Parchment and Old Lace

by Laura Childs

  “That’s a mighty big assumption,” Carmela said. “Do you have any sort of evidence to back this up? Did Edward actually say something to Isabelle? I mean . . . this is a fairly serious accusation.”

  “Like I said,” Ellie said. She began to play with the tablecloth, wrinkling it with her fingers, then spreading it flat with her palm. “This is pure conjecture on my part. There’s no concrete evidence. Just a feeling I sort of intuited when the two of them were together.”

  Ava looked shaken. “And your intuition is pretty dang good.”

  “Yes, it is,” Ellie said. Now they both looked at Carmela.

  But Carmela was deep in thought. Intuition was one thing, but collecting hard evidence for an honest-to-goodness murder was something else. Still, Isabelle had been killed in what appeared to have been hard-core, brutish rage. Was Vesper capable of that? Was Edward?

  The fact that Edward had left the cake tasting early bothered Carmela. He could be a complete innocent, of course, rushing off to an important meeting.

  Or, he could have been the one who’d waited for Isabelle in the dark cemetery, biding his time among the tilting tombstones. Had he popped out to playfully spook her, and then, when Isabelle had dropped her guard, viciously strangled her?

  Dear Lord, Carmela thought to herself. She fervently hoped Edward wasn’t the killer. The thought was just too grisly to bear.

  Chapter 6

  GABBY was in full mother hen mode when Carmela walked in the front door of Memory Mine.

  “Oh, you’re back!” she cried. “I hated to see you dash out of here so fast.” She reached behind the counter and pulled out Carmela’s po-boy. It was carefully sheathed in shiny tinfoil, looking like a lost part from the International Space Station. “Here, I saved it for you. I wrapped it up tight so it should still be relatively fresh.”

  Carmela accepted the hermetically sealed sandwich, and they both walked back to the craft table. “You’re so sweet to take care of me like this.” She plopped down in a chair, unwrapped her sandwich, and helped herself to a bite. “Mmn.”

  Gabby beamed. “Good?” She slipped into a chair across from Carmela.

  “Delish.” The oysters were lukewarm, but the lettuce had kept the mayonnaise from turning the whole thing into a soggy mess.

  Gabby leaned forward and put her elbows on the table. “Well? Are you gonna give me the 411 on Ellie? I mean, is she okay? What happened over there at Ava’s place?”

  Carmela sighed. “Ellie came in to work today because she had no other place to go. Turns out Isabelle was her only family.”

  “What about her fiancé and his family?”

  “That’s where it starts to get complicated,” Carmela said. “Ellie has a few . . . well, let’s just call them suspicions.”

  Gabby’s brows bunched together. “Really? How could she? You said that Ellie was nowhere near the cemetery when Isabelle was murdered.”

  Carmela wiped a glop of mayonnaise from the corner of her mouth. She really was enjoying her sandwich, even though they were talking about bloody blue murder. Go figure. “The thing is,” she said, “Ellie’s suspicions right now are directed at Edward and his mother.”

  Gabby’s eyes opened round as two saucers from an antique tea set. “Huh?” she said, rather inelegantly.

  So Carmela laid it all out for her. Edward leaving the cake tasting early, Vesper’s ongoing hostility, Isabelle feeling overwhelmed, Vesper’s list of replacement brides, and a certain lack of enthusiasm and prenuptial bliss on Edward’s part.

  “So you’re telling me their marriage might have been over before it even began?” Gabby asked. “That it was doomed?” She looked stunned.

  “Something like that. Only now it’s definitely over.”

  “So how much of Ellie’s rant do you actually believe?”

  “That’s the tricky part,” Carmela said. “I have to sort out her anger and rage from the melancholy and mourning.”

  “I see,” Gabby said. She crossed her arms. “Though Melancholy and Mourning sounds more like the name of a very sad law firm.”

  “If it were only that easy,” Carmela said. She paused. “And of course they twisted my arm a bit and asked me to look into things.”

  “We know you’re good at making like Miss Marple. So now you have to figure out whether Edward is devastated or hugely relieved?”

  “Something like that.” Carmela nibbled at her sandwich. “According to Ellie, Isabelle had noticed changes in Edward’s demeanor and behavior toward her. Isabelle started out being engaged to a man who adored her. But then, in these last few weeks, his ardor seemed to have cooled.”

  “Kind of like our weather,” Gabby said. “But the thing is, engagements are broken off all the time. Everybody’s heard some crazy story about a runaway bride. Or, to give equal opportunity its due, a runaway groom.”

  “And then there’s the ever-amusing runaway husband,” Carmela said. She was referring, of course, to her own Shamus Allan Meechum, who’d slipped into his boogie shoes, dodged out the back door, and left her holding, well . . . absolutely nothing.

  “So why didn’t Edward just man up and call the whole thing off?” Gabby wondered. “Be a gentleman like days of yore and let Isabelle keep her fancy ring? And then be done with it?”

  “You mean make a clean break of things?”

  “Well, it would have been a little messy, but yes.”

  “I don’t know,” Carmela said. “Somehow I think calling off a wedding is more complicated than that. Plans are in place, deposit checks written, invitations have gone out. So a person who’s scared or wants to get out probably carries his secret burden deep inside himself until it’s too late.”

  Gabby snapped her fingers. “Which accounts for all those dead newlyweds on cruise ships. Honeymooning husbands and wives are forever falling overboard—or being pushed—and are never seen again.”

  “That must be it,” Carmela said. “If you feel cornered and can’t figure out a graceful or logical exit strategy . . . then kaboom . . . all hell breaks loose.”

  “Do you think Edward went kaboom?” Gabby asked.

  “That’s what I intend to find out.”

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, Gabby helped a woman select a few dog-themed rubber stamps, while Carmela gathered up supplies for a commercial scrapbook. It was going to be for a friend of hers, Jade Germaine, who wanted to . . .

  Da-ding!

  The bell over the front door tinkled, and there was Jade, looking around expectantly and carrying a large pink neoprene portfolio under her arm.

  “Jade,” Carmela called out. She hurried to the front of the store, her heels beating a rat-a-tat-tat against the wooden floorboards.

  “Carmela,” Jade said, giving her friend a hasty double air kiss. Jade was a burst of color today. Her cinnamon-colored suede shirt was belted tightly over a pair of dark red jeans. Dancing blue eyes, a slash of smiling red lips, and a spill of blond hair were topped with a bright yellow tam set at a rakish angle over one eye.

  The word rainbow popped into Carmela’s mind, then she shook her head to dispel the thought and said, “You’re right on time, Jade. Come on back and we’ll get things rolling.”

  Jade followed Carmela to the craft table and hefted her pink portfolio up onto the table. It promptly tipped over, its handles flapping and scattering the scrapbook supplies that Carmela had so neatly arranged.

  “Oops,” Jade said. They both scrambled to set things right.

  “How’s the tea party business so far?” Carmela asked. Jade had just started a brand-new company called Tea Party in a Box. She’d laid in a huge supply of teapots, teacups and saucers, and three-tiered serving trays. And she’d developed at least a dozen tea party menus. Now she was determined to make a living by catering tea parties all over town—in private homes, in businesses, you name it.


  “Business is starting to pick up,” Jade told Carmela. “I catered a tea party for the Library Society last week, and I’m doing high tea at Tulane University tomorrow afternoon. For a bunch of big-buck alumni.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Carmela said. “Sounds like you’re off to a great start.”

  “Word of mouth has worked so far,” Jade said, “But now I need one of your super-duper commercial scrapbooks. Like the one you did for Lotus Floral. I really think prospective customers will understand my tea party concept so much better if they can see actual photos of my tea table arrangements, my fancy English tea ware, and all the sweets and savories that I can cater for them.”

  “And you brought photos?” Carmela asked.

  “Tons of photos,” Jade said. “I’ve been working on this project for almost a year now, so every time I bake a batch of scones, I arrange them on a pretty tray and snap a picture. Ditto for my tea sandwiches and desserts.” She popped open her portfolio, and dozens of four-color photos spilled out onto the table. Photos of golden scones nestled in baskets, tiny triangle sandwiches stuffed with crab salad, amazing petit fours, and exotic pastries. “Look at this.” She grabbed one of the photos. “Here’s a sterling silver tea service that I picked up for a song at an antique auction up in Natchitoches.”

  “It looks very elegant set against that bowl of pink peonies,” Carmela said. “You know what?” She reached behind her and pulled out an album covered in pale gray silk shantung. “Your tea service photo would be perfect on the cover.”

  Jade held the photo of the silver service up against the album. “Mmn, I do like that.” She gently rubbed two fingers over the richly tactile fabric. “And I adore this fabric.”

  Carmela had gathered up several silk flowers in shades of mauve and pink. Now she placed them next to the photo and arranged them along with some forest green velvet leaves.

  “I can’t believe what you just did,” Jade said. “That design looks spectacular, like a graphic designer struggled over it. But you just . . . well, it was so spontaneous.”

  Carmela smiled. “Isn’t that what you were aiming for?”

  “Sure, but I didn’t think it would come together this fast.”

  “We’re not there yet. We need to select the right kind of paper for your inside pages, too.” Carmela spread out a small array of paper that included an oyster white stock, cream vellum, pearlescent paper, and one called Champagne Cream.

  “I like them all,” Jade said. “Can we somehow incorporate all four paper choices?”

  “We could,” Carmela said, “but I think it would look more polished if we chose one paper stock and let that be our background throughout the album. Let your photos shine as the star of the show.”

  “I see what you mean,” Jade said. She narrowed her eyes as she studied the different sheets of paper. Then she reached out and touched the Champagne Cream with her index finger. “I think this one. It reminds me of a cream tea.”

  “Excellent choice,” Carmela said. “Now, you brought along your brochures, too?”

  “Yes,” Jade said, pulling a flutter of brochures from her portfolio. “I figured one of them should be on the first page. Oh, and here are a bunch of business cards.” She pressed a stack into Carmela’s hand. “Take a bunch and pass ’em out to all your friends.”

  “I’ll do that,” Carmela said. She was eyeing the cover again. “Maybe just a few more touches for your cover? The more elements we add, the richer the effect.”

  “Like a good gumbo,” Jade said.

  Carmela nodded. “I was thinking about some purple velvet ribbon or a piece of crepe de Chine.”

  “Hold that thought,” Jade said. She reached in her handbag and pulled out a small snippet of antique lace. “What about something like this?”

  The lace surprised Carmela. “Where on earth did you get this?” She stroked the bit of lace with her finger and decided it felt old, perhaps even as old as the lace that had strangled Isabelle. What were the odds that two different pieces of antique lace would turn up in two days? Probably zero to none. Yet, here was another lace.

  “Carmela,” Jade said, “I would think you of all people would know about that new shop over on Orleans Avenue.”

  “What new shop is that?” Carmela’s antennae were suddenly pinging like crazy.

  “It’s called Folly Française and, boy, is it ever a treasure trove for Francophiles. They offer a little bit of everything—flea market finds, some fairly authentic-looking antiques, hand-milled French soap, French perfumes, silk scarves and gloves—you name it. Oh, and there’s jewelry, too. I saw some darling earrings that were cast in antique jewelry molds. Can you imagine? Just like something the Empress Josephine might have worn!”

  “And they have lace,” Carmela said.

  “And lace,” Jade said. “Yes indeed, they carry quite a bit of old lace. That’s why this piece caught my eye. I thought it might add a bit of old-world charm to my scrapbook. Oh, and I swear the owner has a few vintage Chanel bags tucked under the counter. You really have to swing by. I guarantee you’ll love it.”

  “On Orleans Street, you said.”

  “Right next to that little book and map shop. You know, the one that sells those elegant little leather books that always smell so musty?”

  “But it’s authentic must,” Carmela said, smiling. “Eighteenth century.”

  “Must be,” Jade said, grinning back.

  * * *

  The idea of antique lace percolated in Carmela’s brain for the rest of the afternoon, even when she was helping a customer pick out paper butterflies for a mixed-media collage and making suggestions to another woman on how to turn a cigar box into a leather-look suitcase complete with leather handles.

  Finally, when the big hand on the clock crawled toward four, Carmela grabbed the sample of lace that Babcock had left behind and said, “Gabby, do you mind handling things from here on?”

  “Not a problem,” Gabby said. Then her nose wiggled like a curious rabbit and she asked, “What’s up?”

  “I want to check out that shop, Folly Française, that Jade told me about.”

  “Because of the lace,” Gabby said, suddenly turning serious.

  Carmela nodded, equally serious. “Because of the lace.”

  * * *

  A tiny bit of sun slanted across the rooftops of the French Quarter, gilding the redbrick buildings and giving everything a slightly ethereal feel, as Carmela ambled down Royal Street. The lacy wrought-iron balconies above her were festooned with cascades of bougainvilleas and azaleas. A saxophone player who leaned against the wall outside Ritter’s Antiques played a pensive blues song. Two tourists, a man and a woman, happily dropped some bills into his open instrument case. The musician nodded his thanks but never missed a note.

  At the corner, Carmela paused to let a red and yellow horse-drawn jitney go clopping by, and was suddenly struck by the chilliness of the wind that whooshed in from the Mississippi. How fast the seasons seemed to rush by. They were heading into winter again. Halloween was past, and Reveillon, a recently revived Creole custom that entailed lavish four- and five-course holiday dinners, would be celebrated in many of the fancier restaurants in just a matter of weeks. Christmas, Chanukah, and New Year’s Eve were just around the corner, too.

  Crossing the street, Carmela paused to look in the window of Chittenden’s Antiques and Estate Jewelry. Cartier pendants, strands of Tahitian pearls, and a selection of old mine-cut diamond rings were nestled in black velvet boxes in the front window. Beyond those tasty baubles, a half dozen chandeliers hung from the ceiling, twinkling with what looked like thousands of crystals. A green leather-topped desk sat just beyond the window, looking worn but inviting. Like something Tennessee Williams might have had in the library of his Garden District home.

  When Carmela finally pushed open the door to Folly Française, she wa
s greeted by the mingled scents of vanilla, jasmine, and lavender. Like wandering through a French meadow, she decided. Or into Ava’s voodoo shop, though those scents were definitely a shade darker.

  And, yes, there was an enormous display of tiny French perfume bottles and dozens of elegantly wrapped soaps. On her right was an antique wooden drying rack that held a dozen colorful shawls, from the sheerest organza to whisper-soft cashmere.

  Charmed, Carmela gazed around the rest of the shop. The walls were painted white, but roughed up, à la the Martha Stewart country French look. Small crystal chandeliers hung from the open rafters, and there were eye-catching pieces everywhere—jewelry, lorgnettes on gold chains, antique watches, handbags, charming and cheeky hats, French glassware, hankies, and christening gowns. And a gold velvet dress with an empire waist that literally took her breath away.

  Glancing up from a polished brass cash register, a woman smiled and said, “Would you care to try it on?” She had just the hint of a French accent.

  “I’m not sure I would fit into it,” Carmela said. She studied the dress carefully. “It’s quite old, isn’t it?”

  “From the Victorian era,” said the woman. She reached out and gently touched the dress.

  “Ooh, those women were so petite.”

  “You are not so large yourself,” the woman said. She was early fifties but had an unlined, patrician face with elegant white hair pulled back into a chignon. Posing languidly in her black cashmere sweater, swishy black silk skirt, and single strand of pearls, she looked like she might have once been a ballerina.

  “Well, thank you,” Carmela said. “But I’m more in the mood to take a look around. You certainly have some beautiful things here.”

  “We have many items to please the eye, so do take your time and enjoy,” said the woman. She extended a hand gracefully. “I am Mignon Cenas, the owner.”

  Carmela shook hands with her. “Nice to meet you. I’m Carmela Bertrand. I’m the owner of Memory Mine Scrapbook Shop over on Governor Nicholls Street.”