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  Praise for

  FRILL KILL

  “In Childs’s sprightly fifth scrapbooking mystery . . . Childs rounds out the story with several scrapbooking and crafting tips plus a passel of mouthwatering Louisiana recipes.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  Praise tor Laura Child’s

  SCRAPBOOKING MYSTERIES

  “Plenty of action . . . Engaging.” —Publishers Weekly

  “An entertaining who-done-it . . . The heroine is a plucky, strong, and independent woman who takes charge when necessary as she is the original steel magnolia.”

  —The Best Reviews

  “If you are a scrap-booker and like to read, then Laura Childs’s Scrapbooking Mystery series is for you! As far as I know this is the first book series involving scrapbooking! These books are so great that I just couldn’t put them down! I just can’t wait for the next one to be released!”

  —BellaOnline

  “Scrapbook aficionados rejoice! Ms. Childs creates a charming mystery series with lively, quirky characters and plenty of how-to . . . Serving up some hors d’oeuvres of murder and mystery, creativity and fashion, she has a winning formula to get even the laziest of us in a scrapbooking mood.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “Like her Tea Shop Mysteries, the latest book of Childs’s Scrapbooking series is an entertaining read. The author mixes French Quarter charm with eclectic characters and witty drama.”

  —Romantic Times

  Praise for Laura Childs Bestselling

  TEA SHOP MYSTERIES

  Featured Selection of the Mystery Book Club

  “Highly recommended” by The Ladies’ Tea Guild

  “A delightful read . . . Childs has an eye for great local color.” —Publishers Weekly

  “A paean to Charleston, the genteel enjoyment of tea, and the tasty treats that accompany it.” —Kirkus Reviews

  “Murder suits Laura Childs to a Tea.” —St. Paul Pioneer Press

  “Tea lovers, mystery lovers, [this] is for you. Just the right blend of cozy fun and clever plotting.”

  —Susan Wittig Albert, bestselling author of Nightshade

  “It’s a delightful book!” —Tea: A Magazine

  “Will warm readers the way a good cup of tea does ... A delightful series that will leave readers feeling as if they have shared a warm cup of tea on Church Street in Charleston.”

  —The Mystery Reader

  “This mystery series could single-handedly propel the tea shop business in this country to the status of wine bars and bustling coffeehouses.” —Buon Gusto

  “If you devoured Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden, this new series is right up your alley.” —The Goose Creek (SC) Gazette

  “Gives the reader a sense of traveling through the streets and environs of the beautiful, historic city of Charleston.”

  —Minnetonka (MN) Weekly News

  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

  Scrapbooking Mysteries

  KEEPSAKE CRIMES

  PHOTO FINISHED

  BOUND FOR MURDER

  MOTIF FOR MURDER

  FRILL KILL

  DEATH SWATCH

  TRAGIC MAGIC

  Cackleberry Club Mysteries

  EGGS IN PURGATORY EGGS BENEDICT ARNOLD

  Anthology

  DEATH BY

  This book is dedicated to my friend Pat Hawley

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to all the fine folks at Berkley Prime Crime who help make each book possible; to my agent, Sam; to Dan for his considerable marketing and design help; to Bob (my Batman); to Jennie and Elmo, always my first readers; and to Lance for all his fine work.

  Chapter 1

  “Aloup-garou!” exclaimed Carmela Bertrand. “You’ve hired a werewolf to work in your shop?” Carmela pulled her eyes from the handsome young man who was dealing out tarot cards and turned to face Ava Grieux, her best friend and owner of the Juju Voodoo Shop. Just twenty minutes earlier, Carmela had run her fingers through her short, toffee-colored bob and highlighted her pale yet flawless complexion with a dab of NARS Orgasm blusher. Then she’d flipped the lock on her scrapbook shop and slipped through the dark streets of New Orleans’s French Quarter to attend Ava’s open house tonight. With Halloween barely a week away, Ava’s quaint little store was jammed to the rafters with magic charms, amulets, saint candles, masks, and potions. And with candles blazing, red wine flowing freely, and a table heaped with barbecued ribs, Cajun chicken wings, hot crab-meat dip, and sliced po’boy sandwiches, she’d drawn an enormous throng of people. “He’s no werewolf,” Ava was telling Carmela. “Gypsy, maybe—werewolf, no.” Ava eased a hand down her crushed red velvet dress; smoothing invisible wrinkles as she watched her new employee skillfully work the jostling crowd. “He’s fantastic,” she enthused. “People simply adore him. And he’s only been here a few days.”

  Carmela and Ava watched as three female customers huddled together, giggling at the floor show.

  “Ladies, step a little closer, and see what fascinating twists and turns your future may hold,” said the gypsy in a low voice that drew them in. Or maybe it was the fact that his black leather pants fit like a second skin, while his fur vest hung open, exposing a bare chest. Ringed fingers continued to summon his audience with hypnotic charm.

  “All he needs is a bandana tied around his black hair and a gold earring,” said Carmela with a bemused expression. This guy was good, she decided. A veritable magnet. In fact, she fervently wished she could summon customers into Memory Mine with as much panache. Sales of scrapbook supplies were good, but business could always be better.

  Ava’s new tarot card divinator continued to work his wiles.

  “Let me read the tarot cards and answer your questions,” he intoned. “Gaze into the crystal ball and venture a peek at the future. See if you’ll meet that tall, dark stranger—your soul mate.” The gypsy’s black eyes glanced up, met Carmela’s blue-gray eyes, and held her riveted in place as he cajoled his next customer into a reading.

  Carmela let out the breath she’d been holding and realized she’d been hanging on his every word. Hmm…Interesting. And when, indeed, would she meet her soul mate? Her ex-husband Shamus certainly didn’t measure up to that description. Shamus was charming, handsome, and scion to the uberwealthy and decidedly strange Meechum family, who laid claim to New Orleans’s chain of Crescent City Banks.But Shamus was also about as trustworthy as a sidewinder. Yes, he’d lured Carmela back into a few months of reconciliation this past spring. Had thrilled her with tender lovemaking, romantic cuddling, and whispered endearments. But all that had pretty much fizzled out. Of course, Shamus’s wining and dining of other women had been a serious contributing factor. What could she say? The man had roving eyes and a callous heart.

  “Don’t you wish my fellow was into scrapbooking?” asked Ava as she shook back a tangle of auburn hair that swirled about her face.

  “I doubt preserving memories is high on his list of priorities,” laughed Carmela. “Making memories is more like it. So what’s his name? Zandor? Apollo? Cupid?” Carmela was suddenly aware of the intense aromas of sandalwood and musk incense that permeated the shop. Could feel heat radiating off the people who pressed closely around her.

  “His name is Giovanni,” purred Ava, sensuously rolling each syllable.

  “Are you conjuring Eartha Kitt?” C
armela chuckled.

  “Vhat ever do you mean, darlink? Meow.” Ava clawed playfully at the air.

  “Ah,” said Carmela. “Playing the cat woman who could scratch his itch. Tsk, tsk. And you’re old enough to be his—”

  “Careful!” Ava’s long, sculpted fingernails looked lethal in the flickering candlelight.

  “Sister?” finished Carmela.

  “I can accept that,” said Ava. “After all, he’s only twenty-five, and I’m only, dare I say it, twenty-nine. So he’s a titch young to accommodate my champagne and caviar tastes.” They both fell silent as they watched Giovanni cup his hands together, whisper a few words, then slowly release a snow-white dove. Applause rose all around them; the crowd was definitely eating this up.Giovanni’s dark eyes scanned the crowd. “Who’s next for a tarot card reading?” he asked. Then, ignoring pleas from the women closest to him, he snaked one strong arm out and grabbed the wrist of a young blond woman.

  The woman Giovanni selected was thin and angular, dressed in skintight faded blue jeans and a yellow silk halter top. The man she’d been standing with, a man considerably older than she, shook his head in protest as Giovanni reeled her in possessively.

  “Who’s the girl?” asked Carmela.

  “That’s Amber Lalique,” said Ava. “The fashion model. That fellow she was standing with, the one who looks supremely unhappy right now, is Chadron.”

  “The designer?” exclaimed Carmela. She gazed at the man in the black shirt and white slacks. He had a high forehead, slicked-back hair, and a somewhat prominent nose. Chadron was a bit of a celebrity in New Orleans. A former art gallery owner, he’d made a smooth transition from selling oil paintings to creating elegant haute couture. Carmela had heard that Chadron had even taken his collection to New York and London this year. And he’d opened a smart-looking atelier just a few blocks over on Royal Street that went by the name Moda Chadron.

  “See,” Ava exclaimed triumphantly. “A lot of hip, hot people showed up here tonight. Over there is Toby Dumas, the jazz musician. And there’s that new sculpture gallery owner, Riley Boyer, who specializes in west African artwork.”

  But Carmela’s eyes were drawn back to Giovanni. His dark head was bent to meet Amber’s blond head as they huddled together at the small table in the dimly lit reading room.

  “He’s smooth as silk,” said Carmela, as the crowd of people suddenly shifted in front of them, cutting off their view.

  “Ain’t he just,” said Ava. She tapped Carmela’s arm.”C’mon, cher, let’s go help ourselves to a little liquid refreshment. I am feeling parched!”

  They pushed their way through the shop, past the shrunken head display and racks of velvet amulet bags, and elbowed their way to the refreshment table.

  “Who did you get to dress up in the Pierrot costume?” asked Carmela, gazing at the sad painted clown face of the character made famous in the commedia dell’arte.

  Ava shook her head. “No idea. Not one of my people.”

  “You really did draw a huge crowd,” marveled Carmela. Music blared loudly, and she recognized the familiar strains of the Bienville Zydeco Band.

  Ava nodded as she grabbed a bottle of red wine and poured out two generous glasses. “Free food and wine will do that. Plus, New Orleans is the Halloween capital of the world, and folks do love to celebrate a good holiday.”

  That was for sure. In the weeks preceding Halloween, the ghost walks, haunted house tours, and cemetery tours ratcheted up to a fever pitch, fueled by people’s bizarre and insatiable desire to be scared out of their wits. The French Quarter played right into this Halloween mania, too. Gift shops and restaurants decorated their establishments with images of ghosts, ghouls, and vampires. Bookstores displayed their vampire lore front and center. A big gala was planned for Halloween night down near Jackson Square, complete with food booths, music venues, and a torchlight parade.

  Even some of the museums had gotten into the spirit. The normally staid Hermann-Grima House had draped their historic interiors in typical 1800’s mourning fashion.

  “You’re gonna make a fortune,” said Carmela. The crowd milling at the checkout counter was ten deep. Ava’s young employees seemed hard-pressed to keep up with the customers who thrust skull candles, silk charms, leather masks, and Visa cards at them.”Let’s hope so,” said Ava fervently. The not-so-distant memory of Hurricane Katrina still hung over New Orleans. It had been many months since their beloved city had been ravaged beyond belief. Business had come back, but it had been a slow, painful process.

  Carmela took a sip of wine and fanned herself. “Warm in here,” she said. “So many people.”

  “Let’s go outside,” suggested Ava. “Cool off a little.”

  They pushed their way back through the crowds and out the back door into a little cobblestone courtyard with a pattering fountain. For tonight’s event, Ava had strung the venerable live oak tree with orange twinkle lights and white gauzy ghosts, and she had rented glass-topped tables and French bistro chairs. A couple dozen guests had already found their way out there, so Carmela and Ava made a bee-line for the last available table.

  “I should check on the dogs,” said Carmela. Two dogs, Boo, a girly-girl Shar-Pei, and Poobah, a mutt Shamus had found on the streets, lived with her in the garden apartment just across the way. Though cramped and possessed of antediluvian plumbing, the place was cozy and oozing with French Quarter charm. And with Shamus acting so stupid and crazy and divorce looming on the horizon, the apartment gave Carmela a sense of independence she ravenously craved.

  “Your pups are fine,” said Ava, waving a hand. “But check out those ratty-looking guys over there. I think the tattooed and pierced contingent has just arrived.”

  “Crazy,” agreed Carmela, who’d never quite seen the merit of perforating your ear twenty times or tattooing barbed wire or Japanese kanji around your bicep.

  “As long as they’re here to spend money,” sighed Ava.

  A man seated at one of the distant tables stood up and waved at them. “Ava!” he called. Cursed with a touch of night blindness, Ava peered over at him. “That’s not one of my old boyfriends, is it?” she muttered to Carmela. “Tell me it’s not that motor head Clayton. The one with the rebuilt Corvette.”

  Carmela gazed across at the man. He was mid-forties, exceedingly well dressed, and good-looking in a slightly fey sort of way. “Don’t think so,” Carmela told her. “It’s not grease monkey Clayton anyway.”

  The man ambled over to their table. His cream-colored jacket and slacks were exquisitely tailored of heavy, elegantly draped silk. “Hi, dawlin,” he said to Ava as he eased an arm around her shoulders and delivered air kisses.

  “Ah, Gordon,” said Ava, now that she’d finally recognized him. “Carmela, meet Gordon van Hees. He’s Chadron’s business partner.”

  “How do,” said Carmela.

  “Delighted to meet you, love,” said Gordon, leaning over and giving Carmela a quick peck on the cheek.

  “Gordon’s asked me to decorate the Moda Chadron atelier for their big Halloween runway show next week,” explained Ava.

  “So you’re part of that crazy celebration, too?” asked Carmela. All of the French Quarter businesses had been asked to participate. The French Quarter Halloween Bash was being touted as another way to draw visitors and bolster the image of New Orleans as a prosperous, recovering city.

  “I don’t know how interested Halloween revelers will be in haute couture,” said Gordon with a shrug of his shoulders and an exaggerated eye roll. “But we shall find out.” He gazed across at his table. “Oops, have to run. Chadron’s taking us all for drinks at Bon Tiempe to celebrate a big order we just received. Tootles, ladies.” And Gordon was off.

  “I’ve got to hustle along, too,” said Carmela. “I have those ceramic skulls you ordered,” said Ava. “If you want to grab them.”

  “Rats,” said Carmela. “I forgot all about those stupid things.” She’d promised her soon-to-be-ex, Shamus, that she’d
pick up a couple dozen skulls for him. Shamus was a card-carrying member of the raucous Pluvius krewe, and that group of party-hearty fools was planning to roll three floats in the Halloween parade.

  “C’mon,” said Ava. “They’re just taking up space in my office.”

  The two women ducked back inside Juju Voodoo, where the crowd had thinned out considerably, and Carmela followed Ava into her cramped office. Saint candles sat on floor-to-ceiling shelves, a clutch of shrunken heads swayed provocatively as they hung from the ceiling, Day-Glo voodoo posters littered the walls.

  “Nice,” said Carmela as she batted away fake spider webs. “Sophisticated and smart, but without that decorator look.”

  “We got a special on Saint Martha,” said Ava, nodding at her shelf of saint candles. “Unfortunately, the dear lady hasn’t been all that popular.”

  “What’s she patron saint of?” asked Carmela.

  “Dieticians,” laughed Ava, as she shoved a giant cardboard box into Carmela’s waiting arms.

  “Ugh,” grunted Carmela. “Heavy.”

  “You want me to help you schlep that across the courtyard?” asked Ava. “Cause I sure will.”

  “No, I’ll be okay,” said Carmela. “You’ve still got well-wishers and probably a million things going on here. Besides, I’m just gonna carry these down to my car and stash ‘em in the trunk. Then I can drop ‘em off at the Pluvius den first thing. Be rid of this whole entire project. Be rid of Shamus, too.”

  “I hear you,” said Ava. She put a hand on Carmela’s shoulder as her friend muscled the box through the doorway, then headed toward the back of the shop. “Bet you’d like one more peek at Giovanni,” Ava teased.