Parchment and Old Lace

by Laura Childs

  “All I know,” Babcock said, “is that there’s been a meeting called for late afternoon. The mayor just got back in town and he’s asking the city council and top law enforcement officials to sit in.”

  “And you would be one of those top officials?”

  “Don’t play cute, Carmela. This is serious business.”

  “Okay, okay. Apologies.”

  “Just be careful, Carmela. And don’t take any unnecessary risks.”

  “I will,” she said. “I won’t. Hey, let me know what happens with your meeting, okay?”

  But Babcock had already hung up.

  “Huh,” Carmela said. She stood up, stretched, and rolled her head from one side to the other, trying to stretch out the kinks. Then she walked out into the retail area, in search of a teapot rubber stamp, her hand unconsciously brushing the itch on her neck where the thorn had stuck her.

  Gabby glanced up from the front desk. “Everything okay? I couldn’t help but overhear some of your conversation. It sounded like you were verbally jousting with Babcock.”

  “Oh, Babcock’s got his undies in a . . .” That was all she was able to get out before the front door burst open and Naomi Rattler stormed in.

  “How dare you!” Naomi screamed. She didn’t even bother with a howdy-do. “How dare you!”

  Carmela and Gabby exchanged glances and then looked back at Naomi. Her face was bright red, she was clenching her fists, and her nostrils were actually flaring out with every angry exhalation.

  “How dare you try to put my life under a microscope!” Naomi shrilled. “Unlike you two, I have a reputation to uphold.” Now she started shaking her finger. “And I warn you—you will not succeed in besmirching my good name.”

  Carmela blinked. This was a side of Naomi she’d never seen before. She’d seen her weird, snippy side, yes. But this was something else. This was pure, unadulterated, so-angry-you’re-shaking rage. She wondered if Naomi could have directed some of that barely contained rage at Isabelle.

  “What are you talking about?” Carmela asked, though she knew darn well what Naomi was screaming about. She’d found out that Gabby called about the poster. “There’s no besmirching going on here, if that’s even a word, so there’s no reason to . . .”

  “No reason?” Naomi’s voice rose to an almost painful high C as she shouted at Carmela. “Your meek little assistant over there had the audacity to call the people at the Old Town Repertory Theatre. How dare you put her up to that! Those are my clients. In fact, they’ve been important clients for years.”

  “Do you want to take it down a notch?” Carmela said. “Try to be reasonable?”

  “I don’t want to be reasonable,” Naomi screamed. “I’m mad. In fact, I’m thinking of taking legal action against the both of you.”

  “Good luck with that,” Gabby muttered.

  Naomi turned on her. “You little weasel!”

  That was enough for Carmela. She advanced on Naomi like Attila the Hun about to conquer the Eastern Roman Empire. “How dare you waltz in here and insult me, my friend here, and my shop. Gabby can call anyone she chooses for any reason she wants. And you, Naomi Rattler, can just stuff it. It’s just too freaking bad if your feathers are ruffled.”

  Naomi fairly seethed with outrage. “Vesper Baudette warned me about you.” Her voice was a dramatic hiss. “She said you were meddlesome and a troublemaker. I can see she was right.”

  Carmela finally found a hatchet she could throw back. “And the last time your name came up, Vesper referred to you as a simpleton.”

  “Liar,” Naomi cried. “You’re a liar.”

  “Your moment is over,” Carmela said. She threw an arm out and pointed toward the door. “Get out. And don’t ever come back.”

  Naomi’s mouth pulled into an ugly, grim line and her eyes blazed with fury. “Don’t worry,” she cried. “I will never set foot in your crappy little shop again!” And, with that, she jerked open the door and flounced out.

  Carmela and Gabby looked at each other in the wake of Hurricane Naomi. Carmela was ready to burst into laughter, but she could see that Gabby was close to tears.

  “I’m sorry,” Gabby said. She shook her head regretfully. “I should have never called my friend at the theatre. I overstepped my boundary.”

  “You didn’t,” Carmela said, rushing to her side. “You were simply investigating.”

  “But still . . .” Gabby brushed away a tear. “I’m sorry I poked my nose in.”

  “Don’t be,” Carmela said. “You did good.”

  Gabby threw her an incredulous look. “I did? Really?”

  Carmela nodded. “You were trying to help out and you did.”

  “And that’s a good thing?”

  “Yes,” Carmela said. “In fact, you’re getting to be as daring and suspicious and devious as I am.”

  “Thank you,” Gabby said. “I think.”

  “And Naomi is a foolish child.”

  “I think so, too.”

  “Knock, knock,” came a woman’s voice.

  They both looked toward the door, fearing that Naomi had made a return trip.

  “Are you open for business?” a woman asked in a semi-whisper.

  “We sure are,” Carmela said.

  The woman smiled. “Because I wasn’t sure. You two looked so serious.”

  “We’re always serious about scrapbooking,” Gabby said, a big smile suddenly brightening her face. “Now how can I help?”

  “Botanical paper?” the woman said. “The kind with fibers in it?”

  Gabby perked up. “Mulberry, mango, or banana leaves?”

  Chapter 27

  GABBY took a quick peek at her watch, a stunning gold Chopard that Stuart had bought her just after he’d closed the deal on his sixth Toyota dealership.

  “Time to lock up?” she asked. It was almost one o’clock Saturday afternoon and they’d agreed to close the shop early. Gabby was attending the Sweet City Charity Ball tonight and Carmela had the Elysian Fields Casino party. They’d both readily agreed that it took a girl a good four or five hours to bathe, steam, primp, curl her hair, apply a few layers of makeup, pick an outfit, and then accessorize it properly. Allowing, of course, for numerous revisions along the way. Gorgeous never came easy. In fact, it was a lifelong struggle.

  “Okay,” Carmela said as she shrugged her hobo bag onto her shoulder and scurried toward the front door. “I’m heading out right now.” She hesitated. “Are you okay?”

  Gabby waved a hand. “If you’re asking about the Naomi incident, I’m totally over it. I’m not going to let her occupy any real estate in my mind.”

  “Good girl.”

  “So have a great time at the casino party tonight,” Gabby said. “Just please don’t go all in and lose your pocket money playing blackjack. And for gosh sakes be careful.”

  “Don’t worry. Besides, I think they’re handing out free chips. And I will be careful.”

  “Watch out for any weird guys.”

  “Hah,” Carmela said. “All guys are weird. You should know that by now.” She hesitated again at the door. “Are you coming? Or do you want me to wait for you?”

  “I’ve got five more invoices to check against these orders and then I’ll be out of here in twenty minutes—so no need for you to wait.”

  “You sure?”

  “Go.”

  Carmela did. In fact, she was a woman on a mission. She planned to swing by Juju Voodoo, have a quick confab with Ava about what to wear tonight, and then go home. She figured she might even have time to take Boo and Poobah for a quick afternoon stroll before she had to throw herself full tilt into getting ready.

  But first, Carmela was headed for Café du Monde to pick up her drug of choice—fluffy, soft, sugary, sinful beignets. If you lived in New Orleans, or if you were visiting New Orleans, y
ou’d eventually wind up here—under the ubiquitous green-and-white-striped awnings. You’d listen to street musicians while you waited in line to grab a couple cups of chicory coffee and a cardboard tray (or two) of fresh beignets.

  And then you’d dive in and launch yourself straight to heaven.

  * * *

  “Did you really?” Ava trilled as Carmela stepped into her voodoo shop. Her nose twitched like a bunny rabbit as the smell of powdered sugar–coated beignets wafted toward her. “Because I haven’t had a bite of lunch yet and I’m starving.” She grabbed a beignet from the tray, closed her luscious lips around it, and chewed. A beatific smile spread across her lovely face. “Mmn, na tha ith pr hvn.” She was chewing while she rhapsodized, but Carmela picked up the basic gist of her words.

  “Nothing like a good sugar high to propel you through the afternoon,” Carmela said. “And probably into the evening.” She’d already eaten one of the beignets on the way over. Who could resist! Now she reached for a pair of earrings that were sitting on the counter. “These are cute.” They were gold hoops with dangles of pink crystals.

  Ava waved a hand. “Take ’em. Wear ’em to the party tonight if you want.”

  Carmela held them up to the side of her face and glanced in the small oval mirror on the counter. “You sure?”

  “I bought tons. For the holidays.”

  “Speaking of which,” Carmela said, “I see you’ve strung twinkle lights among all your skeletons.” Ava had an entire skeleton family, really an extended family, hanging from her rafters.

  “Don’t knock it. Voodoo stuff is very big during the holidays. Which is why I always lay in a huge supply of saint candles, too. Even if you don’t believe in their magical powers, they always look pretty sitting on a fireplace mantel or decorating an outdoor patio.” Ava pointed at the beignets. There were four left. “Are you gonna eat those?”

  “They’re all for you.”

  Ava’s hand snapped out and grabbed a second one. “Thank goodness.” She took a bite, said, “Hashtag yum.” And then, “Hey, I’ve got something I want you to see.” She set her beignet on the counter and dusted her hands together. “A dress I might wear tonight.”

  “Bring it out,” Carmela said.

  Ava ducked into her office and emerged with a crinkly bag. “It’s something I borrowed. From my friend Bambi.”

  “The one who does the manicures, Botox injections, and weaves.”

  Ava snapped her fingers. “That’s my lady.”

  “So I’m sure she has exquisite taste.”

  Ava pulled out a bright red ruffled dress that was a cross between a box of valentine candy and a naughty maid’s outfit, if the maid worked at Hotel Hell. The neckline plunged to a deep V, the waist was cinched tight, and the skirt appeared to be multiple layers of stiff red netting.

  “Holy smokes,” Carmela said.

  Ava grinned. “You like it. I knew you would. It’s got that hint of saloon gal.”

  “Just like Miss Kitty.” Carmela tried hard to stay upbeat. “Well, I guess it’s, um, got a certain short and sassy factor going for it.”

  “Doesn’t it?” Ava held it up. “Perfect for dancing.”

  Carmela eyed the length of the hem. “Only if your partner doesn’t twirl you too fast or dip you back too far. Then all bets are off.”

  Ava’s eyes twinkled. “That’s the whole idea, love.” She stuffed the dress back inside the bag and said, “That was a pretty close call last night at Vesper’s house.”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “I can hardly believe we got away with it.”

  “We didn’t,” Carmela said.

  “Whah?” Ava had taken another bite of her beignet.

  “Babcock knows.”

  Ava made a face. “Ohmigosh, he knows we broke in?”

  “He was gentleman enough not to push it too hard. But I know he suspects. Thank goodness he didn’t make a big deal of it.”

  “Thank goodness is right.” Ava reached for another beignet. Her third? “You know, that mess of costumes we saw at Vesper’s last night got me thinking.”

  “About . . . ?”

  “Narrowing down the killer. I still think the killer’s gotta be either Vesper or Edward. They’re the ones with the most compelling motives. They’re the ones who could’ve gotten closest to Isabelle without her suspecting anything.”

  “They’re also the ones walking around with guilty looks on their faces,” Carmela said. “Still, it’s hard to pry any information out of them. Short of using thumbscrews, we can’t seem to pin anything down.”

  “What if we played one against the other?”

  “How so?” Carmela asked.

  “Well, if Vesper did it, Edward would have to be totally freaked. Right? I mean, knowing—or suspecting—that his own mother was a killer?”

  “I see what you’re saying,” Carmela said. “And if Vesper thinks Edward did it, well, then she has to be scared out of her mind, too. That she raised her precious son to be a killer.”

  Ava’s phone started ringing.

  She wiped her hands on her jeans again and said, “But how do we approach them? How do we turn one against the other?” Then she snatched up the phone and said, “Juju Voodoo. Come on over and sit a spell. Or cast a spell.” She listened for a few moments and then said, “Yup, she’s here all right.” She held out the phone. “It’s for you.”

  “Me?” Carmela grabbed the phone. “Hello?”

  “Carmela,” said a cultured voice. “It’s Mignon. You remember me? From Folly Française?”

  “Oh yes, of course.”

  “I called your scrapbook shop,” Mignon said. “And your assistant told me you’d already left for the day, but that you could probably be reached at this number.” She hesitated. “I hope this doesn’t cause a problem for you?”

  “Not at all,” Carmela said. “What can I do for you?”

  “Well,” Mignon said, “you were in here the other day asking about lace. Asking if anyone had purchased a piece of antique lace. And I was just going over my monthly sales receipts and saw something that might possibly interest you.”

  Carmela was suddenly very interested. “What’s that?”

  “There was a woman in here, oh, maybe three weeks ago,” Mignon said. “Anyway, she was a Realtor, and she ended up buying a fairly large amount of lace. Something like fifteen yards.”

  “Was this antique lace?”

  “No, I would never have had that much in stock. And this customer, this lady Realtor, said that the lace didn’t have to be old at all. She just wanted it to look old. To match some other lace that was going to be used at an open house. I got the impression she wanted to decorate some invitations or something. Or maybe tie the lace around some fancy handouts—you know how Realtors are always trying to come up with some unique takeaway so you’ll remember their property?”

  “Yes,” Carmela said. She’d once helped her own Realtor create some fun brochures and takeaways. “Do you remember the name of this Realtor?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. Because she paid cash for the lace.”

  “Okay, do you by any chance know when the open house was going to be?”

  “Sorry. I don’t know that, either. I guess I’m not much help.”

  “No, that’s okay,” Carmela said. “It’s good information. I appreciate your calling about this. Giving me a heads-up.”

  “It’s just that you were so insistent about the lace,” Mignon said. “It seemed so important to you at the time. I thought you might want to know about this. I wish I could have remembered more.”

  “Thank you,” Carmela said. “Thank you very much.” She was about to hang up, when something occurred to her. “Mignon, are you familiar with a local blogger by the name of Naomi Rattler? She writes a blog called . . . um . . .”

  “Haute t
o Trot,” Ava whispered.

  “Haute to Trot,” Carmela said.

  “Yes, I have met Naomi,” Mignon said. “In fact, when I first opened Folly Française, she came over and interviewed me. Did a lovely little piece about my shop. About how vintage has become such a huge trend.”

  “But Naomi didn’t buy anything from you? Like a piece of lace or anything?”

  “No,” Mignon said. “We just did the interview.”

  “Okay, thanks.” Carmela hung up and gazed at Ava.

  “What?” Ava asked. “What’s going on?”

  Carmela held up a finger, and then dialed the number of Miranda Jackson, her friend and Realtor. Miranda had recently helped her sell the Garden District home she’d finally pried away from Shamus in their rather acrimonious divorce settlement.

  Miranda answered her cell phone on the fifth ring. “Hello?” She sounded harried.

  “Hi, Miranda. It’s Carmela. I have kind of a strange request.”

  “All the requests I get these days are strange,” Miranda said. “What do you need?”

  “Is there any way you can get me a list of all the open houses that are happening this coming Sunday? I know most of them are listed in the newspaper, but there are sometimes other ones, too, right?”

  “Mmn.” Miranda sounded like she was thinking. Or taking notes and thinking. “I can do that,” she said slowly. “But at this very moment I’m right in the middle of a showing.” She lowered her voice. “It’s one of those dreary little cottages over on Piety Street. But I’m working with some all-cash buyers, investors, who are extremely motivated. I think I can lock this down today.” Her voice rose again. “So the problem is, I couldn’t get to your little errand until tonight.”

  “That’s okay,” Carmela said. “But when you get the information, call me, okay? Let me know.”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  Carmela dropped the phone into the cradle. Lace? And real estate? How on earth did those two things tie together? And did they have anything to do with Isabelle’s death? Anything at all? All she could think of were the somewhat puzzling words that Babcock had spoken to her. Stay tuned.