Parchment and Old Lace

by Laura Childs

  Shamus focused a furious glare on Oliver Slade. “Did I hear you threatening Carmela?”

  “Stay out of this,” Slade warned. He flicked his fingers toward Shamus as if shooing a fly. “Our private conversation isn’t any of your business.”

  Shamus folded his arms and struck an imperious pose. “It most certainly is my business, since Carmela is my special guest tonight.”

  Slade stepped out from behind the table and advanced toward Shamus. When he was standing just a foot away, he said, “Maybe you better move along, fella. Stop mouthing off at me.”

  Shamus’s jaw tightened and his eyes blazed. “Maybe you’re the one who should move along. Seeing as how my bank financed most of this little soiree, I can pretty much hire and fire personnel at will.” He smiled at Carmela and Ava. “Are we really in need of this guy’s services?”

  Slade inhaled sharply and turned bright red. “Excuse me, I didn’t . . .” His words trailed off in a low mumble.

  “No, you didn’t,” Shamus said. He was rolling now, pleased with himself, happy he could intimidate someone in front of Carmela and Ava.

  Carmela rested a hand on Shamus’s arm. “Shamus, that’s enough. It’s over.” She half dragged him away from Chef Slade and the appetizer table.

  “But that jerk was threatening you,” Shamus grumped.

  “And you came to my rescue,” Carmela said. “Thank you, Shamus. You did good.”

  “Hey!” a loud, authoritative voice rang out. “What’s the problem here?”

  * * *

  Carmela, Shamus, and Ava all spun about to find Edgar Babcock bearing down on them like a cruise missile, armed and dangerous.

  Carmela held up a hand to ward him off. “It’s over. No harm done.”

  But Babcock was not to be deterred. He glanced over at Chef Slade and said, “Was that guy yelling at you?” Then he did a double take and said, “Holy Christmas, it’s Oliver Slade!”

  Carmela nodded tiredly. “That’s right, one of your suspects.”

  “He’s a suspect?” Shamus screeched. “Suspect in what?”

  “In a murder,” Ava added helpfully.

  “Then you better go arrest him,” Shamus said to Babcock. “Like right now.”

  Babcock shook his head. “I can’t do that. He’s a suspect in an ongoing investigation, yes. But I don’t have enough evidence to charge him. Making that kind of move would gum up everything right now.”

  Shamus leaned toward Babcock and glowered. “Are you taking care of her?” He hooked a thumb and pointed at Carmela. “I mean really taking care of her?”

  Babcock was starting to lose patience. “Of course I am.”

  “But you let that insolent twerp . . . that murder suspect verbally attack Carmela. What kind of escort are you? Why would you leave her all alone and vulnerable?”

  “What am I?” Ava asked. “Chopped liver? Who’s taking care of me?”

  “I think you’ve pretty much demonstrated that you can take care of yourself,” Carmela said.

  “I’m warning you,” Shamus continued. He was stuck on the Carmela-Slade predicament like a burr under a saddle blanket. “You’d better be watching out for her.” He raised his hands as if to give Babcock a shove, but Carmela hastily intervened.

  “Enough,” Carmela said, easing herself between the two men. “Let it go. I’m fine.” She gazed at Ava, who raised a delicate eyebrow. “We’re fine.”

  But Shamus was still mumbling and grumbling under his breath. So much so, that Carmela grabbed Ava and left. Just walked away. If Shamus and Babcock wanted to continue their macho standoff, that was fine with her. But she was tired of watching them act like a couple of Neanderthals about to club each other with a woolly mammoth tusk.

  “That was exciting,” Ava said.

  “No, it was tiresome,” Carmela said. She glanced into a display case that contained a long black dress and saw by the reflection in the glass that Babcock was ambling over to join her.

  “It’s a good thing you divorced that clown,” Babcock said.

  “He’s not all bad,” Carmela said. Wait, was she defending Shamus now? Good grief, what was the world coming to?

  “He’s an idiot,” Babcock said.

  “And you’re coming off way too possessive.”

  Her words gave Babcock pause. “I thought women liked that.”

  “Well, they do.” Carmela smiled. “Sometimes.”

  * * *

  Carmela and Ava circled the gallery, elbowing their way through the crowd of well-heeled art patrons. Ava was having fun, flirting and winking, laughing and drinking, while Carmela was still seriously on the hunt for lace.

  Stopping at one of the larger display cases, a case that held three mannequins dressed in mourning clothes, Carmela said, “There’s some black lace.”

  Ava snapped to attention. “Where you at, hon?”

  “Lace. Trailing down from that bonnet.”

  “Oh yeah. And it looks real old, too.”

  “I wonder if that piece is on loan or if it’s in the museum’s permanent collection,” Carmela said.

  “Let’s see what the little placard here says.” Ava pressed forward, scanned the description, and said, “Oh. Oh no.”

  “What?”

  “I think you better read it for yourself, cher.”

  Carmela read the description, wondering what had gotten such a rise out of Ava. Then her eyes hit the bottom line. “What?” Her voice rose in a querulous squawk.

  The bottom line said: Dress and Bonnet on Loan from the Collection of Vesper Baudette.

  “Vesper?” Carmela was stunned beyond belief. “This stuff’s on loan from Vesper?”

  “From her collection,” Ava said. “Go figure.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “Holy bat poop,” Ava said. “This means . . .” She turned bug eyes on Carmela.

  Carmela seized upon Ava’s thought. “It means that Vesper really could have owned the lace that strangled Isabelle. That Vesper could have done it.”

  “She’s certainly cold enough.”

  “Ice water runs in that woman’s veins,” Carmela added. “And she really disliked Isabelle. A lot.” She shook her head. “I was just at her house this afternoon. And she said nothing—nothing!—about having a costume collection.”

  “So what are you gonna do about it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Tell Babcock?”

  Carmela stood like a pillar of salt. “I’m not sure.”

  * * *

  Carmela needed a drink. In fact, she needed two glasses of wine before she was able to calm down.

  “Feeling better now?” Ava asked. They were sitting at a makeshift café that the museum had put together. A place where tea, Pimm’s Cup, Chardonnay, and Cabernet seemed to be the specialty of the house.

  “Lots better.” Now Carmela was sipping a cup of oolong tea. She figured the tea would somehow counteract the two drinks she’d just slugged down.

  “May I join you?” a male voice asked. And then, before either of them could answer, Bobby Prejean slid into the chair across from them.

  “Bobby,” Carmela said. She was glad to see him. Prejean seemed like a voice of reason in what had turned out to be a night of surprises.

  “How do,” Ava said, fluttering her eyelashes and leaning forward, the better to show off her décolleté.

  “Enjoying the evening?” Prejean asked politely.

  “It’s been a trip and a half,” Ava said.

  Prejean chuckled. “Dare I ask?”

  “We just found out that Vesper Baudette lent some pieces to this show,” Carmela said.

  Prejean leaned forward. “Excuse me?”

  “From her collection of antique clothing,” Ava said.

  Now they really had his attention.
<
br />   “She collects antique clothes?” Prejean said. He digested this information for a few moments, blinked, and said, “But that could mean . . .”

  “Yes,” Carmela said.

  “Does Babcock know about this?” he asked.

  “I plan to enlighten him,” Carmela said.

  Prejean shook his head. “Whew. That’s kind of crazy. That nobody seemed to know about this.”

  “And that Edward Baudette never stepped up to inform anyone,” Carmela added.

  “He’s here tonight,” Prejean said.

  “What?” Carmela said. “Edward is?”

  “And Vesper. I just saw them across the room.”

  “We’ll do our best to avoid them,” Ava said.

  They all sat in silence for a few moments, then Carmela said, “You know, you’re pretty much the last person I expected to see here.”

  “Are you interested in mourning clothes?” Ava asked him.

  “Not a bit.” Prejean nodded into the crowd. “But if you really want to know why I’m here, it’s because I’m interested in him.”

  Carmela and Ava followed his gaze until they saw Julian Drake standing there in a cluster of people.

  “I had no idea he was here, either,” Carmela said, a little startled.

  Prejean gave a sour chuckle. “Wherever there’s money, you’ll find Drake.”

  “You really want to pin something on him, don’t you?” Carmela said.

  Prejean continued to stare at Drake. “You have no idea. He’s nothing but trouble. I’d just as soon run him out of town or convict him of one of many frauds he’s trying to perpetrate on the people of New Orleans.”

  “Besides illegal real estate transactions,” Carmela said, “maybe you even like him for Isabelle’s murder?”

  Prejean sighed. “Well, he certainly strikes me as a viable suspect.”

  “Probably because he is,” Ava said.

  “Bobby Prejean! Mr. Prejean!” shouted an over-caffeinated female voice. Then Zoe Carmichael rushed up to their table. “Excuse me, but, Mr. Prejean . . . could we possibly do a quick interview?”

  The district attorney gave a cautious smile. “Of course. Anything for the viewers of KBEZ.”

  “Great,” Zoe said. She motioned for Raleigh to get ready. “Is it true you might toss your hat into the ring for the next governor’s race?”

  Carmela glanced at Prejean. First she’d heard. “Is it true?” She didn’t think it was a bad idea.

  “No, no,” Prejean demurred gracefully. “It’s far too early to even consider the next gubernatorial race. Besides . . .” He glanced at Carmela again. “I have more important business at the moment.”

  “This guy has become a real media darling,” Zoe said to Carmela as she pulled Prejean close to her so Raleigh could get a two-shot. “You can always count on him for a great quip.” Then she lifted the microphone to her pink-gelled lips, gazed directly into the camera lens, and smiled broadly.

  “And we’re rolling,” Raleigh said.

  Chapter 20

  BABCOCK was stuffing his phone in his pocket when Carmela found him.

  “Ready to go?” he asked.

  “Not exactly,” Carmela said. “But I’m guessing you are.”

  “Hah, we can’t get out of here fast enough. You know who I just ran into? Edward and Vesper Baudette.”

  “I heard they were here.” Carmela sucked in a deep breath. She had to tell him. “Did you know that Vesper has a collection of antique clothing?”

  He cocked a not-quite-believing eye at her. “What?”

  “A couple of the costumes on display here tonight are on loan from her.”

  Babcock stared at her. “You’ve got to be joking.”

  “Hey,” Carmela said, “I can’t make this stuff up.”

  “Well, doesn’t that . . .” He was glowering now. “And neither of them ever said a single word to me about antique clothes.”

  “Something else to look into.”

  “No kidding. You wait here and I’ll grab your opera cape from the coat check.” He frowned again. “Wait a minute, weren’t there three of us? Where’s Ava?”

  “She said she’d find her own way home.”

  “Of course.”

  While Carmela waited for Babcock, she popped open her beaded clutch bag and grabbed a Kleenex. But just as she was about to dab at what felt like a bit of smudged mascara, Julian Drake sidled up to her.

  “Hey,” he said, a magnanimous grin lighting his face. “Having a good time?”

  “It’s been a blast,” Carmela said. Had it really? No. Of course not.

  “Don’t forget about our big Elysian Fields Casino party this Saturday. You’re still invited, you know. Your gal pal Ava, too.”

  “That’s very kind of you.”

  “So you’re coming, right?”

  “Still planning to.” Carmela hoped Babcock didn’t see her talking to Drake. “I suppose all the permits have been issued and construction is ready to begin?”

  “Pretty much,” Drake said. “So we’re going to have what you’d call a ceremonial grand opening. You know, silver shovels, hard hats, and dignitaries du jour. We’re putting up a huge tent on the site and plan to have a couple of bands, lots of free booze, and the best food New Orleans has to offer.”

  “I can’t wait,” Carmela said. Babcock would kill her if he knew she was planning to attend, but she still wanted to keep a watchful eye on Drake. There was something about the man . . .

  “Holy crap, there’s the deputy mayor,” Drake cried. “Gotta go shake hands and make nice with the hoi polloi.” And with that he was gone.

  “Who was that?” Babcock asked from behind her.

  Carmela whirled around to face him. “Hmm?” She wondered if she had a guilty look on her face.

  “It looked like Julian Drake,” he said.

  “It . . . it was.” Carmela wished she had the knack for pulling off slick fibs like Ava did.

  Babcock frowned. “Let me get this straight. You pitched Drake to me as a possible suspect and now you’re making nice with him?”

  “I was simply being polite.”

  “Same thing,” Babcock snapped. “Jeez, Carmela, you’re the one who told me Isabelle was investigating him in a clandestine way.”

  “The man spoke to me; I spoke back. I told you. Polite.”

  “Your idea of polite is to wrap a man around your little finger until he tells you what you want to hear.” He snorted. “I should know.”

  “You’re in a bad mood because you just found out about Vesper’s costume collection.”

  “That and I’m giving you fair warning, Carmela. I want you to steer clear of Julian Drake. No more investigating. That means no wandering into his office, no impromptu lunches, no accidental meetings. Got it?”

  “Sure.” Gulp. And what about his big party?

  Babcock wrapped the cape around her shoulders. “Now let’s . . .” Something flew out of the cape’s inner pocket and went splat on the floor. “What’s that?”

  “Oh darn,” Carmela said. She bent down and picked it up. “These are the brass paper clips Angela asked me to bring along. Do you mind if I take two minutes to run down to her office and give them to her?”

  “No, no, that’s okay,” Babcock said. He suddenly looked worried, as if he knew he’d been too harsh with her. “I’m sorry if I flew off the handle just now. So much is going on and I worry about you.”

  Carmela kissed him on the cheek. “Apology accepted. Be right back.”

  * * *

  Carmela cut back through the lobby and flew down the main corridor, past collections of English silver, a trove of Etruscan vases, and a Greek mosaic. When she hit the Egyptian mummy, she hung a left and sped down a darkened corridor.

  Halfway down, her footsteps ring
ing in her ears, she realized it was very dark. Was this the smartest place to be all by her lonesome?

  Probably not. But she was almost at Angela’s office so . . .

  Carmela slid to a stop. She’d just heard what she thought might be footsteps.

  Behind me? Yes, behind me.

  Heart thumping, she touched a hand to the wall and listened again.

  There’s nothing there.

  She knew that’s what everyone told themselves when there was really a big, bad monster in their closet.

  Uh-oh, bad simile or analogy or whatever it was.

  She listened again and thought she might have detected a faint shuffle. That wasn’t good.

  Carmela put her back against the wall and slid along in the direction of Angela’s office. If the door was unlocked she could creep in there and lock the door behind her. Then she could . . . what?

  She’d call Babcock. That’s what she’d do. Ask him to come and get her.

  It was a good plan; it really was. Except when she got to Angela’s office (still creeping along like a ninja in the dark) the door was locked.

  Time to execute plan B.

  Except there was no plan B. And Carmela was getting more and more frightened. Was someone still there? Or was she just hearing mysterious footsteps in her head?

  No. She was pretty sure someone was following her. She knew in her gut that they were.

  Carmela clenched her hands reflexively. And was suddenly aware of the packet of oversized clips clutched in her right hand.

  Without hesitating, without overthinking it, she stepped into the middle of the corridor, gave a good Roger Clemens windup, and flung the package down the corridor. She heard it whap against the wall, then slap down hard on the floor and slide away.

  And, glory be, that’s when she heard the pitter-patter of footsteps retreating down the hallway. In fact, she listened to them retreating until they faded into nothing at all.

  “Hello?” Carmela called out.

  There was nothing. Just a faint echo of her voice.

  Carmela started walking down the corridor in the direction from which she’d come. Nobody popped out at her. No ghostly hands reached out to grab her around the neck.

  And just as she turned the corner by the Egyptian mummy, just as she stepped into faint light, she felt something catch on her shoe. Something soft.