by Laura Childs
“Ooh,” said Amy, pointing at a roller stamp wheel. “What’s that all about?”
“You’d like this,” said Carmela. “You click on one of our mini roller wheels, ink it up, and run it across your paper for a continuous design. It’s especially terrific for creating borders.”
“What designs do you have?”
“Let’s see,” said Carmela. “Stars, ferns, frogs, curlicues, angels, and lots of graphic patterns. Oh, and here’s a daisy motif.”
“I think I need one of the graphic patterns. That squiggly one.”
“Excellent,” said Carmela. She popped everything into a brown paper bag, grabbed one of her colorful crack-and-peel labels, and stuck it on the side of the bag. “There you go. That’ll be nineteen ninety-five.”
* * *
Just as Amy was leaving and Carmela was about to break out in song, her good mood skidded to a screeching halt. Because the Countess Saint-Marche suddenly tapped on the front window and mouthed an elaborate Hello.
“Oh no,” Carmela said to Gabby. “Looks who’s just arrived to darken our doorstep.”
Gabby looked up from a wire embellishment she was working on. “What?” Then she caught sight of the countess. “Oh . . . yeah.”
“Hell-o!” the countess called out loudly as she pushed through the front door. Her strident voice not only turned heads it seemed to reverberate off the walls like a bullhorn. “How are all my busy little chickadees?”
Carmela straightened up. “Busy,” she said, vowing to hang on to her good humor. Grasp it tightly with her fingernails if need be.
“I understand you have some logo designs to show me?” sang out the countess.
Carmela gazed at Gabby.
“She called here this morning,” Gabby hastily explained. “I mentioned that you had come up with some great ideas.”
“So I did,” said Carmela. She reached under the counter and pulled out her stack of sketches, mentally girding herself for a clash of creative differences, maybe even a prolonged battle.
But when Carmela spread out all three Lucrezia logos, the countess studied them briefly, and then tapped the ring design decisively with her index finger. “That’s the one.”
Just like that? Carmela thought. It’s that easy?
“You didn’t even let me launch into my patented sales-and-marketing pitch,” Carmela said. Truth be told, she was secretly pleased that the countess was a good decision maker. So many people weren’t.
“Oh, this is it,” said the countess. “The ring design is absolutely perfect. You don’t have to waste time selling me, because I love it.”
“It’s my favorite, too,” said Gabby.
“That was way too easy,” Carmela said.
“I’m easier than I look,” smiled the countess.
Carmela chuckled. “I wouldn’t touch that line with a ten-foot pole.”
“Now what about paper stock?” asked the countess. “I want paper that’s rich and elegant, something that will reflect the upscale interior and artistry of my shop.”
“All along I’ve been thinking a cream-colored stock,” said Carmela. “Perhaps a nice linen finish.” She pulled out a book of paper samples and flipped through a couple of pages. “Something like this.”
As the countess studied the samples of paper stock, her brows pinched together. It was a pinch that Carmela recognized as the first warning sign that this might not be so easy after all.
“Now I’m thinking the color should be more fawn or mushroom,” said the countess.
Gabby looked up. “You mean beige?”
The countess tilted her head. “Actually, more biscuit. Or bone.”
“Sure,” said Carmela. She wasn’t about to argue the merits of one beige-colored paper stock over another. “So you’re going to want invitations, business cards, and letterhead?”
“And envelopes,” said the countess. “Smaller square ones as well as business-sized.”
“Let me work up a bid on that,” said Carmela. “I’m thinking a quantity of . . . what? Maybe two thousand each?”
But the countess had mentally moved on. In fact, she bent down, lifted a small piece of Louis Vuitton luggage off the floor, and placed it gingerly on the counter. “I want to show you ladies something,” she said in a conspiratorial tone.
“What have you got there?” asked Gabby. She was a Vuitton fanatic.
In reply, the countess smiled broadly and clicked the brass latch on the small, elegant case. She lifted the lid to reveal three stunning pieces of jewelry nestled atop a red velvet cushion.
“Oh my goodness!” said Gabby. “If that doesn’t blow your socks off.”
“Aren’t they lovely?” cooed the countess.
Carmela peered in. “What are you doing walking around the French Quarter with all that loot?” she asked. There was a diamond pendant on a braided gold chain, a silver necklace with a half dozen brilliant blue stones, and a gold necklace with pear-shaped cabochon rubies surrounded by pavé diamonds.
“These pieces are just a few of my recent acquisitions,” said the countess. “Jewelry that will be offered for sale in my new shop.”
“Are the necklaces all vintage?” Gabby asked. She was completely agog.
The countess nodded with the faintest of smiles. “The oldest and really the most pricey is the Cartier. She lifted it out of the case and held it up. The rubies glinted enticingly, the diamonds were like shards of pure light.
“It’s absolutely gorgeous,” said Carmela. She had to admit, she did have an affinity for vintage jewelry. Then again, what woman could resist a piece like this? Especially since it was Cartier.
“Wouldn’t it be something to actually wear one of these pieces?” said Gabby.
“They’re killer pieces,” Carmela agreed.
The countess handed the Cartier piece over to Carmela. “It suits you,” she said.
“Oh yeah,” Carmela agreed. “But not my bank account.”
“Why not try it on?” suggested the countess.
Carmela gazed at the countess. “You mean wear it?”
“Wear it tonight if you’d like. I assume you’re going out.”
“Do it, Carmela!” said Gabby. “It would look stunning with your Scarlett O’Hara dress.” She turned to the countess and explained, “We’re going to a fancy masquerade ball tonight. In the Garden District, no less.”
“Then it’s settled,” said the countess. “You must wear it.”
“I don’t know,” said Carmela as she fastened the necklace around her neck.
Gabby dug into a drawer and whipped out a hand mirror. “Take a look,” she said, pushing it forward.
Upon seeing the necklace sparkling brightly around her neck, some of Carmela’s unkind feelings toward the countess seemed to evaporate. In fact, she felt like she was suddenly in a dream sequence, magically transported to a beautiful kingdom and made an honorary princess for a day—complete with crown jewels.
Then Carmela thudded back down to earth.
“Are you sure you want me to wear this?”
“Oh, absolutely!” said the countess. “It would be my pleasure.”
Gabby, who was still goggle-eyed, murmured, “If something like that was offered to me, I’d certainly wear it.”
“Then it’s settled,” smiled the countess.
* * *
Carmela made sure the necklace was securely locked in a file drawer before she went back to work. She loved the idea of wearing it tonight (who wouldn’t!), but in the back of her mind hung the knowledge that a death mask had disappeared from right next door.
What if there’s a cat burglar prowling the French Quarter and he’s targeting this block? What if he staked out Oddities and now has his eye on the countess? And me?
Still, all the what-ifs in the world weren’t going to help sol
ve the murder of Marcus Joubert, and they certainly weren’t going to help Carmela’s customers get more creative with their scrapbooks. So she flitted about the shop, cutting lengths of ribbon, digging out memory boxes, giving tips on tag art, collages, and card making.
Gabby brought in lunch, but Carmela only managed a few bites of her blueberry muffin and citrus salad before she was called upon to help a customer create an altered book.
“Here’s the thing,” said the woman, whose name was Jill. “I want to do an altered book for my daughter, Kristen. You know, for the upcoming holidays.”
“A Christmas book,” said Carmela. It would be fun to work on a project that wasn’t Halloween.
“That’s right,” said Jill. “I have this lovely book of poetry and my husband’s already carved out a niche inside using an X-Acto knife.”
“Very carefully I hope?”
“No fingers lost,” said Jill. She flipped open the cover to reveal the inside. “And I’ve already glued all the pages together.”
“You’re halfway there,” said Carmela. “Did you have a theme in mind?”
“Angels?” said Jill.
Carmela thought for a moment, then darted about her shop, grabbing paper, ribbon, and a few miscellaneous packets. “Here’s an idea,” she said as they both settled down at the back table. She slid a piece of paper toward Jill. “This scrapbook paper is printed to look like sheet music.”
Jill studied it. “‘Angels We Have Heard on High.’ That’s one of my favorite Christmas hymns.”
“Perhaps that could be the background design in your niche,” said Carmela. “Then you add this small ceramic angel.” She handed Jill a white, cherubic angel. “The angel could be set off with some white velvet ribbon, silver aspen leaves, a ruffle of white lace, and anything else you’d like.”
Jill nodded, a smile on her face. “A miniature still life. I like it.”
“You could cover the outside of your book with blush-colored faux velvet paper and accent it with a small gilded vintage frame inset with an image of a Botticelli angel. And then . . . maybe wrap the book with a string of pearls?”
“Perfect,” said Jill.
* * *
Carmela also helped a woman create trick-or-treat bags by stamping witch images with orange embossing ink. Then she took small black fuzzy balls, inserted wings and eyes so they resembled flying bats, and glued them on the bags.
But as Carmela worked, her mind continued to hum. She thought about Joubert’s murder, her various suspects, and what else she could possibly do to move the investigation along. She was pawing through a box of vintage jewelry findings when she suddenly looked up and said, “I know what I can do.”
“Hmm?” said Gabby absently.
She could call Wallace Pitney, the wealthy Dallas collector whose Napoleon death mask had been stolen.
Of course, she didn’t have his number, and she couldn’t exactly pry it out of Babcock (heaven forbid!), so she spent five minutes at her computer and Googled Mr. Pitney. That produced a phone number that might or might not be his.
Fingers crossed, Carmela made the call. Bingo. She was in luck. After pleading her case to a secretary, who was a fairly tough gatekeeper, she was finally put through to Mr. Pitney.
“You’re calling from New Orleans?” Pitney asked in a slightly quavering voice. “Did you recover my mask?”
“I’m afraid not,” Carmela told him. “I just wanted to ask you a few follow-up questions.” She held her breath, wondering what his reaction would be.
“You’re with the police?”
It was exactly what she thought he would ask.
“I’ve been working with them, yes.” Okay, a little white lie. Just one, okay?
“I’ve been through this already,” said Pitney. He sounded cranky, like he wanted to go lie down. Or have a cocktail. Or lie down and have a cocktail.
“I just wanted to know a little more about the circumstances of your break-in.”
“What’s to know?” complained Pitney. “Some crackpot threw a brick through my window, came in, grabbed the mask from its case, and took off before my idiot security company arrived.” He made a sound in the back of his throat. “Lot of good they were.”
“I hear your frustration,” said Carmela. She was warming up to Mr. Pitney. He had the feisty gene. “I know you’ve been asked this before, sir, but now that a few more days have passed, do you have any idea, any suspicion as to who the burglar might have been?”
“That’s all I’ve thought about,” said Pitney. “And the only thing I can come up with is that Marilyn and I—that’s my wife, Marilyn, she was Miss Texas back in ’59. But that’s another story.”
“I’d like to hear it sometime,” said Carmela.
“Anyhoo,” said Pitney, “we hosted a big charity event at our home a month or so ago and there were several hundred guests.”
“And you think one of them was the thief?”
“Might have been,” said Pitney. “Hard to know for sure until we catch the bugger.”
“Was your event covered by the newspapers or any magazines?”
“A couple, yes. Do you think that’s how I was targeted?”
“Maybe,” said Carmela. “Mr. Pitney, are you familiar with the name Marcus Joubert?”
“You know, a New Orleans police detective asked me the same thing—a Detective Babcock, I believe.”
“Yes, I’m know him well.” Carmela smiled. Did she ever.
“I can’t say I’m familiar with the name Joubert. Sounds French. Like the surnames you folks over in New Orleans have.” He pronounced it New Or-leens, not Nawlins, like the natives did.
“So you’ve never met Joubert?”
“Not that I can recall.”
“How about a James Stanger?”
“No, sorry,” said Pitney.
“Mr. Pitney, thank you so much for your help.”
“I don’t know what help I’ve been,” he said, sounding quarrelsome again. “I really just want my mask back.”
Carmela hung up the phone and gazed at the wall next to her desk. It was papered with photos, sketches, ideas she’d ripped out of magazines, and layouts she’d cadged from graphic design publications. Time was ticking away and she hadn’t made any real progress. Sure, she’d managed a few weak speculations, but nothing seemed to pan out. Mavis had begged for her help and so far she’d come up with a big fat zero.
Carmela grabbed her phone again and called Juju Voodoo.
“Juju Voodoo,” came Ava’s voice. “Candles and spells and charms that foretell.”
“Ava, it’s me.”
“Good,” said Ava, “I can talk normal.”
“How’s business?”
“Busy. I’m running my hind end off, though that may be a good thing. We’re precariously low on saint candles and practically sold out of Day of the Dead items. I mean, any Day of the Dead item, even the crappy key chains.”
“How’s your inventory of voodoo dolls holding up?” She was thinking of getting one and naming it Shamus. Let the dogs drag it around, slime it up, and maybe chew a leg off.
“Sheesh,” said Ava. “We sold out of those last week. This week has been like . . . what do retailers call that day after Thanksgiving again?”
“Black Friday,” said Carmela.
“Yeah,” said Ava. “Only we’re having ours on Wednesday.” She seemed to drift away, talking to someone in the shop, then she came back. “But tonight we relax and have fun, right? Which means I’m gonna head home in about twenty minutes, have a simple little wine-tasting party on my couch, put on a Frank Sinatra album, and dance around in my underwear.”
“Frank’s always worked for me,” said Carmela.
“Then I’m gonna get all glammed up for Baby’s Halloween hoedown. Smear some Crisco on and slither into my costume.�
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“Be at my place at seven, okay?” said Carmela. “Don’t be late.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t!”
CARMELA pulled her car to the curb, glanced in the rearview mirror, and, without meaning to, nervously fingered her necklace. She probably shouldn’t have worn it, but the countess had been so insistent, and it did go gorgeously with her costume.
“Cher,” said Ava. There was a distinct tone in her voice. “You have to stop obsessing.”
“I know,” said Carmela as her fingers once against crept toward the necklace.
“You said yourself what a big deal the countess made about wanting you to wear that necklace. Besides, people are going to go gaga and ask where you scored such a killer piece. And when you tell them . . . well, the way you look, you’re going to be a walking advertisement for the countess’s new shop.”
Ava was right, Carmela decided. She had to quit worrying. Had to Nike up and just do it.
“C’mon,” said Ava, climbing out of the car. “Time’s a wastin’. I think I hear the enticing pop of champagne corks.”
Carmela and Ava headed down the street. Darkness had settled in a good hour ago and the night had swept in cool and clear. Immense live oak trees, many still clutching the last vestiges of leaves, cut etchings into a full moon. The street was filled with strolling people. A few elegant couples were headed for Baby’s masquerade party, while most were out to enjoy the Halloween spectacle. As per tradition, all the streets in Baby’s neighborhood, block after elegant block, were lined with glowing jack-o’-lanterns. Some scowled malevolently, others offered benign toothy grins, and all were lit by flickering candles.
“This is so cool,” Ava shivered. “Every Halloween I feel like a kid again.”
“You don’t look like a kid,” said Carmela. “Not in that costume.” Ava wore a figure-hugging black latex dress, metallic stockings, and black thigh-high boots. Her pointed hat and black mask completed her witchy ensemble.
“You should talk,” joked Ava. “You look like a walking wedding cake with all those hoops and flounces.”
“Wearing this skirt is like being trapped in a barrel,” Carmela complained as they headed up the front walk to Baby’s brightly lit Victorian manor.
