by Laura Childs
“Not quite,” laughed Carmela. “And FYI, that jacket is way too sedate for you.”
“You think?” said Ava. She skipped to another rack and grabbed a long black gown with a plunging neckline. She held it up and asked, “Is this more my speed? Sex kitten with a touch of Cruella De Vil thrown in for good measure?”
“Yes,” said Carmela. “But I know how kindhearted you are, so you could never be cruel to a bunch of Dalmations.”
“Ya got that right,” said Ava. She sauntered past a round table stacked with cashmere shawls, slinky gloves, and opera-length strands of pearls. She looked around and smiled. “Gosh I love this place.”
The shop was decorated in lush tones of pink and mauve. Oriental carpets whispered underfoot, crystal chandeliers twinkled in the rafters, and, should one be in the mood to sit and relax, there were plush velvet love seats set against antique, ’30s-era three-fold screens.
“Oh my,” said Ava. “Look at this.” She held up a black St. John Knits jacket. It was sleekly tailored with a black silk oyster collar and sparkly crystal buttons down the front. “Très chic, yes?”
“Très chic, yes. Très Ava, no.”
Ava cocked her head. “Whadya mean?”
“Isn’t that a trifle conservative for you? Isn’t a St. John Knits jacket more appropriate for ladies who lunch?”
“I lunch,” said Ava.
“I meant at Antoine’s or Galatoire’s.”
“Oh.” Ava frowned. “That kind of lunch. A fancy lady-with-hat-and-gloves lunch. Garden District ladies. Rich ladies.”
Carmela didn’t want to offend Ava. “Well . . . yes.”
“Okaaay,” said Ava. She grabbed another jacket off the resale rack. “What do you think about this one?”
“Mmn, I definitely see Mademoiselle Chanel’s deft touch,” said Carmela. Then she gazed at the price tag. “But used clothing that costs this much isn’t just resale. Then it carries the cachet of vintage.”
Ava looked at the price tag and whistled. “You’re so right.”
“I see you found one of our Chanel jackets,” said the clerk, strolling over to greet them. She had long dark hair and wore an elegant white blouse and tapered black pants. “That Chanel piece is extremely special, from the early ’90s. You see the round collar and exquisitely braided trim? It’s what’s known as a legacy jacket.”
“Because you need to be born into old money to afford it?” asked Ava.
“Funny,” said the clerk. She smiled at Carmela. “Your friend has a wry sense of humor.”
Carmela decided to jump right to the main subject. “We’re the ones who called this afternoon about the vintage wedding gowns,” she said. “I’m Carmela?”
The clerk’s face lit up. “Oh sure, I remember talking to you. In fact, you seemed so enthusiastic that I went ahead and grabbed a bunch of gowns for you. Pulled them out of storage.” She motioned excitedly with her hands. “Follow me, I’ve got everything set up in back.”
Carmela and Ava followed the clerk to a corner of the shop where a rolling metal rack was hung with at least a dozen wedding gowns.
“Wow,” said Ava. “And these are all . . . used?”
“Some are vintage, some are quite contemporary,” said the clerk. “Probably about half of the gowns we sell here were never even worn.”
“Ouch,” said Ava. “Brides just changing their minds, huh?”
“Grooms, too,” said the clerk. “Unfortunately for the poor brides.” She put a smile back on her face. “Now, what exactly did you have in mind?”
“We basically want to find a couple of gowns that we can turn into ghost costumes,” said Carmela. She’d had what she loosely termed one of her “creative visions” and was eager to start snipping and painting.
“That’s a new one on me,” said the clerk. “But it sounds like fun. Obviously a costume for an upcoming Halloween event?”
“The Ghost Train,” said Ava. “Carmela and I are going to be guest ghosts.”
“Ghostesses,” Carmela added.
The clerk chuckled. “Well, I’ll let you ladies look through the merchandise. If you have any questions, just holler.”
“Will do,” said Carmela. She was already perusing the rack of wedding gowns. Flipping past a ball gown, scrutinizing a fishtail gown.
“So what exactly are we looking for?” asked Ava. She grabbed one of the wedding gowns off the rack, held it up to herself, and said, “Yikes, what bride in her right mind wore this monstrosity?” The gown had a ruffled neckline, balloon sleeves, and a three-tiered skirt. “This is supposed to be vintage?”
“Vintage doesn’t always mean tasteful,” Carmela laughed. “That gown looks like it’s probably from the ’80s, which would explain the big poufy shoulders and tiers of ruffles. It’s . . . what would you call it? The Joan Collins Dynasty look.”
“Either that or a bow factory vomited all over it,” said Ava. “So . . . we’re supposed to somehow salvage a couple of these weird old dresses?”
“Remember,” said Carmela, “I’m going to turn them into ghost costumes. Here, why don’t you try this one on and I’ll show you.” Carmela pulled a more modern-looking dress from the rack, one with a scoop neckline and long, fishtail skirt.
Ava looked worried. “I don’t know if that one’s really me . . .”
“Just scoot into the dressing room and slip it on,” Carmela urged.
Two minutes later, after several loud snorts, an impatient guffaw, and three “I don’t think so”s, an unhappy-looking Ava emerged from the dressing room.
“This is awful,” said Ava, studying herself in the three-way mirror. “I look like a human cream puff.” She smoothed at the skirt nervously. “This sure ain’t my dream dress.”
“But we’re going to work on it,” Carmela soothed. “Make it into something ghostly.”
“How we gonna do that?” Ava lifted a sleeve, gave a sniff, and wrinkled her nose. “Ugh, smells like mothballs.”
“First of all,” said Carmela, “we’ll air it out. Then we’re going to shred the heck out of it. We’ll slit the skirt in a couple dozen places so it literally hangs like rags on you. Then we’re going to beat the living crap out of it until it’s tattered and ratty and dirty.”
That drew a smile from Ava. “Kind of like the bride who wore this dress had some real wild fun at her reception, huh? Like she partied her brains out and then got kidnapped by a pack of wild groomsmen?”
“See?” said Carmela. “Now you’re getting the hang of it. Now you can see the wicked possibilities. Anyway, what we’ll do is rip off all the extraneous poufs and swirls and seriously distress the dress.”
“That sounds like a new reality show.”
Carmela chuckled. “We’re going to make our wedding gowns look like they were once worn by the brides of Dracula.”
“Now you’re talkin’,” said Ava. She wandered over to another rack and picked through it. When she came to a short, flouncy Pepto-pink dress, she said, “Ack, look at this bridesmaid’s dress.” She turned to Carmela. “You know what’s worse than buying a bridesmaid’s dress? Buying a nearly identical one for yet another wedding.”
“Always a wedding guest, never a bridesmaid,” said Carmela. “That’s me.”
“Me, too,” said Ava. “Though I do want to get married someday if Mr. Right comes along. Instead of just Mr. Right Now.” She looked a little wistful. “On the other hand, I worry about giving up my freedom. And my closet space.”
“You’re definitely in the free spirit category.”
“I’m a sprite,” said Ava. “But then, when I think about all the gorgeous presents that brides are showered with, I say to myself, Yeah, that could be me, rackin’ up all that swell stuff. Plus you get to star in a big fancy ceremony at a church or in some gorgeous garden, and you get to drink champagne and enjoy an amazing weddi
ng cake to boot. So my thought process starts to go a little wonky and I think—maybe I’ll get married just for the cake.”
“I can understand that,” said Carmela. “Especially if buttercream frosting is involved.”
Ava studied herself in the mirror again. “Okay, so I’m starting to seriously buy into your vision. Now what?”
“A dress for me, too,” said Carmela. She sorted through the rack again and picked out a wedding dress with an enormous ball gown skirt.
“Love it,” said Ava.
“I thought we’d also wear dingy long gloves and cover our heads and shoulders with shrouds.”
“Mmn, I like the creepy shroud part.”
“We have to look the part,” said Carmela. Then, much to Ava’s amusement, she slipped into her dress.
“That’s one big-ass skirt,” said Ava. “Makes you look like you jammed about fifty Hefty bags under there.”
After they’d laughed themselves silly and changed back into their street clothes, they carried their wedding gowns up to the front register.
“Oh good, you both found something nice,” cooed the clerk. “I had a feeling you might.”
“These dresses should work great,” said Ava. “But are they expensive?”
“How does thirty dollars each sound?” said the clerk. She dropped her voice to an almost-whisper. “We’ve had them sitting around in storage for a long time. I’m just happy to see them go out the door.”
“Sold,” said Carmela.
* * *
Ava was about to carefully fold the two dresses into the backseat of Carmela’s sports car, when Carmela held up her hand and said, “Wait. While we’re at it, we may as well kill two birds with one stone.”
Ava crooked an eyebrow. “Meaning?”
Carmela flipped open her trunk and pulled out two red bungee cords. “Here,” she said, handing one to Ava. “Thread this cord through the armholes of your dress and then hook it to my back bumper.”
“You’re serious?”
“Sure,” said Carmela, as she worked on her own dress. “The way I see it, if we drag these dresses behind us, they’ll crash and bang and twist against the pavement and start shredding like crazy.”
“Takes a licking and keeps on ticking,” said Ava. “Works for me.”
They tied their dressed on to the bumper and hopped in the car. As Carmela gunned the engine she said, “Just keep an eye out, we don’t want another car to get too close and run up onto our dresses. We don’t need any”—she chuckled—“skid marks.”
“I’ll wave ’em back,” said Ava, as she stuck her head out the passenger-side window. “Or fire a warning shot across their bow. Whichever comes first.”
Ava was as good as her word. As they spun down St. Charles Avenue, the dresses bouncing and spinning behind them like a couple of deflated parachutes dragging across open ground, they heard shouting and honking from the cars that zoomed past.
“Hey!” Ava yelled, waving back at a couple of guys in a blue pickup truck who hooted and pointed at their dresses. “Want to meet me at the altar?”
“You’re really having fun with this, aren’t you?” said Carmela. She’d cranked up the radio and WKBU was blasting out Mitch Ryder’s classic tune “Devil with a Blue Dress On.”
“This is crazy,” screamed Ava. “It’s like a new recipe for stone-washed jeans. Only we’re doing cobblestone-washed dresses.”
“And the attention’s not bad, either.”
“I haven’t enjoyed this many catcalls since I wore my red leather mini and fishnet stockings into St. Louis Cathedral.”
“Dear Lord,” said Carmela.
“Well, not quite,” said Ava. She pulled her head in and said, “Maybe you should tell me about the shrouds.”
“I’m going to cut big hunks of cheesecloth and then stiffen and dye them.”
“This all sounds terrific,” said Ava. “Even better than the vampire costume I cooked up for my haunted cemetery tour.”
“When is that anyway?”
“Thursday night. Hey, you wanna come along?” She reached over and plucked excitedly at Carmela’s sleeve, causing her to swerve dangerously toward the sidewalk and Big Bubba’s Rib Joint, almost knocking over a homemade sign that said, Ribs Come and Git Em. Grits too. “You have to come with me, cher, it’s going to be quite the spectacle. I’ve got a group of almost twenty people who’ve signed up, and I just hired a professional werewolf to pop out and terrify everyone!”
“How could I possibly resist a werewolf?”
“A big hairy guy with flashing eyes and gnashing teeth. What’s not to love?”
Carmela glanced in her rearview mirror. “Are those dresses still okay?”
“Hanging in there.”
“There sure is an awful lot going on this week,” said Carmela. “I mean, the Pumpkins and Bumpkins Ball is the same night as your cemetery tour.”
Ava nodded. “It is. But you’ve got your tickets, right? And Babcock’s coming, too?”
“That’s the plan,” said Carmela, knowing he would try to back out of it. “For now anyway.”
* * *
Dragging the dresses behind her, Carmela burst into her apartment just as the phone started to ring. Vaulting over a leather ottoman, she fended off Boo’s and Poobah’s excited advances and plucked up the receiver just as her caller was about to be kicked over to voice mail.
“Hello?” She hoped it was her hottie patottie boyfriend.
It was.
“Hey,” he said.
Carmela, who was still in a playful, upbeat mood, said, “Is this a booty call or do you have something really important to tell me?”
“Carmela, please. Don’t we mean more to each other than that?”
“I don’t know,” said Carmela. “You roar up in your big shiny car, don’t come in to meet the folks . . . you tell me what your motives really are.”
“The only time I’m in a hurry is when I’m in a squad car, lights and siren.”
“Is that so?”
“All kidding aside,” said Babcock, “I did stumble across an interesting little nugget of information today. Your buddy Stanger . . .”
“Hold it right there,” said Carmela. “Stanger is not my buddy.”
“Well, good, because it would appear that James Stanger has been in some deep doo-doo with the Commies. You know, the guys in the little blue Mao suits with the red books?”
“You’re referring to the Chinese government? The People’s Republic of China?”
“Oh, you want to be politically correct?” said Babcock. “Yes, with the PRC.”
“Let me guess . . . does this have to do with the importation of Chinese antiquities?”
“What?” Babcock sounded surprised. “How did you know about that?”
“I ran into that phony countess again last night,” said Carmela. “And, like, five seconds into our meeting she started railing about Stanger. About how he was some kind of smuggler.” She paused and thought about all the Chinese artwork in Stanger’s shop. “So tell me about this importation law.”
“I’m no expert,” said Babcock, “but it turns out the Chinese passed a law several years ago that prohibits exportation of any Chinese antiques after 1972. In other words, no more art treasures are supposed to leave their country.”
“But the art still is. Leaving, I mean.” Carmela knew that, besides French and English antiques, the French Quarter was stuffed to the rafters with Chinese art. There were probably more crates full of it in dozens of dealers’ back rooms, too.
“Like everything else,” said Babcock, “there are a few sneaky ways to skirt that law.”
“Such as?”
“If your merchandise comes from a government-approved dealer and carries an official government export stamp you’re apparently in the clear.”
“That’s interesting,” said Carmela, “because I see Chinese antiques all over the place. Carved screens, blue and white vases, jade statues, you name it. And I’ve yet to hear anything about an official export stamp.”
“Well, there you go,” said Babcock. “I guess there are scofflaws in China, too. Lord knows, we have enough of them in New Orleans.”
“So what exactly are you saying?” said Carmela. “That Stanger has no scruples in dealing with stolen artwork?”
“I’m guessing he doesn’t have any scruples about anything.”
“Which means he’s sitting squarely on your hit list?”
“He’s on my possibles list.”
“Your list is getting longer and longer,” said Carmela.
“Only because you keep making suggestions,” said Babcock. “You’re the one who keeps adding to it.”
“Face it, you need my help.”
“No, I really don’t.”
“Then why exactly did you call?”
“To try to get out of going to that stupid Halloween ball?”
“No way,” said Carmela. “You promised to take me to the Pumpkins and Bumpkins Ball and I’m holding you to it.” She hadn’t been all that excited about going, but now it somehow seemed important to her. “You’re going and that’s the end of it.”
“Even if I have official business?”
“Sweetie,” said Carmela, “this is official business.”
HALLOWEEN in New Orleans was not relegated to one saccharine night of miniature Kit Kats and Snickers dominated by pint-sized superheroes and tiny princesses. In fact, this Tuesday morning at Memory Mine, Carmela and Gabby were proving that the grown-ups could party with the best of them.
“Reach for the sky, Bonnie Parker. This town ain’t big enough for the both of us,” Gabby joked. She pulled a silver six-gun from the holster that was slung around her gingham cowgirl dress and aimed it at Carmela.
Carmela, dressed in a camel-colored beret, canary sweater, and black pencil skirt, played along. “With the size of this crowd, I’m thinking this store isn’t big enough.”
