Gossamer Ghost
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Laura Childs
Tea Shop Mysteries
DEATH BY DARJEELING
GUNPOWDER GREEN
SHADES OF EARL GREY
THE ENGLISH BREAKFAST MURDER
THE JASMINE MOON MURDER
CHAMOMILE MOURNING
BLOOD ORANGE BREWING
DRAGONWELL DEAD
THE SILVER NEEDLE MURDER
OOLONG DEAD
THE TEABERRY STRANGLER
SCONES & BONES
AGONY OF THE LEAVES
SWEET TEA REVENGE
STEEPED IN EVIL
Scrapbooking Mysteries
KEEPSAKE CRIMES
PHOTO FINISHED
BOUND FOR MURDER
MOTIF FOR MURDER
FRILL KILL
DEATH SWATCH
TRAGIC MAGIC
FIBER & BRIMSTONE
SKELETON LETTERS
POSTCARDS FROM THE DEAD
GILT TRIP
GOSSAMER GHOST
Cackleberry Club Mysteries
EGGS IN PURGATORY
EGGS BENEDICT ARNOLD
BEDEVILED EGGS
STAKE & EGGS
EGGS IN A CASKET
Anthologies
DEATH BY DESIGN
TEA FOR THREE
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.
Copyright © 2014 by Gerry Schmitt & Associates, Inc.
Excerpt from Scorched Eggs by Laura Childs copyright © 2014 by Gerry Schmitt & Associates, Inc.
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eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-61755-7
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Childs, Laura.
Gossamer ghost / by Laura Childs.—First edition.
pages cm.—(A scrapbooking mystery ; 12)
ISBN 978-0-425-26666-3 (hardback)
1. Women detectives—Fiction. 2. Scrapbooking—Fiction. 3. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. 4. Mystery fiction. I. Title.
PS3603.H56G67 2014
813'.6—dc23
2014021975
FIRST EDITION: October 2014
Cover illustration by Dan Craig.
Cover design by Lesley Worrell.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.
Version_1
Acknowledgments
A major thank-you to Sam, Tom, Amanda, Troy, Diana, Nancy, Bob, Jennie, Dan, and all the designers, illustrators, writers, publicists, and sales folk at The Berkley Publishing Group. You are all such a wonderful team. Thank you also to all the booksellers, reviewers, librarians, and bloggers. And special thanks to all my readers and Facebook friends who are so very kind, supportive, and appreciative. I truly love writing for you!
Contents
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Laura Childs
Title Page
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Scrapbook, Stamping, and Craft Tips from Laura Childs
Favorite New Orleans Recipes
Preview of Scorched Eggs
IT was Halloween again in New Orleans. A week-long, rabble-rousing celebration that just seemed to get bigger, badder, and crazier every dang year. A time for would-be werewolves, witches, fairy princesses, goblins, Venetian lords and ladies, and zombies to dust off their costumes, throw on a wig, howl at the moon, and paint the town the bright red color of fake vampire blood.
Carmela Bertrand, the owner of Memory Mine Scrapbook Shop in the French Quarter, was no exception. This year she was debating the merits of wearing a medieval lady’s costume for the week leading up to Halloween, a Scarlett O’Hara dress for her friend Baby Fontaine’s annual masquerade ball, and a sexy witch dress for the ultra-fancy Pumpkins and Bumpkins Ball.
After all, what’s a girl to do when she has dozens of party invitations and is dating one of the hottest police detectives in the Big Easy?
Well, for one thing, it wasn’t so easy.
Right now, late Friday afternoon, with streetlamps just beginning to glow in the darkening purple haze of a French Quarter evening, Carmela was still hunched at her computer trying to figure out which classes to post on her Facebook page. She’d already offered several Paper Moon classes that had proven to be wildly popular. But now she was racking her brain for something different, a couple of fun crafty sessions that would tickle her customers’ fancies and really get their creative juices flowing.
Maybe a stencil class or a class on painted fabrics? Painting on velvet clutch purses and pillows could generate lots of excitement among her die-hard scrapping ladies. The other thing might be . . .
She stood up fast and hustled out of her tiny office and into her retail area. Pulling open a flat file drawer, she peered inside. Yes! She had a huge inventory of square and oval jewelry findings. Neat little square frames, as well as hearts and elaborate ovals that you could slip a tiny photo into. So maybe she could offer a Charm and Pendant class? That could be loads of fun.
Carmela nodded to herself, liking the idea more and more, as she rushed back to her office and typed in her new class. There. Done and done. Creating a personalized charm or pendant was almost as fun as creating a miniature scrapbook page.
Feeling satisfied and a little relieve
d, more than ready to call it a day, Carmela grabbed her handbag and suede jacket and headed for the front door. Rushing now, she smoothed back a strand of honeyed-blond hair from her short, choppy bob and did a little quickstep. Not quite thirty, Carmela was at that point in her life where she was still young enough to be bubbly, but old enough to be serious. A freewheeling Southern conservative with inquisitive blue-gray eyes, fair complexion that rarely saw the need for makeup, a nose for getting into trouble, and a serious penchant for chocolate.
We could even make charm bracelets, she thought to herself as she turned and locked the door behind her.
As Carmela stepped out onto Governor Nicholls Street, she inhaled deeply and smiled. Evenings in the French Quarter never failed to give her pause and an overall feeling of sweet contentment. After all, who wouldn’t love to gaze up at a purplish blue-black sky that served as a dramatic backdrop for two-hundred-year-old brick buildings? Or wander through courtyard gardens with pattering fountains and giant froths of jasmine and magnolias? And if you stopped and listened carefully, you could more often than not hear the haunting low notes of a jazz saxophone bumping along on a breeze from the river.
Of course, the French Quarter had its crazy hurly-burly side, too. Lest you think it was a perfect little slice of heaven, you couldn’t forget the voodoo shops, absinthe bars, strip clubs, and touristy T-shirt and bead shops. But for every one of those crazy shops there were dozens of quaint oyster bars, jazz clubs, elegant restaurants, historic old homes, French bakeries, and haunted hotels. All there for your delicious enjoyment.
Feeling upbeat, Carmela paused outside her own quaint little bow window with its display of finished scrapbooks, memory boxes, Paperclay jewelry, and altered books. Just gazing at all the finished crafts gave her a keen sense of satisfaction. A feeling of accomplishment for having found her happy little niche in the world.
Over the past few years, Carmela had managed to build Memory Mine into a thriving business. No thanks at all to her ex-husband, Shamus “The Rat” Meechum. He’d bugged out after their very first year of marriage, leaving her to figure out how to negotiate a lease, write a business plan, and obtain a bank loan. And the rat (yes, we’re making a point here) even hailed from one of New Orleans’s premier banking families, owners of Crescent City Bank.
But Carmela had taken the risk, worked her proverbial buns off, and figured out how to entice and build a customer base. And, wonder of wonders, her efforts had not only paid off monetarily, but she found she enjoyed being a small-business owner. One of many here on Governor Nicholls Street with its plethora of gift shops, antique shops, and what have you.
What have you.
That thought caused her to pause outside the front window of Oddities, the shop that served as her next-door neighbor and with whom she shared a common brick wall. Oddities was a strange little business run by an even stranger man by the name of Marcus Joubert. The shop had sprung up two years ago like an errant mushroom and was aptly named. Because Oddities carried an eclectic and macabre mix of merchandise. There were taxidermy animals, Victorian funeral jewelry, steampunk items, beetle and butterfly collections, antique furniture, old medical devices of indeterminate usage, albums filled with black-and-white photos, and any number of bleached-white animal skulls and bones. She’d even once spotted an apparatus that looked suspiciously like a thumbscrew.
Tonight, under the soft glow of streetlamps, her curiosity getting the best of her, Carmela stopped and peered in Oddities’ dusty front window. And saw a pair of old leather goggles, a piece of scrimshaw, a collection of Chinese vases, and a top hat and antique dagger.
For some reason the top hat and dagger struck her as something Jack the Ripper might have had in his possession. Might have even treasured.
Kind of creepy.
Then again, it was the week before Halloween. So perhaps Marcus Joubert was trying to set a theme?
Carmela was just about to turn and walk away, hike the few blocks to her cozy apartment, when she was suddenly aware of a funny and slightly ominous set of noises emanating from inside Oddities. What she thought might have been a muffled scream followed by a dull thump.
Huh?
She stepped closer to the window and tried to peer in, to see what was happening in the back of the shop. No luck. A rainbow of lights from the street reflected off the glass, creating a glare that made it almost impossible.
Still . . . she’d heard something, right?
Carmela, who was generally practical in nature but was blessed (or cursed, some might say) with a giant dollop of inquisitiveness in her DNA, decided it might be smart to investigate.
After all, what if Marcus Joubert had suddenly taken ill? What if the sounds she’d heard were him staggering and falling? Could he be lying in there right now? Struck down by a heart attack or some other ailment and unable to call out for help?
Carmela put a hand on the brass doorknob and turned it slowly. Nothing doing. The door was securely locked.
No problem, she had a key. Joubert had given her one in case of emergency—and this just might qualify as an emergency. If not, then no harm done. She’d take a quick look-see and lock up tightly. No one would be the wiser.
Quickly pulling out her key fob, Carmela found the little brass key and stuck it in the lock.
And that’s when her bravado and good intentions suddenly came to a screeching halt. Because when she opened the door, the shop yawned at her in complete darkness.
Oh my.
Carmela stood there for a few moments, feeling unnatural warmth wash over her, as if a space heater had been left on, and hearing a monotonous ticking from an old grandfather clock in back. As a few more moments passed, she realized the shop wasn’t completely dark after all. There were a few dim lights scattered about the place. Pinprick spotlights glowed from the rafters like bat eyes, illuminating a suit of armor and a wrought-iron candelabra. A stained glass turtle-shell lamp cast a dim orange glow on a shelf alongside a set of frayed leather-bound books. And way in the back, sitting atop Joubert’s rickety rolltop desk, was a faux Tiffany lamp.
Unfortunately, none of the lightbulbs seemed to pump out more than ten watts of power. It was like walking into a dark cocktail lounge without the benefit of strong liquid refreshments.
Carmela took two steps in. “Marcus?” she called out. “Are you okay?”
There was no answer.
“It’s Carmela from next door. I thought I heard something . . .” Her own voice sounded shrill to her, but also seemed to be absorbed quickly into the gloom and darkness. She advanced a few more steps. “Now what?” she muttered to herself. What should she do? What was going on? She prayed it wasn’t some weird Halloween prank that was being played on the unsuspecting next-door neighbor.
“Joubert?” she called again. “Are you in here?”
There was another muffled noise. From where? Maybe from the back of the shop, she decided.
Could it have been the soft snick of the back door closing? Had someone been in here with her for a few moments and just now slipped out the back?
A cold shiver traveled up Carmela’s spine and a little voice in her head, the one that sometimes whispered, You’re taking too big a risk, told her to get out now.
A prickly feeling, as if she was being watched by unseen eyes, made Carmela crank her head sharply to the left. And she suddenly found herself staring directly into the grimacing face of a stuffed capuchin monkey that was perched precariously on a shelf, condemned forever to wear a hideous purple vest and matching fez.
Startled by the snarling mouth and beady eyes, Carmela whirled away from the monkey, caught her toe on the edge of an Oriental carpet, and started to stumble. Her arms cartwheeled out in front of her in a last-ditch effort to catch herself from falling. And, in so doing, flailed and flapped against the front doors of a tall wooden curio cabinet.
As her splayed-out ha
nds thumped against the thin wooden doors, they rattled like crazy and the entire cabinet seemed to teeter forward on its spindly legs. Terrified that the entire piece was going to fall over and smash something odd or precious, Carmela tried to grasp the cabinet and steady it. But as she felt the weight of the cabinet slowly tipping toward her, as her fingers fumbled against the brass handles, the cabinet’s doors slowly creaked open.
And then, like a corpse spilling out of Dr. Caligari’s closet, the dead, bloody body of Marcus Joubert suddenly came lurching out at her!
Carmela took a step backward in shock and protest. No matter, the body tumbled relentlessly toward her in horrible slow motion. There was a low moan, like the stinking sigh of a zombie, as a final bubble of air was released from the deep recess of its lungs. And then Joubert’s body flopped cold and bloody and unwelcome into Carmela’s outstretched arms!
“NOOOOO!”
Stunned and horrified beyond belief, Carmela screamed at the top of her lungs. She shoved Joubert’s body away from her with as much strength as she could muster, made an awkward jump sideways, and crashed into a small metal table topped with glass figurines. A tiny lion plunged to the floor, a rearing horse tumbled over backward and shattered, its head and right leg flying off.
And still Carmela continued to scream.
When nobody showed up to help, when nothing seemed to be accomplished by her loud screeches of protest, she let out a garbled cough and closed her mouth with a snap.
Joubert is dead. Right here in front of me. Oh dear oh dear oh dear.
Her mind churned wildly, like a rock tumbler gnawing away at bits of agate and sand.
What just happened? What should I do?
She grimaced and looked about nervously. The suit of armor was certainly no help. The capuchin monkey hadn’t made a move. A weird, beady-eyed cat head stared relentlessly back at her.
I . . . first I have to pull myself together.
That decision made, Carmela really did try hard to collect herself. To stifle her fear and revulsion, to try to figure out . . .
Wait just one minute.
A frightening thought had suddenly formed like a cartoon thought bubble inside her brain.