Gossamer Ghost Read online

  “Not really,” said Carmela. “Ever since I’ve been in business it’s always been dog-eat-dog.” When Gabby gave her a reproachful look, she added, “Well, maybe not for us. We’re not driven mad in our scramble for the almighty dollar. Memory Mine keeps humming along because we love scrapping and crafting and helping our customers find a creative outlet.”

  Gabby’s expression was just this side of dubious. “That sounds awfully altruistic, Carmela.”

  “Okay, and we make a buck or two while we’re at it.”

  “There’s the Carmela I know and love.”

  Carmela picked up a spool of ribbon and hung it on a display rack. “I think I’m going to run next door before things get too crazy and see how Mavis is doing. See if I can be of any help.”

  “Blessings on your head,” said Gabby. “That’s very thoughtful of you.”

  But as Carmela flew out the front door, she knew she wasn’t doing this because she was thoughtful. She was checking on Mavis because this whole murder and death mask situation had stirred an insatiable curiosity within her. Yes, she felt terrible for Mavis Sweet. But, at the same time, she was intrigued. By the murder, by the mask, by pretty much everything that was going on.

  Carmela rattled the knob on the front door and found it locked. She knocked on the window and peered in. Through a wavering pane of blue-green glass, she saw Mavis glance up from where she was working at the rolltop desk. Then a flash of recognition registered on the girl’s face and she hustled forward to unlock the door.

  “Carmela,” said Mavis as she let her into the shop. “I was going to come over and say hello, but I . . .” She gestured at dozens of brown cardboard boxes that were tumbled everywhere. “I have so much packing to do.”

  “It all has to be packed up?”

  “Lock, stock, and barrel, and as soon as possible. The landlord isn’t giving me any grace period at all.”

  Carmela followed Mavis to the back of the shop, where a radio played faintly and the faux Tiffany lamp cast a puddle of brightness in the dimly lit shop.

  “This is so sad, so awful,” said Carmela. Merchandise that had been painstakingly displayed was scattered haphazardly, and she could literally feel Mavis’s pain.

  “Closing this shop is like a dagger to my heart,” said Mavis. “But what can I do? I have zero options. And, in the long run, it’s probably what Marcus would want. Just pack it all up and dispatch it to . . . wherever.”

  Carmela looked around at the cardboard boxes and strapping tape and rolls of bubble wrap. “What will happen to all this stuff?” she asked.

  Mavis made a grimace so painful it had to be involuntary. “First it’ll be packed and stored in a warehouse. And then, when Marcus’s estate is finally settled, it will all probably go to an auction house. He has a sister who lives in Pomona, California, who I talked to late last night. It appears she’ll be making all the decisions from here on. She’ll keep me as an employee until I’m able to empty out the shop. And then, like I said, she’ll probably sell everything at auction or to some dealer.”

  “You can’t carry on with the shop?”

  “I thought about trying to keep Oddities going,” said Mavis. She grabbed a bronze goblet and a piece of bubble wrap and began wrapping. “In fact, I sort of pitched the idea to his sister. But the more I noodled it around, the idea of carrying on without Marcus was just emotionally crushing. This place wouldn’t be the same without him. I’d always feel sad. Like there was a piece missing.”

  “You realize,” said Carmela, “there’s a chance you have a claim to this shop. I mean, you were formally engaged to Marcus, right?”

  Mavis stopped her packing. She balanced a crystal globe in her hand and now she stroked it gently. “I hadn’t thought about that angle.”

  “There might be a will or some sort of directive.”

  “I really don’t know,” said Mavis.

  “Did Joubert have an attorney? Someone who helped him with business contracts and such?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you have to huddle with that attorney and see if you somehow figure into the estate. In fact, you need to go through all the papers that are stashed here in the shop. See if there’s some kind of will.” Carmela paused. “You told me you were going to look around and see if you could locate a sales receipt on the death mask. Have you done that yet?”

  “No.” Mavis cleared her throat. “What happened was . . . I came in here, felt depressed, and got kind of muddled down. But I’ll look, I promise I will.”

  “Do it for your own sake,” said Carmela. “For your own peace of mind. Because there’s a possibility you really could have some sort of claim.”

  “That would be . . . interesting,” said Mavis. “Though I’d still probably have to strike a deal with the sister.”

  “Sure,” said Carmela. “But maybe you could try to swing a bridge loan. To buy out her share of the shop and its contents.” She looked around at the beetle collection, stuffed monkey, and old jewelry. “It couldn’t be worth that much.”

  “But the lease is gone.”

  “Relocate,” said Carmela. “There are other spaces for lease around the neighborhood. Or close by in the Faubourg Marigny.”

  “Gosh, you’re smart,” said Mavis. “How did you learn so much about business?”

  “Trial and error,” Carmela told her. “Mostly error.” She shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “I don’t suppose . . . well, is there going to be a funeral?”

  “Not a funeral per se,” said Mavis. “But I talked to a few of his friends and we’re putting together a simple memorial service for this Wednesday in St. Louis Cemetery No. 1. I hope you’ll come.”

  “Of course I will.”

  Looking relieved, Mavis put a hand to her chest. “Thank you. Because I think it’s going to be a pretty small group of mourners.”

  “Let me ask you something,” said Carmela. “What do you know about James Stanger?”

  “You mean . . . ?”

  “The man down the block who owns Gilded Pheasant Antiques.”

  “Mnn . . . I don’t know much of anything,” said Mavis. But the pained expression on her face gave it away. Mavis wasn’t a very good liar.

  “You know something,” said Carmela.

  Mavis bit her lip. “Okay, I know for a fact that Marcus and James Stanger never got along.”

  “Lots of people don’t get along,” said Carmela. Case in point, she and her ex-husband, Shamus. The sex had been great, but the “everything else” had been ghastly. Then again, Shamus was a liar, a cheat, and a braggart. A trust fund baby who’d been born with a silver foot in his mouth. Carmela turned her attention back to Mavis.

  “Something about the mention of Stanger’s name made you feel . . . mmn, uncomfortable.”

  “Okay, how about this? You might say that he and Marcus hated each other.”

  “You mean like sworn enemies?” This was news to Carmela. “Why do you say that? Better yet, do you know what caused this rift?”

  “Apparently, they got caught up in some horrible dispute. Way back when.”

  “What was it about?” Carmela asked.

  “Marcus never did tell me. He just always said that Stanger was a miserable cheat.” She hesitated and her eyes went big. “Wait a minute, why are you asking about Stanger?”

  “Just something I’m following up on. A kind of . . . thread.”

  But Mavis was no dummy. “Carmela,” she said, practically breathless. “Is that who you think might have come in and stabbed Marcus? I mean, he might have let Stanger in the back door. Might have dropped his guard for a minute.”

  “No, no,” Carmela said hastily. “I was really just asking an innocent question.”

  “I’ll tell you something.” Mavis looked thoughtful. “I never cared for James Stanger. I never trusted the
man.”

  “Based on a feeling?” Carmela asked. “Or actual working knowledge of something?”

  “Let’s call it past performance,” said Mavis. “Stanger kind of prided himself on trying to outbid Marcus at the various auctions they found themselves together at. Plus I heard that Stanger had imported some Chinese antiquities and was in big trouble with the Chinese government.”

  “Interesting,” said Carmela. “I heard that exact same thing from another source.”

  “Which means it must be true,” said Mavis.

  “Do you know a guy named Johnny Sparks?” Carmela asked.

  Mavis’s brows pinched together as if she was thinking hard. “I don’t think so.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Wait a minute, is he the sleazy guy who owns all those pawn shops? And he sometimes does obnoxious TV commercials? There’s, like, a jingle.”

  Carmela nodded. She’d had that stupid jingle stuck in her head once for an entire day and it had driven her crazy. Made her want to bash her head against a brick wall. Something about You think it’s trash, but it could mean cash. “That’s the guy,” she told Mavis. “The Pawn Shop Czar of New Orleans.”

  “I can’t say that I really know Sparks.”

  “The thing is, did Joubert know him? Do you know if he ever did business with him?”

  Mavis looked doubtful. “That I wouldn’t know.” Then she rethought her statement. “Well, maybe they did know each other. It’s kind of a stretch, but they were basically in the same business.”

  “Sparks was into antiques? I though he just handled stolen Rolex watches, car stereos, and wedding rings pawned by unhappy divorcées.”

  “I think he might have handled a few paintings and bronze statues, too.” Mavis shrugged. “But everybody in the French Quarter does that. Antiques, estate jewelry . . . it’s basically our bread and butter.”

  Carmela nodded. She had an inkling that there might be a connection there. “Go through your records, will you?” she urged. “See what you can come up with on the origin of the mask. And try to figure out if Marcus had any business dealings with Stanger.”

  “Now you’ve got me wondering,” said Mavis. “So I’ll for sure take a look.”

  Carmela glanced around. “Just out of curiosity,” she said, “now that you’ve had a chance to look through the inventory—is there anything missing from the shop?”

  Mavis threw her a nervous glance. “I wouldn’t exactly call it inventory, Carmela. But there is one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I kind of hate to mention this, because I think it might be illegal.”

  “Mavis, tell me,” said Carmela. “What else is missing?”

  Mavis practically cringed. “A gun.”

  “What!”

  She waved her hands in a nervous arc. “Marcus always kept a gun here, a small revolver. Or maybe it was a pistol. I don’t know the difference.” She shivered. “I don’t really know anything about handguns at all.”

  “Where did Marcus keep this gun?”

  Mavis pointed at the rolltop desk. “In the bottom left drawer of his desk.”

  “And now it’s gone. You’re sure it’s gone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you tell Detective Babcock about this?”

  “No, I just discovered it was missing. Like . . . twenty minutes ago. Just before you came in.”

  “Well, call him, will you?”

  Mavis shuffled a foot and looked reluctant.

  “You have to call him,” said Carmela.

  “Okay,” said Mavis. “Okay.”

  “Do you want me to talk to him, too?”

  “Would you?” said Mavis.

  * * *

  “How goes it over there?” asked Gabby, as Carmela sailed through the front door.

  “Sad. Depressing.” Carmela had gone over to give a pep talk and had returned with the wind knocked out of her sails.

  “Well, hang on to your hat,” said Gabby as she rang up a customer. “Because it’s like old home week here. If you could maybe . . .” She nodded toward the back of the shop where four women were busily loading paper, rubber stamps, and ribbon into their shopping baskets.

  “No problem.”

  Carmela hustled over to her customers. “Help you?” she said, a friendly chirp that was meant for all four of them. “With anything?”

  One of the customers, a woman with a bouncy brown ponytail, said, “Me. Please.” She wore a neat caramel-colored leather jacket with matching boots and blue jeans.

  “What do you need?” Carmela asked.

  “I have a ten-year-old son who’s crazy over pirates,” said the woman. “And for Halloween, I wanted to make him something special. Like . . . a pirate scrapbook. Except I don’t quite know what that is.”

  “You have photos of him dressed as a pirate?” Carmela asked.

  “About a dozen.” She tore open an envelope. “See?”

  Carmela smiled at the photos. The boy wore a tricornered black hat, eye patch, quasi-military jacket, and black buckle boots. In some poses he brandished a saber, in others he held up a Jolly Roger flag. “Cute,” said Carmela. “So maybe . . .” She was already looking at her stack of albums, wondering which one would work best. “Okay, this one.” She pulled out an eight-by-ten-inch album that had a black embossed cover and about a dozen black pages inside.

  “Cool,” said the woman. “But what do we do with it?”

  “This cover already looks like it’s been aged,” said Carmela. “So let’s go with that theme and attach a ribbon and brass button to it . . . something that looks like it was stolen from the royal treasury.” She grabbed a plastic packet and showed it to the woman. “This button’s got a nice crown motif.”

  “I like it,” said the woman.

  “Then we take the inside pages and kind of rough up the edges.”

  “Make it look used.”

  “That’s right,” said Carmela. “Now over here where we have our rubber stamps . . .”

  “You can stamp on black paper?” asked the woman.

  “Sure, especially if you’re using gold, silver, or even bronze-colored inks. Ah, here’s a rubber stamp of an old sailing ship and here’s one of an old-fashioned compass. And over here . . .” They moved over toward the floor-to-ceiling racks of paper.

  “Map paper?” asked the woman.

  “Exactly,” said Carmela. She pulled out a sheet of paper that depicted an old sepia-colored map. “And here’s some paper with sailing ships—galleons, really—and another map. Oh, and sea monsters. We can’t forget them.”

  “This is all absolutely perfect,” said the woman.

  “I’ve got a couple more items to suggest,” said Carmela. “How about a small Jolly Roger decal and a bronze treasure chest key.”

  “Perfect. I would never have dreamt this up on my own,” said the woman. “How can I thank you?”

  “Just have fun making your scrapbook,” said Carmela. “And come back and see us again real soon.”

  “I will,” said the woman as she carried her loot up to the front desk.

  Carmela helped another woman pick out some water-based metallic markers. Then she showed her how to apply the markers to a piece of glossy black cardstock, spritz on some distilled water, and then swirl the colors around to create a marbleized metallic effect.

  When things finally settled down to a dull roar, when Carmela finally got a break, she went into her office, fully intending to do work on a commercial scrapbook for her friend Jade Germaine. Jade was starting her own tea party business called Tea Party in a Box, and she planned to cater tea parties for bridal showers, book clubs, and garden clubs in her customers’ homes. She’d given Carmela several photos of three-tiered trays that displayed the most delicious-looking tea sandwiches, as well as photo
s of teacups, teapots, and elegant tea tables that she had decorated. Her album would be her calling card to show customers her work and convince them to hire her.

  Carmela was thinking about doing a pink and green theme, and using a cream-colored album that would have ribbon ties in those same colors.

  On the other hand . . .

  Carmela spun around in her chair, barely noticing the swatches of paper, snips of ribbon, and scribbled page sketches she had tacked to her office walls.

  There was the question of Johnny Sparks.

  She’d vowed to do a little research on the man. And now was as good a time as any. In fact, time was probably of the essence. With a hasty glance over her shoulder, Carmela scrunched down in front of her computer and Googled Johnny Sparks.

  What she found didn’t really surprise her.

  Sparks had been in trouble any number of times. He’d been accused of handling stolen merchandise, he was constantly in arrears on his property taxes, and had even been in trouble with the state of Louisiana for failing to pay proper withholding taxes on his employees. Nice guy.

  It was also interesting that, even though Sparks had been arrested numerous times, nothing had ever really stuck.

  Carmela decided that Sparks was either a tricky guy or a smart guy. Trouble seemed to slide off his back like he was Teflon-coated. Maybe he had excellent lawyers, maybe he was masterful at covering or obliterating his tracks, or maybe he was just plain lucky and always caught a break. Or perhaps, as Babcock had hinted, he had somebody on the inside, watching out for him. She’d have to quiz Babcock about this. If he deigned to share the teensiest bit of information with her, that is.

  On a wild impulse, Carmela also ran a Google search on James Stanger. She didn’t find much. Mostly his website, Facebook page, a few articles where he was mentioned, and a nice article about a charity event at the New Orleans Museum of Art where Stanger had donated an antique French clock to their silent auction. Just as she was about to quit her search, she stumbled upon some sort of document from an organization called the USITC.

  The what?

  The USITC turned out to be the United States International Trade Commission. What Carmela found was a wordy document, heavy with legalese and lots of heretofors and heretowiths. But the gist of it seemed to imply that James Stanger had purportedly violated a number of import-export laws. She continued to search through the document, but never did find anything specific. No glaring accusation that stated “James Stanger single-handedly ransacked a Ming tomb and stole eight thousand life-sized carved figures.”