Parchment and Old Lace

by Laura Childs

  “Hey, so am I.”

  “You made it!” a jubilant voice called out. They both whirled around to find Julian Drake bounding toward them, arms spread apart in a heroic welcome, a big smile on his face.

  “Of course we did,” Ava said. She stuck out a hip. “You made the evening sound so appealing.”

  “Isn’t this something?” Drake asked, gesturing at the elaborate setup. “We’ve got gaming tables for roulette, blackjack, and even baccarat. Just like we’ll have at the new Elysian Fields Casino. Only that one will be very real and exceedingly plush.”

  “I can’t wait until it’s built,” Ava said.

  Carmela thought she might have to wait awhile. If Julian Drake and his cronies were proven guilty, that is.

  “Let’s get you ladies set up with some chips,” Drake said.

  They followed him across an elegant Aubusson carpet into the roped-off gaming area. He ducked behind a roulette table, whispered something to the pit boss, and returned with two enormous stacks of blue chips.

  “These ought to get you started,” Drake said.

  “Jeepers,” Ava said, thoroughly impressed.

  “Thank you,” Carmela said. “But you’ve given us . . . what? Two hundred dollars’ worth of chips?”

  “No problem,” Drake told them as he backed away. “Enjoy and good luck. Don’t spend it all in one place.” And he was off to glad-hand some other guests.

  Ava was stunned by their windfall. “We’re rich,” she said. “Let’s go cash these in and paint the town red.”

  “I think Drake really meant for us to gamble,” Carmela said.

  “Oh. Okay.” Ava looked around. “I’m not exactly an experienced casino-type gal. What do you think we should try first?”

  Carmela looked at the blackjack table. No empty seats. So not there. She glanced at the baccarat table and was stunned to see Vesper and Edward Baudette sitting there, liberally pushing out stacks of red and blue chips as they studied their cards.

  Well, why wouldn’t they be here? Carmela thought. Julian Drake was supposed to be the best man in Edward’s wedding. So it was only logical that they’d be invited to this big wingding. She and Ava would just have to stay away from the Baudettes. Ignore them as best they could.

  “Over there.” Carmela gestured to Ava. “We’ll play a little roulette.”

  They slid onto stools and stacked their chips in front of them.

  “Now what?” Ava asked.

  “Chips placed on red or black pay two to one,” Carmela told her. “Or you can play the numbers.”

  “I wanna play the numbers.”

  “Then you can put chips directly on the numbers, or you can corner the numbers or halve them.”

  “Which pays more?”

  “Directly on the numbers,” Carmela said. “Straight up pays thirty-five to one.”

  “Then that’s what I’m going to do.” Ava put six chips on six different numbers, while Carmela placed ten chips on the red field.

  The wheel was spun, and the white ball zipped around, endlessly circling the roulette wheel. Finally it slowed down, clattering and bouncing from number to number.

  “Exciting,” Ava said.

  “Twenty-four red,” said the croupier as the ball landed. He swept all the chips toward him, but put a matching stack in front of Carmela.

  “You won,” Ava said. “I lost.”

  “Try again.”

  “Maybe I should just play red or black.”

  “It’s a strategy.”

  This time Ava put five chips on black. And it came up black.

  “Okay,” she said. “Now I’m getting the hang of this game.”

  They played for another ten minutes, winning some, losing a little, until Ava said, “We should try another game.”

  “Sure,” Carmela said.

  They gathered up their chips and wandered through the casino area. Carmela was happy to see that Vesper and Edward were gone, but she was nonplussed when she turned and found herself staring into Shamus’s smiling face.

  “You’re here,” Shamus said.

  “And you’re like a bad penny,” Carmela said. “Always turning up where I least expect you.”

  “Did you bring a date tonight?” Ava asked him.

  “Naw,” Shamus said. “I’m . . .”

  Carmela arched an eyebrow. “Playing the field?”

  “C’mon, Carmela,” Shamus said. “Don’t be that way. Where’s that sweet girl I know and love?”

  “I don’t know,” Carmela said.

  “Hey, we had some good times together, right?”

  “Sure,” she said. “A few.”

  “Are you still happy hanging out with that cop?”

  “Detective first grade,” Carmela said. “Just to clarify.”

  But Shamus had been drinking and was starting to get nostalgic. “You were good for me. I miss you.”

  “Water over the dam,” Carmela said.

  “No chance at all?” Shamus asked. “You know, a lot of couples get divorced and end up getting back together. Reconnecting.”

  “Fat chance of that.”

  “Really?” He tried to look hopeful.

  “Really,” Carmela said. She glanced at Ava, who was busy counting her chips and stuffing them into her purse. “Ava, I think it’s time to check out the hors d’oeuvres.”

  Ava clicked her purse closed. “Sounds good to me.” When they were out of earshot, she said, “Was that silly boy mooning over you again?”

  “Shamus pours two drinks down his gullet and starts remembering all the good times,” Carmela said.

  “But not the bad times.”

  “You got that right.”

  “Not to change the subject,” Ava said, “but I see that handsome D.A. over there. I’d sure like to club him and drag him back to my lair.”

  “Bobby Prejean,” Carmela said, as they suddenly came face-to-face with him. “What are you doing here?”

  Prejean chuckled. “You keep asking me that.”

  “I’m sorry,” Carmela said. “I do, don’t I? When you have a perfect right to a social life.” She grinned at him. “To be a gadabout if you feel like it.”

  Prejean leaned in and said in a low voice, “You might say I’m here to keep an eye on Julian Drake and the rest of these casino people.”

  Carmela thought about the meeting that Babcock was in right now. “I take it your office finally found some hard evidence?”

  Prejean nodded. “We’re getting very close to nailing the whole organization.”

  “So all of this—this casino thing—won’t ever happen?” she asked.

  “Oh, it’ll happen all right. On this very spot.” Prejean winked at her. “Just not with this particular company.”

  For the first time in a week, Carmela felt herself beginning to relax. The knot she’d been carrying in her stomach eased. If Julian Drake really was guilty of financial impropriety, it felt like Prejean would finally nail him. And if Drake had been the one who murdered Isabelle, because she’d been watching him closely . . . well, then that would get sorted out, too. Justice would eventually be served.

  Prejean smiled at both of them. “But just because I’m here in an official capacity doesn’t mean I can’t have a good time.”

  “That’s some pretty toe-tapping music they’re playing right now,” Ava said.

  “Then would you like to dance?”

  “Would I ever.”

  Ava shoved her clutch purse into Carmela’s hands as Prejean grabbed her and spun her out onto the dance floor.

  Well, okay, Carmela thought. So . . . maybe it was time to enjoy another refreshing beverage? Yes, she definitely thought it was.

  But just as she was about to give the high sign to Tony the bartender, Naomi Rattler loomed in fron
t of her.

  “I’m still ticked off at you, you know,” Naomi said.

  Carmela shrugged. “Whatever.” She thought of Naomi as small potatoes.

  “You think you’re so smart,” Naomi hissed. “Running all over town, playing amateur detective.”

  “Naomi, shut up,” Carmela said. “If I was a good detective I would have figured Isabelle’s murder out by now.”

  Naomi eyed her carefully. “Do you think you’re close?”

  “Oh . . . I don’t know.” Carmela gave her a cool glance. “Could be.”

  “I know you’ve been suspicious of Edward all along. But he’s really a very sweet, gentle guy. A pussycat. He would never . . .”

  “Sure. Okay,” Carmela said. “That’s why you’re always cozying up to him? Because he’s so dang sweet?”

  “Because he’s needful,” Naomi said, her voice rising an octave. “I’m trying to help him recover from his tragedy. Get over his grief.”

  “I saw him playing baccarat before. He didn’t seem particularly grief stricken.”

  “But he is. Just in his own way.”

  Carmela regarded Naomi. Just when she’d started to discount Edward as a viable suspect, Naomi had come charging in to stir up her suspicions again. Could the murderer be Naomi or Edward? Or had she overlooked the fact that the two of them might have been in collusion?

  Carmela muttered an, “Excuse me,” and brushed past Naomi on her way to the bar. She found Tony, grabbed a second Cosmopolitan, and surveyed the crowd.

  Ava was still out on the dance floor dancing with Bobby Prejean. Maybe, she thought, Ava had finally connected with a good, solid guy. Although hanging out with a party girl like Ava might not be the best thing for Prejean’s reputation.

  When her cell phone rang, Carmela had to juggle her drink and the two clutch bags to answer it. When she finally answered, her Realtor, Miranda Jackson, was on the line.

  “I did that checking like you asked,” Miranda said. “There aren’t a lot of open houses on the books. In fact, there are just sixteen scheduled for tomorrow.”

  “Can you read me the names of the sellers?” Carmela asked.

  “You want the names?” She paused. “Well, okay.”

  But when Miranda read her the names, Carmela didn’t recognize a single one.

  “Did that help?” Miranda asked. “For whatever you’re up to?”

  “It kind of did. On the other hand, I may be way off base.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Okay, thanks,” Carmela said. She was about to hang up, when another thought popped into her head. “No, Miranda, wait. I know this is a long shot, but what about the open houses that were held last Sunday?”

  “Mmn, you’ll have to give me a minute if you want that information.”

  Carmela waited patiently, watching the gamblers crowd around the roulette wheel, catching sight again of Ava and Bobby Prejean over on the other side of the dance floor. A slow dance was playing now—“The Lady in Red”—and they were snuggled together, cheeks touching, looking very cozy.

  Miranda was suddenly back, talking in Carmela’s ear. “I’m afraid I came up with an even smaller number. There were eight open houses last Sunday.”

  “And the sellers were?”

  “You want those names, too?”

  “If you could,” Carmela said.

  Miranda started mumbling the names. Edward Ames, Charles Ross, and so on.

  But it was the fifth name that rang Carmela’s bell.

  In fact, Carmela was so shocked she asked Miranda to repeat it.

  “Oh sure,” Miranda said. “It’s Bobby Prejean.”

  Chapter 30

  CARMELA’S heart lurched. If Bobby Prejean was selling a house, had his Realtor been the one who’d bought all that lace? Then she realized it was new lace, not old lace. So what exactly did that mean?

  “Miranda, what’s the address of the Prejean house? Do you have that in front of you, too?”

  “It’s on Chestnut Street in the Uptown area. Here it is. One twenty-two Chestnut. As I recall, it’s one of those cute little West Indies–type cottages.”

  Carmela was still too dazed to respond to Miranda’s chitchat.

  “Wait a minute, let me scroll through my e-mails,” Miranda said. “I think they had a broker’s open house and I still might have the invitation.” After a few moments she mumbled, mostly to herself, “I never seem to get around to clearing out all my old e-mails.”

  Carmela was holding her breath, almost afraid of what she might learn.

  “Yes, here it is,” Miranda said. “The invitation’s in the form of a JPEG. In fact, it’s very creative. It looks like something you might have designed. A little image of lace and parchment with all the details printed on it. Really cute.”

  “Who’s the Realtor?” Carmela asked, her heart in her throat. She knew she was getting close to unearthing information that would point in a direction she’d never considered before.

  “Let’s see. The invitation came from Connor-Fleming Realty. Let me find . . . Here it is, the listing Realtor is Abby Grover.”

  “Would you happen to have her number?” Carmela was getting more and more wound up. Her words tumbled out like marbles rolling downhill.

  “Well . . . sure.” Miranda was quiet for a few seconds. “But if you want to take a look at the property, or possibly make an offer, don’t you want me to feel them out first?”

  “Miranda, it’s not about the house right now. Please, I just need the number for this Abby Grover. I’ll . . . well, I’ll explain it to you later.”

  “If you say so. Okay, got a pen?”

  “Go.”

  Miranda rattled off a phone number and then hung up.

  Carmela prayed that she’d heard the number correctly. She dialed hastily and when a woman answered, “Abby Grover,” she let loose a sigh of relief.

  “Ms. Grover, my name is Carmela Bertrand. I understand you’re the listing Realtor for the Prejean house over on Chestnut Street?”

  “Yes?” Grover said.

  “I need to talk to you about the invitation for that listing. And it’s really important. Like life-and-death important.”

  Clearly taken aback, Abby Grover hesitated before she answered. “I’m at a wedding reception right now and my husband is . . . just a minute, just a minute. Jack, I asked you to wait.” Then she was back with Carmela. “Um, I think it would be better if we talked tomorrow. Or perhaps on Monday when I’m back in my office.”

  “Please,” Carmela said. “This won’t take long. And it’s really important.”

  “Excuse me, you said it was life-and-death important?”

  “Yes, it really is.”

  That seemed to intrigue the Realtor. “In that case, what exactly did you want to know?”

  “You created some sort of invitation or announcement for one of your listings? The property on Chestnut Street?”

  “Yes, that’s right. I’m a big believer in creative marketing. If you want to sell property in a tough market like this, you have to reach out and grab your audience. Whether you’re appealing to fellow Realtors or prospective buyers.”

  “And this invitation you created was printed on parchment paper?”

  “Yes. But . . .”

  “And it was wrapped in lace?”

  Grover was suddenly cautious. “Excuse me, I thought you were interested in the property itself. But you make it sound like the invitation is what’s important.”

  “It is,” Carmela said. “I really want to know everything about it.”

  “Really?”

  “Please?” Carmela implored.

  “Well, I found this hunk of old lace at the Chestnut Street property. It was stuffed into a drawer with a musty old fan and some other trinkets. Anyway, I decided it migh
t be fun to run with that theme, since the house has a turn-of-the-century Caribbean cottage feel to it. Anyway, we added lace to the invitations and tied it around our handouts. And decorated the place with palmetto fans, palm trees, that kind of thing. We staged the patio with wicker furniture and served iced tea. With a bit of effort, we made the place look like a cottage that a British viceroy would have lived in in Antigua or something.”

  “Abby . . . Miss Grover. Thank you very much.”

  “Are you okay? You sound kind of stunned by all of this. But I assure you, fancying up a house for sale is what any smart Realtor does. No mystery there.”

  “I understand,” Carmela said. “And thank you.” She stood stock-still and tried to catch her breath. All around her the crowd was upbeat and excited. Croupiers paid off winners, party goers joked with one another, waiters dashed about with gleaming trays filled with crawfish pâté, tiny cornbread muffins, and blackened catfish kabobs.

  And yet . . . Bobby Prejean. Was it possible that the lace that strangled Isabelle had come from his house? Could he have murdered Isabelle?

  No, Carmela told herself. It just wasn’t possible. He’d been a huge fan of Isabelle’s, had praised her work sky-high.

  And yet . . .

  Carmela moved slowly through the crowd, the fun and revelry suddenly lost on her. Her mind was going in a million different directions. Trying to follow a thread . . . trying to make sense of . . .

  She spotted Julian Drake just ahead of her. He was talking with two silver-haired men dressed in well-cut tuxedos. Carmela gave him a wan smile, caught his eye, and eased her way into his group. “Can I talk to you?” she asked.

  Drake gave a roguish grin. “When a pretty girl wants to talk to you, you never say no,” he told the two men.

  Carmela grabbed his arm and pulled him aside. “We have a problem.”

  Drake looked suddenly perplexed. “What?”

  She decided to fire her question at him point-blank. “Are you under investigation by the city or state?”

  Drake reared back as if she’d smacked him in the face with a cream pie. “Me? What . . . are you crazy? No way.”

  “What about your company, Consolidated Gaming?”

  “Hey, what is this? Where are these questions coming from?” Drake furrowed his brow and puffed out his chest. “Because I don’t appreciate them one bit.”