Skeleton Letters

by Laura Childs

  “No problem really,” said Carmela. “I’m just sort of ... checking in.”

  “Why don’t you blow off this thing tonight?” he said to her. “And we’ll go out. I’ll call in a marker or two and line up a table at Galatoire’s. We can enjoy some oysters en brochette or the crabmeat Yvonne. What do you say?”

  Carmela wanted to say yes, she really did. But when she promised someone she’d do something, she always kept her word. “Not tonight,” she told Babcock. “I’ve got to see this event through.”

  “And then you’re done with it?” asked Babcock. What he really meant was, And then you’re done with Quigg Brevard?

  “Yes,” said Carmela, wishing she’d never taken on Quigg’s project. Wishing she hadn’t phoned Babcock. “And then I’m done. It’s all done.” Except, of course, for solving Byrle’s murder.

  “Excellent.”

  “I feel like ...you’re not sharing any information about the two murders,” said Carmela.

  Babcock’s voice went quiet. “Probably because there isn’t a lot of information to share.”

  “You’re keeping me out intentionally,” she said. Not in an accusing tone, just stating the fact.

  Babcock countered with, “Don’t you think you’re in enough trouble already?”

  “Well, no. Not really,” said Carmela.

  “Good-bye, Carmela,” said Babcock.

  “Carmela!” came Ava’s excited voice. “Come take a look at this!”

  Carmela hit the Off button on her phone and spun around to face Ava.

  “You like?” asked Ava, striking a pose in front of the three-way mirror.

  “Wow,” said Carmela. Ava was swanning around in a long black velvet gown with a strip of jet beads accenting the semi-plunging neckline. “Are all the pieces so Goth?”

  “No, absolutely they’re not,” said Sally. “In fact, most of them are quite appropriate for day.”

  “Sure, if you happen to be taking tea at Carfax Abbey,” Carmela murmured in a voice so low neither Ava nor Sally could hear. Then again, the line was called Voodoo Couture and not Suits for Ladies Who Lunch. So ...whatever.

  As Ava emerged from the dressing room wearing a short red dress, Carmela’s cell phone beeped. Babcock calling back? With an apology? She gave the phone a querulous look and pushed On.

  “Carmela,” came a high-pitched voice.

  “Yes?” said Carmela. She crossed a thread-worn Oriental rug and slid behind a rack of fur and brocade-trimmed jean jackets, the better for privacy.

  “It’s Devon. Devon Dowling. I called your shop, but your assistant said you were out and about.”

  “What’s up?” she asked. A tingle suddenly slid down her spine.

  “All this nasty rain has substantially cut into my walk-in traffic,” complained Devon. “So I took some time this morning to look through my customer cards. You know, like we talked about?”

  “Yes, Devon?” Had he actually found something?

  “Because you wanted to know about people who were interested in . . .”

  “Religious icons,” finished Carmela. “That’s right.”

  “Does the name Frank Crowley mean anything to you?” asked Devon.

  “The Seekers,” Carmela muttered to herself. “Yes, Devon,” she said. “That name does mean something to me.” And, she thought to herself, it just might be connected to two murder investigations.

  So, of course Carmela immediately got Babcock back on the phone.

  “Here’s the thing,” she told him. “I just spoke with Devon Dowling, the antiques dealer down the street from me. And he came up with Frank Crowley’s name in his customer cards.” Silence spun out for a few moments, then she said, “Frank Crowley, from the Seekers?”

  “We’ve already spoken with him,” said Babcock. “He gave us the names of twenty people who swear he was with them that entire night. At their meeting hall or whatever it is out on Trempeleau Road.”

  “Did you actually talk to any of these people?”

  “Obviously, we did,” said Babcock.

  “But they’re followers,” Carmela sputtered. “They’re like, ‘Let’s drink the Kool-Aid and say whatever Crowley tells us to say.’ ”

  “I think you’re way off the mark on this one,” said Babcock.

  “You don’t see Crowley as a suspect?” said Carmela. “Seriously?”

  “If he is, he’s a long shot,” said Babcock. “And I rarely put my money on long shots.”

  “Okay,” said Carmela, “what about Rain Monroe?”

  “What about her?”

  “Did you know she has a collection of crucifixes?”

  “No, I did not,” said Babcock.

  “Well, she does,” said Carmela. “Don’t you find that highly unusual?”

  “In this town,” said Babcock, “pretty much everyone and his brother-in-law is unusual. If I ran around arresting all the eccentrics and oddballs, our jails would be filled.” He gave a low chuckle. “And I’d be out of a job.”

  “I’m going to figure this out, you know,” Carmela told him. “I’m going to get to the bottom of Byrle’s murder.”

  “Please,” said Babcock. And now his voice sounded pained. “Please don’t get any more involved than you already are.”

  “Excuse me,” said Carmela, with some force. “The only way I could be any more involved is if I stumbled upon a third dead body!”

  When Carmela finally swung by Memory Mine, her wine carriers were stacked neatly on the front counter, all wrapped, glued, and elegantly finished.

  “Oh my gosh!” Carmela exclaimed. “They’re all done?”

  Two heads suddenly popped up from behind the row of wine carriers.

  “You like ’em?” asked Gabby. She hooked a thumb and pointed at Marilyn Casey. “You can thank my cohort here. I wrapped and did the finishing work, but Marilyn did most of the gluing.”

  “I felt like I was back in kindergarten,” Marilyn laughed, “licking white paste off my fingers.”

  “Oh, you darlings!” said Carmela. “You saved me so much work!”

  “The shop wasn’t all that busy,” said Gabby, pleased that Carmela was pleased, “so why not?”

  “And my writing hit a major roadblock,” said Marilyn, “so I dropped by to see if there was anything new in your investigation and . . . poof... I got roped in.”

  “You volunteered!” said Gabby.

  “Absolutely, I did,” said Marilyn. “And had a fun time to boot. I’m going to have to stop by more often.”

  “Do that,” said Carmela.

  “Marilyn even helped write an invitation for one of our customers,” said Gabby.

  “It wasn’t much,” said Marilyn. “She just needed the right words to invite her friends to a holiday party.”

  “But it turned out really neat,” said Gabby. “Almost poetic.”

  “Nothing like a real writer’s touch,” Carmela said to Marilyn. She sometimes wished she had the ability to pile up words on paper, too. Pen a mystery or even a romance.

  “Don’t I wish,” said Marilyn. “I’ve got a whiz-bang outline for my mystery. But now I have no idea how to end it.”

  “Maybe,” said Carmela, picking up one of the wine carriers and admiring the yellow tassel that Gabby had attached, “you just need to stick around and see what happens with the investigation.”

  Marilyn looked skeptical. “Just let it all unfold?”

  “If it ever does,” said Gabby.

  “We can only hope,” said Carmela.

  Chapter 25

  BLACK shiny limos slid up to the front door of the Belle Vie Hotel and cameras flashed as Carmela mumbled hasty thank-yous to the rain gods, whose benevolence had seemingly held off yet another downpour.

  “This is going, great, huh?” asked Quigg. With his hair slicked back, dressed in a slim-cut tuxedo with a gold brocade cummerbund, he stood next to Carmela on the red carpet, looking dapper and elegant with a touch of Las Vegas showbiz tossed in for good measure.


  “We lucked out,” said Carmela, as one black limo pulled away and a white stretch limo swung in to take its place.

  “Luck had nothing to do with it, sweetheart,” said Quigg. “You made this happen.”

  “But it was a slam dunk from the get-go,” Carmela told him, with an impish grin. “When you send out fancy invitations and invite people for free food and drinks and a chance at publicity, not many people are going to say no.” She smoothed the skirt on her long dark blue taffeta skirt. Paired with a pale blue silk blouse, her outfit looked fancy and slightly formal but didn’t restrict movement. And as she would be schmoozing close to one hundred fifty guests tonight, along with honchoing chefs, servers, and musicians, movement was of the essence.

  “It’s a party town,” Quigg acknowledged, as they watched the preening guests. “Plus, you persuaded the media to turn out, too.”

  “Saturday night’s a dead night news-wise,” Carmela told him. “So whatever print or broadcast crew is working, they’re happy to come out to an event like this and then be invited to join the party.”

  “Is that what you’re going to do? Invite them to join the party?”

  “Sure,” said Carmela. “Once our guests have all walked the red carpet and posed in front of the step-and-repeat.” Besides hiring two professional photographers, Carmela was thrilled that crews from three TV stations and two newspapers had turned up. It was tantamount to a public relations coup!

  Five minutes later, Ava arrived, squired by Jekyl and three of his friends. Copious air kisses were exchanged, Carmela was fawned over greatly, and then Jekyl and company headed inside to hit the food and drink.

  “You look fabulous!” Carmela told Ava, who lingered in front of the step-and-repeat. Ava looked both high fashion and lethal in her black strapless gown with marabou trim at the bottom.

  “Thank you,” said Ava, pushing back massive waves of dark hair as she smiled demurely for the cameras.

  “And why are you suddenly looking even more skinny?” Carmela whispered. “It’s as if you dropped ten pounds in the last two hours. What’s your secret? Some kind of magical mystery cleanse?”

  “I owe it all to modern engineering,” said Ava, running a palm slowly across her flat tummy. “I’m wearing three sets of Spanx.”

  “You’re not!” said Carmela. She could barely squiggle into one pair, let alone three.

  “Honey,” said Ava, “if you bounced a quarter off my derriere right now, it would ricochet back and punch out your eye.”

  “Whatever you’re wearing,” laughed Carmela, “it works.”

  “Now,” said Ava, lifting her chin and glancing about, “where are those TV cameras?”

  The scene inside the Marquis Ballroom was one of excitement coupled with mad hilarity. The string quartet played a jazzed-up version of “Days of Wine and Roses.” Madame Blavatsky, seated at a round table covered with a fringed paisley shawl, had already collected a discreet line of guests waiting to have their fortunes told. Bartenders at each of the four wine stations busily poured glasses of wine. And tiny hors d’oeuvres were being eagerly snapped up by everyone.

  “Look at this party,” squealed Ava, as they wandered through the ballroom. “Fantastic. You really pulled it off.”

  “Want to get a drink?” Carmela asked. “Along with the wine we’re pouring here tonight, Quigg created a couple of wine cocktails, too.”

  Ava cocked her head to one side. “Cocktails are an art form and I consider myself a patron of the arts.”

  “Plus, you’ve got to try the food,” Carmela urged. “Especially the lobster rolls and duck drummies. The Belle Vie went all out.”

  “Actually,” said Quigg, suddenly appearing at their elbow, “Chef Rami went all out.” He was accompanied by Chef Rami, wearing a pristine white jacket but without his trademark chef’s hat. The chef beamed at Carmela and Ava.

  “And this is Chef Rami?” asked Ava, sticking out a hand to greet him as she popped a drummy into her mouth.

  “Nice to meet you,” said Chef Rami, accepting her hand.

  “Great food,” Ava enthused, as she chewed.

  “I’ve been secretly trying to woo Chef Rami away from here and get him to come work for me,” said Quigg. “You know, he’s a graduate of CIA.”

  Ava swallowed with a gulp and let loose an amused shiver. “Oooh, you used to be a spy?”

  “Culinary Institute of America,” Chef Rami told her. “The other CIA.”

  “Ah,” said Ava. “The other one.”

  “By the way,” Quigg said to Carmela, “I love that you brought in a psychic. It gives the whole event a very offbeat touch.”

  “Nothing like a string quartet and a psychic to get the party rolling,” Ava chortled.

  “Along with a boatload of wine,” added Carmela. She slipped away from the group and surveyed the room. The media had finally swept in like a horde of marauding Mongols and were attacking two of the wine stations. But that was okay. They had dozens of cases of Bayou Sparkler and Sauvignon Silver. No way would this crowd drink their way through everything.

  Looking around, Carmela also spotted plenty of restaurateurs and wine shop proprietors. Perfect. Couldn’t be better. She knew they were pretty much the decision makers who’d make or break St. Tammany Vineyards. If they decided to stock Quigg’s wines or add them to their wine lists, then he was pretty much guaranteed success. And if they didn’t ... well, maybe Quigg could let his wine age for a few years in a nice hot shed and go into the vinegar business.

  “Carmela!” exclaimed a pretty African American woman. “Remember me?”

  “Ardice!” said Carmela, giving her a quick hug. Ardice was midthirties, cute, and dressed in a tailored black cocktail dress. She was the business manager at St. Tammany Vineyards and also did the buying for the gift shop.

  “Aren’t you the PR whiz,” said Ardice. “You even got some of our local media to show up.”

  “That was always the hopeful part of the plan,” said Carmela, pleased that Ardice had noticed.

  “That reporter for KBEZ,” said Ardice, “the one with all the blond hair and Botox?”

  “Kimber Breeze?” said Carmela.

  “She kind of waylaid me outside,” said Ardice. “She asked a couple questions about Quigg’s wine, but I think she really wanted to know about you.”

  “Oh no,” said Carmela, looking around. “Is she here?” All she needed was to have Kimber Breeze hijack this event. To shift attention from Quigg’s wines to the murder investigations.

  “She’s here somewhere,” said Ardice, her long gold earrings dangling, “so be careful!”

  Carmela wandered past the Cabernet station, making sure things were running smoothly, then circled back to Madame Blavatsky’s table. That was where she ran smack-dab into Ava, clinging to the arm of Drew Gaspar.

  “Look who I found!” crowed Ava. “None other than handsome Mr. Gaspar, a partner in the very amazing Voodoo Couture line.”

  “Nice to see you again,” said Carmela. She was friendly, but reserved.

  “I was just telling Mr. Gaspar how much I enjoyed modeling his clothes this afternoon,” said Ava.

  “I wish I could have been there,” said Gaspar, giving her a wink and a wide grin.

  “I wish you could have been there, too,” giggled Ava.

  “Have you had a chance to taste any of the St. Tammany wines yet?” Carmela asked.

  Gaspar continued to grin at Ava. “Indeed, I have. Very fine quality. I wouldn’t mind adding them to my wine list, such as it is.”

  “That’s what we like to hear,” said Carmela. She gave a business-friendly smile and said, “I take it you’re still tinkering with food and wine for Purgatoria?”

  “It’s never ending,” said Gaspar.

  “And the décor?” she asked, thinking about the stolen crucifix.

  “We can always find a niche or nook for another gargoyle or candlestick,” said Gaspar, happily. “It’s that kind of place.”

  “I
’m sure it is,” said Carmela. “By the way, our host tonight, Quigg Brevard, is spearheading a restaurateurs’ food donation drive.”

  “He is?” said Ava.

  Carmela was completely winging it now as her words poured out. “He’s going to be asking restaurants to donate extra staples to the Storyville Outreach Center.” She paused for a beat. “Does that interest you?” She watched for any flicker of familiarity and saw none. Either Gaspar was an exceedingly good liar or he’d never heard of the place.

  “Count me in,” said Gaspar. “I’m always willing to help out.”

  “Kind of you,” said Carmela. “I’ll be sure to pass that along to Quigg.”

  “Do that,” said Gaspar. He whispered something in Ava’s ear, then slipped away from her.

  “You’re getting close to him,” said Carmela, in a slightly accusing tone. “You know that worries the heck out of me.”

  “He didn’t do anything,” said Ava. “Really. He’s just a good guy. You wait and see. Any suspicions you have are completely unfounded.”

  “I hope so,” said Carmela, as they threaded their way through the press of guests. Pretty much everyone had tasted each of the different wines by now, which added up to a whole lot of merriment.

  Unfortunately, all of Carmela’s feelings of accomplishment burst like a soap bubble when she ran smack-dab into Rain Monroe.

  “Rain!” Carmela exclaimed. “What are you doing here?” Carmela was dismayed to see her, Rain being the killjoy that she was. And Ava, with a few drinks under her belt, might just decide to haul off and smack her.

  Rain put a hand on her hip and postured grandly in her sleek ivory cocktail dress. “I came with Peter Johns, owner of Griffin Bistro.”

  “Wonderful,” said Carmela, though her words lacked enthusiasm. Ava just stood at Carmela’s elbow, giving Rain a cold, calculating stare.

  “Although,” Rain continued in a bored tone, “I doubt we’ll stay long.” Now her true colors began to emerge as she shook her head and asked, “Have you actually tasted this wine?” Rain’s upper lip curled in sublime distaste. “From St. Tammany Vineyards?”