Gossamer Ghost

by Laura Childs

  So maybe his dealings had just caused a misunderstanding? Carmela knew that doing business with China could be fraught with problems. There were rules, regulations, taxes, and tariffs on both sides of the Pacific. There was the matter of guanxi, or tea money. Which was basically a bribe or tribute. Depending, of course, on whether you were the briber or the bribee.

  Carmela chuckled to herself. What had Gabby said earlier? That business used to be more genteel? Perhaps it had, but not anymore, baby. This new leaner, scarier economy carried a whole new set of non-rules. It was the Wild West out there and you’d better watch out.

  Reaching for her phone, Carmela dialed Babcock’s cell number. She got him on the fourth ring, just before she was dumped to voice mail.

  “What, Carmela?” Babcock said.

  “And a deliciously good morning to you, too,” she replied.

  “Sweetheart, I am so swamped,” said Babcock. He sounded swamped. And a little perplexed. “Please tell me this is super important.”

  “It is,” said Carmela. “Did Mavis call you about the gun?”

  There was stunned silence and then Babcock said, “Gun? What gun?”

  CARMELA hastened to explain. “Apparently, along with Napoleon’s death mask, a gun was stolen from Oddities.”

  “First I’ve heard,” said Babcock. Now he sounded ticked off. “Nice that your friend Mavis didn’t bother to report that crucial fact.”

  “I think she’s in such a dither over Joubert’s murder and the stolen death mask controversy that she didn’t realize the gun was missing until just this morning.”

  “You were over there?”

  “I was,” said Carmela. “Just to peek in on Mavis and see how things were going. She’s packing everything up tout de suite. Our Snidely Whiplash of a landlord handed her an eviction notice.”

  Babcock made a sound like air moving through his front teeth. “That’s tough.”

  “No, it’s heartbreaking,” said Carmela. “The poor girl has enough to deal with.”

  “You’ve taken quite an interest in her,” said Babcock. “Or, should I say, you’ve taken her under your wing.”

  “I didn’t set out to, but Mavis doesn’t seem to have anyone else.”

  “My sweet Carmela. You’re always the champion of stray cats and dogs, aren’t you? And turtles that wander across the road.”

  “Well . . . yes. Is there something wrong with that?” Of course she helped turtles. Who wouldn’t rescue a turtle?

  “Not a thing. It’s just that you tend to get emotionally involved in these little mini-dramas.”

  “Not dramas, more like real life.”

  “Same thing,” said Babcock. “At least from a police perspective.”

  “By the way,” said Carmela. “I think James Stanger might have had a meeting with Johnny Sparks last night.”

  Babcock practically exploded. “What are you talking about?” Then, “Carmela, have you been investigating? When I specifically warned you not to?”

  “No, it’s nothing like that,” she lied. “I just happened to make an innocent observation. I was walking my dogs last night and saw Stanger sort of lingering in front of Johnny Sparks’s place. You know, the one we walked past the other night.” She paused. “I’m thinking they might have had a meeting planned.”

  “That’s your take? Just from catching a glimpse of Stanger on the sidewalk in an area where he lives and works?”

  “A meeting is not outside the realm of possibility,” said Carmela. She was a little stung by Babcock’s dismissiveness. “I also just learned from Mavis that Joubert and Stanger didn’t get along. That they pretty much hated each other.”

  “A tiff between two antique dealers is hardly major news or a serious motive for murder. If that’s where you’re going with this.”

  “Don’t be so sure about that,” said Carmela. “I think Stanger could be up to no good. Or was up to no good. Could you run some sort of check on him?” She thought about the Chinese importation allegations she’d just read about. “Or put a tail on him?”

  “We don’t actually do things like that. That’s only in cop movies. And only old movies starring Mel Gibson.”

  “Okay, I’ll just come right out and ask my question then. Is there any way that Sparks and Stanger could be in collusion?”

  “I sincerely doubt it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because that would be too nice and neat,” said Babcock. “In my line of work, nice and neat rarely happens. I’m used to nasty and messy.”

  “Even if there’s a lot of money involved? Jekyl seems to think a true Napoleon’s death mask would be worth almost a million dollars.”

  “Tell me about it. The mayor, two city council members, and a curator at the museum have all called to rag on me about this stolen death mask. Everybody’s up in arms and wants a quick resolution.”

  “Then we’re all on the same page,” said Carmela.

  “No, we’re not. At least you aren’t. Listen to me, Carmela. Whoever murdered Joubert and then snatched that death mask is a criminal of the worst kind.”

  “Is there any other kind?”

  “Be serious for a moment,” said Babcock. “Besides the obvious penalty for murder, the Justice Department’s guidelines for a major art theft are rather harsh.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s a federal crime to, and I quote, ‘steal, receive, or dispose of any cultural object that’s worth more than one hundred thousand dollars.’”

  “What’s the net-net on that penalty?” Carmela asked. “Like, life in some kind of federal penitentiary?”

  “I’m not familiar with sentencing guidelines,” said Babcock. “But I can guarantee you it’s a lot more than just a slap on the wrist.” He paused. “So stay out of this, okay?”

  “Okay,” said Carmela. “I’ll talk to you later.” She hung up, knowing that her tacit okay was not really an agreement to back off. Rather, it was just an okay okay. If that made any sense at all.

  Feeling oddly unsettled, Carmela picked up a black marker and flipped open her sketch pad. She’d promised the countess that she’d work on a logo design for her new shop. Of course, she’d agreed to do the design work way before she knew what a crazy, uncharitable shrew the countess was. Now, just the thought of designing her logo felt like drudge work.

  But a promise was a promise. And Carmela was a woman who kept her word. If she promised Jekyl she’d volunteer her time at the Children’s Art Association, then doggone it, she’d be there. Or if a local charity needed a poster, she’d for sure design one. That’s just who she was. A cross between a savvy entrepreneur and a do-gooder Girl Scout.

  As Carmela doodled idly on her drawing pad, the creative juices started to flow and a few ideas popped into her head.

  First Carmela sketched a logo that gave a quick nod to French heraldry. Her design, after a few hasty sketches, was a noble-looking lion set against a rampart of fleur-de-lis. With maybe a color combination of blue and gold?

  On the other hand, the shop’s name was Lucrezia. So maybe she should try to work something around that?

  Let’s see now, Lucrezia had been a femme fatale who lived in and around Rome during the Renaissance. That theme seemed ripe with symbols and metaphors. So what would work for an image of the Eternal City? The seven hills of Rome? Perhaps the Spanish Steps or some Roman architecture?

  Carmela sketched a Roman column. It was interesting in a classical sort of way, but not all that compelling. In fact, she’d seen that sort of image many times before, especially on boxes of pasta. She needed something better, something that would tie in thematically.

  Well . . . she knew that Lucrezia had been married several times and was reputedly a murderess and a Jezebel. And legend held that Lucrezia wore a hollow ring filled with poison that she would waft over someone’s goblet if
they fell out of favor with her. Carmela smiled to herself. Now that made for an interesting story as well as a provocative image.

  Since this was a logo for a high-end jewelry store, wouldn’t an ornate, medieval-looking ring be almost perfect?

  Carmela continued to sketch, tightening up her designs, adding a few refinements. She grabbed a typeface book for inspiration, then sketched a ring, and scanned it into her computer.

  She gazed at the image on her screen, made a few minor adjustments, then hit Print. When her page was spit out of the computer, she snatched it up and took it out to show Gabby.

  “I like this,” Gabby said immediately. “It’s edgy, but still right on the mark.”

  Carmela smiled. From her years working in graphic design, designing labels for Bayou Bob products, she knew that first impressions were usually the best and most honest. You always went with your gut. Or, in this case, Gabby’s well-toned gut.

  “Yes,” Gabby said again. “A ring.” She tapped an index finger against the sketch. “It’s elegant and jewel-encrusted, and feels very Renaissance.”

  “That’s exactly what I was going for,” said Carmela.

  “I’d say you hit the nail right on the head.”

  “I’m still going to work up a couple other ideas. Then, once we get an image that flies with the countess, it can be translated into signage, marketing materials, even business cards. Once that’s all done, we can be done with her.”

  “Not quite,” said Gabby. “Not if she’s settling in as our next-door neighbor.”

  “Let’s hope the countess is the kind of neighbor who keeps to herself. Who doesn’t want to get involved in block promotions or the exchange of customer lists. Or . . .” Carmela stopped abruptly. She looked over to see Boyd Bellamy fumbling at the front door. He fiddled with the doorknob, shook the glass until it rattled noisily, and then stomped his way in.

  “Mr. Bellamy,” said Gabby, giving her best effort to present a friendly face to their notoriously cranky landlord. “How are you today?”

  But Bellamy wasn’t buying it. True to form, he was rude and ungracious to a fault. He ignored Gabby’s friendly greeting and, instead, pointed a chubby finger directly at Carmela. “How many months have you got left on your lease?” he demanded.

  Carmela rushed to confront him, waving an index finger back in Bellamy’s face. “Not months, years. I have three years left on my current lease.” No way was she going to let herself be intimidated by this loudmouth boor.

  “That’s too bad,” Bellamy grunted. “Especially with space going for such a premium right now.” Bellamy was short and portly with watery blue eyes, vague wisps of reddish hair, and a nasty temper that was in perfect sync with his pugnacious-looking face. Carmela had always joked that Bellamy reminded her of a cross between a bulldog and a cottonmouth snake. Today, he was proving that it was a doable combination.

  “You look upset,” Carmela needled him. “That can’t be good for your blood pressure.” Bellamy was always complaining about his high blood pressure and all the pills he had to swallow to keep it in check. Small wonder when the man spent his days stalking the French Quarter, working himself into a frenzy as he terrorized tenants. Though for Bellamy, Carmela figured it was more sport than actual work.

  Bellamy glanced around the interior of Memory Mine. “If I were to lease this space to an upscale boutique or wine bar, I could get top dollar. Maybe even three times what I’m currently charging you.”

  Carmela crossed her arms in front of her. “Is that so.” One thing she had to admit about Bellamy, he always thought big. Big ideas, big money. And the man did have an uncanny knack for spotting trends.

  “You wouldn’t be interested in a sublease, would you?” Bellamy asked. “I could put you into a similar space, maybe even a little more space, over on Carondelet Street.”

  “No,” said Carmela. “Absolutely not.”

  “We’re happy here,” said Gabby, finally finding the courage to speak up.

  Bellamy sighed heavily as he stared out the front window. “Thank goodness I’m finally rid of that awful neighbor of yours,” he mumbled.

  “You’re referring to Marcus Joubert?” said Carmela.

  Bellamy glanced back at her and nodded. “Biggest mistake of my life was leasing to that man. Terrible blight on the neighborhood.”

  “Are you referring to Joubert’s recent murder, or to his shop?” said Carmela.

  Bellamy’s faded eyes focused more tightly on her. “Both,” he snapped. “Good riddance to him, I say.”

  Bellamy’s nasty attitude toward Joubert raised Carmela’s hackles even more. She wanted to walk up to him and give his chubby pink cheek a good smack with the back of her hand. Instead, fighting to hold her temper in check, she gritted her teeth and said, “It sounds like you’re happy he’s gone.”

  “Not happy, overjoyed,” said Bellamy. He flashed a mirthless grin that revealed small, pointed teeth.

  “That’s not a very charitable attitude,” said Gabby.

  “You’re looking for charity?” barked Bellamy. “Go to church.” And with that last bit of venom dangling in the air, he dashed out the door. As fast as his chubby legs could carry him.

  “That man is just horrible,” said Gabby. She shuddered and pulled her sweater around herself protectively, as if she could ward off the bad karma he spewed. “He’s . . . he’s not even Christian.”

  “I think he’s barely human,” said Carmela. This wasn’t her first run-in with Boyd Bellamy and she knew it wouldn’t be her last. Sooner or later he’d be back, trying to wheedle her with a sweet offer, or maybe threaten her with eviction. Whatever deal du jour struck him as opportune that day. On the plus side, that’s why she kept a good, tough attorney on retainer. To keep the Big Bad Wolf away from the door.

  But Gabby remained upset. “We’re not going to move, are we? We’re not going to be forced out?”

  “Absolutely not,” said Carmela. “In fact, I’m going to call our attorney and have her eyeball our lease agreement, just in case Bellamy decides to try some kind of end run.”

  * * *

  By midafternoon, Carmela had come up with so many ideas for trick-or-treat bags, party favors, and place cards that her head was spinning. Finally, she was able to escape to her office for a little personal time and major snooping via the Internet.

  Concerning Napoleon’s death mask.

  Mavis had been quite correct, there were supposedly four authentic death masks, with a few that were considered copies, or copies of copies.

  Interesting, she thought. But a little creepy, too.

  Carmela wondered if the one that had been stolen from Oddities was even still in New Orleans. Right now it could easily be winging its way to a private collector in Europe or the Far East.

  She also wondered if any of the masks had been sold recently. Or had been put up at auction?

  There was only one way to find out.

  “Jekyl?” she said, once she had her friend on the line. “Didn’t you once tell me there was some kind of art website where you can see what pieces have been on the market recently and what they sold for?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Jekyl. “The Art Resource Bureau.”

  “How would I access them?”

  “I have a membership.”

  “Ooh, could I use it? I mean, use your password?”

  “For you, darling, anything.”

  The minute Carmela hung up the phone, it rang again. Ava.

  “Are we still going dress shopping tonight?” she asked.

  “More like ghost gown shopping,” said Carmela.

  “As long as it’s shopping I’m all for it.” Ava laughed. “My Visa card was getting dusty, just laying around like that. See you sevenish?”

  “You got it.”

  Carmela hung up the phone and began clicking away,
logging into the Art Resource Bureau’s website using Jekyl’s password. She entered the words death mask in the search engine and immediately discovered that a death mask of President Woodrow Wilson had been sold to someone just last year.

  How weird. Who on earth would want something like that?

  As Carmela contemplated this strangeness, Gabby tiptoed in and peeked over her shoulder.

  “Death masks,” she said. “How creepy.”

  “And look at what it sold for,” said Carmela, pointing at the screen. “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

  “I can think of much better ways to spend that kind of money,” said Gabby.

  An image of a sky blue Dior handbag danced in Carmela’s head and she nodded. “So can I.”

  MAGAZINE Street was New Orleans’s own version of L.A.’s Melrose Avenue or New York’s SoHo. Newly energized in a post-Katrina era, the bustling street twinkled with lights this Monday evening, and fairly sparkled with upscale restaurants, gift shops, boutiques, music clubs, and one exquisite hole-in-the-wall shop that Carmela and Ava truly treasured—The Latest Wrinkle.

  This was the hidden gem that sold Joe’s jeans, knuckle-dusting statement rings, fluttery scarves, and Cosabella lingerie. Besides carrying all the latest trends, The Latest Wrinkle also featured rack after rack of carefully curated vintage clothes as well as some fairly recent designer duds that were there on consignment.

  “I’m lovin’ it, I’m lovin’ it,” said Ava as she danced her way through the shop. She grabbed a felt hat, stuck it on her head, and then shrugged into a tweed blazer with a crest on the lapel. “Look at me,” she said, thrusting out a hip and doing her own brand of voguing. “Do I look veddy veddy British? Do I look like Kate Middleton?”