Parchment and Old Lace

by Laura Childs

  As if on cue, the band suddenly segued from “I Gotta Feeling” by the Black Eyed Peas into “Happy Birthday.”

  Ava clapped happily. “Ooh, here she is. The girl of the hour!”

  The curtains behind the small stage parted, and Baby Fontaine and her dashing husband, Del, suddenly appeared. The guests clapped and cheered as the happy couple waved and blew kisses. Calls of “Bonne Fête” mingled with shouts of “Happy Birthday.”

  “Baby looks radiant,” Carmela said. And she really did. Wearing a pink chiffon gown with sequins at the neckline and hem, Baby sparkled like a miniature constellation.

  “All those sequins,” Ava sighed. “Reminds me of when I was a pageant queen. And look, her nail polish matches her dress perfectly. It’s probably something real posh like ‘Ooh-la-la Rosebud’ or ‘French Peony.’ I wish I could wear fancy polish like that.”

  “You can,” Carmela laughed. “Just stop wearing those acrylic nails.”

  “And all that bloodred lacquer,” Tandy added.

  Ava fluttered her fingers and slashed at the air. “But this color does suit my personality.”

  Baby and Del pushed their way through the enthusiastic crowd, shaking hands, giving kisses, thanking everyone for coming. When they reached Carmela, Ava, and Tandy it was like old home week. And then when Gabby and Stuart showed up, the hugs and kisses got even more frenzied.

  “Were you surprised?” Ava asked Baby.

  “Shocked!” Baby said. She really was doing a marvelous job of acting surprised.

  Finally, Del pulled Carmela aside. “I hope you and Ava are ready to be big-time stage stars,” he said in his trademark Southern lawyer drawl.

  “We’re sure gonna try,” Carmela said. She tapped her handbag. “I’ve got my script right here.”

  Del grinned. “Did you enjoy it?”

  “It’s great.” She’d only skimmed the first ten pages. Figured she could speed-read the rest later.

  Del chomped down on a cigar. “I’m not exactly Mr. Broadway, so I tapped Howard Garland, one of our local actors and playwrights, to honcho this whole theatrical thing.”

  “Okay.” Carmela had never heard of Howard Garland.

  “In fact, you should touch base with him right now. You and Ava.”

  Without waiting for a reply, Del dragged Carmela and Ava backstage into a small, darkened area. Garland was waiting there, looking tall and gangly, pacing nervously. His hair was parted in the middle and he wore a small mustache.

  “Are these my actors?” Garland asked. His voice was slightly quavery.

  “Two of them anyway,” Del told him. Hasty introductions were made, and Carmela and Ava smiled tolerantly as Garland, sipping a tumbler of clear liquid, his Adam’s apple bobbing excitedly, quickly explained the play to them.

  “Great,” Carmela said. What she really meant was, Whatever.

  “Got it,” Ava said, giving Garland a thumbs-up. Either her ADD had kicked in or her mind was elsewhere.

  “This play is filled with both humor and pathos,” Garland told them.

  “I thought it was a fun little murder mystery,” Carmela said. “A one-act play.” She decided Garland was trying to write his own rave review.

  “It is,” Garland said. “But to pull it off, the acting has to be perfect. We only get one chance!”

  “That’s live theatre for you,” Carmela said.

  When Garland skittered off to harass the other actors, Ava arched an eyebrow and said, “The man’s got a white silk scarf wrapped around his neck and he pronounces it thee-ate-er. I’m guessing that means high-strung and temperamental.”

  Carmela patted Ava’s hand. “For Baby’s sake we’ll just have to muddle through.”

  “And was that vodka he was guzzling?”

  “It was either Grey Goose or paint thinner.”

  From off in the restaurant came the high, sweet tinkle of a bell being rung.

  “I think that’s our cue that dinner is being served,” Carmela said.

  “Excellent,” Ava said as they walked back to the table and found their names on the place cards. “By the way, have you read the script?”

  “Naw, I just skimmed it.”

  “Me, too. I was too engrossed in reading the new issue of Star Whacker magazine instead. It was their fat issue.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Oh,” Ava said as they sat down. “It’s something I look forward to all year. The magazine features all these awful candid photos of Hollywood stars, mostly lazing at the beach or sitting on a yacht, with their most unflattering jiggly parts showing.”

  “And you enjoy this . . . why?”

  “Makes me feel good about myself,” Ava said. “Anyway, I figure I’ll read the script just before we go on.”

  “High five,” Carmela said. “That’s my plan, too.”

  Dinner was an elegant sit-down affair that started with an appetizer course of turtle soup and moved on to a second course of trout amandine with mirlitons.

  In between the turtle and the trout, Carmela filled Ava in about her hunt for the matching parchment. She told her about stopping at Cavalier Printing and her theory that the snippet could have come from one of Naomi’s posters.

  “I knew there was something I didn’t trust about that little twit,” Ava said. “She’s a cold-blooded killer, I just know it.”

  “I’m afraid we don’t know anything for sure.”

  Ava sighed and took a sip of wine. “Where’s the bit of parchment now?”

  “Babcock’s got it.”

  “Huh. I hope he can make something happen.”

  “I know,” Carmela said. “It feels like this murder case is really dragging on.”

  “Think how poor Ellie feels.”

  * * *

  Just as the dessert course was being served, Garland plucked at Carmela’s sleeve. “We’re almost ready to start the play,” he whispered.

  “Now?” She was reluctant to relinquish her pecan pie.

  But Garland was insistent. “Come on, you two. Hurry up.”

  So along with three other hapless guests, Carmela and Ava shuffled backstage, ready to act their little hearts out.

  “You’re to play the very haughty Esmeralda,” Garland told Ava. “And you . . . Carmela, is it? You are to play the visiting cousin Miss Fabian.”

  Carmela, not wanting to leave this completely to chance, whipped out her script and did a speed-read through the entirety of the play. When she hit page twelve, her eyes goggled and she said, “Wait a minute, I’m the killer?”

  Garland bobbed his head. “Yes, so as Miss Fabian you’re going to have to be your most menacing.”

  Ava let loose a high-pitched giggle. She thought this was hysterical.

  “I’m not menacing,” Carmela said. “Look at me. I’m wearing a vintage wrap dress and flats, for goodness’ sake. I look like a soccer mom who shops at Macy’s and drives a minivan, not some crazy chick thrill killer.”

  “I know how to make you a lot scarier,” Ava said. She reached into her voluminous purse and pulled out a big black metal gun. “Here, use this as a prop.”

  Carmela was appalled. “You’ve got a gun?” She accepted it like she was handling a dead rat. “Dear Lord, you’re plum crazy, lady. Where on earth did you get a gun?”

  “Remember that zombie run we took part in at Halloween? The one that the New Orleans Police Department sponsored?”

  Carmela cocked an eye at her. “Yeah?”

  “This is the gun I used.”

  “So you stole it from the police department?”

  Ava lifted a shoulder. “More like appropriated it.”

  “Then you realize this isn’t an actual weapon,” Carmela said, feeling a little better. “It doesn’t fire real bullets. It’s a paintball gun.”

  “That’s
the beauty of it,” Ava said. “You can intimidate people like crazy, but nobody’s gonna get their fool head blown off. They’ll just get whopped with a big blob of paint.”

  “I like it,” Garland burbled.

  “You would,” Carmela said.

  * * *

  The play was really a silly little drawing room comedy. A waiter was shanghaied to stumble out with fake blood smeared all over his shirt, lights flipped on and off, and Garland played the role of the rather pompous private investigator.

  Carmela felt like an idiot running on and off stage, but their audience—especially Baby—seemed to be enjoying the spectacle immensely. Whether it was the lines that Garland had penned, the frantic pace of the play, or just seeing their friends stumble, flub, and giggle their lines, the crowd clapped, cheered, and even hissed in all the right places.

  As the finale approached, Carmela was unmasked and apprehended, and cheap tin handcuffs (surely bought from the Dollar Store) were slapped on her wrists. Then, as the audience clapped wildly, all the actors took a collective bow just as two waiters rolled out an enormous pink five-layer birthday cake. Candles blazed, sparklers sparked, and champagne corks popped. It was a wild combination of New Year’s Eve, Mardi Gras, and Bourbon Street on a slow Tuesday. The band struck up “Happy Birthday” yet again, and this time everyone joined in the singing.

  Baby jumped to her feet, put both hands to her lips, and flung thank-you kisses at everyone.

  “Speech,” her husband yelled. “Speech.”

  Wiping tears from her eyes, Baby leaped onto the stage.

  “Thank you, thank you all,” she gushed. “I’m thrilled and absolutely surprised by this amazing celebration.” Her eyes sought out Carmela’s and she gave a slow wink. “Thank you all so much for your amazing outpouring of love. This has been the best party a girl could ever wish for on her ‘eleventy-twelfth’ birthday.” She paused. “Now let’s cut the cake!”

  * * *

  “We did it,” Ava said, grasping Carmela’s arm. “We pulled it off.”

  “Wonderful, just wonderful,” Garland gushed. He seemed to have found a new tumbler of clear liquid and was bolting it down like mad.

  Carmela held up her hands. “Just get these things off me, okay?”

  Ava removed Carmela’s handcuffs and then patted her hair. In the heat and humidity, Ava’s hair seemed to have increased tenfold in volume. “How do I look?” she asked.

  Carmela gazed at her friend. “You want the truth?”

  “Ooh, I guess.”

  “It looks big. Like . . . really big.”

  “Uh-oh. And how’s my mascara?”

  Carmela didn’t want to say it had morphed into a tarantula, so she just made a tiny little grimace.

  That sent Ava into a paroxysm of worry. “I better freshen up.”

  “Not a bad idea,” Carmela said. She was dying to get a breath of fresh air herself. And to get away from Howard Garland, who was now trying to embrace all the female actors and give them big wet smooches.

  They ducked out of the party room and strolled through the back half of Parpadelle’s dining room. It was dark and moody here, with lots of potted palms and red leather booths. Waiters spoke in hushed tones and swished back and forth on Oriental carpeting. It was the kind of quiet, private dining room where one could have an assignation.

  As they slid behind a potted palm tree, Ava said, “Cripes. Do you see who’s sitting up front?”

  Carmela’s head swung around. “Who?”

  Then she spotted the two of them for herself. Vesper and Edward Baudette. Seated at a table just opposite the bar. Two wine bottles rested in silver wine buckets, and they were surrounded by various silver trays. It would appear they were enjoying a rather elaborate dinner.

  “It doesn’t look like being in mourning has spoiled their appetites,” Ava said.

  “No, it doesn’t,” Carmela agreed. “What’s that the waiter’s bringing to their table? You see that? In the covered dish?”

  They watched as the waiter took the top off with a flourish and tipped it toward Vesper.

  “I think that’s Lobster Thermidor,” Ava said.

  “Hmm,” Carmela said. “The specialty of the house.”

  “No holding back.”

  “Spare no expense,” Carmela said. Then, “There’s something not quite right about those two. They give off this . . . what would you call it? Vibe of suspicion. Their actions, their reactions, nothing seems normal.”

  “I hear you,” Ava said. “And I personally believe the killer could be any one of three people: Edward, Vesper, or Naomi. Take your pick. Or maybe they’re all in cahoots.”

  “Did you get a chance to really look at the Mourning Cloak show last night?” Carmela asked.

  “Mmn . . . no, not exactly. I was pretty busy with other things.”

  “I think it’s strange—and maybe telling—that some of the funeral clothing was actually on loan from Vesper’s private collection.”

  “It’s very hinky.”

  “It made me so suspicious and angry,” Carmela said, “that I went back to Vesper’s home this morning to confront her. I mean, she knows the killer used antique lace to strangle Isabelle. So why didn’t she just come forward and tell the police about her collection? If she had nothing to hide, that is.”

  Ava narrowed her eyes. “Maybe she does have something to hide.” She paused. “Have you mentioned any of this to Ellie yet?”

  “No,” Carmela said. “I didn’t want to overwhelm her.”

  “Too much information, yet not enough of the right information.”

  “Something like that.”

  “You know what?” Ava fixed Carmela with an evil glint in her eyes. “I think we should pay a visit to Vesper’s house and take a gander at that antique costume collection for ourselves.”

  “I already tried. Vesper barely let me past the front door.”

  “That’s not quite what I meant.”

  “Wait a minute,” Carmela said. “You mean break into her house? Into her mansion?”

  Ava had a cool answer for everything. “It won’t technically be breaking in, cher, since you were just there. It’ll be more like . . . you overstayed your welcome.”

  Chapter 25

  VESPER’S home was dark as a tomb when Carmela and Ava pulled up in front.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Carmela asked. She turned off the ignition and listened to the engine tick down.

  “Absolutely,” Ava said. “Why wouldn’t we?”

  “I can think of a half dozen good reasons why not. The least of which is we might get caught red-handed and hauled off to jail.”

  Ava pushed a hunk of hair off her face. “Babcock would never let that happen.”

  Carmela knew differently. “Oh yes, he would.”

  “Still,” Ava said. “Don’t you want to be privy to the mysteries inside Vesper Baudette’s white elephant of a house? Don’t you want to get a peek at her vintage clothing collection? Aren’t you interested in seeing if she’s got a spool of antique Belgian lace stuck in a cupboard somewhere?”

  It was the notion of antique lace that finally got Carmela out of the car. If Vesper actually possessed some antique lace that matched the lace that had choked the life out of Isabelle . . . well, then, it would be case closed, wouldn’t it? And that would be a very good thing for everyone concerned. Except, of course, for Vesper.

  They stood for a moment, staring at the dark house. With just a sliver of moon casting light and dark shadows, the place looked foreboding. Dangerous. Then Ava grabbed Carmela’s arm and said, “Let’s sneak around back. See if we can pry open a door or force a window.”

  “Why does this seem like a horrible idea?” Carmela asked. She cast an eye at the mottled sky where low, gray clouds scudded by.

  “Shh,” Ava said as
they headed down the driveway and disappeared into the darkness of the side portico. “Pipe down. We don’t want to bring the neighborhood watch people down on our heads.”

  But breaking and entering proved to be much more difficult than Ava thought it would be. Five minutes later they were still stumbling through a tangle of shrubbery, searching for an open window where they might gain entry.

  “This is awful,” Carmela whispered. “My heels keep sinking into an inch of muck and I feel like I’m being shredded. There’s, like, thorns on all these bushes.”

  “Suck it up, girlfriend,” Ava said. “We can handle it.”

  “You really do have a criminal mind, you know that?”

  “Huh?” Ava said as she stood on her tiptoes and batted at a screen. “Me a criminal? Naw, I’m a good girl.”

  “You’re always trying to lead me astray.”

  “No way,” Ava said. “You’re the one who pulls me into these crazy murder mystery capers.” She paused as her fingers scrabbled at the bottom of the screen. Jimmying it back and forth a couple of times until it hung loose, she said, “Hey, I think I just popped this one!” There was a loud ripping sound, and then Ava lifted off a window screen and lowered it toward Carmela. “Stow this sucker someplace, will you?”

  Carmela grabbed the screen and leaned it up against what had to be a thornbush.

  “Now get over here. Lace your fingers together and give me a boost. This inside window is open.”

  “Ava . . .” Against her better judgment, Carmela came forward, her hands reluctantly clutched together.

  “Hold me steady now.”

  Then it was just a matter of Ava alley-ooping up the side of the house, cranking her leg up and over the wooden sill, and then flopping inside.

  “Ouch.” Ava had made it inside, probably in a sunroom or back porch, but she’d clearly landed on something uncomfortable.

  “You okay?” Carmela hissed.

  “Yeah.” Ava’s voice sounded hollow and low. “I think maybe I grazed a Christmas cactus when I touched down. Ouch. There are stickles, anyway.”

  “Welcome to the club. We can rub hydrocortisone cream on each other’s wounds when we’re finished. If we ever finish.”