Gossamer Ghost

by Laura Childs

  Carmela picked up the phone, expecting to hear Ava’s soft drawl. Instead it was the countess.

  “How was your big blowout last night?” cried the countess. “Did you wear the necklace? Did you look terribly haute couture and stunning?”

  “I think I did,” Carmela laughed. “I certainly received multiple compliments.” And a nasty jab from Glory.

  “I knew you would. Oh, Carmela, I’m thrilled you wore the necklace. I hope you told absolutely everyone where it came from.”

  “I sure did.” Sort of.

  “You are so sweet,” the countess gushed.

  “I want to get the necklace back to you as soon as possible, though.”

  “Do you have it with you? At Memory Mine?”

  “It’s here,” said Carmela. She glanced at the red leather box sitting on her desk.

  “Perfect. I’ll be dropping by my new shop later today with my decorator to finalize some measurements. You can give it to me then. I’ll just pop in and grab it.”

  “Perfect,” said Carmela.

  “Au revoir,” said the countess.

  Carmela hung up the phone and glanced at the jewelry box. The necklace had been a stunner and she’d definitely enjoyed wearing it. Probably, if the countess had more such pieces in her inventory, her business was going to flourish here in New Orleans.

  Or was it?

  Carmela suddenly wondered why the countess had moved from Palm Beach, a noted enclave of the super wealthy, to New Orleans. Yes, New Orleans had upscale pockets, like the Garden District and Lake Terrace. But weren’t there a ton more rich ladies in Palm Beach? And nearby Boca Raton and Miami? Wouldn’t the chances of selling high-ticket estate jewelry be even greater there?

  It sure seemed like it would.

  So why, Carmela wondered, was the countess switching cities? Or was she? Maybe she was keeping her Palm Beach store. Maybe this shop was supposed to be Lucrezia west.

  Curious now, Carmela sat down and Googled “Lucrezia.” She came up with a nail salon, a candle shop, and a modern dance troupe.

  She typed in “Lucrezia Palm Beach.” Still nothing.

  Hmm. Well, let’s try “estate jewelry Palm Beach.”

  That spawned a number of hits. Mostly for high-end jewelry stores, but none with the name Lucrezia.

  And then, as she scrolled down, something caught her attention. A headline from the Palm Beach Daily News that read, Cat Burglar Strikes Again on Cocoanut Row!

  Curious now, Carmela clicked and read the entire article. Which, basically, had been written some six months ago and detailed how a very skillful thief had broken into the home of a wealthy Palm Beach resident on Cocoanut Row and stolen an entire cache of precious jewelry.

  Carmela blinked hard as her mind raced, jumping to conclusions. Conclusions that were probably quite illogical. Unless . . .

  No. It couldn’t be, could it? Could the countess and her husband, who had been vaguely introduced as an entrepreneur, have engineered this particular jewel theft? Could the strange vibes she’d been getting from the countess be based on the fact that the woman was possibly a notorious thief?

  Could be. Then again, maybe not.

  Good thing Carmela had Jekyl on speed dial.

  “Hello, buttercup,” was Jekyl’s greeting when he answered the phone.

  “Do you have caller ID or do you greet everyone that way?” Carmela asked.

  “Everyone,” Jekyl laughed. “What’s up?”

  “You know that photo you snapped of Ava and me last night?”

  “Sure.”

  “Does it show my necklace fairly well?”

  “Give me a moment and I’ll check.” There was silence for a few moments, and then Jekyl came back on the line and said, “Pretty well. Why?”

  “Do you have a way to run that necklace through the National Art Fraud Registry and see if it’s stolen goods?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes, I think I am.”

  “I can do it but . . . well, who do you think stole it?”

  “Mmn . . . maybe the woman who lent it to me.”

  “You mean the Countess Saint-Marche? With the phony-baloney title?”

  “That’s right, and I’m thinking her story might be phony, too. I don’t know that she ever did own a high-end jewelry store in Palm Beach.”

  “And you arrived at this conclusion . . . how?”

  “I just found an article from the Palm Beach Daily News . . .”

  “Ah, the Shiny Sheet.”

  “That’s right,” said Carmela. She quickly related the article to Jekyl, and then told him about her Internet investigation and how she’d been unable to find any record or mention of a jewelry shop in Palm Beach owned by a countess.

  “So now you think your countess and this pussycat thief are one and the same?”

  “I don’t know that at all, but I’m just curious enough that I’d like to check her out. She and her merchandise. And you, my dear, are my resident antiques guru and art expert. And now, I guess, jewelry expert.”

  “Okay,” said Jekyl, “I’ll get back to you.”

  The minute Carmela hung up the phone she immediately regretted her suspicions. Probably, she decided, she was just being super paranoid. Probably, the countess really was on the up-and-up and she shouldn’t be so inquisitive. Shouldn’t go looking for problems.

  Then again . . .

  Just to make sure, just to ease her addled mind, Carmela ran a quick Google search to see if any jewelry heists had taken place in Dallas around the time the Napoleon death mask had been stolen from Wallace Pitney.

  Much to her disappointment, she didn’t find a thing.

  * * *

  Late afternoon found Carmela with bunches of cheesecloth spread out on the craft table.

  “Now what’s going on?” asked Gabby. “More ghosts?”

  “I’m making a couple of shrouds to compliment our gowns,” said Carmela.

  “Shrouds,” exclaimed Gabby. “You don’t miss a trick, do you? Who would think of shrouds?” She shivered. “The whole notion is so . . . so . . .”

  “Ghostly?”

  “Ghastly. Still, I can see where you’re going with this.”

  Carmela glanced at her watch and pursed her lips. “You know what? I’m gonna have to come in and finish these tomorrow.”

  “Even though we’re going to be closed for Halloween?” said Gabby.

  “Has to be done. Plus, I’ve got to take off now because I promised to help Ava with her Cemetery Crawl. After that, it’s off to the Pumpkins and Bumpkins Ball with Babcock.”

  “Wow,” said Gabby. “Big night.” Then she added, almost wistfully, “Well, have fun.”

  “Oh!” said Carmela. She dashed into her office and returned with the jewelry case. “The countess is going to drop by later. Can you give this to her?”

  “Sure, no problem.”

  Let’s hope there isn’t, Carmela thought to herself.

  * * *

  By the time Carmela arrived at Juju Voodoo, Ava was frantic.

  “Look at this place!” she screamed. “We’re hip-deep in customers!”

  “Calm down,” Carmela told her. “That’s a good thing.”

  “I know, I know,” she jabbered back.

  Carmela did a quick check of the shop. Madame Blavatsky was doing a tarot reading in back, Miguel was helping two customers at the counter, and there were another half dozen customers wandering around, looking at shrunken heads, love potions, and saint candles. So she did what came naturally to her, she plunged in to help.

  Carmela checked Ava’s patron saint chart, found out that Saint Andrew was the patron saint of singers, and promptly sold a half dozen candles. Then she climbed a rickety stepladder to snag a wooden skeleton that was dangling from the rafters and ended
up selling a Day of the Dead sugar skull, too. Two giggling teenagers wanted a love potion, so Carmela searched a shelf of purple bottles until she found Lady Amore’s Sure Fire Love Potion.

  As she was ringing the potions up, a familiar face seemed to ghost past her.

  Huh?

  A man circled a shelf containing magic kits, voodoo charms, and skull jewelry, and then cruised back in the direction of the cash register.

  Oh shoot, it’s that awful Johnny Sparks. What on earth is he doing here?

  When Sparks recognized her, he sputtered out, “What are you doing here?” in a none-too-friendly tone of voice.

  “I work here,” said Carmela.

  “Yeah?” said a disbelieving Sparks as he furowed his brow. Then, “You got any tarot cards?”

  “Of course,” said Carmela. “Would you like Rider-Waite or our new vampire wisdom cards?”

  Sparks scowled at her. “Just give me the cards and make it snappy.”

  * * *

  An hour later, most of their customers taken care of, Ava’s werewolf came loping in.

  “Bert,” said Ava, looking flustered. “You’re early.”

  Bert, who wasn’t dressed in his werewolf costume yet, just jeans and a leather jacket, looked at his watch and said, “You told me five. It’s five.”

  “Already?” said Ava. She threw a pleading look at Carmela. “Can you get Bert zipped into his werewolf suit? It’s hanging in my office.”

  “Come on, Bert,” said Carmela, taking his soon-to-be paw. “Let’s pretend there’s a full moon and change you into a loup-garou.”

  The suit wasn’t the best werewolf suit Carmela had ever seen. First of all, it was cheesy brown polyester that looked more grungy than furry. Still, in the darkness of a cemetery, with candles flickering and imaginations running wild, it would probably be just dandy. Carmela reasoned that most people signed up for a Cemetery Crawl because they wanted to be scared. Hence, once Bert was zipped into his suit and let loose a few maniacal howls and grunts, he should fill the fright bill nicely.

  But the zipping up of the suit proved to be a huge problem.

  “This suit is a size medium,” complained Bert. “And I’m a large.”

  “Try to suck in a little,” Carmela coaxed. Bert was a good old boy with long hair, whiskers, and an ample tummy.

  “I’m trying.”

  “Try harder. There, now it’s . . . oops!”

  “What?”

  “The zipper’s caught,” said Carmela. “Brace yourself, I’m going to give it a good . . . shoot, now it’s really stuck.”

  “Oh man,” said Bert. “I don’t wanna lose this gig.”

  “Relax, I’ll just sew you into your costume,” said Carmela. She scrounged through Ava’s desk drawer, finally coming up with a needle and thread. Two dozen good whipstitches later and the suit was a permanent part of Bert.

  “Feels good,” he said, patting his tummy. “Nice and tight.”

  “Just don’t try to bend over,” Carmela warned. “Or take a deep breath.”

  Bert grabbed the werewolf head and plopped it on his shoulders. “Grrrrr!”

  “Perfect,” said Carmela. “You’re gonna kill ’em.”

  Bert took the head off and gave her a puzzled expression.

  “Well, not literally kill,” said Carmela. She grabbed the head and stuck it back on. “Go out there and show Ava. Let her see how professional you look.” She steered Bert out the door.

  “Oh my gosh, that’s great!” Ava exclaimed when she caught sight of him. “Really perfect.”

  “Thanks,” came Bert’s muffled reply.

  “You know where to meet us?” said Ava.

  The werewolf head bobbled an affirmative.

  “Perfect. We’ll see you there.”

  Bert waved a paw, turned, and promptly banged into a cabinet. There was a muffled, “Ouch.”

  “Oh dear,” said Ava, scrambling to help. “This is kind of like playing blind man’s bluff, isn’t it? Maybe you should take that big old head off.”

  Bert pulled the head off. His face was already bright pink from being encased in all that fur. “But I want to wear it when I’m driving.”

  “Sure,” said Ava as he bumbled out the door. “Whatever.” She turned to Carmela and chuckled. “How’d you like to be the guy who pulls up next to him at a red light?”

  LAFAYETTE Cemetery No. 1 was the perfect setting for Ava’s Cemetery Crawl. Crumbling and sublime, it was located on the edge of the Garden District and boasted black wrought-iron gates, tumbledown tombs, ancient mausoleums, and several hair-raising legends that involved ghost sightings and hovering orbs.

  Carmela and Ava both wore black velvet vampire dresses that Ava had pulled from her closet. They’d clipped in long hair extensions and applied black lipstick. Now Ava stood just inside the gates that were kitty-corner from Commander’s Palace, consulting her clipboard and efficiently checking off names as her Cemetery Crawl guests showed up.

  As Carmela adjusted the bloodred sash on her dress, she had to marvel at Ava’s amazing wardrobe. Her large walk-in closet rivaled that of a Vegas showgirl who moonlighted as a Halloween-loving stripper. Except when it was Mardi Gras, and then Ava seemed to have ball gowns galore.

  “Names?” said Ava, as two giggling women hurried toward her.

  “Beth Crowley and Barb Higgins,” said one of the women. She was dressed in a black tunic and shiny black leggings. Her friend wore a black sweater, long skirt, and boots. “Are we almost ready to go?”

  “Almost,” Ava replied sweetly. “All you have to do now is go over to where Carmela is standing and pick up your official Crawl candle.”

  Carmela had been designated Keeper of the Candles tonight. As such, she passed out white candles with black paper ruffles at the bottom to all the guests who arrived. And plastic glow-in-the-dark skull rings, too. That had been Ava’s last-minute brainstorm.

  As more guests arrived and nervous giggles ran through the crowd, Carmela lit all the candles and then made her way over to Ava. “Are you about ready to get started? I think the crowd is growing restless.”

  “We’re still missing two of our guests,” said Ava. “I hate to take off and just . . . oh, wait, I see a couple of stragglers coming now.”

  “Wait!” screeched a familiar voice as two women dashed through the rather foreboding gates. “Don’t leave without us.”

  “Oh my,” Carmela said under her breath. “It’s the countess.”

  “But without her count,” said Ava. “Does that make her countless?”

  “Don’t let her hear you say that.”

  Instead, Ava beamed happily at her late arrivals. “You’re just in time, ladies, not a second to spare.”

  The countess left her friend with Ava and made a beeline for Carmela. “I had a feeling you’d be here tonight,” she gushed.

  “And here I am,” said Carmela. “Did you get a chance to stop by Memory Mine and pick up your necklace?”

  “Yes, indeed. Gabby gave it to me. So not to worry, it’s safe and sound, back where it belongs.”

  “Thank you again for letting me wear it—that necklace was a real showstopper. A conversation starter, too.” Was it ever.

  “Really, Carmela, anytime you’d like to borrow a piece of jewelry just let me know. I’m more than happy to oblige and I do have some marrrrvelous pieces.”

  “That’s very kind of you.” Carmela suddenly felt a twinge of guilt for thinking that the countess might be a garden-variety crook. After all, here she was, being generous to a fault. Or was it some kind of act? Only time would tell. Or maybe a little more investigating.

  Ava held her candle high and waggled it back and forth, like she was out on the tarmac, guiding in a celestial 747.

  “This way, everybody come this way,” she cried. When her guests ha
d gathered around, she said, “Now stick close to me. We’re in one of New Orleans’s oldest cemeteries. And since it harbors many restless souls, I can assure you there have been numerous spirit sightings reported here.”

  That brought on a round of giggles.

  “The first tomb I want to show you in this City of the Dead is right this way.” They crunched along a narrow pathway, threading their way through rows of tombs. Bits of moonlight shone through bare trees, lending a ghostly quality to the white gravel underfoot.

  Ava stopped near a large marble mausoleum with an engraved plaque and bars on the double doors. “If you’ve ever seen the movie Double Jeopardy, a few of those scenes were filmed right here.”

  There were nods and murmurs. The strange guest that Carmela had sold the ticket to nodded and exclaimed, “Nish au vlek!”

  “And over here is a very unusual cast iron tomb.” They all gaped as Ava gestured to a rusty metal tomb that looked half-melted and pitted with age. “You might also find this factoid a bit unusual,” she continued, “but almost seven thousand people are buried right here in a single city block.”

  “How is that even possible?” asked one of the guests.

  Ava bit her lower lip. “Heat, humidity, and the hands of time. And the fact that many of these old family tombs have what you might call cellars underneath them.”

  “Gulp,” said one woman, realizing exactly what this implied.

  Ava continued her tour, keeping up her running commentary as she guided her group through the dark cemetery. Candlelight flickered and bounced off the whitewashed tombs as she pointed out the most interesting graves and shared spooky legends and lore that served to prickle the hair on the back of their necks.

  One woman raised her hand tentatively. “Is this the graveyard Anne Rice always wrote about?”

  “Yes, it is,” said Ava. “Her house is just a few blocks from here, and I happen to know that she based the Vampire Lestat’s tomb on one of the tombs right in this area.”

  “Do you know which one?” asked the woman. “Do you have any idea?”

  “That’s still up for speculation,” replied Ava. She gazed at her group, a twinkle showing in her eye. “But if it were up to me . . .” She threw out an arm. “I’d select that one!”