Parchment and Old Lace

by Laura Childs

  “Wait,” Ava croaked. “We have to say lines?”

  “Looks like. Del said he’s sending over some scripts.”

  Dark curls swirled around Ava as she shook her head. “As if we don’t have a real murder mystery to solve already.”

  Chapter 9

  TUESDAY morning dawned cool and sunny, with streams of dancing sunbeams filtering through the front windows of Memory Mine. Gabby was fussing with a couple of triptychs that she and Carmela designed—miniature Venetian theatres that were meant to be an inspiration for their customers.

  “You think I should put these on display?” Gabby asked. She held up a tiny theatre made of chipboard. It was hand painted, elaborately stenciled, and decorated with gold leaf.

  “I think you should do whatever your little heart dictates,” Carmela said. “Honestly, Gabby, the window displays you create are always fabulous. I think that’s what brings customers in like crazy.”

  “Really?” Gabby said, obviously pleased. “Well, in that case . . .”

  Carmela glanced sideways from where she was restocking paper in their wire bins. She’d been watching two women out of the corner of her eye. They seemed to be stuck on something.

  “Anything I can do to help?” Carmela asked.

  “We’re hosting a party,” said the first woman.

  “And want to create our own place mats,” said the second.

  “But we’re kind of stuck,” said the first.

  “Okay,” Carmela said. “But I see that you picked out a lovely rubber stamp.”

  “A carnation,” said the first woman. “But I’m not exactly sure how to make this work.”

  “You just stamp it,” said the second woman.

  Her friend turned on her. “But, Delia, I want it to be two-tone!”

  “Okaaay,” Carmela said. “I can show you what to do ’cause it’s really pretty simple.” She touched the rubber stamp to a mauve ink pad and stamped a carnation onto a white test paper. Then she wiped off what was left of the mauve ink and touched it to a silver ink pad. “Now you stamp over it, but just a smidgeon off to the side. That’s how you achieve the lovely two-tone effect you were looking for.”

  “That’s it,” said the first woman.

  “See, I told you,” said the second woman.

  Carmela winked at Gabby as she came toward the front desk. The two women were still shopping, still arguing a bit, but they hadn’t declared outright war on each other yet, so that was probably a good thing.

  “Problems?” Gabby said under her breath.

  Carmela picked up a roll of dark blue ribbon and spun it in her hands. “Not really. But you should have been with me last night.”

  Gabby immediately picked up on the tone in Carmela’s voice. “What happened?” She planted her elbows firmly on the counter, her chin resting in her palms. “Do tell.”

  So Carmela gave her a slightly abridged version of the picking-out-the-casket debacle. And, the more Carmela revealed, without having to embroider a single thing, the more the wrinkles in Gabby’s forehead deepened.

  “No!” she said finally.

  “Yes,” Carmela said.

  “Vesper’s really that nasty? And stingy?”

  “I think the woman’s a viper.”

  “And Edward really wasn’t overcome with grief?” Gabby asked.

  “Like I said, he seemed sad at first, but then he started playing footsie with Naomi.”

  “She of the goofy floofy dog,” Gabby said. “Wow. It’s crazy to hear what poor Ellie was up against. Lucky you and Ava were . . .”

  The phone on the front counter suddenly shrilled, interrupting their conversation.

  Gabby quickly picked it up. “Good morning, Memory Mine. How can I help you?” There was a smile in her voice until the caller on the other end spoke, and then the warmth evaporated and was replaced by a glacial coolness. “One moment.” She thrust the receiver straight out toward Carmela and made a face. “It’s him. The rat.”

  Carmela came around the desk and took the phone. “Shamus.” She knew dang well who the rat in her life was. He might be a handsome, tousle-haired, boyish-grinned rat, but he was still a rat.

  “And good morning to you, Little Miss Sunshine,” Shamus said. “How are you on this wonderful . . . ?”

  “Cut to the chase, Shamus. What do you want?”

  “Okay, be that way,” Shamus said, his voice hardening. “I was calling to see if you filed that paper yet?”

  Carmela’s eyes flicked down to the desk and then to a stack of papers that was tucked neatly in one of the side cubbyholes. There it was. A quitclaim deed she hadn’t bothered to sign much less file. “Uh . . . what?” she said, stalling.

  “Babe, I know you’ve been putting this off. But it’ll take five minutes and cost you like ten bucks. Just walk over to City Hall and do it, okay? Then we’re done with this.”

  Like we’ll ever be done, Carmela thought to herself. No, you keep popping back into my life like one of those creepy, evil clown jack-in-the-boxes.

  She closed her eyes for a moment and drew a deep breath. “Okay,” she said. “Okay, Shamus, I’ll take care of it.”

  “Soon?”

  “Yes.” Now please go away.

  “You’re a peach,” Shamus said. He hesitated. “How are the dogs?”

  “The dogs are good,” Carmela said.

  “Don’t you think it’s about time they enjoyed a sleepover at my place? I’ve got parental rights, too, you know.”

  “They can sleep over as long as there aren’t any other strays sleeping in your bed,” Carmela said.

  “You should talk,” Shamus snarled. He hung up so quickly his words were barely audible.

  “Problem?” Gabby asked.

  “Nothing serious. Just typical Shamus stuff.” Carmela thumbed through the papers in the desk and pulled out the quitclaim deed. Studied it for a moment. “But I have to run out for a while, okay?”

  “Take your time.” Gabby waved a hand toward the two women. “I’m going to . . .”

  Carmela nodded. Gabby was going to see if she could be any help to the women who seemed to be involved in yet another snit fit.

  * * *

  Carmela bounced down the street, thankful for the meager sunlight, enjoying the crisp, cool weather. The French Quarter wasn’t its usual buzzy self this morning, and for that she was grateful. It was nice to stroll along and glance in store windows without getting jostled. She stopped in front of Armand’s Antiques and studied a gilded clock.

  Austrian, perhaps?

  Then her eyes caught her own reflection in the glimmering window, and as she tossed back her head, she saw that a few strands of her blond bob (almost a lob—a long bob) kept falling in her eyes. A sure sign she needed a trim.

  Okay, let’s stop putting this off and get that paper filed. Then we’ll make a phone call to Monsieur Gerard’s Salon.

  During her divorce proceedings, Carmela had wanted to sell any and all joint property, to leave no attachments to her soon-to-be ex. But Shamus, always interested in self above all, wanted to hang on to a rental property they had in hopes that the value would go up. Carmela had offered to deed it to him or sell it, whichever was easier, just to be rid of it, but Shamus had won out. Now, of course, the value had skyrocketed and Shamus was hot to sell. And even though Carmela would have no claim to the profits, she was obliged to file this stupid bit of paper.

  Doggone Shamus, this is not what I need right now. I’ve got other fish to fry.

  Carmela stood on the corner of Dauphine Street waiting for a break in the traffic. When it finally came, she darted across. Then it was just another half a block to the city registrar’s office.

  Carmela’s heels clacked against the white marble floor of the cavernous room as she entered. She’d figured the place would be mobbed, but it
wasn’t. In fact, there were no lines at all.

  Maybe I just caught a break.

  She scurried up to a window protected by bulletproof glass and metal bars.

  “Get a lot of robberies, do you?” she asked as she slid her piece of paper across the countertop.

  A middle-aged man who was built like a fireplug stared back at her. “We have to be careful,” he told her. “You never can tell when there’s gonna be a big ’mergency.”

  “You’re so right about that,” Carmela said.

  She watched, feeling a little bored, as the man officiously stamped, notarized, and filed her document.

  “That’ll be twenty-five dollars,” he told her. “Cash or credit cards, no checks accepted.”

  Carmela handed over her Visa card, and two minutes later, she was on her way. Done and done.

  Or was she?

  She suddenly realized that, since she was in the neighborhood, she could pop into the district attorney’s office where Isabelle had worked.

  Within two minutes, she was down the block and walking up the front steps that led into the district attorney’s adjoining offices. This was going to be a quick hit, she told herself. Run in, schmooze a couple of the secretaries or former co-workers, and see if she could wheedle some information about Isabelle.

  Just when she thought she had the perfect plan, she stopped short. Four uniformed officers were ordering visitors to drop their purses, briefcases, backpacks, and cell phones into gray trays that looked like cast-offs from a high school lunchroom.

  Oh crap.

  Carmela stepped into line and placed her purse into one of the trays.

  A man with a clipboard peered at her and said, “You want to empty your pockets, too?”

  Not really.

  But she dug into her jacket pocket anyway and tossed a box of Tic Tacs, a single gold earring, and a slightly fuzzy (but unused) Kleenex into the tray.

  Then she was through the line and heading for the district attorney’s office on the second floor.

  The receptionist was a skinny redhead with ’80s bouffant hair and ’70s granny glasses. “Good morning, how can we help you?” she asked.

  “I’m a friend of Isabelle Black,” Carmela said.

  The receptionist immediately looked stricken. “Oh no, you were one of her friends?”

  Carmela nodded. She had been. Kind of. By way of Ellie, anyway.

  “We all loved her so much,” the receptionist gushed. “We just can’t believe what happened. That we’ll never see her again.”

  Carmela suddenly flashed on an image of Isabelle lying in a casket and thought, Well, you actually might see her again. If you come to the viewing tonight. Then she shook her head to dispel that thought and said, “I’ve been looking into things for Isabelle’s sister. Unofficially, of course.”

  The receptionist brushed away a tear. “How can I help?”

  “I was wondering if I might speak to a couple of Isabelle’s co-workers. It’s still . . .” She dropped her voice. “It’s still a mystery why Isabelle ended up in that cemetery. Or why she was killed.”

  The receptionist leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner. “And you’re trying to . . . ?”

  “I’m not really sure,” Carmela admitted. “Maybe glean some tiny bit of information? Something that might help in figuring out Isabelle’s unsolved murder?”

  “Maybe you should talk to . . . oh, Mr. Prejean!” the receptionist cried out, clearly startled as a man suddenly materialized next to Carmela. “I didn’t see you come in. I was just talking to . . . well, this young woman can explain it herself.”

  “I’m Bobby Prejean,” the man said to Carmela. “The New Orleans district attorney. What’s going on?” He was brisk and businesslike, but his voice was not unkind.

  Carmela turned to face him. “I’m Carmela Bertrand. I believe we met once before. At the Children’s Art Association benefit?”

  Prejean gave her a blank look, and then a slow smile spread across his handsome face. “Carmela. Now I remember you. You and that crazy float builder . . .”

  “Jekyl Hardy,” said Carmela.

  “Jekyl Hardy,” Prejean repeated. “You were conducting the charity auction and kept getting the bids all mixed up.”

  “Sorry about that.” Carmela and Jekyl had forgotten their lines, so they’d gone into an impromptu comedy routine.

  “Don’t be. You two were a stitch,” Prejean said. “Joking around like that, singing those crazy little songs. Best auction ever. And you raised a ton of money as I recall.”

  Carmela smiled at Bobby Prejean. He was tall with dark hair, hazel eyes, and an aristocratic bearing. She could almost picture him wearing an eighteenth-century-style cutaway jacket as he rode a fine walking horse to inspect a plantation up on River Road.

  “How can I help you?” Prejean asked.

  “Isabelle’s sister is a friend of mine,” Carmela said. “And I was just . . .”

  “Oh my goodness!” Prejean said. “We were all just devastated when we heard that Isabelle had been taken from us. She was one of the brightest attorneys in the office.” He made a motion with his hand. “Shall we continue this conversation in my office?”

  “Thank you,” Carmela said, grateful for his interest and consideration. Prejean led her past a row of desks, then down a corridor lined with offices, and into his private office.

  “Sit, dear lady. Sit,” Prejean said.

  Carmela sat. “I’m guessing your entire office is still in shock over this.”

  Prejean nodded. “We most certainly are. In this den of . . .” He allowed himself a slight chuckle. “In this den of legal tigers, Isabelle’s quiet, unassuming personality stood out. Her star, quite literally, shone the brightest.” He shook his head. “Young Edward Baudette must be terribly distraught.”

  “He is.” Sort of.

  Prejean leaned back in his chair. “So how can I help you?”

  Carmela leaned forward. “Do you know if anything—or anyone—had been bothering Isabelle lately?”

  Prejean shook his head sadly. “I can’t think of anything that had been bothering her. She was . . . like I said, she was one of the most competent people here. Everyone loved her.”

  Clearly someone had not.

  “Anything in her files?” Carmela asked.

  “I had two of my best people comb through her files yesterday morning, right after we got a call from the police. But nothing jumped out.” He looked sharply at her. “You’re looking into this?”

  “As a friend and because Detective Babcock and I found her body.”

  “Ah yes, I did read the story in the Times-Picayune.”

  “So we feel, I don’t know, a certain responsibility?”

  “Admirable of you,” Prejean said. “With your, um, close association with Detective Babcock, you must be privy to some of the investigation. Do they have any suspects? Or leads, for that matter?”

  “Not really. And I’m just checking a few angles on my own.”

  “Good for you,” Prejean said. “In fact, I’m going to give Detective Babcock a call. I want to personally assure him that this office will make every effort to help in the apprehension of her killer. I know Detectives Babcock and Gallant have already spoken with a few people here, but I’m going to go one step further and guarantee that I will personally interview every single person on our staff. Try to determine if they knew of something that might have been going on in her personal life.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” Carmela said, just as a harried-looking woman stuck her head into his office.

  “Mr. Prejean?” the woman said. She was wearing a black skirt suit and wore her glasses on a pearl chain around her neck.

  Prejean looked up. “Yes, Esther?”

  “Your Realtor is on the line. Says it’s important.”


  Prejean held up a finger. “One moment.”

  “Would it be possible for me to talk to some of your people, too?” Carmela asked.

  Prejean nodded. “Absolutely, you can. You can do it right now if you have the time. Renee at the front desk can probably steer you in the right direction. She’s the one who really runs the show around here.” He stood up and Carmela followed suit. Then he grabbed her hand and pumped it enthusiastically. “Will you promise to keep in touch? Let me know what’s going on with the investigation, and if I can help in any way?”

  “Absolutely,” Carmela said. “And thank you.”

  * * *

  Renee, the receptionist, turned out to be a godsend. She walked Carmela around the offices, introduced her to several of the other attorneys, and did a credible but not too revealing explanation of why Carmela was here asking questions.

  Carmela talked to a couple of assistant district attorneys, one associate, and two young men who were tasked with filing papers for court appearances. They all seemed deeply saddened, concerned about the investigation, but didn’t have much to tell her. She wasn’t surprised. She didn’t really expect a suspect to pop up unexpectedly.

  Except for the last person she interviewed. A fidgety-looking man by the name of Hugo Delton. Delton was forty pounds overweight and had the distinctly nervous habit of constantly licking his lips. Which gave Carmela the creeps and made her wonder if he did that when he was in court? Or just when he was alone with women?

  “What are you, some kind of detective?” Delton asked her. He’d invited her into his office and was sitting across from her, staring at her intently, giving her a rather thorough once over.

  “I’m just a friend,” Carmela said. “A curious friend who’s taken it upon herself to ask a few questions. See if I can come up with something.” She paused. “So . . . you worked fairly closely with Isabelle?”

  “I guess,” Delton told her. “We mostly saw each other here at work. And, of course, there was the occasional lunch or party together.”