Skeleton Letters Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  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

  Scrapbook, Stamping, and Craft Tips from Laura Childs

  Favorite New Orleans Recipes

  Don’t Miss the Next Scrapbook Mystery

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Laura Childs

  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

  Scrapbooking Mysteries

  KEEPSAKE CRIMES

  PHOTO FINISHED

  BOUND FOR MURDER

  MOTIF FOR MURDER

  FRILL KILL

  DEATH SWATCH

  TRAGIC MAGIC

  FIBER & BRIMSTONE

  SKELETON LETTERS

  Cackleberry Club Mysteries

  EGGS IN PURGATORY

  EGGS BENEDICT ARNOLD

  BEDEVILED EGGS

  Anthology

  DEATH BY DESIGN

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

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  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada

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  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

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  South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

  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. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  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 reaction to the recipes contained in this book.

  Copyright © 2011 by Gerry Schmitt & Associates, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Childs, Laura.

  p. cm.

  Includes scrapbooking tips and recipes (p.317).

  ISBN : 978-1-101-55442-5

  1. Bertrand, Carmela (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. 3. Theft—Fiction. 4. Scrapbooking—Fiction. 5. New Orleans (La.)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3603.H56S57 2011

  813’.6—dc22 2011016736

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For Dan

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to Sam, Tom, Jennie, and Bob, as well as all my readers, scrapbooking friends, bloggers, reviewers, scrapbook magazine editors and writers, and scrapbook store owners.

  Chapter 1

  CARMELA Bertrand stepped into the dark interior of St. Tristan’s Church and uttered one word. “Spooky.” Not only was this historic pile of stones tucked discreetly into New Orleans’s freewheeling French Quarter, but it lent a note of Gothic sobriety. Dim overhead lights spilled muddy puddles of light down the center aisle. An ornate wooden altar with a large gold cross and tabernacle loomed at the far end, flanked by two red lamps. Tucked down both sides of the church were small chapels and prayer nooks where flickering vigil lights cast dancing shadows across the faces of painted, peeling statues, giving them an uncanny animated look. All around were the rustlings of unseen people as beads rattled, doors closed softly, and footsteps whispered on slate floors. Choir practice had just concluded, and it felt like the final notes of “Abide with Me” still hung thick in the air.

  Blinking rapidly, Carmela fought to adjust her eyes and take in the vaulted arches, dark confessionals, and gigantic pipe organ, which all seemed to impart an air of monastic seclusion and deep solemnity. “It’s almost like something out of Phantom of the Opera,” she murmured to her friend, Ava Gruiex, who was a step behind, juggling a large hand-lettered poster.

  “Or The Hunchback of Notre Dame,” Ava offered. “You remember that poor, twisted creature scrabbling around in the bell tower . . . ?”

  “I remember,” said Carmela, and wished she hadn’t. St. Tristan’s had a bell tower, too. A tall, spindly structure with ancient bronze bells that clanged out their soliloquy above the French Quarter three times a day.

  “Still,” said Ava, gazing about the church with an almost beatific expression on her face, “I love it here. It’s particularly meaningful, now that I’m volunteering with the Angel Auxiliary.”

  Carmela, a youthful blonde of not-quite-thirty, directed a skeptical sideways glance at her best friend, whose va-va-voom figure was sheathed in tight black leather slacks and a plunging yellow T-shirt with sequined court jester motif on the front. She herself was dressed in Republican beige and had worn sensible low-heeled shoes, quite appropriate considering her churchy errand today. But Carmela, who fancied herself conservative and worried that she was plain in a city where moonlight and magnolias were the norm, was really quite lovely in her own right. Her skin glowed with a peaches-and-cream luminosity, bluegray eyes mirrored the color of the Gulf of Mexico, and she projected an upbeat air of barely contained mirth and energy. And, upon certain occasions, generally a fanciful Mardi Gras ball, Carmela wasn’t afraid to fling caution to the wind and jack her five-foot-six-inch frame onto tottering four-inc
h stilettos to hang out with the tall gals. And the tall guys, naturally.

  Still, the fact remained . . . when Ava strutted her stuff with the assurance of a peacock, Carmela sometimes felt like a little brown wren.

  Got to ratchet up the sizzle, Carmela told herself. Buy a Wonderbra or a purple silk teddy. Spritz on a cloud of Chanel No. 5. Keep that boyfriend of mine on his toes. Although maybe I shouldn’t be thinking about all this . . . in church.

  “People don’t realize,” said Ava, dipping two fingers into a marble holy water font, crossing herself, then turning innocent, practically guileless eyes on Carmela, “that I’m a very strict Catholic.”

  “Really.” Carmela’s tone was purposefully flat. No question intended, no judgment made. Just a bushel basket full of curiosity. Like . . . had the church elders ever dug into Ava’s background? Did they know she was the proprietor of the Juju Voodoo shop? Carmela thought not. But, seriously, what was the harm in a voodoo shop owner working as a docent in church? Nothing really. Because Ava was Ava, a retired beauty queen who partied her brains out and was known to enjoy a romantic fling or two. Or eight or nine.

  “It’s so peaceful in here,” said Ava, as they slipped silently up a side aisle and stopped in front of a low wooden table scattered with books, hymnals, and pamphlets. “And I can’t thank you enough for hand-lettering this poster.” She reached behind the table, slid out a wooden easel, and plunked the poster onto it. “A perfect display,” she declared.

  Carmela pushed aside a hunk of artfully honeyed blond hair and directed a smile at Ava. “Always glad to help out.” She’d been brushing up on her calligraphy like crazy anyway, gearing up for an upcoming seminar at her scrapbook shop, Memory Mine.

  Ava set about straightening the little stacks of pamphlets, while Carmela gazed up at a stained-glass window that depicted a tall, stern-looking angel cradling a lamb. What should have been resplendent panes of red, blue, and yellow glass, with thin November sunlight streaming through, only looked dull and muted today. Rain poured down outside, as it had for the past three days, encasing all of New Orleans in a soggy gray amorphous cloud. Even in here, Carmela could hear rain drumming against the roof and gurgling down drain spouts. For a moment, Carmela wondered if, way at the tippytop of the roofline, St. Tristan’s might not have gargoyle drain spouts, much like the great churches of Europe?

  And why not? This was an old church built at the turn of the century, not this century, but two gone past, by the hands of the same type of good and God-fearing men who’d supervised the construction of landmark cathedrals and abbeys. Using the tried-and-true Romanesque plan of long nave and short transept, they’d built this fine edifice, established an adjoining graveyard, and buried their noteworthy followers in crypts beneath these very same floors where today’s worshippers now walked.

  A sudden soft clunk focused Carmela’s eyes on a nearby confessional. Was someone in there? A penitent and priest, conferring over some sins that required forgiveness?

  Had those purple velvet draperies stirred just a touch? Or was someone else padding about the church? There was a sense of emptiness in St. Tristan’s; the rustlings and bustlings of a few minutes earlier seemed to have faded away. And yet . . .

  Carmela touched a hand to Ava’s shoulder. “I think we should—”

  Like ragged gears scraping against metal, a bloodcurdling scream suddenly ripped through the church. It rose in ghastly screeches, spiraling into high-pitched shrieks.

  Ava spun around and caught the eyes of a startled Carmela. Then both women whirled in tight concentric circles, fearful, searching, trying to ascertain where that ungodly scream was coming from.

  Ava lifted a hand and pointed across the church. “There!”

  Squinting through the darkness, Carmela saw two figures locked in a rough-and-tumble embrace.

  “No!” came another piercing scream. Now it was distinctly a woman’s scream, a woman who was terrified. “Not the cr—” came her words, and then she broke off in an agonized keening.

  Carmela dashed forward a dozen steps, then pulled up quickly. What was going on? Dare she get involved? Was it a robbery of some sort? Was there even anything here to steal?

  She was about to leap forward, try to thwart whatever was happening, when Ava suddenly grasped her arm.

  “Be careful!” Ava hissed.

  Then the woman across the way moaned low and deep.

  Ava quickly touched a hand to her mouth. “Oh man, I think she’s . . .”

  Carmela saw a swirl of brown robe as a cloaked figure forced a smaller figure to its knees. A flash of silver shone in the hooded figure’s hands as he swept his arm backward, causing a four-foot-high statue to teeter precariously, then slowly topple from its perch. The statue crashed forward and the woman dropped to the floor like a deadweight as chunks of plaster burst everywhere, knocking over candles, spewing rivulets of hot wax. Then the figure in the hooded robe leaped away and seemed to melt into darkness.

  Carmela and Ava dashed between pews toward the small altar, where the woman lay like a tossed and discarded rag doll.

  “Call 911!” Carmela shrilled. Ava fumbled frantically in her velvet hobo bag for her cell phone as Carmela sprinted into a turn and smacked her left hip hard against a wooden pillar. Without breaking stride, she careened her way to the wounded woman.

  Eyes wide in disbelief, Carmela pulled up short and let loose a startled, “Oh no!”

  There, splayed out in front of the small altar like a sacrificial offering, was Byrle Coopersmith, one of her scrapbook regulars!

  What? Byrle? Her mind could hardly grasp this horrendous discovery.

  Ava skidded to a stop behind Carmela, immediately recognized Byrle, and shrieked at the top of her lungs, “Dear Lord, it’s Byrle! It’s Byrle!” She gibbered for another couple of seconds, then caught herself and said, in trembling tones, “What happened?”

  Carmela was already down on her hands and knees. “Knocked unconscious, anyway,” she said, tersely. Byrle’s head was bleeding profusely, her neck was ringed with purple splotches—almost like fingerprint impressions—and her eyes had rolled so far back in her head that Carmela could see only the whites. Worst of all, Byrle didn’t seem to be breathing.

  “Do something!” Ava implored. “Maybe . . . chest compressions?”

  Carmela nodded with the mechanical movement of a bobblehead doll. She laid her hands flat against Byrle’s chest and tried to dredge up every morsel of know-how she had regarding CPR and chest compressions.

  “Breathe,” Carmela willed, as she pressed her fingers against Byrle’s chest, up-down, up-down, working to establish a rhythm, trying to stimulate the poor woman’s heart and force some air into her lungs. “Come on, honey, you can do it!” she cried to the woman who was quickly turning a horrible shade of blue. “You know you can!”

  “Help her!” Ava implored. She squeezed her hands open and shut, as if working in concert with Carmela’s efforts.

  Carmela’s knees scraped against rough stone as she continued to work on Byrle. “Ambulance coming?” she asked. She was filled with panic and starting to tire.

  “On its way,” said Ava.

  “Can you . . . ?” She kept up her constant mouth-tomouth breathing and repetitive motions of push, push, pump. “Can you . . . spell me for a couple of minutes?” Carmela asked Ava.

  “Oooh!” Ava wrapped her arms tightly around herself.

  “Never mind,” said Carmela, trying to wipe her damp face against her sleeve. She renewed her efforts even as her back muscles burned, and shouted out loud, “Come on, Byrle, breathe!”

  “Anything?” Ava wailed, as Carmela, resolutely but with hope failing, continued to pump, pump, pump.

  “Doggone,” Carmela muttered through clenched teeth. Because the poor dear wasn’t responding at all.

  She was too far gone and, undoubtedly, in the Lord’s hands now. As hard as Carmela was trying, she was no miracle worker.

  “This is awful!” Ava whispered
. “Beyond belief!”

  Carmela could only nod in agreement. Byrle Coopersmith, their friend and fellow scrapbooker, who’d not long ago bought a pack of pink mulberry paper from her shop, now lay lifeless and cold on the unforgiving stone floor of St. Tristan’s.

  Chapter 2

  CARMELA stared into the earnest hazel eyes of the young detective who had arrived amid a blat of sirens and a brace of uniformed officers. Yet another shocking intrusion into what had been an oasis of calm and contemplative spirituality.

  “Blunt-force trauma,” was his quiet pronouncement.

  “What?” Carmela asked in a hoarse whisper. Had she really heard Detective Bobby Gallant correctly?

  “From the statue,” Gallant told her, giving a downward bob of his head. He was young and earnest looking with dark curly hair and hazel eyes. Because of the cool weather he was dressed in a black leather jacket and chinos.

  Ava, hovering directly behind Carmela, increased her viselike grip on her friend’s shoulder. “The killer smacked Byrle over the head with St. Sebastian,” Ava sobbed, trying to be helpful, but failing miserably.

  “St. . . . ?” Carmela began, as Ava suddenly released her hold and pointed toward the flagstone floor where shards of plaster lay scattered. The statue, the one Ava had positively ID’d as St. Sebastian, lay facedown amid the rubble. Most of its head was missing. Pulverized from the blow, she supposed.

  Byrle’s body lay prostrate at the foot of the saint’s altar where she’d fallen, looking like some kind of unholy martyr who’d given life and limb for the church. And, in a way, she had.

  Carmela let loose a deep and shaky sigh. She knew she had to get a grip and pull it together. After all, she’d been a sort of witness. So maybe she could be of some assistance in the investigation? On the other hand . . .