Tragic Magic
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
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Scrapbook, Stamping, and Craft Tips from Laura Childs
Favorite New Orleans Recipes
Teaser chapter
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
Scrapbooking Mysteries
KEEPSAKE CRIMES PHOTO FINISHED BOUND FOR MURDER MOTIF FOR MURDER FRILL KILL DEATH SWATCH TRAGIC MAGIC
Cackleberry Club Mysteries
EGGS IN PURGATORY
Anthology
DEATH BY DESIGN
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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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 reactions to the recipes contained in this book.
Copyright © 2009 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
eISBN : 978-1-101-14516-6
1. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. 2. New Orleans (La.)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3603.H56T’.6—dc22 2009023622
http://us.penguingroup.com
To Jerry Langsweirdt, my high school English teacher.
If you hadn’t been there, I wouldn’t be here.
Acknowledgments
Heartfelt thanks to Sam, Tom, Lance, Jennie, and Bob. And a huge thank-you to all my readers as well as the many scrapbook magazines, Web sites, reviewers, scrapbooking shops, and bookstores who have been so very kind and supportive.
Chapter 1
“THAT’S the place,” said Carmela Bertrand. Clambering from her car, she pointed at the enormous three-story mansion that loomed in the darkness like some ghostly fun house tilting recklessly on its foundation. “Medusa Manor.” She pushed back a tangle of caramel-colored hair and peered through naked branches with eyes that were the same shifting blue-gray color as the Gulf of Mexico. The sharp outline of turrets, finials, and gables against a faint smudge of pink in the darkening March sky made the old mansion look like it had been rubber-stamped on a piece of midnight-blue vellum from Carmela’s scrapbooking shop.
Another pair of legs, these a little longer and clad in black leather, emerged from Carmela’s red two-seater Mercedes. Then the rest of Ava Gruiex’s shapely body followed. “Spooky,” replied Ava. Gazing at the old mansion, she pulled her sweater closer around her and let loose a little shiver.
“That’s the whole idea,” Carmela replied. “Melody wants Medusa Manor to be a premier attraction for all the ghost hunters, vampire wannabes, and cemetery fans who flock to New Orleans.”
“And tell me again, cher, why we got pulled in?” asked Ava.
Carmela turned to face her friend, and this time a smile danced on her lovely oval face that had been enhanced ever so slightly with a daub of Chanel’s Teint Innocence. “Because Melody’s set designer quit last week and everybody else is locked up a year in advance with Mardi Gras projects.”
“You mean everybody with experience,” laughed Ava. Her lethal-length red fingernails pushed back a tousle of dark, curly hair, and then she carefully gathered the neckline of her red glitter skull T-shirt and adjusted it downward.
“Hey,” enthused Carmela, “we’ve got beaucoup qualifications! I own Memory Mine, and you own Juju Voodoo.”
“Career gals,” giggled Ava. “Just put us on the cover of Ms. Magazine.”
“Do you actually read Ms. Magazine?” Carmela asked.
“Only if they’ve got articles about movie stars and stuff,” said Ava. “But mostly I get my hard news from the Inquisitor . I always want to know who’s hiding dimples of cellulite under that red-carpet gown, who’s had their tummy stitched up, and who’s jabbin’ Botox into their wrinkles and crinkles.” Even though both women were not quite thirty and still gorgeous, they were keenly aware of the progression of time and its ensuing consequences.
“Ouch,” said Carmela as she peered at her watch, then started up the walk. “We’re late, better pick up the pace. Melody’s gonna wonder what happened to us.”
“Just tell her Boo and Poobah had veterinarian appointments and I . . .”
“Couldn’t decide what to wear?” finished Carmela, who knew her friend was in a perpetual state of wardrobe flux.
Ava nodded. “Sounds reasonable to me.”
“Of course it does,” said Carmela. Carmela was well aware that she had a decidedly practical, slightly conservative bent. Witness all those black and beige outfits hanging in her closet and the lack of foot-numbing four-inch heels. Carmela also tried to keep wild shopping splurges down to a minimum, and when she promised to be somewhere at seven, she morphed into a nail-nibbling clock watcher. Couldn’t help herself.
Her dear friend, Ava, on the other hand, wa
s completely laissez-faire. Bills piled up, checking accounts were overdrawn, and when Ava made a commitment, the appointed time could easily slide a half hour either way, depending on her mood. Ava even hated getting pinned down on airline reservations and always requested a flight that was “noonish.”
“Cher,” drawled Ava, as they tromped up the front walk to the mansion’s enormous double doors, “this place is practically falling down! And I expect to see a contingent of bats circling the towers.”
Ava was spot on about that. The dilapidated old mansion in the artsy Faubourg Marigny section of New Orleans was a wreck. Heat, humidity, and rain had pummeled the wooden exterior, stripping any semblance of paint and rendering it a weathered silver-gray. The front verandah had a dangerous list to it, like a Tilt-A-Whirl car that had jumped its track. A tangle of weeds, crepe myrtle, and azaleas, as well as an overgrowth of banana trees, obscured the front yard. Curls of kudzu ran rampant up one side of the mansion.
But Carmela also knew this air of abandonment would surely be part of the building’s draw. This was New Orleans, after all. A city renowned for its aboveground cities of the dead, ghostly specters, voodoo queens, and haunted bayous dripping with Spanish moss. Hadn’t the Travel Channel even profiled a couple of French Quarter restaurants and hotels on their America’s Most Haunted show? Sure they had. If they’d pronounced New Orleans to be seriously haunted, to be populated by ghosts and spirits, then it must be so.
“Melody’s supposed to meet us here?” asked Ava. Squinting into a lipstick-sized mirror, she was attempting to fluff her hair and apply a second coat of mascara at the same time.
“Supposed to,” said Carmela, making a note of the thorny overgrowth and tumbledown wrought-iron fence. The atmosphere was definitely early Addams Family. So where the heck was Morticia? Or her trusty sidekick, Lurch?
“Place looks deserted, probably is deserted,” said Ava. Now a slight hesitancy had crept into her voice.
“Nah,” said Carmela, as they stepped onto the verandah. “Melody’s here. Look, the door’s open.” Indeed, the large wooden door was cracked open an inch or so.
Carmela put a hand on a corroded bronze knocker, a querulous-looking raven, then pulled it back and let it drop. A hollow thud seemed to echo through the house, then boomerang back at them. It was a heckuva welcome.
“You sure Melody’s in there?” asked Ava. Balancing on one leg, she slid one foot out of her four-inch-high red mules and wiggled her brightly painted toes. “New shoes,” she muttered. “Kinda pinchy.”
Carmela’s fingertips touched the inches-open door and pressed gently. The door swung slowly inward, letting loose a hollow groan. “Great sound effect,” she murmured.
Ava slid by Carmela, then suddenly stopped dead in her tracks. One hand flew to her throat; the other reached back to catch Carmela’s arm in a murderous grip.
“What?” asked Carmela, wondering what had shaken her friend. “What?” But as her eyes slowly grew accustomed to the dark of the interior, she was able to discern the lump sitting in front of them. Long, angular, metallic, with a rounded top.
Oh,” said Carmela. And for the first time, she herself felt a quick pang of nervousness about this project.
“A coffin,” said Ava in a raspy voice.
“It’s a . . . haunted house,” said Carmela. She tried to put a little oomph in her voice, and failed miserably.
“I get that,” said Ava, beginning to recover. “And I’m okay with stuff like skeletons and voodoo dolls and shrunken heads. I deal with that shit all day long. But actual people coffins kind of weird me out.”
“But you like vampires,” said Carmela.
Ava’s shoulders moved up an inch. “Well . . . yeah. Sure. Doesn’t everybody?”
Carmela shook her head in amusement. “You are so off the hook, Ava.” Taking a few steps forward, she touched a hand to the coffin lid and drummed her fingers lightly. Like whistling in a graveyard? she wondered. Yeah, maybe. “So this shouldn’t be a problem, huh?” she asked Ava.
“ ’ Spose not,” said Ava. She hesitated. “You’re right, I’m getting used to the idea.” She exhaled slowly. “Yeah. I’m okay now.”
“Excellent,” said Carmela. She lifted her eyes and gazed around the once-grand parlor that was now merely cavernous. Tattered velvet drapes that had once been mauve but were now merely drab hung in despondent swags across tall, narrow windows. A threadbare Oriental carpet covered the sagging wooden floor. An enormous ornate chandelier dangled overhead, dingy now and without any luster, but probably a magnificent piece once the crystals had been soaked in ammonia and distilled water and gently scrubbed. “This place really is Medusa Manor,” Carmela marveled.
Ava glanced around, taking in the decayed splendor of the room. “Crazy,” she muttered.
“Look at that enormous marble fireplace,” Carmela pointed out. “And the ornate mirror over there. See how wavery our image is? How old is that mirror? What do you suppose it’s seen? How old is this place?”
“Hundred years,” Ava guessed. “Hundred and fifty?”
“I think so,” said Carmela, whose interest in the project was suddenly growing by leaps and bounds. “We could work wonders with this old mansion. Transform it into a spectacular haunted house!”
Ava thought for a minute, then gestured toward one dingy, plum-colored wall. “Rows of white ceramic skulls, maybe five high, eight across, all mounted in shadow boxes. With flickering candles inside them.”
“The coffin pushed up against that far window,” said Carmela. “Flanked by enormous brass candlesticks.”
“And buckets of roses?” said Ava.
“Maybe just long stems of thorns.”
They turned in tandem, noticing the curving staircase for the first time.
“I’m seein’ a dangling skeleton up there, cher,” said Ava. “And maybe a floating head or two. Got to have a disembodied head.”
“Love it,” breathed Carmela. She was pleased that Ava seemed to have gotten past her coffin phobia.
“So what’s the deal?” asked Ava. “Melody and her gang would lead people through here in groups of eight or ten?”
Carmela nodded. “That’s Melody’s plan exactly.” Melody was Melody Mayfeldt. She and her husband, Garth, owned Fire and Ice Jewelers in the French Quarter. Melody was also queen bee and organizer of the newly formed Demilune Mardi Gras krewe, one of the few all-female krewes. Carmela and Ava were members of Demilune and had tossed beads from their three-tiered blue-and-gold float this past Mardi Gras.
“So . . . where’s Melody?” asked Ava, frowning. “We’ve already got some good ideas. Now we gotta huddle with her.”
“Melody,” said Carmela, absently. “She knew we were coming. I just spoke with her an hour ago.”
“Came and left?” said Ava.
“But the door was cracked open.”
Ava walked to the foot of the staircase and called out “Melody!” at the top of her lungs.
Echoes floated back to them. But no Melody materialized.
Ava inclined her head. “Upstairs fussing around? Can’t hear us?”
The two women climbed the sweeping staircase. When they reached the second-floor landing, they saw a myriad of footprints tracking across dusty floorboards, but that was all.
Ava called again. Then Carmela called. Then Ava again.
No answer came back save the hiss of the night wind rattling through fireplace flues and attic rafters.
“She’s not here,” said Carmela. “Darn.” Now she felt a little timid about invading this slightly strange building. “We’ll have to come back later.”
“Maybe in the light of day,” suggested Ava. “When we can see things a little better.”
They descended the stairs and gave a cursory look around. Still no sign of Melody.
“Face it,” said Ava, “she’s not here.”
“Must have been a problem at the store,” said Carmela.
Ava shrugged. “Oh well.”
/> They moved out onto the front verandah, hesitant about abandoning their meeting. Then Carmela decided there was nothing more they could do, so she pulled the front door closed behind her.
“This neighborhood is changing,” Ava observed as they headed down the sidewalk toward the car.
“Getting gentrified,” said Carmela. “Lots of gumbo joints, jazz bars, and sexy boutiques moving in.”
“Pretty soon it’ll look like Magazine Street,” put in Ava. “Although that’s not all—”
Carmela suddenly gripped Ava’s arm.
“What?” asked Ava, pausing in her tracks to stare at her friend.
Carmela held up a single finger, shook her head to silence Ava, then glanced back at the house. She’d heard something. At least she thought she’d heard something. Or was she just being jumpy and imagining things?
Was she going to get spooked once they had to buckle down and start designing sets and theatrics? When they had to put together the Chamber of Despair or the Theatre of Lost Souls? Those were ideas Melody had mentioned to her. Carmela had been noodling a half dozen more.
A low, muffled cry floated on the night air, and Carmela knew in a heartbeat this wasn’t her imagination. Then the cry morphed into a scream that began slowly and built in agonizing intensity. A terrifying banshee’s wail . . . or the sound of someone being . . .
Glass suddenly exploded overhead, causing Carmela and Ava to spin on their heels. Looking up, they were staggered to see a blinding flash in the third-floor tower room of Medusa Manor, as if an incendiary bomb had just been detonated! Then shards of glass rained down and, like some unholy nightmare visage, a flaming body hurtled though the broken window! Arms spread wide, flames swirling about its head, the apparition took on the appearance of an avenging angel!