Skeleton Letters Read online

  “Not really,” said Carmela. She felt guilty about holding back information about Johnny Otis’s arrest from Baby, but she didn’t want to betray any confidences with Babcock, either.

  “I’ve been asking around,” said Baby. “Talking to people I know on various boards and committees . . . people associated with St. Tristan’s. And there’s one name that keeps coming up.”

  “Who?” asked Carmela, pretty much expecting Baby to spit out the name Johnny Otis.

  “Paul Lupori,” said Baby. “Brother Paul, to be exact.”

  “Oh my gosh,” Carmela exclaimed, putting a hand to her head and pushing back a tangle of hair, “I met him! He was the guy creeping around the basement of St. Tristan’s yesterday when Ava and I went back to check things out.”

  Baby gazed at her in surprise. “There you go! I heard that Brother Paul had recently begun an affiliation with St. Tristan’s. Running some sort of program, though I’m not sure what it is exactly.”

  “So . . . why does his name keep coming up?” asked Carmela. “Among the people you talked to.”

  “Here’s the thing,” said Baby, lowering her voice. “Apparently Brother Paul had been working over at St. Cecilia’s and some money went missing. A lot of money.”

  “Okay,” said Carmela.

  “And now,” said Baby, “just as Brother Paul begins an affiliation with St. Tristan’s, a valuable crucifix is stolen and poor Byrle ends up dead. Does that sound a little fishy to you?”

  “Maybe,” said Carmela. Brother Paul had seemed harmless enough. But since Baby had information concerning stolen money, it did cast him in a different light.

  “So what I’m wondering,” continued Baby, “is if you could dream up some sort of excuse to talk to him. See what you can find out.”

  “Are you serious?” Carmela’s voice rose in a squawk. “Talk to Brother Paul? What would I say to him? What on earth would be my excuse?”

  Baby shook her head. “I have no idea. But I’m positive you’ll come up with something.” A smile crept onto her face. “After all, investigating is pretty much your area of expertise.”

  After checking on the rest of her crafters, Carmela ducked back into her office to fix a cup of Darjeeling tea. She took a couple of fortifying sips and decided, then and there, to call Babcock. Go right to the horse’s mouth, so to speak, concerning the mysterious Brother Paul.

  “What do you know about Brother Paul?” Carmela asked Babcock, once she had him on the line.

  “What!” Babcock screeched. “Why would you bring that name up?

  Carmela moved the receiver away from her ear and said, “I didn’t.”

  “Yes, you did,” fumed Babcock. He sounded harried, and Carmela could hear horns honking in the background. Probably Babcock was out driving around, trying to talk, trying to listen, trying to maneuver around potholes and juggle a cup of black coffee at the same time.

  “Technically, it was Baby who mentioned Brother Paul’s name to me,” said Carmela. “It seems he got into some sort of trouble when he was working over at, um . . .”

  “Over at St. Cecilia’s,” said Babcock. “Yes, yes, I’ve heard the whole sad tale.”

  “Really? From him? From Brother Paul?”

  “Yes, from him,” said Babcock, still sounding crabby.

  “So is it?” asked Carmela

  “Is it what?” asked Babcock.

  “A sad tale,” said Carmela. She paused. “Do we have a bad connection or something? Because this conversation suddenly sounds very long distance.”

  “That’s because you’re doing it again,” said Babcock.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re snooping,” Babcock told her. “Butting in where you don’t belong.”

  Carmela took a sip of tea and said, “Oh, I belong, detective. Because I was there. Much to my abject horror, I had a front-row seat for the big bad show at St. Tristan’s this past Monday. Which makes me a very interested party.” She counted silently from one to ten, then said, in a more conversational tone, “So now I’d like you to tell me everything you know about Brother Paul.”

  “You’re incorrigible,” said Babcock.

  “Speak,” said Carmela.

  “There’s not much to tell,” said Babcock. “Brother Paul runs a place called Storyville Outreach Center over on Basin Street. Apparently, he lives there, too.”

  “Storyville,” said Carmela. “Interesting.” Storyville was the old name for the infamous red-light district that was closed down by the federal government during World War I. “What do you know about this . . . what did you call it? Outreach center?”

  “I know that Brother Paul preaches a little gospel and serves food to the local down-and-outers.”

  “So it’s basically a soup kitchen?”

  “Pretty much,” said Babcock, “with a few prayers thrown in for good measure. Apparently Brother Paul scrounges donations from grocery stores, local food companies, and a few sympathetic restaurants. I already checked it out with the state’s Charity Review Council. Brother Paul’s Storyville Outreach Center is aboveboard and seems to be charitable.”

  “Is Brother Paul a suspect?” asked Carmela. She had to know.

  “Not as this point,” said Babcock.

  “Why not?”

  “Not a speck of evidence,” said Babcock. “Also no motive or reliable eyewitnesses.”

  “Hmm,” said Carmela, not liking the emphasis he’d put on the word reliable. In fact, Brother Paul suddenly sounded like the perfect suspect to her.

  “So,” said Babcock, “that means I don’t want you badgering the man.” He paused. “Do you hear me, my dear? I don’t want you running around, asking questions, and poking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

  “Sure,” said Carmela. “No needless running around.” As far as asking questions and poking her nose into places, there was no way she’d agree to that.

  “Good,” said Babcock, sounding distracted now. “I’ll call you later.”

  Carmela hung up the phone, took a sip of tea that had grown lukewarm and a little puckery, and thought to herself, Is Brother Paul really on the up-and-up? After all, appearances could be so deceiving. Case in point, Rain Monroe. The woman displayed all the trappings of an upscale society matron, but beneath that high-gloss exterior beat the heart of a viper.

  “I’m taking orders for a run to the Pirate’s Alley Deli,” said Gabby, interrupting Carmela’s dark thoughts. Gabby hunkered in the doorway, pad and pencil in hand. “You want something for lunch? A po’boy or a muffuletta?”

  “Sure,” said Carmela, her brain still whirring.

  “Po’boy?” asked Gabby. “Your fave?” Carmela’s fave was deep-fried soft-shell crab with cole slaw, pickles, and mayo on a grilled bun. Not the most heart-healthy New Orleans dish, but certainly not as bad as good old artery-clogging étouffée.

  “The po’boy sounds great,” said Carmela.

  “You say that,” said Gabby, “but I’m sensing a certain lack of enthusiasm.”

  “It’s just that I . . . well . . . I’m in the middle of something.”

  “If I could do a brain scan on you,” joked Gabby.

  “You really wouldn’t want to,” said Carmela. “Say, could you ask Baby to come back here?”

  “Sure,” said Gabby, a puzzled look on her face.

  A couple of minutes later, Baby was perched in the director’s chair across from Carmela, listening attentively as Carmela related the details of her conversation with Babcock.

  “Storyville Outreach Center?” said Baby. She patted the tips of one manicured hand against the side of her smooth cheek.

  “That’s what he said.”

  “Carmela,” said an excited Baby, “you’ve got to go over there! Take a look around. See what Brother Paul is really up to!”

  “Maybe he’s up to gospel music and serving dinner, just like Babcock said.”

  “And maybe it’s something else,” said Baby. She furrowed her brow, looking worri
ed.

  “If I go cowboying in there,” said Carmela, “what’s my story?” What she really meant was, What’s my cover?

  Baby thought for a few moments, then said, “Tell Brother Paul that you want to volunteer!”

  “Not very likely,” murmured Carmela.

  “Don’t sell yourself short,” said Baby. “He might buy it.” She reached over and grabbed Carmela’s hand, clutching it tightly in her own. “Please, honey, just go over and look around. See if his place really is on the up-and-up. See if he’s running a for-real charity or a scam.” Baby drew a deep breath. “See if he sets off any bells or whistles with your inner truth detector.”

  What she really means, thought Carmela, is my bullshit detector.

  Chapter 13

  JUST as Carmela had started her group on their afternoon project, the front door flew open. A swirl of colorful leaves rushed in along with a glut of cool air. On the tail of it, dressed in impeccable brown tweeds, came the tall, broad-shouldered form of Drew Gaspar.

  “Close the door! Close the door!” shrilled Gabby, as she rushed to the front of the shop, arms akimbo. “Our papers are flying everywhere!” she scolded.

  “Ooh, sorry, sorry,” said Gaspar. He hastily reversed course and pulled the door shut tight, then turned around with an embarrassed smile on his face.

  “That’s better,” said Gabby, in a sharp bark.

  Now Gaspar just looked flustered, as if he’d stumbled into the ladies’ lingerie department instead of a scrapbook shop.

  Carmela’s heels rang out like castanets as she hurried to greet him. “Mr. Gaspar, I had no idea you were going to drop by.”

  “Apologies,” said Gaspar, fluttering his hands and furrowing his brow. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d pop in. From the looks of things, you’re quite busy.”

  “We’re always busy here,” Tandy called loudly from the back of the shop. “So don’t mind us chickens.”

  “It’s my calligraphy class,” Carmela explained to him. “Really an all-day seminar.”

  “And are we ever having fun,” Tandy called out again.

  “As you can see,” said Carmela, unable to suppress a grin, “we have some very enthusiastic participants.”

  “Calligraphy,” said Gaspar, seizing upon the word. “The very subject we were discussing last night.”

  We weren’t really discussing it, thought Carmela. You were.

  Gaspar gestured toward the back of the room, where Carmela’s crafters were working away. “May I? Take a peek, I mean?” His unease seemed to have vanished.

  “I suppose,” said Carmela, as Gaspar bounded through the shop, brushing past floor-to-ceiling racks of paper and shelves stocked with ribbons and albums.

  “Welcome,” called out Baby, as Carmela hastened to make quick introductions.

  Then Tandy, never shy about anything, had to show him her project.

  “Really quite fantastic,” Gaspar marveled. “But I’m interrupting your class. Please forgive me, dear ladies.”

  “Don’t worry,” Carmela told him, “they’re well into their next craft project.”

  “Then perhaps we could chat,” said Gaspar. “About that menu design?”

  Carmela dutifully took Gaspar into her office and sat him down.

  “So creative,” he said, glancing at her walls, where various papers and sketches were tacked up. “There’s nothing more stimulating than being in the presence of a person with a true creative bent.”

  Carmela let that comment roll past her.

  “You were primarily interested in a new menu, I believe,” said Carmela, taking the lead. She rolled her chair back, pulled open one of her flat files, and grabbed one of the menus she’d designed for Mumbo Gumbo. Passing it to Gaspar, she said, “This is the menu I designed for Quigg.”

  Gaspar patted his jacket pocket for a pair of glasses, found them, slipped them onto his nose, and perused the menu she’d handed him. “Wonderful work!” he proclaimed after a few moments.

  Carmela tried not to giggle. It was fun, colorful, and serviceable, but it was never going to be a finalist for a CLIO or CAA award.

  “It’s cheeky,” Gaspar declared. “You’re a cheeky designer. And you love to play with type and color.”

  Carmela squinted at Gaspar. If he had that much aptitude for design, how come he hadn’t been a good judge of his own menu?

  “I still do the odd design project,” Carmela told him, “but these days I spend much more time doing commercial scrapbooks.”

  Gaspar raised a single eyebrow. “Commercial scrapbook? That’s something I’m not familiar with.”

  Carmela pulled out a scrapbook she’d recently created for Lotus Floral and handed it to him. “It’s like an expanded brochure,” she explained. “This particular florist wanted customers to get an idea of what kind of unique bouquets, centerpieces, and wedding flowers they could do. So we took pictures, mounted them on colorful scrapbook paper, and did hand-lettered captions.”

  “This is gorgeous,” said Gaspar. He’d turned to a page that featured a photo of a bride and groom standing in a courtyard festooned with flowers. “I meant the scrapbook,” he said. “Though the floral designs are lovely, too.”

  Carmela glanced out the door of her office. She was starting to wonder if inviting Gaspar into her office had been a good idea, after all.

  Gabby noticed Carmela’s worried look and said, “Don’t worry, Carmela, I can honcho this next project.”

  “I love your idea of a commercial scrapbook,” said Gaspar. “I can see where it could be useful in promoting special events—business dinners, meetings, wedding receptions.”

  Carmela nodded, although she couldn’t imagine any girl having her wedding reception in a place where an army of gargoyles scowled down at her guests.

  “But my immediate need is a new menu,” said Gaspar. “Will you help?”

  “Your menu presentation is fine as is,” said Carmela. “With the leather folders. It’s the type that’s problematic.”

  “It would seem so,” said Gaspar.

  “Why don’t you let me noodle around some ideas,” said Carmela. “Maybe work up a couple of samples.”

  “You’re a lifesaver,” said Gaspar.

  “Not really,” said Carmela. She was lukewarm about this project at best.

  “Another quick question,” said Gaspar. “Your lovely friend . . .”

  “Ava,” supplied Carmela.

  “Has she ever done any modeling?”

  Carmela thought for a few seconds. The two of them had modeled in a Moda Chadron show a while back. Though that little episode had ended in complete disaster. So maybe she should play it straight and tell the truth? On the other hand . . .

  “It’s really just a yes-or-no question,” laughed Gaspar.

  “Yes,” said Carmela, “she has.”

  “I suspected as much,” said Gaspar. “Do you have her current address?”

  Carmela pulled open a desk drawer and reached in. “Actually, I have one of Ava’s business cards.” She handed him a black-and-red card that said Juju Voodoo in fat, funky letters.

  “Very nice,” said Gaspar. “Your design?”

  “That’s right,” said Carmela.

  “I have something very special in the works,” said Gaspar, giving her a wide grin that displayed lots of teeth, “but I want to make sure everything is in place first.”

  “Sounds mysterious,” said Carmela.

  “Believe me,” said Gaspar, “it is.”

  “A new design project?” asked Gabby, once Gaspar had left, and Carmela had determined that her customers were still happily toying with lettering and paper and design ideas.

  “Something like that,” said Carmela, as they walked together toward the front counter.

  “It’s always nice to pick up a design project, isn’t it?” said Gabby. She slipped behind the counter and grabbed a packet of colored tags. “What’s his business exactly?”

  “He runs a restau
rant called Purgatoria,” said Carmela. “It’s a new place over on Magazine Street. Ava and I dropped in for dinner last night, which is how we became acquainted.”

  “Purgatoria,” said Gabby, tilting her head. “That’s a funny name for a restaurant.”

  “If you saw it, you’d understand the name,” said Carmela. “It’s a kind of crazy-quilt place filled with old church pews and statues and . . .” She stopped abruptly as Gabby’s eyes suddenly went round as saucers. “What’s wrong?”

  “Church stuff?” said Gabby, her voice rising a few octaves. “He likes church stuff?”

  “Well . . . yes,” said Carmela. “He’s got quite the collection of candlesticks and crosses and . . .”

  “Think, Carmela!” hissed Gabby. “What if he’s the guy who snatched the crucifix!”

  “I can’t imagine . . . ,” began Carmela. Then stopped. Because all of a sudden, like a whoosh of noxious air, she could imagine it.

  “Carmela?” said Tandy. Carmela was hunched over the front counter, still thinking about Gaspar. Was he some kind of wacko collector? Had the menu design been a ruse to get close to her? Was she clutching at straws?

  Carmela shook her head to clear it and said, “What, honey?”

  “Do you have any really sheer gossamer ribbon?”

  “Let me check,” said Carmela. “I know we’ve got some pink chiffon, but I . . .”

  The front door suddenly flew open again and Carmela spun around, figuring that Drew Gaspar, for whatever annoying reason, had returned. But it was Marilyn Casey, Tandy’s writer friend, who came hustling in.

  “Hey, Marilyn!” said Tandy. She opened her arms, swept her friend into them, and proceeded to administer a quick string of air kisses. “What brings you here?” Not letting Marilyn get a word in, she added, “You just missed Carmela’s calligraphy seminar, you know.” Tandy glanced at her watch. “Well, we’ve got like another hour and a half to go, but I don’t think . . .” Tandy waved a hand in front of her face. “Here I am, jabbering away like a dingbat.” She gave a feigned shrug of dismay and said to Marilyn, “How are you, hon?”