Parchment and Old Lace

by Laura Childs

  “It is a little weird,” Carmela said. “Even though Isabelle wasn’t registered.” Their workshop was all about creating concept boards to help brides-to-be narrow down their choices on colors, theme, flowers, and décor. “The thing is,” Carmela continued, “it would have been too late for Isabelle anyway.” She considered her words and sighed deeply. “I guess we were all a little too late for Isabelle.”

  Gabby reached across the front counter, where multiple packets of beads and brads were displayed on metal racks, and patted Carmela’s hand. “You’re always so strong, Carmela. And you were very brave to go chasing into that cemetery after Babcock.”

  “I don’t feel particularly brave. Especially since I didn’t do much of anything to help.”

  “Not yet anyway,” Gabby murmured quietly. Then she brightened. “Carmela, what if we unpacked all the new boxes of paper and rubber stamps this morning? That might help take your mind off things.”

  Carmela eyed Gabby. “You think?”

  “No, but why don’t we give it a go anyway.” Gabby pushed a few strands of honeyed-brown hair out of her eyes and set her full lips in a smile. She was a woman who was blessed with optimism, warmth, and compassion. With her cheerful nature, luminous complexion, and penchant for pencil skirts and cashmere sweaters, Gabby was everyone’s favorite. And even though she was married to Stuart Mercer-Morris, the somewhat stodgy owner of multiple New Orleans car dealerships, Gabby always managed to project abundant good humor.

  Carmela and Gabby set to work then, ripping open cardboard boxes, exclaiming over some of the brand-new scrapbook paper, and then carefully placing the paper in their floor-to-ceiling wire bins.

  “Look at this,” Carmela said. She held up a sheet of pastel pink paper. “Handmade silk paper. Can’t you just envision this as the background for a wedding- or anniversary-themed scrapbook page?”

  Gabby handed her a floral design rubber stamp that she’d just pulled from one of the boxes. “And this is the perfect rubber stamp to enhance that theme.”

  Carmela was beginning to relax and ease into a slightly better frame of mind. Then again, working at Memory Mine always did make her feel happy and fulfilled. She’d opened the scrapbook shop several years ago in what she’d always figured was the quintessential French Quarter space. That is, a quaint shop with brick walls, sagging wooden floors, and a bow window in front with ample space to display finished scrapbook pages, memory boxes, handmade cards, and altered books. She’d added a counter, paper racks, and shelves to display albums, scissors, and rubber stamps. Two flat files housed their larger-format specialty papers. The former antique dealer tenants, who’d fled the spot, had left behind an enormous table. So that was moved to the back of the shop and became their designated craft table. As luck would have it, there was even a cubbyhole space where Carmela could set up a small office.

  And business had been good. Carmela had sweated out her first year, of course, but she was a practical, focused businesswoman. She offered dozens of classes and demos, invited potential customers in for free make-and-takes, and promoted her shop like crazy. In the end, all her good efforts had paid off. Memory Mine was now the premier scrapbook shop in all of New Orleans. Really, in all of the surrounding parishes.

  * * *

  At 10:00 A.M. the bell over the front door did its trademark da-ding and Gabby chirped, “There you go, first customer of the day. That always brings good luck.”

  But when the door pushed open all the way and the customer stepped into their shop, they saw it wasn’t a customer at all. It was Babcock.

  “Oh no,” Carmela said. Even though she was really thinking, Now what?

  “Dear me,” Gabby said, looking slightly rattled.

  “That’s one heck of a welcome,” Babcock said. He was dressed in khakis, a light blue poplin shirt, and a brown leather jacket. He looked like he was ready to hop into an Aston Martin and take a jaunt up to Baton Rouge for Creole food at Juban’s. But Carmela noted that his face looked tired and drawn, and she figured he’d probably endured a very long night with little to no sleep.

  “What’s up?” Carmela asked. For some reason this looked like it might be an official-type visit, not just a pop-in-and-say-hi visit.

  “How are you fixed for coffee?” Babcock asked.

  “I can whip up a pot of chicory in about two minutes,” Gabby offered.

  “Do it,” Babcock said.

  Then, while the coffee was perking and the two women were giving each other glances, wondering exactly why he was here, Babcock reached into his pocket and pulled out a stiff white envelope.

  “What have you got there?” Carmela asked. One side of her mouth twitched. “I hope you’re not serving an eviction notice.” Carmela always enjoyed a little droll humor at the expense of her landlord, Boyd Bellamy, especially since he was a world-renowned curmudgeon.

  Without answering, Babcock gestured for the two women to follow him as he walked to the back of the shop and stopped at the large craft table. He upended his envelope and a piece of fabric fluttered out.

  “Ribbon?” Gabby asked. Eyebrows raised, she was wondering just what was going on.

  But Carmela suddenly had a good idea of what Babcock had brought them.

  “Lace?” she said. “Please don’t tell me it’s from last night.” She couldn’t bring herself to say last night’s murder.

  Babcock nodded slowly. “I’m afraid so.”

  Gabby put a hand to her chest, as if to still a fluttering heart. “Whoa.” She seemed stunned. “You mean this is a piece of the actual lace that strangled that poor woman?”

  “A shred of it anyway,” Babcock said. “As much as the crime-scene techs would allow me to spirit away from the lab.”

  Gabby moved a step closer to the table and gazed at the snippet of lace as if it was a horrible, tainted thing. As if it had the power to curl up like a serpent and slither around her throat, slowly choking off her breathing.

  “Why did you bring it here?” Carmela demanded. “What do you want from us?”

  “I’ve got our forensic people checking into various types of lace,” Babcock said. “But I wanted to know if you two had ever seen anything like this before? I know customers are always coming in here with bits and scraps of paper and fabric.”

  “There’s no law against it,” Gabby said.

  “I realize that,” Babcock said, keeping an even tone. “But what I really want to know is, have you ladies ever set eyes on this type of lace before?”

  Carmela leaned forward and focused on the fragment of lace. She’d been too shocked last night to take a really good look at it. Now she saw that the piece of lace was about an inch and a half wide and had a design, a raised floral pattern running down the center. And it was definitely antique-looking, in a color that could best be described as ivory.

  “Maybe I have seen something like this,” Carmela said. “Although I can’t remember exactly where. Gabby? What do you think?”

  Gabby peered at the lace. “It’s pretty, in a horrible kind of way. And it looks like it might be made of silk.”

  “Maybe French silk,” Carmela said. “And I’m guessing it’s fairly old. Probably even antique.”

  “Which would make it expensive,” Gabby said.

  Babcock stared at them. “Really? You think this piece of lace is some sort of collectible?”

  “It could be,” Carmela said.

  But Gabby was more definite with her answer. “Very much so,” she said. “If you’re into antique fabrics and laces.”

  “Do you know anyone who collects this type of thing?” Babcock asked.

  “Not specifically,” Carmela said. She thought for a minute. “Why don’t we go into my office? I’ll pull up a couple of antique lace websites and we can take a look. See if there’s anything similar.”

  “Good,” Babcock breathed. “Now we’re g
etting somewhere.”

  * * *

  Gabby and Babcock hovered over Carmela while she sat at her computer, running her fingers across the keyboard.

  “This site,” she said. “Lace and Grace. They always feature a lot of antique laces, shawls, table runners, and bridal veils.”

  “I had no idea there was even a market for this old stuff,” Babcock said. “I mean . . . why?”

  “Because it’s lovely,” Gabby said, coloring slightly. “And because it’s handmade, whereas everything today is cranked out by machine. Usually in sweatshops in India or China.”

  “Okay,” Babcock said, as Carmela continued to click along.

  “Take a look at this,” Carmela said as she scrolled down. “Here’s a piece of lace similar to the sample you brought in.”

  Gabby studied it, too. “The floral pattern is similar, but not exact. See,” she said to Babcock, “your lace doesn’t have an intricate lattice border like this one does.”

  “It’s called a strangling vine pattern,” Carmela said.

  Gabby’s face blanched white. “Oh my.”

  Babcock tapped the screen as he read the caption below the photo. “And they’re asking three hundred fifty dollars for that piece of lace? Hmm. Expensive.”

  “For one point five yards of lace, dated to between 1800 and 1850,” Carmela said. She scrolled down some more. “Look at this antique lace shawl. The asking price here is seventeen hundred dollars.”

  “Amazing,” Babcock said. “Why so expensive?”

  “Because it’s old and rare,” Carmela said. “Most lace from that era, if it hasn’t been properly stored and cared for, has long since disintegrated with age.”

  “Is lace really strong enough to strangle someone?” Gabby asked. “Especially if it’s antique? Wouldn’t the threads be awfully fragile?”

  “I’m afraid that piece last night was strong enough,” Babcock said. “The lace is stretched and tattered now, but it obviously held up.”

  Carmela swiveled around in her purple leather chair. “We know that Isabelle was at Commander’s Palace last night for a cake tasting, right? Do we know how many people were there with her?”

  Babcock pursed his lips. “Seven other people. Three bridesmaids, the groom, and various assorted friends. Well, you met one of them last night. Julian Drake. The best man.”

  “Is he off the hook?” Carmela asked.

  Babcock nodded. “Probably, pending a few lab tests. We’ve got nothing solid to hold him on.”

  Carmela wondered if Drake had been the dirtbag who’d swung the crypt gate at her and bonked her on the nose. Or was he the innocent he claimed to be?

  “And the groom was at the cake tasting, too?” Carmela asked.

  “Edward Baudette,” Babcock said. “Yes, he was there, but he apparently left early.”

  “Really?” Carmela said. “That’s . . . interesting.”

  “Maybe,” Babcock said. “Or maybe it doesn’t mean spit. Anyway, we know there was a whole group there just to taste cake.” He shook his head dismissively. “Cake.”

  “But wedding cake is important,” put in Gabby. She was a huge champion of romance and marriage. “And a cake today costs upward of eight or nine hundred dollars. So you really need to know what you’re getting. What you’re paying for.”

  “Wait a minute,” Babcock said. He’d just been gobsmacked by her comment. “That much money for cake?” He seemed bewildered. “Can’t you just . . . I don’t know . . . walk into a bakery and buy one?”

  “Well, no,” Carmela said. “It doesn’t quite work that way.” In the distant future she might have to educate her beloved on the finer points of planning a wedding. For now she just tapped a finger against her keyboard to bring him back to the issue at hand. “What I’d really like to know is, with that many people surrounding Isabelle, how did she get lured away from her group?”

  “Maybe because she wasn’t lured,” Gabby said. “Maybe she thought she was with a friend, someone she trusted.” She hesitated. “Only then her friend . . .”

  “Murdered her,” Babcock said.

  Carmela gazed pointedly at Babcock. “Last night you kept referring to Isabelle’s killer as a he. Are you positive about that?”

  “I’m guessing that it was a male,” Babcock said. “Just because Isabelle was overcome through sheer brute strength.”

  “Still,” Carmela said, “it could have been a female. A strong female.”

  “Could have been,” Babcock said. “We’re not ruling anything out.”

  “Because a man using a piece of lace . . .” Carmela looked dubious. “It strikes me as being somewhat odd. I mean . . . wouldn’t a man be more comfortable using a hunk of rope or a plastic cord?”

  “You know,” Gabby said, “I don’t think comfort was ever a consideration.”

  Chapter 4

  JUST as Carmela was shuffling through a stack of French ephemera, the front door swung open and a frazzled-looking woman swooped in, propelling her young, tween-aged daughter ahead of her.

  “You don’t want to do this now,” the mom was saying to the reluctant-looking girl, “but I guarantee you’ll thank me when your photos are all organized and your scrapbook comes together.”

  The girl shrugged her shoulders so high that her bright pink, cropped T-shirt rose to reveal a silver chain around her waist. Interlocking stars dangled from it, winking and twinkling in the light. Then she dropped her shoulders and the chain slipped back down over her nonexistent hips.

  Carmela was amused. Good girl, she thought, just a chain, no pierced navel.

  She put on her helpful shopkeeper’s face. “May I help you ladies?”

  “I hope so,” the woman said. She flipped open her oversized canvas bag and pulled out a brown envelope stuffed with photos. “We took a family trip to Yellowstone National Park and the Grand Canyon this past summer, and I’d really like to turn our mishmash of photos into a well-organized scrapbook.” She smiled at her daughter. “We’re hoping it can be a kind of family project.”

  “That sounds like fun,” Carmela said. She led them to the table in back, the one they’d dubbed Craft Central, grabbing a few sheets of colorful paper along the way. “I’ve got some paper that’s edged with trees and mountains.” She smiled at the girl. “And did you know that Paper Wizard even makes a National Parks Collection?” She set the pages down on the table.

  “Let me see those,” said the girl. She picked them up and studied them. Her eyebrows rose in twin arcs. “Not bad.”

  Then Gabby dashed back with a roll of ribbon that featured a repeating pattern of ducks swimming along, the mama in front, with five babies behind.

  “These are like the birds we saw, right?” the girl said to her mother. “Flying over the canyon?”

  “Well,” mom said, “I think the really big ones were turkey buzzards. But we did see ducks at the lake.”

  “Cool,” said the girl. She was definitely warming up to the idea.

  The mother beamed at Carmela, then grabbed a basket, and the two of them began to shop. They gathered up sheets of paper, rubber stamps, ink pads, and, finally, they selected a lovely album. Carmela rang up each item, packaged everything in a brown kraft paper bag with raffia handles, and then stuck a colorful crack-and-peel sticker that said Memory Mine onto the side of the bag.

  The two shoppers had barely left when Gabby returned to the subject that was first and foremost in their minds—the death of Isabelle.

  “If I recall,” Gabby said, “Isabelle worked in the district attorney’s office.”

  Carmela nodded vigorously. “Yes, she was one of their attorneys. And I have a feeling I know where you’re going with this.”

  “Mm hm,” Gabby said. “Isabelle’s murder could easily have been related to her job.”

  “That’s what I’ve been thinking, too.”r />
  Gabby continued. “Isabelle probably helped put some pretty unsavory characters behind bars. Then they sat there stewing in their own juices, with nothing to do but plan for the day when they’d be released.”

  “Except when they were busy pumping iron or surfing the ’Net,” Carmela said.

  Gabby grimaced. “Still, there have to be a few guys who plotted to exact their revenge. Who wanted to get back at the folks who helped put them away.”

  “I’m sure there are,” Carmela said. “And when the wrong one gets released . . .”

  “Because of good behavior!”

  “Something awful like this happens.”

  “Exactly,” Gabby said.

  “I’ll have to ask Babcock if he thought that might have been a real threat. You know, something he should look into.” Carmela shuddered as she recalled seeing Isabelle’s body last night. She reached for her can of Diet Coke, took a sip, and said, “We’ve got to change the subject or we’ll be bummed all day.”

  “Maybe I should run out and get lunch,” Gabby offered. “That always cheers you up.”

  “It does if we get po-boy sandwiches.”

  “From Pirate’s Alley Deli.” Gabby grinned. “What are you up for today?”

  “My usual. The fried oysters. How about you?”

  “I’ve had a hankering for a shredded beef po-boy ever since I woke up this morning. When Stuart came out of the bathroom and saw me grinning, I do believe he thought I was fantasizing about him.”

  “But you didn’t bother to set him straight?”

  “And damage that fragile male ego? Of course not.” Gabby grabbed her purse and glanced at Carmela. “So . . . another Diet Coke?”

  “What else?”

  * * *

  By the time Carmela had unpacked a box of washi paper, found a package of silver brads she’d been looking for, and answered a few phone calls, Gabby was back.

  “Here you go,” she said, handing a white paper bag to Carmela. There was a big grease spot blossoming on one side of the bag, a sure sign the oysters had been deep-fried to perfection and slathered with mayonnaise. “And I stopped by the Merci Beaucoup Bakery for some of their pecan pie mini muffins.”