by Laura Childs
“We’ve been robbed!” T.J. cried. “Cleaned out!” Then his anger fell away and his face crumpled in exasperation. “Aw, crap. It means I have to talk to the cops all over again.”
* * *
* * *
This time Babcock arrived with only one man accompanying him. A uniformed officer named Harlan Boyce.
“What are you doing here?” Babcock asked when he saw Carmela. He was taken aback and looked slightly annoyed.
“I came to pay my respects to T.J.,” Carmela said.
“I’m sure,” Babcock said, with little conviction. Then, “What’s this about a safe being ransacked?”
“More like cleaned out,” T.J. said. “When we opened up the safe, it was completely empty.” He sounded nervous bordering on hysterical. “I mean, what else could possibly go wrong?”
“Do you think whoever killed Devon also cleaned out the safe?” Carmela asked Babcock. “Maybe that’s why Devon was killed. Because he wouldn’t open the safe to an armed robber.”
“But he obviously did,” Babcock said. “Or someone did. The possibility also exists that Mr. Dowling emptied the safe at an earlier time.”
But T.J. was adamant. “My guess is that Devon was killed defending its contents.”
Babcock focused on T.J. “Do you know what those contents might have been?”
“Some loose diamonds, gold coins, miscellaneous jewelry, um . . . supposedly a shred of fabric that . . .”
“Yes, I’ve heard the rumor,” Babcock said. He threw a quick glance at Carmela, then put a hand up and scratched his head. “The thing is, there have been a rash of art thefts in New Orleans, specifically in the Garden District.”
“Do you think that was the case here?” Carmela asked.
“Has anyone else been murdered?” T.J. asked.
“It could have been an art theft,” Babcock said slowly. “And no, none of the other theft victims were injured in any way. In fact, most of the art thefts occurred while the homes were unoccupied.”
“Do you have any suspects for these so-called art thefts?” Carmela asked.
“There’s a guy by the name of Sonny Boy Holmes, aka Stanley Holmberg, who’s been known to crack a safe or two,” Babcock said. “After serving four years in Dixon Correctional, we thought he’d pretty much pooped out. But you never know, maybe Sonny Boy hung out his shingle again.”
“The shred of fabric that T.J. mentioned before,” Carmela said. “If it really was an actual piece from Lincoln’s coat, that might explain this robbery.”
“Would it really?” Babcock asked. He sounded testy. “Does something like that actually exist?”
“T.J. thinks it did,” Carmela said.
“Mr. Dowling told me it did,” T.J. said.
“But who would have known about it?” Babcock said. “Better yet, who would have cared?”
Someone did, Carmela thought to herself.
* * *
* * *
While Officer Boyce took a statement from T.J., Babcock pulled Carmela outside onto the sidewalk.
“What’s going on?” he asked. The expression on his face was a mix of concern and impatience.
“Like we just told you, T.J. opened the safe and it was completely empty.”
“Nice try, but that’s not what I’m talking about.”
“It’s not?” Carmela said.
A horse-drawn wagon clip-clopped by, chattering tourists streamed past them, and a street musician banged out a bluesy version of “Round Midnight” on his saxophone. The French Quarter was alive and kickin’, but Babcock remained focused only on Carmela. “I was just over at the Licensing Bureau in City Hall. Imagine my surprise when I overheard your name being put on a permit for some kind of wine bar.”
“My name?” Carmela was suddenly the picture of innocence.
“Do you know another Carmela Bertrand?”
Carmela’s eyes were drawn to a shiny black Maybach that pulled to the curb. She entertained a fantasy of running over, flinging herself into the front seat, and driving away. Then she turned her attention back to Babcock and said, “Well . . . no.”
Babcock continued. “And . . . this is the really choice part. It seems the permit being issued is for a partnership in a wine bar, between you and Quigg Brevard, your old boyfriend.”
“He’s not my old boyfriend and I’m not really a partner.” Yet. Until I make up my mind.
Babcock cocked an eye at her. “You’ve got some ’splaining to do, my dear.”
“Would you believe it if I said I’ve been semi-railroaded?” Carmela asked. She tried to sound contrite.
Babcock actually laughed out loud at this. “Nice try, Carmela. I’ll give you an A for effort. I hear what you’re selling, but I’m seriously not buying it.”
“I received an offer from Quigg on a crazy idea he had concerning a wine bar, a kind of paint and sip. But I promise I haven’t said yes to anything yet.”
“Hmm.” Babcock was stroking his chin, looking like a thoughtful scholar.
“Lawyers would have to be consulted, papers drawn up. We’re not even close to having any kind of agreement.”
Babcock took her hand and held it gently in his. “Not like our agreement, right?” He turned her hand so that her three-carat engagement ring sparkled outrageously in the sunlight.
“Of course not, Edgar,” Carmela said.
“I want to believe you, sweetheart.” Babcock gripped her hand tighter as the saxophone music continued, haunting and sweet.
“Then do.”
“Set a date then. Buy a dress. Get some bow ties for the dogs. Let’s stop fooling around and do this.”
“I promise,” Carmela said. “I’ll do all that and more.” But even as Carmela made her heartfelt declaration, she was still trying to work out the circumstances surrounding her friend’s murder. The ice pick, the missing jewelry, a piece from Lincoln’s coat. If only . . . if only she could come up with the tiniest of clues, maybe then she could help set things right. And find a tiny bit of justice for poor Devon.
Chapter 7
“HOW’D it go at Devon Dowling’s shop?” Gabby asked the minute Carmela set foot in the bustling scrapbook shop. “Was anyone there? Did you learn anything new?”
“Devon’s safe was robbed,” Carmela said in a half whisper so as not to disturb the customers who were shopping.
“What!” Gabby screeched. So much for maintaining a calm and quiet atmosphere.
“I kind of convinced Devon’s assistant, T.J., to open the safe. And when he did, the safe was as empty as a fridge in a college dorm room.”
Gabby’s eyes widened. “So a robbery, too? You’re thinking the perpetrator was the same person as Devon’s killer?”
Carmela shrugged. “Maybe.”
“So you have to report this, right?”
“Already did,” Carmela said.
Gabby gave a knowing nod. “Ah. That’s why you look so discombobulated. As if you just stumbled off a Tilt-A-Whirl. You guys called the police . . .”
“And Babcock obligingly came over,” Carmela finished.
“And gave you a slap on the wrist.”
“Something like that, yeah. Plus, he made no bones about the fact that he doesn’t want me involved.”
“Good,” Gabby said. “Truth be told, neither do I.”
“But I am involved.”
“So you say. But, Carmela, you’ve got to be a little more chill about this. About everything.” Gabby reached under the counter and grabbed her Coach bag. “Okay, ’nuff said. I’m going to run out and grab us some lunch. What do you feel like having? A salad from Pirate’s Alley Deli or should we throw caution to the wind and pig out on powdered-sugar beignets?”
“I have to stuff myself into a wedding gown one of these days.”
“Right. A salad it is.�
�� But Gabby still didn’t make a move to leave. Instead, she stood there, a knowing smile on her face.
“Well, maybe it wouldn’t kill me to have one last oyster po-boy.”
“Attagirl. I thought there might be some fried food in your future.”
* * *
* * *
While Gabby was gone, Carmela walked casually through her shop, offering help to customers and answering questions.
One woman wanted rubber stamps with floral motifs, so Carmela found some lovely iris and rose stamps for her as well as pink and purple ink pads.
Another customer, a regular named Angela, wanted to make free-form pendants out of polymer clay.
“How do I get them nice and thin so they’re comfortable to wear?” Angela asked.
“I’d recommend putting your polymer clay through a pasta machine,” Carmela said. “That way it comes out super thin. Makes it easier to cut your clay or sculpt it into the shape you want.”
“And then I bake it?”
“Yes, but you should first texture the surface with coarse sandpaper,” Carmela said. “And don’t forget to poke holes to allow for jump rings or pieces of cord.”
“Then I bake it and paint it,” Angela said.
Carmela gave an encouraging nod. “It’s as simple as that.”
Carmela was busy ringing up two people at the front counter when Gabby returned with lunch. She immediately slipped a brown paper bag to Carmela and smiled at the customers.
“Here, let me package this up for you,” Gabby said. “Give you some free samples, too.” She reached for a couple of cellophane packets. “Got some new stickers here . . .”
Carmela ducked into her office to eat lunch, noodle around some ideas, and work on a few sketches.
She was balling up her paper sack and frowning at a grease splotch on her sketch pad when Quigg popped his head into her office.
“Hey, sweetheart, we’re all set,” Quigg said. He wore a chambray shirt tucked into faded blue jeans. His dark hair was slicked back, and his eyes sparkled in a very come-hither way. Basically, he looked like trouble.
“Please don’t call me sweetheart,” Carmela said, swiveling in her purple leather desk chair to face him. “And what are you jabbering about? What exactly are we all set about?”
“I put an order in with my sign painter. Decided to make an executive decision and call the place Blush and Brush.”
Carmela stood up so fast her chair just about flipped over. “No!” she cried out. Somehow she had to make Quigg understand that he couldn’t just run roughshod over her and make partnership assumptions. That he had to recognize the error of his ways.
“Yes.” Quigg smiled back. “Surprised? Excited?”
“You do know that Babcock found out about this wine bar?” she said.
Quigg pursed his lips and made a rude raspberries sound. “So what?”
“Babcock despises the idea of you and me doing any sort of collaboration.”
“At the risk of repeating myself, so what?”
“Quigg, you can’t just go around railroading people. Maybe I don’t want to be your partner in this wine bar thing.”
Quigg looked hurt. Or maybe he was just pretend offended?
“You really don’t want to be my partner?” He looked like he’d just had his jelly beans stolen by the playground bully.
“Well, I do and I don’t,” Carmela said. “I mean, the idea is tempting . . .”
“I’m glad that’s settled. Jeez, I hope you’re not this conflicted when it comes to getting married.” He squinted at her. “You are still getting married, aren’t you? To what’s-his-name?”
“Of course I am. That’s why I’ve been trying to impress upon you the fact that Babcock doesn’t want this partnership to happen. He’s not, um, comfortable with us working together.”
“But it’s a done deal,” Quigg said.
“No, it’s not,” Carmela said.
Quigg winked at her as he held up an index finger. “Think about your first project. Whether you want the customers to paint plates or wineglasses.”
“Quigg!”
But he was already out the door, a confident smile spread across his handsome face.
* * *
* * *
Gabby was standing at the back table, sorting through cardstock, when Carmela came out of her office.
“How’d it go with Quigg?” she asked.
“He won’t take no for an answer,” Carmela said.
“I don’t think Quigg’s ever taken no for an answer.”
“He’s pulling me one way and Babcock is pulling me the other.”
“It’s lonely right there in the middle, huh?” But Gabby smiled as she said it.
“I just have to decide,” Carmela said.
“Maybe that’s one decision you can put on the back burner. Because I just saw Baby and Tandy walk past the front window.”
And two seconds later, the two women rushed into Memory Mine like they owned the place.
“Carmela!” Tandy Bliss shrieked at the top of her lungs. She was the super expressive one, a skinny forty-something in a body-con red knit dress that perfectly matched her fluff of hennaed red hair. But what Tandy lacked in body mass index she made up for in enthusiasm. “It’s been what, you guys?” she practically shouted. “Two whole weeks since we’ve been here?”
“Feels longer,” Carmela said, playing along with her. In reality, Tandy and Baby had stopped in last week, shopping for stencils. But who’s counting?
Baby Fontaine was slightly more demure. A doyenne of the Garden District, Baby was a fifty-something social butterfly with pixie blond hair and an impish sense of humor. Today she wore a pair of ripped denim jeans along with her navy Chanel jacket.
“I love your outfit!” Gabby exclaimed to Baby.
“You don’t think it’s a little too outré?” Baby laughed.
Carmela leaned in and gave Baby a warm hug. “Your outfit’s perfect. It’s you.”
Five minutes later, they were joined by three more women who were all atwitter about creating their own greeting cards.
“How do we start? How do we start?” a woman named Peggy jittered.
Carmela held up a folded blank card. “With a folded piece of cardstock that’s pretty much a standard card size.”
“And we want that size why?” Peggy asked.
“To fit in a standard card envelope,” Carmela said. Then, “Gabby, will you pass out a few blank cards?”
“With pleasure,” Gabby said as she worked her way around the table.
“We’re starting with cream-colored cardstock,” Carmela said. “But that doesn’t mean your cards have to be boring or traditional. I want you to think way outside the box. Use paper, fibers, copper wire—whatever you want—to decorate your cards. Color them, edge them in gold, or use rubber stamps if you like. At Memory Mine, it’s perfectly okay to bend, spindle, and mutilate your cards. In fact, it’s encouraged.”
“Mutilate?” one of the women said.
“That means you can rip, deckle, or shred the edges,” Gabby instructed. “To make your card more tactile and interesting.”
“Ah,” the woman said, a light bulb suddenly going off over her head. “I think I’m going to enjoy this card-making class.”
“The most important thing about card making,” Carmela said, “is to build up a number of layers.”
“Give us an example,” Peggy said.
Carmela took a yellow stamp pad and smeared it across the front of her card. Then she did the same thing with a green stamp pad—only she used this color slightly more judiciously. She glued on a piece of checkered paper, grabbed a rubber stamp, and stamped the image of a wineglass. With a red colored pencil, she colored in the wine. Then she took a squishy marker and wrote YOU’RE INVITED TO A WINE TASTING.
“Wow,” Tandy marveled. “You did that in like eight seconds flat.”
“You guys will get the hang of it, too,” Carmela said.
“How about a birthday card for one of my grandkids?” Baby asked.
“Got a rubber stamp of a toy train right here,” Gabby said, always on the ball.
“How about a save the date card for a wedding?” one of the women asked.
“I’d add a few squares of gold paper or vellum, stamp on a set of rings, and maybe add a gold string and tassel,” Carmela said.
“Wow,” Baby said. “I can’t wait to dig in.”
Everyone got to work then, coloring their cards, pasting on bits of colored paper, gluing on the occasional brad or button. Every card was unique and every card was (amazingly!) creative.
“For all you paper savants,” Carmela said, “I’m also offering a Paper University class next week.”
“What is that, please?” Tandy asked.
“That’s where we go even more crazy with paper,” Carmela explained. “Handmade paper, mulberry paper, Japanese rice paper, ephemera, that kind of thing. But you don’t necessarily have to make cards. You can create paper jewelry, fun labels, miniature theaters, tags, foldout albums—whatever you feel like.”
“Count me in,” Tandy said.
“Me too!” came a chorus of voices.
Carmela was restocking one of the paper bins when Baby sidled up next to her.
“I read about poor Devon Dowling in the newspaper,” Baby said in a low voice.
Carmela’s face fell. “It was awful. I was there.”
“So I understand. And besides Devon being murdered, his shop was also burglarized?”
“How do you know about that?”
“Del overheard a rumor at the courthouse.” Del was Baby’s husband, a high-test attorney.
“Um, the police surmise that’s what happened,” Carmela said. She didn’t want to let the cat out of the bag quite yet.
