd to pull it all together.”

  Carmela was about to launch another protest when Olivia raised a hand.

  “Hear me out. Please. There’s a major horror convention happening in New Orleans next month. DiscordaCon. No doubt you’ve heard of it?”

  Carmela nodded. She had.

  “I wanted the grand opening of Medusa Manor to coincide with DiscordaCon. Still want it to. Which means I’m willing to pay you and your friend a considerable sum of money to make this happen.”

  “Money,” repeated Carmela.

  “Thirty thousand dollars,” said Olivia. “That’s double what you were offered before. Plus you’d have almost a carte blanche budget to purchase props and theatricals.”

  “Thirty thousand,” said Carmela.

  “Fifteen thousand for each of you,” said Olivia.

  Carmela nodded. That was quite a chunk of change Olivia had just dangled in front of her. Enough money to pay off all her suppliers, pay the rent on Memory Mine for three months, and still have money left over for a shopping spree at The Latest Wrinkle, her favorite consignment shop on Magazine Street. Maybe even get that tweed Chanel jacket she’d had her eye on. Nothing like the cult of Chanel to get a girl’s heart beating faster.

  “I’d have to run this by Ava,” said Carmela. She knew she was weakening. Like a wet noodle being stretched to the breaking point.

  “Of course you would,” said Olivia. She dug inside her oversized Gucci bag. “And please . . .” She pulled out a stack of papers. “Take a look at these, too.” She handed them to Carmela. “When you see how much has been done already, it might make your decision a little easier.”

  “What exactly are . . . ?”

  “Floor plans,” said Olivia. “Along with an outline of proposed design and decorating ideas, and technical specs for the special effects that have already been installed.” She smiled. “You have to know what’s already in place in case you . . . when you start working on Medusa Manor.”

  Carmela quickly flipped through the top pages and found that a lot of the decorating and design work had been done or at least started, just as Olivia said.

  “Melody purchased quite a few props,” said Olivia. “So there’s already a collection of antiques, furniture, paintings, and old carpets stashed inside the old house. Nothing particularly valuable, of course, but fun items to add to its haunted persona.”

  “Okay,” said Carmela. She was still hesitant to take on the project, but the money beckoned.

  “And finally,” said Olivia, “you�
�re going to need this.” She pressed a large brass key into Carmela’s hand. “The key to Medusa Manor.”

  Carmela gave a slight frown as she stared at the shiny key that seemed to wink enticingly in the low light of her office. “Who else has one of these keys?” she asked. “Besides you?”

  Olivia gazed at her, a little startled. “Well . . . nobody. You and I have the only keys.”

  “What about Melody’s key?”

  “I suppose the police have that.” Olivia stood up, ready to leave, her errand completed.

  Carmela leaned back in her chair and thought about the front door standing open last night. About someone creeping around inside Medusa Manor, stalking Melody, then finally getting the best of her.

  Somehow, Carmela wasn’t entirely sure she and Olivia possessed the only keys.

  Just as Carmela was about to dash out the back door, the phone on her desk buzzed loudly.

  “What?” she called to Gabby, who was at the counter up front.

  Gabby made a rapid series of hand signals that looked like untranslatable hieroglyphics, so Carmela ducked back into her office and snatched the receiver off the hook.

  “Carmela Bertrand, how may I help you?”

  “Were you on TV again?” an indignant male voice demanded.

  Carmela sighed deeply, instantly recognizing the voice as that of her rat-fink, used-to-be-charming, soon-to-be ex. She could picture his lazy grin, languid pose, and handsome face. Then she was jerked back to reality remembering his stupid, boyish ways.

  “I don’t know, Shamus, why would you think I was on TV?” Carmela responded.

  “Hell, I don’t know,” snorted Shamus. “But Glory said she saw you on the news last night.” Glory was Shamus’s older sister, a parsimonious sourpuss who’d always detested Carmela and was now bizarrely gleeful that they were in the final, gasping throes of divorce.

  “Glory said it was the TV station that’s got that really smokin’ hot babe reporter,” chuckled Shamus. “Well, she didn’t phrase it quite like that. I’m editorializing here.”

  “Kimber Breeze,” Carmela muttered under her breath.