Skeleton Letters

by Laura Childs

  “Ooh, I just hate her,” Ava seethed, when she noticed Rain. Rain had once flirted outrageously with a man Ava had been semi-in-love-with. The dispute was long over, of course, but Ava never forgot where she buried the hatchet.

  “Maybe she won’t notice us,” Carmela whispered.

  “Well, if it isn’t Carmela,” Rain called out in a loud, flat voice, as she sauntered toward them. She wore an expensive, tightly tailored gray suit with a fur scarf flung casually about her thin shoulders.

  “Hello, Rain,” said Carmela.

  “I see you were involved in a bit of trouble again,” said Rain, working her thin lips into a mirthless smile.

  “Excuse me?” said Carmela. Rain was pretentious and arrogant, and for some reason—maybe because of Ava?—Carmela seemed to have gotten on her bad side. Whenever they bumped into each other they were like two pit vipers hissing and thrashing at each other.

  “I’m talking about the incident at St. Tristan’s,” said Rain.

  “That’s what you call it?” said Carmela. “An incident?” She took a step toward Rain. “You make it sound like somebody spilled hot candle wax when what really happened was cold-blooded murder.”

  “Murder of a dear friend of ours,” Ava added, baring her teeth.

  Rain looked peeved. “Well . . . yes. It was a hideous situation.”

  “Really hideous for Byrle,” said Carmela.

  “You realize,” said Rain, “I’m on the board of directors at St. Tristan’s.” This was delivered in a superior, gloating tone.

  “I didn’t know that,” said Carmela. And I really don’t care.

  “That’s right,” continued Rain. “In fact, we were forced to call an emergency meeting last night.”

  “For what purpose?” asked Carmela. She could almost feel waves of heat emanating from Ava and fervently hoped her friend would contain her fierce temper.

  “Crisis management,” said Rain. She hawked out the word crisis as if it were particularly distasteful. “With the media frenzy and all. But, quite frankly, I’d be happy if it all just went away.” She threw a vengeful smile at Ava. “After all, we don’t want anything to ruin the upcoming anniversary festivities for Père Etienne.”

  “The two are hardly connected,” said Carmela.

  “Hardly,” seethed Ava, as Carmela reached out and grabbed her arm.

  Rain shot another disdainful glance at Ava, then focused her attention back on Carmela. “You’re moving back? Back into the neighborhood?”

  Carmela shrugged. “I own the house, so I haven’t technically left.”

  Rain offered a thin smile. “And I understand you’re finally divorced from, uh, what’s-his-name?”

  Carmela nodded. “Shamus. Yes, our divorce is final. Has been for a while.”

  “Good for you,” said Rain. “Probably for the best.” She spun on her stiletto heels, threw up a single hand, and waved a hasty good-bye.

  Forty seconds later, Jekyl came putt-putting up to them in his Jaguar. He rolled down the passenger-side window and leaned toward them. “Hobnobbing with the neighbors?”

  Carmela shrugged. “Such as they are.”

  “Rain Monroe is a total bee-yatch,” said Ava.

  Jekyl glanced in the direction of Rain’s house. “Rain’s hobby is to verbally Taser people.”

  Ava sighed. “She was positively awful to us. But Carmela kept pinching my arm, not wanting me to say anything back.”

  “If it’s any consolation,” Jekyl told Ava, “I don’t get along with her, either.”

  “Nobody does,” said Ava.

  “But did you know,” said Jekyl, “that Rain Monroe is on the mayor’s Cultural Advisory Board?”

  “So what?” said Carmela. “She’s an indolent rich person who sits on a lot of boards. Until they figure out she’s a know-it-all, do-nothing airhead and then bounce her.”

  Jekyl made a face. “I agree . . . partially. Rain wouldn’t know culture if it reared up and bit her in her skinny backside. Unfortunately, the woman has her sticky little manicured fingers in lots of different pots. And, right now, she holds the purse strings on who gets arts funding.”

  “That’s not good,” said Ava.

  “I should say not,” said Jekyl. “You remember that wonderful children’s theater company? The one that was made up of some of the kids from the Bywater?”

  Carmela and Ava both nodded.

  “The Oliphant Theater,” said Carmela.

  “Well, it’s gone now,” said Jekyl. “Poof! Its funding completely pulled. And, wouldn’t you know, Rain was the nasty little darling who dropped the hammer.”

  Chapter 11

  “LET’S stop by Royal and Romeo’s,” Ava suggested, as they breezed down Chestnut Street, “and get something to eat.” Royal and Romeo’s was a neighborhood joint on the first floor of a green stucco apartment building that served great po’boy sandwiches, stuffed artichokes, alligator soup, and a smattering of local jazz. It was a smoky, easygoing place that was pure New Orleans. The kind you’d stumble into only if you were a local.

  “Last time I ordered their alligator soup,” said Carmela, “I had heartburn for a week.”

  “Why do you think they invented beer?” asked Ava, then giggled madly as she answered her own question. “To cool things down and quell the pain!”

  But when they pulled up in front of the little honkytonk, the neon beer signs were dim and a hand-lettered Closed for Vacation sign was tacked to the screen door.

  “On vacation!” said an outraged Ava. “How could they? Just when I had a powerful hankering for stuffed artichoke.”

  “Someplace else?” asked Carmela.

  Ava pondered this for a moment. “There’s a new place I heard about, over on Magazine Street . . .”

  “Let’s do it,” said Carmela. She knew that Ava prided herself on keeping up with all the hot spots.

  “I hope they have stuffed artichokes,” said Ava.

  “And beer,” added Carmela.

  “Purgatoria?” said Carmela, as they pushed open a set of heavy wooden double doors.

  “This is it,” said Ava. “Cool name, huh?”

  They stepped into a dark, cavernous room with woodpaneled walls, an enormous black metal chandelier, and an old marble baptismal font that was now being used as a hostess stand.

  “Are you sure this is a restaurant? Or some kind of nightclub?” asked Carmela. “Because this place looks a little crazy to me.” Fact was, it reminded her of the interior of a church—and that conjured up some awfully frightening memories from just two days ago.

  “Yeah,” said Ava, smiling and gazing around, “it does look a little churchy.” She pointed a thumb at a gargoyle statue that perched on a tall stand. “Except for that guy. You’d never find that critter in any self-respecting church.”

  “Two for dinner?” asked the hostess. She was a tall lady with long, dark hair, wearing a long black Morticia Addams–style dress.

  “Two,” said Ava. “And by the way, that’s a great Goth dress you’re wearing.”

  “Thank you,” said the hostess as she led them across threadbare Oriental carpets to a tall, narrow booth padded in black leather.

  Carmela and Ava slid in and got comfortable as the hostess handed them oversized menus bound in red leather.

  “Somebody likes leather,” said Ava. She sounded pleased.

  “Maybe the owner’s got a thing for it,” said Carmela, knowing full well this was a city where leather-and-bondage balls were routine during Halloween and Mardi Gras. “Who is the owner, anyway?”

  Ava lifted her shoulders. “No clue. I only know about this place because I saw a snippet in the restaurant section of New Orleans Scene.”

  “What’d it say?” asked Carmela. “The snippet.”

  “Oh,” said Ava, “just that Purgatoria’s a new fine dining place with an emphasis on local seafood.”

  “And an emphasis on religious icons, too,” said Carmela. She’d just spotted what had to be one-h
alf of an old wooden pulpit, snugged up against one wall.

  “Do you think most of this stuff is from Pier One or some prop house?” asked Ava.

  “I don’t know,” said Carmela, “some of it looks awfully authentic.” A gold Byzantine double-headed eagle flag that hung from the ceiling looked positively papal.

  “Come to think of it,” said Ava, “that article did mention that you have to walk through a confessional to get to the ladies’ room.”

  “That’s a little quirky,” said Carmela. Although she’d once visited a gay bar where you had to walk through a roomful of drag queens to get to the ladies’ room.

  Ava grimaced. “I wouldn’t know whether to genuflect or brush my hair. Also, going to confession is not one of my favorite pastimes.”

  Carmela chuckled. “I suppose not. Seeing as how your romantic inclinations are—”

  “Ladies,” a male voice boomed at their elbow, “may I extend a warm welcome to Purgatoria.”

  Ava fluttered her eyes at the tall, broad-shouldered man standing next to their booth. He was fifty-something, wore what was probably a bespoke suit, and had just the right amount of silver in his hair. “Well, hello there,” she said, her shoulders moving back a notch.

  “Careful,” Carmela said under her breath. “Confession?”

  Turns out the man was Drew Gaspar, the rather charming owner.

  “This week is our quiet opening,” Gaspar explained to them, “and we’re still training kitchen staff, so I hope you’ll be patient with us. But I promise we’ll do our very best to delight you. And I’d be more than happy to tell you about our two daily specials.”

  “Do tell,” said Ava.

  “Sautéed gulf shrimp,” said Gaspar, “pulled fresh from Breton Sound and done in beurre blanc sauce with sun-dried tomatoes, shallots, and roasted mirlitons.”

  “Sounds fabulous,” said Carmela.

  “Our second special is seared yellowfin tuna,” continued Gaspar. “Served on spinach and almond pilaf and glazed with a brandy-apricot sauce.” He smiled at their reactions. “Obviously, our saucier is up to speed.”

  “Obviously,” said Ava, dimpling.

  Gaspar gestured at the oversized menus. “Of course, we also have many more creative dishes on our extensive menu.”

  Carmela opened her menu and scanned the offerings.

  “May I point out a few of our entrées that are particularly noteworthy?” Gaspar asked.

  “I wish you would,” said Carmela, “because your Gothic typeface is very difficult to read.”

  The smile faded on Gaspar’s face, and he suddenly looked pained. “You really think so?”

  Ava was quick to agree. “Sorry, hon, but this script is headache inducing.”

  Gaspar shook his head. “Doggone twenty-two-year-old graphic designer. He told me it was the perfect typeface.”

  “Well, it’s really not,” said Carmela. “In fact, rule number one for any piece of printed material is readability. After that you worry about creative topspin.”

  “Are you a designer?” Gaspar asked.

  “Used to be,” said Carmela. “Package goods, brochures, print ads, that sort of thing. Now I run a scrapbook shop over in the French Quarter.”

  “Carmela’s just being modest,” said Ava, eager to put in a plug for her best friend. “She’s still a whiz-bang designer. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen the menus she created for Mumbo Gumbo, but they’re fantastic. Lots of fun, bouncy type . . . but readable. Plus she just designed a whole bunch of super gorgeous wine labels.”

  Really?” Gaspar was suitably impressed. “For which winery?”

  “St. Tammany Vineyard,” said Carmela. “It’s a new venture by Quigg Brevard?”

  “Oh sure,” said Gaspar, “I know Quigg. In fact, I’m supposed to attend his press event this Saturday night.”

  “Which Carmela completely planned and organized,” said Ava, neatly jumping in again.

  Gaspar fixed a speculative gaze on Carmela. “You do menus and press events?”

  “Only as an occasional sideline,” said Carmela. She sensed a job offer coming and wanted to downplay her status as freelance designer.

  “Still,” said Gaspar, “you’re obviously a very talented lady. Maybe I should give you a crack at redoing my menu.”

  “I’m awfully backed up . . . ,” Carmela began.

  But Ava leaned forward, a big old grin plastered across her face, and said, “She’d love to. She’s tickled you asked.”

  “Wonderful!” exclaimed Gaspar. “In that case dinner’s on me tonight.”

  “Oh no,” said Carmela.

  “You’re too kind!” gushed Ava.

  Carmela demurred a second time, but when the dust settled and it was clear that Gaspar was picking up the tab, she opted for a shrimp and heirloom tomato salad with goat cheese, while Ava went for the coconut shrimp stir-fry with shiitake mushrooms. They washed it down with a halfbottle of wine that was sent to their table. Again, compliments of the house.

  “Good,” said, Ava, scraping up the last bits with her fork.

  “Your coconut shrimp hit the spot?” asked Carmela. “You’re not disappointed they didn’t have stuffed artichokes on the menu?”

  “I’m good,” enthused Ava. “Better than good. The food here is fantastic! In fact, I’ll bet this place gives Commander’s Palace, Antoine’s, and some of those other fat cat restaurants a real run for their money.”

  “Maybe,” said Carmela, not quite buying into that idea. New Orleans was a fine dining town, and eateries like Commander’s Palace, Antoine’s, Broussard’s, and Brennan’s had stood as the old guard for decades. As good as the food was at Purgatoria, it would be difficult for Gaspar to compete with world-famous restaurants with well-earned pedigrees.

  Ava dug in her bag, a navy-blue Chanel look-alike, and pulled out a Chanel lip gloss, the real thing. “Gaspar’s very charming,” she said. “Almost European.”

  “Charming is one word, obsequious is another.”

  “How old do you think is too old?” Ava asked, as she swirled Rose Sand gloss across her full lips.

  “Too old for what?” asked Carmela. “Too old to compete on American Idol? Too old to wear a ponytail?”

  “I’m talking dateability,” said Ava. “What’s your top line on men?”

  “Oh . . . ,” said Carmela. She shrugged. She’d never given it that much thought. “Maybe . . . fifty?”

  “How old do you think Drew Gaspar is?”

  Carmela raised her eyebrows and gazed at Ava. “Fifty?”

  “So I just made it under the proverbial wire,” said Ava.

  Carmela reached across the table and put her hand on top of Ava’s. “Honey, you don’t even know if the man is single.”

  “Oh, he’s single,” said Ava. “My single-guy radar rarely malfunctions. I can generally spot a single, dateable guy at a thousand paces.”

  “I suppose,” said Carmela. They’d once gone to the Gumbo Festival in Bridge City and unattached, single guys smelling of Axe and Paco Rabanne had buzzed around Ava all day. She’d come home with something like fifteen invitations for dates.

  “Besides,” said Ava, letting loose a deep sigh, “I’ve got to think about settling down one of these years. Fact is, I’m aging right before my very own eyes.” She sighed deeply. “I sincerely hope all those mad scientists who are fudging around with DNA and stem cells will hurry up and unlock the secret of perpetual youth. Invent a face cream or a version of Mr. Peabody’s Wayback Machine or something.”

  “You’re not exactly Dorian Gray,” said Carmela. “And you could console yourself with the fact that you’re not quite thirty.”

  “Still,” said Ava, “time marches on, and eventually it’s going to march right across my poor face.”

  “We should leave a good tip,” said Carmela, eager to change the subject. Whenever Ava fretted about getting old, she turned a little morose.

  “And we should go thank our generous host,” said Ava. />
  “My pleasure,” said Gaspar, who, rather than offering a handshake, seemed to delight in kissing the backs of their hands. “Come back soon.” He focused on Carmela. “And you, dear lady, we must certainly talk.”

  “Wonderful,” said a less-than-thrilled Carmela.

  “And you,” Gaspar said to Ava, his eyes roving up and down her statuesque figure, “I really admire your style.”

  “Ava’s got personal style like nobody else,” said Carmela. After all, who else could pull off thigh-high boots with such graceful aplomb? Nobody she knew.

  “I sure do, sugar,” grinned Ava.

  “I actually have another enterprise I’m involved in,” Gaspar said, in a confidential tone. “I can’t let the cat out of the bag yet, because I don’t want my idea swirling around in the ozone where somebody else could pick it off . . . but I just might call upon you for a little project, as well.”

  “Aren’t you the mysterious one,” cooed Ava.

  When Carmela pushed open her door and turned on the light, Babcock was sitting in the dark waiting for her.

  “Why didn’t you turn the lights on?” she asked, dropping her jacket and bag, then stepping over to give him a kiss.

  “You’ve been out investigating,” he said, without preamble.

  “No,” Carmela said, trying to look wide-eyed and innocent, deciding she probably just looked wide-eyed. “I wouldn’t do that.”

  Babcock’s handsome face crinkled into an indulgent smile. “Of course you would.”

  “Really,” said Carmela, reaching forward to snap on the lamp, illuminating them both in a warm puddle of light. “I had a meeting with Ava and Jekyl over at the Garden District house. Some . . . business. And then Ava and I stopped to get a bite to eat.”

  “You’re not thinking of moving back into that place, are you?” Now Babcock looked a little nervous. Carmela figured it was because he probably didn’t want to sniff around another man’s turf. Even if it was lost-in-the-divorce turf.

  Carmela sidled closer to him. “What if I did decide to move?” she asked, playfully. “Is the Garden District not convenient enough for you?”