Parchment and Old Lace

by Laura Childs

  “You’re having another drink? Don’t you have to get back to your shop?”

  “Miguel is taking care of things,” Ava said. “Besides, where else can I get my vitamin C with bubbles?” She gave a pussycat grin. “And I’m celebrating.”

  “Celebrating what?” Carmela asked.

  “I’m officially in love.”

  “Again? Who’s the lucky gent?”

  Ava dimpled prettily. “You know who. That hunky D.A.”

  “I wish you two all the happiness in the world. However, the man does strike me as a bit of a hardworking, upstanding public servant. Not the kind of guy who wants to bask in your limelight.”

  “You’re worried I might lead him astray?” Ava asked.

  “No, but you could sidetrack his political career.”

  “Still,” Ava said, “he is rather gorgeous. A girl can dream, can’t she?”

  “That she can.”

  “So what was your big confab with Old Stone Face all about?”

  “I’m trying to weasel Isabelle’s antique lace veil away from Vesper.”

  “She has it?”

  Carmela nodded.

  “And you think that antique lace veil might somehow lead to the antique lace murder weapon?”

  “I don’t know,” Carmela said. “But I’m sure going to try and jam a few puzzle pieces together.”

  “Good girl,” Ava said. “Smart girl.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  Ava took another sip of her drink. “Can you believe that little gold digger Naomi is also an event planner?”

  Carmela glanced at the buffet table. “Huh. They’ve already run out of sweet potato casserole and they were skimpy on the shrimp gumbo. If Naomi was my event planner I’d fire her.”

  “Yeah,” Ava snorted. “Out of a cannon.”

  Chapter 15

  IT was almost two o’clock by the time Carmela arrived at Memory Mine, only minutes before she was scheduled to teach a charm bracelet class.

  “There you are!” Gabby exclaimed. “I was wondering when you’d turn up. How was the funeral?”

  “Sad. Strange.”

  “They usually are,” Gabby said. “Did you learn anything new? Did any new clues shake out?”

  Carmela told Gabby about tracking down Isabelle’s lace veil. And how she was going to talk to Devon Dowling, who’d sold it to Naomi. And then pick up the veil at Vesper’s house tomorrow.

  “And what about all those other suspects that have been buzzing around in your head?”

  “Mostly they’re still buzzing,” Carmela said.

  “Oh dear, and I know you made a very big promise to Ellie.”

  “A promise I’m going to try my best to keep,” Carmela said. She picked up a packet of charms and balanced it in her hand. “Bobby Prejean, Isabelle’s boss, thinks we should be looking hard at Julian Drake.”

  Gabby looked startled. “I thought the police had already eliminated him as a suspect.”

  “They did, but I think Drake deserves another look. Apparently he’s been involved in some political maneuvering over at that new Elysian Fields Casino. I got it straight from the horse’s mouth, from the district attorney himself, that his office has been watching the negotiations very carefully.”

  “Holy smokes, does that mean Isabelle was involved, too?”

  Carmela nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

  Gabby winced and held up an index finger. “Which means you’d better be careful, Miss Carmela. You get too close to the killer and your head’s going to end up on the chopping block.”

  “Then you’d have to run the shop yourself.”

  “Oh no you don’t,” Gabby said. “Don’t try to get cute about this and deflect my warning. Murder is serious business. I know you want to help Ellie, but you need to take care of yourself, too.” She hesitated. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

  “So do I,” Carmela said.

  * * *

  Thank goodness, Gabby had already arranged an assortment of link bracelets, charms, fittings, and findings on the back craft table.

  You’re my saving grace, Gabby, Carmela thought as she quickly perused the supplies. Gabby had also put out small bags of jump rings and small plastic trays filled with charms in the shapes of keys, butterflies, letters, numbers, feathers, ballerinas, birds, and stars. Carmela pulled open a drawer and pulled out clear bags that held tiny picture frames, hearts, ovals, and squares. These were designed to hold small pictures and photos and were always very popular.

  Six ladies showed up for the class today. Three of her regulars and three newbies, two of whom were redheaded sisters visiting from Amarillo, Texas.

  “I’d sure like to make a New Orleans–inspired charm bracelet,” said Molly, the talkier of the two sisters. She pronounced it New Or-leens, not the typical N’awlins as natives preferred.

  “Then you’ll need some special charms,” Carmela told her. She pulled out a small box filled with silver charms that depicted tiny magnolias, riverboats, Andrew Jackson statues, gumbo pots, Mardi Gras masks, streetcars, tombstones, lampposts, and fleur-de-lis.

  “And we attach them to these pretty little silver chain bracelets?” said one of the women.

  “Using jump rings,” Carmela said. “Here, I’ll show you how.” She took her small needle-nose jewelry pliers and gently bent open a small jump ring. “Once you’ve worked your jump ring open, you can slide on your charm, and then attach it to your bracelet. Just be sure to gently squeeze your jump ring closed again so your charm hangs on tight.”

  “Easy-peasy,” Molly said.

  “Right,” said her sister.

  “Now what about these little frames?” one of the women asked.

  “You can slide a little photo into those,” Carmela said.

  “Like a locket,” another woman said.

  “That’s right. Then you can put your photo frame on your charm bracelet or string it on a nice ribbon and wear it like a necklace.”

  “Ribbon,” said Molly. “I’m going to need ribbon.”

  * * *

  Once the ladies were completely consumed with designing their bracelets, Carmela slipped into her office and called Babcock.

  “Okay,” she said to him, “I tracked down that veil.”

  “Good girl,” he said. “Where is it? I’d like to have my forensic team take a look at it.”

  “Vesper Baudette has it at her house. I’m going to run over there tomorrow afternoon and pick it up.”

  “Not until tomorrow, huh?”

  “If you’re so hot to take a look at it, why don’t you just get a court order and send a car over there, all lights and screaming sirens?”

  “Because then they’d see me coming.”

  Carmela thought about that for a few moments. “Do you really think Edward or Vesper had something to do with Isabelle’s death?” She certainly did, but she wanted to know where Babcock’s mind was on this.

  “Maybe. We’re still following up with interviews and several other things. Nothing’s really congealed yet.”

  “I need to tell you about something else,” Carmela said.

  “Okay, shoot.”

  “I had a conversation with Bobby Prejean at the luncheon. About how the D.A.’s office was looking into some sort of impropriety surrounding the new Elysian Fields Casino.”

  “Yes,” Babcock said. “I already know about that.”

  “What?” Carmela was surprised and a little disappointed that she wasn’t the one to spring it on him. “You let me go on and on and you already knew about this?”

  “I was trying to see how much you knew. And, just off the bat, I’d have to say it’s too much for comfort. My comfort.”

  “You can’t ask me to investigate some things and not others,” Carmela said. “It’s a package deal.�
��

  “That’s not how I see it.”

  “Have you had a chance to talk to that creepy Hugo Delton yet? He was throwing fish eyes at me again at the luncheon. He strikes me as a stalker type.”

  “No, that would be Oliver Slade.”

  “Maybe we’ve got two stalkers,” Carmela said.

  “Carmela . . .” Babcock’s tone was vaguely threatening. “I’m looking into all of this. Enough said.”

  Carmela could tell when she was pushing Babcock too hard. It was her cue to back off and go underground. What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. “Okay, will I see you tonight?”

  “Can’t, sorry. A detective’s work is never done. But on the bright side, we’ve got your museum thing tomorrow night. So we’ll spend a lovely evening together. I can hardly wait, I so love museum events.”

  “I’m going to ignore your dripping sarcasm for now. Just be sure to wear a tux.”

  “That’s really necessary?”

  “No, you can wear ratty jeans and a concert T-shirt if you want. Of course you have to wear a tux. It’s a black-tie event, for goodness’ sake. There’ll be big-buck donors there.”

  Babcock sighed loudly. “The things you talk me into.”

  “Honey, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

  * * *

  Carmela popped back out to the craft table.

  “How’s everybody doing with their charm bracelets?”

  She was answered with two distracted nods and a grunt. The women were all leaning over their workstations with great intensity, clipping on charms, chattering about themes (a Parisian theme seemed to be the table favorite), and picking out photo frames.

  They don’t even need me anymore.

  But Carmela knew this was how it should be. Once you got a crafter started on a project, their excitement and enthusiasm kicked in big-time. Which meant their minds were whirling and their fingers were twirling.

  “Gabby,” Carmela said, in a low voice, “can you take it from here? I want to run over to Dulcimer Antiques.”

  “Talk to him about that wedding veil?” Gabby asked.

  Carmela nodded.

  “Go,” Gabby urged. “But be careful.”

  * * *

  Devon Dowling, the owner of Dulcimer Antiques, was chubby, semi-balding with a scrawny pigtail that hung halfway down his back, and the biggest gossip in the French Quarter.

  When Carmela walked into his shop, he grinned like the Cheshire cat and said, “Did you hear that Burt Cannedy got busted for selling a hot Guanyin statue?”

  “On purpose?” Carmela asked. She didn’t know exactly what a hot Guanyin statue was, but it sounded vaguely Asian.

  Her question seemed to take some of the wind out of Dowling’s sails. “Well, no. Burt didn’t actually know the statue was stolen goods, but when the original owners tracked it down and got it back, Burt was left holding the bag.”

  “That’s never good.” Carmela glanced around Dulcimer Antiques and wondered how many of his pieces were of questionable origin. The French Quarter, with its almost fifty antique shops, was always a hotbed of buying, selling, and trading. Combine that with a bunch of old families who were often selling off family art and antiques under the noses of close relatives and you had yourself a hopping art market.

  “I have something to show you,” Dowling said. “I know you’re a nut for bronze dogs.”

  “I am.” Carmela had started a collection of antique bronze dogs several years ago, and it had since grown into quite a lovely kennel of canines.

  “Take a gander at this,” Dowling said. “Nineteenth century.” He handed her a dog caught in an elegant stretch, its head slightly lower than its back haunches and curling tail.

  “It’s gorgeous,” she said, just as his pug, Mimi, sauntered out of the back office to see what was going on. Mimi was the canine clone of Dowling, compact and chubby. With a shorter pigtail.

  “For the right price, you could make that puppy yours,” he said.

  “And what’s the right price?”

  Dowling paused and brushed a finger across his lips. “I could easily get five hundred for this. But for you, let’s bring it on down to . . . four?”

  Mimi stared at Carmela with her hard, bright eyes, as if daring her to go for it.

  “I love the dog,” Carmela said. “But I’m afraid it’s not in the budget this month.”

  Dowling took the dog back from her and set it gently on a stone mantelpiece. “Maybe next month, then. We’ll put it here for safekeeping.”

  “What I really came to ask you about,” Carmela said, “is a lace veil. You apparently purchased some vintage clothing a while ago?”

  “Yes,” Dowling said. “I rarely handle items of that ilk, but I happened upon an odd lot at an auction over in Gramercy. I always get excited about auctions along the River Road because of all the enormous plantations that used to be out that way. I think maybe three hundred and fifty at one time? So you can usually find something that’s old and tasty.”

  “And you bought . . . ?”

  “Let’s see.” Dowling waggled his fingers along the side of his cheek. “Along with a set of Limoges china and a set of Buccellati flatware, I purchased that small lot of vintage clothing. A couple of wedding gowns, lace parasols, high-button shoes, kid gloves . . .”

  “And a lace veil.”

  “Yes, and a veil,” Dowling said.

  “And then you sold the veil to a woman by the name of Naomi Rattler?”

  Now Dowling just looked confused. “Maybe. I really can’t remember exactly who purchased it. To tell you the truth, Mimi and I have been so frantically busy lately my brain is pretty much fried.”

  Carmela looked around the shop. It was empty save for her and Dowling. And, of course, Mimi.

  “This is kind of important,” Carmela told him. “It was purchased for a friend of mine who just passed away.”

  “Oh dear. That’s not good.”

  “Is there any way we could confirm this particular sale? Perhaps you could go through your sales records?”

  “My records. Yes, I suppose I could do that.”

  “They’re on your computer?” Carmela prompted.

  As Dowling laughed, his belly actually jiggled along in unison. “Computer? Oh my, no. I do business the old-fashioned way. I keep books.”

  Dowling wasn’t kidding. He actually hauled out an old-school black ledger and began paging through it. Carmela half expected a quill pen to go along with it.

  “It wouldn’t have been all that long ago,” Carmela said. Really, how many antiques had the man even sold in the last month or so? Thirty? Forty at most? After all, he had oodles of competition.

  Dowling ran his finger down the page as his lips moved in silent accompaniment. Then he said, “Okay, this must be it. Who did you say the buyer was?”

  “Naomi Rattler.”

  “The fashion blogger?”

  “I guess she is,” Carmela said. “But I understand she does event planning, too.”

  “Okay, yes. I’ve got it right here. Purchased three weeks ago by N. Rattler. You want her address?”

  “No, that’s okay. And you say the lace veil was old?”

  Dowling thought for a few moments. “Mmn, I’d have to say at least a hundred years. But in very fine condition. No rips or tears, not even a hint of discoloration.”

  “Was it French lace or Belgian lace? Do you remember?”

  Dowling waved a hand. “Honey, I only know the difference between French toast and Belgian waffles. Lace is so not my thing.”

  Chapter 16

  BOO and Poobah were always delighted to have company. Especially when it was Aunt Ava who came for dinner (again!) and brought them bite-sized liver treats.

  “These are one hundred percent organic free-range treats,” Ava said, as she po
pped a bite into each dog’s mouth.

  “Beef liver?” Carmela asked. She was standing at the stove stirring a pot of shrimp gumbo.

  “That’s right.”

  “Then wouldn’t free range be, like, from out on the plains somewhere?”

  “I guess,” Ava said. She wandered into the kitchen and picked up an already open bottle of wine. She tilted it toward Carmela and said, “May I?”

  “Yes, you may.”

  Ava poured herself a glass. “You want some, too?”

  “No thanks.”

  Ava wandered back into the living room and plopped down on the leather sofa. She unfurled a fashion magazine she’d brought along and started paging through it.

  “Have you seen those new swimsuits for guys?” Ava asked. “They’re like a Speedo, only half a Speedo. There’s just a tiny piece of knit fabric that wraps around one leg and another small piece that holds all the important bits together.”

  “Kind of like a slingshot,” Carmela said. Honestly, where did Ava come up with this stuff?

  “Exactly. I find the whole idea rather intriguing. Very continental. Very Saint-Tropez.”

  “Maybe you can talk Naomi into highlighting one of those things on her fashion blog. If she even really writes one.”

  Ava cackled merrily and slapped her leg. “For sure.”

  “Okay,” Carmela said. “Dinner is served.” She carried the bowls of gumbo to the table and said, “Nothing fancy.”

  “We had fancy for lunch,” Ava said. “And look where it got us.”

  “A case of heartburn?”

  Ava nodded. “A little. Or it could’ve come from that third serving of peach cobbler I wolfed down.”

  “Or all those cocktails.”

  They dug into the spicy gumbo while Ava made appreciative murmurs. Then she said, “Oh,” and dug in her handbag. “I brought along a petition for you to sign.”

  “What’s it for?” Carmela asked. The last time she’d signed one of Ava’s petitions she’d almost ended up on Homeland Security’s watch list.

  “You’ll like it. There’s this woman named Danielle who wants to set up feral cat feeding stations all over the city.”