Parchment and Old Lace

by Laura Childs

  “Maybe.”

  “Are you going to hand this over to Babcock? I mean, finding it in the cemetery like that, right where you got clunked with the gate . . . well, it seems like a legitimate clue.”

  “I don’t know. It could be nothing.”

  But Gabby wasn’t buying it. “And it could be something important.” She shook a finger at Carmela. “You’d better be careful.”

  The phone rang and Carmela figured she’d been saved by the bell. But nothing was further from the truth. Ellie was on the phone and she was babbling like crazy, basically in a blind panic.

  “What? What?” Carmela said to her. “Slow down so I can understand you.”

  “I think somebody broke into my apartment last night!” Ellie cried.

  “What? Last night while you were sleeping?”

  “No, no, I think it happened when we were at the cemetery. But I just noticed it now.”

  “You noticed what?”

  “That my window was unlocked. And there’s, like, a tiny pry mark.”

  “And you’re sure you’re alone? That nobody’s hiding in some nook or cranny?”

  “I’m sure,” Ellie said. “I just grabbed a great big kitchen knife and walked through my entire apartment with it clutched in my hand. Looked in my closet, under the bed . . . you know, the usual places where a potential maniac would hide.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “No, I called you. I kind of hit the old panic button.”

  “Is anything missing from your apartment?” Carmela asked.

  “That’s the weird part,” Ellie said. “Nothing’s gone, but it feels like somebody came in and took a look around. Things are like . . . disturbed. Not a lot but a little. Do you know what I mean? Am I making any sense?”

  “I know what you mean,” Carmela said. She hesitated. “Okay, you need to do a couple of things.”

  “Like what?”

  “You have to call Detective Babcock and report this immediately. I don’t know, he might send a squad out to investigate, or maybe some of the crime-scene guys. If he does, great. If not, call me back and I’ll beat him on the head. Also, you need to contact your landlord right away and have the locks changed. Can you do all that?”

  “I can do that,” Ellie said. “And thank you. Thank you for always being there.”

  “Okay, take care. Talk to you later.” Carmela hung up the phone and gazed at Gabby.

  “Now what?” she said.

  So Carmela told her about the maybe-sorta break-in.

  “And nothing was missing?”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “Weird,” Gabby said. “Why would somebody break in but not take anything? Who would break in?”

  “I don’t know,” Carmela said as a thought flickered into her brain. Hugo Delton had hinted about drugs. Had someone been searching for Isabelle’s drugs, or had he just been full of hot air?

  She also wondered if Edward had snuck in to take a final look around. Or could it have been Chef Slade doing one final stalk? Whoever this strange predator had been, it certainly seemed as if they wanted one last sniff.

  * * *

  Carmela felt jittery for the rest of the morning. Even after she knocked back a tuna fish sandwich on a mini French baguette, bag of chips, and Diet Coke from Pirate’s Alley Deli, she still felt queasy. Plus, it was getting close to the time when she was supposed to pay a visit to Vesper Baudette. Just the thought of confronting that rather formidable opponent made her slightly woozy. Because even though Vesper might be eccentric or even crazy, she was rich, well-connected crazy. And in New Orleans, rich and well connected trumped everything else.

  Carmela shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. But they circled around and came back again. She thought for a moment and then dialed the number for the district attorney’s office and asked for Bobby Prejean.

  He came on the phone sounding harried and busy. But when Carmela told him about the break-in at Ellie’s apartment and asked about the possibility that Isabelle had been involved in drugs, he got both quiet and serious.

  “Are you kidding?” Prejean said. “Isabelle was as straight as an arrow. She’d never use drugs. Heck, she was a health nut. She used to run across the street to Toby’s Juice Bar and get wheatgrass shooters. Stuff looked like swamp water but she loved ’em.”

  “The thing is,” Carmela said, “Hugo Delton said that Isabelle might have been involved with drugs.”

  “Delton’s an idiot,” Prejean snapped. “He’s already on notice. Problem is, it’s almost impossible to get rid of a city employee. You’ve got to run it past three boards and a mediator, and then they always get a state rep to defend them. Impossible situation.”

  “Thank you,” Carmela said. “You just made me feel a whole lot better.” Except for the fact that he came to call on me. That he knows where I live.

  “If I could only figure out how to get rid of Delton,” Prejean grumped.

  * * *

  Carmela was about to edge out the door when Baby Fontaine came bouncing in. Petite, fifty-ish, with a distinct patrician air and dressed in one of her trademark Chanel jackets paired with slim blue jeans, Baby was one of her dearest friends.

  Carmela hoped Baby wasn’t there to ask her about the party on Friday night, since Del explicitly wanted it to be a surprise to her.

  But Baby was there on another mission. She wanted to grab a bunch of scrapbook supplies.

  “I promised my garden club that I’d help get a scrapbook started,” Baby said. “Everyone took beaucoup snaps of their gardens and boulevards this summer, and they all want to assemble it into a scrapbook.” She shrugged. “I guess it’s the digital equivalent of pressing flowers.”

  Carmela immediately thought of the felt daisies, and then dismissed them. They were too cheesy for an upscale Garden District scrapbook. But she had lots of other gorgeous items that would work.

  “You’ve already selected an album?” Carmela asked.

  Baby nodded. “It’s the white one with the floral cover that I bought from you last month.”

  “Then you’re probably going to need some floral paper to match.”

  “Exactly what I thought.”

  Carmela cruised past her paper bins, grabbing at least a dozen different sheets of paper. Some were alive with blossom and bloom designs; some were handmade papers with subtle bits of flower petals embedded in the fibers.

  “Oh,” Baby said. “The handmade paper, for sure.”

  Carmela pulled out a sheet of cream-colored paper. “This is one of the best ones we carry. Handmade in Thailand and embedded with yellow galanda petals.”

  “Then that’s the one we should go with.”

  “Let’s see,” Carmela said, grabbing a few more items. “You’re going to need gossamer ribbon, some silk petals, fusible fibers, and maybe a few bird and dragonfly embellishments.”

  Baby grinned. “Load me up, girlfriend.”

  Carmela grabbed two rubber stamps and added them to the mix. “Let me ask you something.”

  “Mm hm.” Baby was busy perusing the display of stencils.

  “How well do you know Vesper Baudette?”

  “Just well enough to say hi to,” Baby said. Then her head snapped up and she suddenly went cross-eyed. “Wait a minute, does this have anything to do with the murder of Edward Baudette’s fiancée?”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “I read about that in the paper,” Baby said, scrunching up her face.

  “The thing is,” Carmela said, “the murdered woman, Isabelle, is the sister of Ellie Black.”

  “Ava’s Ellie? The one in the purple skirt who tells fortunes and reads cards?”

  “That’s the one.”

  Now Baby was extremely interested. “Mmn . . . and let me guess, you’re investigating?”
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br />   “Only because Ellie begged me to.”

  “And because you’ve got an insatiable curiosity.”

  “There’s that,” Carmela admitted. “So . . . what do you really know about Vesper Baudette?”

  “Well, she’s a neighbor of sorts, since she lives a few blocks from me in the Garden District.”

  “What else?”

  Baby thought for a few moments. “I’d have to say that Vesper’s not all that friendly. I mean, she’s a member of the garden club and all. And was supposed to have her garden open for visitors during our annual Garden Club Ramble. Only she didn’t. She gave us some runaround about how she was way too busy.”

  “Do you think she really was?” Carmela asked.

  “No,” Baby said. “I think Vesper’s just cranky and antisocial.”

  Carmela carried all of Baby’s scrapbook supplies up to the front counter so Gabby could begin ringing her up. “The reason I ask is that I’m supposed to be at Vesper’s house in about . . .” She glanced at her watch. “About fifteen minutes.”

  “Then you’d better get going,” Baby said.

  “You go on,” Gabby added. “I can take care of things here.”

  “Okay,” Carmela said. “Thanks. I’ll catch you guys later.”

  “See you Friday night.” Baby gave a big wink. “At the party.”

  “That’s supposed to be a surprise!” Carmela cried, just as she was halfway out the door.

  Baby laughed. “I’m a pretty good actress. So I’ll be sure to act surprised.”

  * * *

  Vesper Baudette’s home was located on Prytania Street, barely two blocks from Lafayette Cemetery. As Carmela homed in on it, she felt like she was constantly being pulled back to this part of town. The murder last Sunday, their creepy-crawl last night, now she was passing by it again today. Could this just be a crazy coincidence or was something else at work here?

  Carmela wasn’t a big believer in fate or destiny, but it sure felt like something had been preordained.

  She was also noodling around the idea that Vesper might have been the one who lured Isabelle into the cemetery and strangled her that fateful night. Vesper was a strong, stocky woman, so she could have managed it. Then, living as close as she did, it would have been easy for her to make a quick getaway.

  But wait—then Vesper had to have been the one who smacked me with the gate. Could that have been Vesper? Was that my first encounter with her? Is that why she always pretends not to know me?

  Carmela also thought it possible that Vesper could have snuck into Ellie’s apartment last night. Vesper was unfriendly, confrontational, and a bit irrational. So she could have easily decided to root through Ellie’s belongings.

  Looking for what? To steal something Edward had given to Isabelle? Maybe. Possibly. She’d have to think about that.

  Carmela pulled her car up in front of Vesper’s home. She gazed at the place, giving it the once-over, and immediately felt intimidated.

  The place was enormous. A two-story brick mansion with a double-pitched hipped roof, surrounded by sumptuous grounds and an elegant wrought-iron fence. There was a front veranda that ran the width of the entire house and a magnificent covered side portico where a brick driveway no doubt led to a carriage house. The last time she’d paged through Delta Living magazine, a couple of these white elephants had been for sale with astronomical asking prices that topped two million. Amazing. Just amazing that a house could cost so much. Because how much did one person need, really? She had a one-bedroom apartment that held all her worldly possessions just fine. Ava lived in a studio. Of course, her closets were jam-packed with party clothes and she stored most of her shoes and boots in the oven.

  Carmela strolled up the front walk, stood poised on the veranda, and rang the doorbell. She could hear its chimes echoing deep within the house. Bing, bang, bong. Minutes later, an unsmiling maid opened the door partway.

  “Yes?” the maid said. She was of an indeterminate age and wore no makeup. The word plain would have been kind.

  “Carmela Bertrand to see Mrs. Baudette.”

  The maid hesitated momentarily, no doubt thinking that perhaps Carmela should have used the service entry. Then she opened the door and allowed her in.

  “This way, please.” The maid led Carmela through a large, dimly lit entry that was paneled in dark wood—possibly teak—and then down a hallway. Halfway down, she stopped, pointed, and said, “You may wait in there.”

  Carmela walked into what had probably been an impressive library at one time, but was now a quasi library–sitting room. That is, there were books on some of the floor-to-ceiling shelves, but not on all of them. The shelves not occupied by books held a mishmash of things—statuary, framed photos, small needlepoints under glass, ceramic cherubs, and a few antique plates.

  The furniture was heavy and slightly depressing, a wine-colored sofa and two chairs that looked like they could use a good steam cleaning. Still, Vesper was rich, and rich people often lived quirky lives.

  The one painting that hung over the fireplace, a portrait of a man standing on a dock in front of a three-masted schooner, was the crowning glory of the room. It was dark and moody, but managed to have touches of light in all the right places. This painting wasn’t just your garden-variety portrait, either. This one had been created by a seriously talented artist who knew exactly what he was doing.

  “You like the painting?” Vesper asked. She was suddenly standing in the doorway, staring at Carmela.

  “Very much,” Carmela said.

  “It’s my grandfather. Colonel Josiah B. Wilkerson. He was one of the early sugar plantation owners. From up the River Road near Darrow.”

  Carmela gave a faint smile. “Very impressive.”

  “I really don’t know why you’re here,” Vesper said.

  “The veil.”

  “I know you’re here about the veil. I just don’t know why you want it.”

  Carmela kept a respectful expression on her face, all the while wishing somebody would drop a house on Vesper, Wizard of Oz style.

  “I’m here for Ellie’s sake. Because it would be a grand gesture on your part to let her have her sister’s veil.”

  Vesper sighed heavily, and then swept an arm toward a low table that was pushed up against a wall. Carmela hadn’t noticed the blue box sitting on top of it. Now she moved toward it. “This is it?”

  Vesper nodded.

  Gently, carefully, Carmela removed the top of the box and set it aside. Then she reached in, through a dozen layers of tissue paper, and a drift of lace fluttered out.

  “My goodness,” Carmela said. “This is exquisite. It’s hard to believe this veil is one hundred years old.”

  “Yes,” Vesper said. “It’s a gorgeous heirloom. Naomi Rattler may be a bit of a self-involved simpleton, but the girl does have a certain degree of taste. She chose well.”

  Carmela examined the veil carefully. It was a cascading two-tier cathedral veil made from ivory-colored silk net tulle. It was probably Edwardian or Victorian or maybe could have been worn by one of the women of Downton Abbey. The veil was trimmed in exquisite lace and looked completely intact. In other words, it didn’t look as if a hunk of lace had been stripped from it to be used as a garrote.

  “This is an amazing find,” Carmela said. “Naomi was lucky that she was able to source it.”

  “Yes, trust Naomi to be a clever little kitty.”

  There was something about the way Vesper said Naomi’s name that tripped Carmela’s radar.

  “How long have you known Naomi?” Carmela asked.

  “As long as Edward has known her,” Vesper said. Her eyes seemed to dance with a little something extra. Was it mirth? “You realize,” Vesper continued, “that Edward and Naomi used to be inseparable. In fact, I thought for sure that the two of them would get married.”

>   “But then Edward fell in love with Isabelle,” Carmela said.

  Vesper sighed. “Yes, he did.”

  “It seems to me Edward and Naomi are still awfully close.”

  Vesper gave a garish wink. “You never know. They could always rekindle the old flame.”

  Carmela decided that’s exactly what Naomi had already done. Yes, this was definitely Naomi’s second chance. The first time she’d set her sights on Edward, Isabelle had come along and dashed her hopes.

  But not to be deterred, had Naomi hatched a fiendishly clever plan? Had Naomi gotten incredibly tight with Isabelle with only one thing in mind—that being to kill her?

  It was an awful, dark, twisted thought. But Carmela knew it was one that just might carry a grain of truth.

  “Thank you,” Carmela said abruptly. She suddenly wanted to get as far away from Vesper as possible.

  “You’re going to have to tell Naomi that you took the veil,” Vesper said. “She’s going to want to know, since she’s the one who bought it.”

  “I’ll tell her,” Carmela said. But to herself she thought, I’ll tell her when I’m good and ready.

  Chapter 18

  WHEN Carmela’s doorbell rang, Boo and Poobah rushed the door like a crowd of teenage girls rushing the stage at a One Direction concert. But when the door opened and Babcock stepped in, their ears drooped and they immediately lost interest. Babcock was a party pooper. He never brought doggy treats.

  “You’re a little early,” Carmela said breathlessly. “I’m still getting ready.”

  Babcock gave Carmela a slow, admiring once-over. Her black-on-black lace bodice fit snuggly over a black silk ruched skirt. A black satin belt with an emerald buckle cinched her waist, and she was jacked up a good three inches in a pair of Manolo Blahnik high heels.

  “Don’t you look tasty and glam,” Babcock said. “Makes me almost glad I wore my tux.”

  Carmela smiled back at him. “And you look very dashing,” she said, just as his hand went up to fuss with his bow tie.