Parchment and Old Lace Page 17

“Darned thing.”

  “Here, let me.” Carmela reached up and made the necessary adjustments. Which gave Babcock ample opportunity to grab her by the waist and give her a light kiss.

  “If you’d rather stay home . . .” he said in a coaxing tone.

  Carmela pulled away. “Can’t,” she said. “This costume show is important.”

  “Speaking of which, did you pick up the veil from Vesper?”

  “I got it, but it wasn’t easy.”

  “Fighting crime never is.”

  Carmela gazed at him. “Is the veil connected to Isabelle’s murder? Do you think it might really be a clue?”

  “You never know. Why don’t we take a look at it?”

  Carmela took Babcock by the hand and led him to the breakfront in the dining room where the blue box was sitting. She opened the box and carefully removed the veil, shaking it out gently and letting it unfold and tumble to the floor. “Isn’t it lovely?”

  Babcock wasn’t interested in the veil’s appearance until Carmela handed him the small piece of lace that he’d cut from the ligature that had strangled Isabelle. He held the lace fragment up to the veil for a few seconds and frowned.

  “It’s not even close,” he said. “But I guess we didn’t think there’d be an exact match.”

  Carmela didn’t want to give up quite so easily.

  “But it’s the same era. So there could be some connection. Maybe the veil and the piece of lace came from the same purchase lot that Devon Dowling bought at auction.”

  “Maybe,” Babcock said. “But probably not.” He sighed. “Look, I’d love to agree with you and claw our way closer to solving Isabelle’s murder, but I think tracking bits of lace isn’t the way to do it.”

  “I hate that we’re giving up on this so easily.”

  “Okay then, we won’t.”

  Carmela eyed him carefully. “What do you mean?”

  “Can you drop this veil off at the crime lab tomorrow?”

  She smiled. “Of course. You trust me to do that?”

  “Only if you know where it is.”

  “Yes, I know where the crime lab is.”

  He bent forward and kissed the top of her head. “Good. Thank you. We’ll have them take a look at it and render an expert opinion.”

  Carmela gently gathered up the veil to repackage it. “What happened with the break-in at Ellie’s apartment? Did you go over or send someone else?”

  “I sent Bobby Gallant over.”

  “And?”

  “It was pretty much what Ellie told me on the phone. A few things had been moved and there were pry marks on the window.”

  “Who do you think went creeping in there?” Carmela asked.

  “We don’t know. We dusted for prints, but didn’t get anything substantial.”

  “No fingerprints from Edward Baudette or Naomi Rattler or Chef Oliver Slade or . . .”

  “Whoa. You think everybody’s a suspect?”

  “Guilty until proven innocent,” Carmela said. “Napoleonic law.” She was about to say more when there was a sudden tippy-tapping at her door. “Oh, that’ll be Ava.”

  Carmela ran to the door, pulled it open, and found Ava standing there. She was wrapped head to toe in a black velvet shawl.

  “Okay,” Carmela said, tapping a toe. “Let’s see it.”

  “Huh?” Ava said, but she was grinning madly from ear to ear.

  “Yeah,” Babcock seconded. “Let’s see the outfit.”

  Ava slowly dropped her wrap to reveal a black strapless bustier over a semi-sheer, ankle-length skirt that was slit all the way up her left thigh. Black fishnet stockings and four-inch stilettos completed her vampy look.

  Carmela inhaled. “You do know we’re going to the Mourning Cloak opening gala, don’t you? To celebrate a collection of Victorian and Edwardian mourning clothes?”

  “Of course,” Ava said. “That’s why I’m dressed head to toe in black.”

  “Are you ever,” Babcock said.

  Without a glance over her shoulder, Carmela’s elbow flew back and jabbed him in the ribs.

  “Oof,” came his singular reply.

  * * *

  The three-story-high foyer of the New Orleans Art Institute was ablaze with lights from the enormous French crystal chandelier that dangled overhead. The marble entry fluttered and hummed with dozens of well-heeled couples dressed to the nines in elegant tuxedos, gowns, and cocktail dresses.

  “Ooh, fancy,” Ava said as she looked around.

  “Black tie,” Carmela replied.

  “That really means snooty, doesn’t it?”

  “Not necessarily,” Carmela said.

  “Sure it does,” Babcock said. He nudged Carmela. “But you fit right in with this crowd.”

  “I know some of them because I was married to Shamus for one brief moment in time.”

  “And to all that Meechum money,” Babcock said.

  “Which I hardly saw a penny of,” Carmela said.

  “Any regrets?”

  Carmela took his arm and snuggled close. “Not in the least.”

  They swooped down the main corridor, all three of them, looking youthful and handsome and crackling with energy.

  As they passed a Cezanne, Carmela said, “That was donated compliments of the Meechum Family Foundation.”

  “Did Shamus pick it out?” Ava asked.

  “No,” Carmela said. “I did. At an auction at Crispin’s in New York.”

  “Impressive,” Babcock said.

  “Wait a minute,” Ava said. “And would that be a Picasso?” She pointed to another abstract painting shaded in blue and framed in stark wood.

  “It’s by Marcel Duchamp,” Carmela said.

  “Girl,” Ava said. “You really know your artists. You’re like a walking encyclopedia.” She pointed to another painting. “Who’s that one by?”

  Carmela leaned in to get a closer look. “I think that might be a Balthus.”

  They were admiring the painting when Zoe Carmichael, one of the young television reporters from KBEZ-TV, came sauntering along. She was cute and bouncy, had heaps of reddish-blond hair that complimented her pale complexion, and was always eager to grab a sound bite. Following in her wake was Raleigh, her cameraman.

  “Carmela,” Zoe chirped. “You’re just the kind of person I was hoping to see.” Then she turned her high beams on Babcock. “And the illustrious Detective Babcock as well. Are you here to solve a one-hundred-and-fifty-year-old murder?” Zoe would kick anybody to the curb if she thought she could score a story.

  Babcock laughed politely and drifted away.

  Zoe immediately turned her attention back to Carmela. “Care to say a few words for the camera? Give us your impression of this crazy Mourning Cloak show?”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t seen it yet,” Carmela said. Plus she really wasn’t hot to offer up an opinion. Those things often came back to bite you.

  “The show is utterly divine,” Ava squealed. “I mean, who doesn’t love a nice stiff corset and a black mourning dress?”

  Zoe churned a hand, signaling for Raleigh to step forward. He was a middle-aged man wearing saggy khaki slacks and a photojournalist vest. He immediately hefted the camera to his shoulder and aimed it directly at Ava.

  “One more time,” Zoe coached Ava. “One more time for the camera.”

  So Ava happily burbled her line again. When they had the take they wanted, she asked, “So . . . will I be on the news tonight?”

  “Film at eleven,” Zoe told her. “Or maybe on a segment during our Morning Alive Show tomorrow.” She grinned and said, “Morning Alive. That’s pretty funny considering we’re shooting footage about a mourning show with dead people’s clothes.”

  “Hysterical,” Carmela agreed.

  * * *

 
; As they entered the large gallery where the Mourning Cloak show was being held, Ava gave an excited shudder.

  “They should have timed this exhibit more in line with Halloween,” she said. “Look at the acres of black fabric. And the faces on some of the mannequins are covered with crepe veils.”

  “Kind of creepy,” Carmela said. Dozens of displays created a sea of perpetual darkness while Gabriel Fauré’s “Requiem” played as background music.

  “I wonder how a woman in mourning could even see with that awful thing splotched across her face. How she could walk down the street?” Ava asked.

  “I think that was the point. I think they were supposed to stay home.”

  “Bummer,” Ava said.

  They stopped in front of an exhibit marked Widow’s Mourning Garb, where every outfit included a billowing floor-length skirt with a long-sleeved black top. The mannequins were additionally covered with black shawls and wore long black gloves. The ladies’ bonnets were stiff and severe, anchoring long pieces of crepe fabric, which either covered the face or hung down the back.

  Ava puckered her brow. “I wonder what the symbolism is. Why do some veils completely cover the face and others don’t?”

  “I can answer that.” Angela Boynton, one of the museum curators, suddenly popped up behind them.

  “Angela!” Carmela exclaimed.

  “Hey, sweetie,” Ava said. “Long time no see.”

  “I’m so glad you both could make it here tonight for the opening of the show,” Angela said. She gazed around quickly. “We seem to be enjoying a record turnout.”

  “It’s a fascinating subject,” Carmela said, though she was far more interested in getting a look at some antique lace.

  “Seems like Victorian dresses were kind of a tricky deal,” Ava said.

  “I’ll say,” Angela agreed. She gestured at a bonnet with a heavy veil. “But these crepe veils were only used when a woman was in full mourning. After the first year, a widow moved into half mourning where the rules weren’t as strict.”

  “You mean she could start dating again?” Ava asked.

  Angela chuckled. “Not quite.”

  “And what’s with the ribbons?” Carmela asked.

  “Those are called love ribbons,” Angela told them. “They could be in either black or white, though most mothers preferred white if they were mourning a child. We have a complete display of them just past the jewelry exhibit.”

  “Jewelry!” Ava was enthusiastic. “We don’t want to miss that.”

  “And is there lace?” Carmela asked.

  “Should be,” Angela said. “But you’ll have more fun if you wander around and explore all the different displays by yourselves. Meanwhile, I’ve got to go make nice with some of our gold circle patrons.”

  “By all means,” Carmela said.

  Angela leaned in. “You know who the major underwriter for this show is, don’t you?”

  Carmela shook her head. Why would that matter? “No,” she said. “Who?”

  “Crescent City Bank.”

  “Uh-oh,” Ava said. “Does this mean Carmela’s ex-husband is lurking around?”

  Angela nodded. “I’m afraid so. The Crescent City Bank Foundation contributed a sizable amount of money, so Shamus and his sister, Glory Meechum, are our honored guests tonight.”

  “Oh goody,” Carmela said. Though she really didn’t mean it.

  * * *

  “Forget about mean old Shamus,” Ava told Carmela as they strolled up to the jewelry display.

  “I try to every day,” Carmela said.

  “If we run into him we’ll just snub him.” Ava pressed her nose against a glass display case. “Oh, bless me. Will you look at this jewelry?”

  Carmela peered in. “Mourning jewelry.”

  “Yes, but isn’t it spectacular?”

  “Mmn,” Carmela said.

  “I particularly like that brooch with the onyx beads and the skeleton etching.” Ava tilted her head. “What do the words say?”

  “I think it says, Not lost but gone before.”

  “And look at that ring,” Ava said. “Jet. What is jet, anyway?”

  “What does that little white placard say?”

  “Oh. Let’s see . . . it says here that jet is fossilized coal that was primarily found near Whitby, England.”

  “And that locket next to it is made from bog oak,” Carmela said.

  “That doesn’t sound very appealing.”

  “And there’s a ring with a braided lock of hair in it.”

  “Carmela, would you wear a ring with my hair in it?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “And look at all the urn and weeping willow motifs,” Ava said.

  “Better than all the skeleton images.”

  “Still,” Ava said. “If I could get reproductions of these skeleton head rings, I bet I could sell them at Juju Voodoo.”

  “Niche marketing to the macabre-minded.”

  “Oh you,” Ava said. She grabbed Carmela’s arm. “C’mon, I see a waiter in a black vest bearing down on us with a silver tray. My instincts tell me it’s gonna be food!”

  It was food. Delicious food, in fact.

  “What is this?” Ava asked as she crunched away.

  “Cucumber and cream cheese on brown bread,” the waiter said. “And Old English crumb cake bites.”

  “Wonderful,” Ava pronounced. “Kind of like tea party food.” She took a second small sandwich and glanced around, practically sniffing the air. “And I see an entire table full of appetizers over there. I think it’s time to stage the Great Appetizer Raid. Are you with me, Carmela?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Carmela and Ava steamrolled up to the appetizer table where a chef, flanked by two assistants, was setting out dainty appetizers.

  “Grab a plate, grab a plate,” Ava cried, just as a white-coated assistant placed a delicate cookie on her plate. She immediately popped it in her mouth and chewed appreciatively. “Mmn, now this is tasty.”

  The head chef turned toward her and smiled. “I see we have a fan for our Victorian funeral biscuits.”

  “Funeral biscuits?” Ava said, almost choking.

  But it was Carmela who did the double take. Because she suddenly realized that the chef, in his pristine white jacket and tall hat, was Chef Oliver Slade!

  Chapter 19

  “WHAT are you doing here?” Carmela cried.

  Chef Slade swiveled to face her. There was a flash of recognition and then a self-satisfied smile oozed across his face.

  He waved the tip of his knife, a long, wicked-looking blade, at Carmela and said, “You’re the lady who was at the viewing the other night. The one who was rooting for Edward Baudette to punch my lights out.”

  “Hey,” Ava said. “I was there, too.”

  “I remember,” Slade said. “You were the nice one.” He brandished his knife again. “And you’re cute, too.”

  Ava fixed him with a dazzling smile.

  “Ava . . .” Carmela’s voice carried a warning tone. “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?” Ava asked.

  “Get friendly.”

  Slade rolled his eyes. “What? You’re afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?”

  “Maybe I am,” Carmela said. “Or should be, anyway. I understand that Isabelle was afraid of you.”

  “That’s not true,” Slade said harshly. “Don’t you dare say that.”

  Carmela gazed at him. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

  “I get tapped for almost all the Art Institute’s high-end parties.” He deftly sliced the crusts off a crab salad sandwich and then cut it into four small pieces. “I’m one of their premier caterers.”

  “So you do catering and you’re the head chef at Le Fougasse?”

  “The chef
de cuisine.”

  “But you say you do most of the catering here?”

  “That’s right.”

  Carmela was beginning to get an uneasy feeling. “So you’ve been involved in the Mourning Cloak show from the very beginning?”

  Slade shrugged. “Obviously. In fact, I was asked to come up with appetizers that actually fit into the Victorian and Edwardian mourning themes.” He pointed at a tray of food. “My broiled oysters with peach and paprika are right out of merry old England. Likewise my Victorian jewels, which are basically miniature fruitcakes.”

  Carmela’s brain was in a whirl now. “So I imagine you were privy to this collection while it was being curated?”

  “Sure. A chef needs to understand the flavor of an exhibit before he can match it with the appropriate food.” Slade gave her an odd look. “Why exactly are you drilling me with all these questions?”

  Carmela plunged ahead. “You do know that Isabelle was strangled with a piece of antique lace, don’t you?”

  Slade drew back as if slapped. “Why would you say something like that? Why would you go and upset me like that?”

  “Because there’s an awful lot of old lace right here.”

  Slade’s eyes seemed to pop out of his head. “Whaaa . . .”

  “I thought you might be interested in knowing the facts, harsh as they are,” Carmela said.

  Now Slade’s dark eyes bore into her with real anger. “Excuse me, are you trying to pin Isabelle’s murder on me?”

  “According to the New Orleans Police Department, you’re one of the prime suspects.”

  “I certainly am not,” Slade cried.

  “I’m afraid you are,” Ava put in. She hunched her shoulders up. “Sorry.”

  Slade’s lip curled and his fists bunched as he glared at Carmela. His voice rose in a thunderous roar. “Listen you stupid woman, how dare . . .”

  Like a deus ex machina from a Greek play, Shamus Allan Meechum suddenly descended upon the scene. Brown eyes flashing, a look of consternation on his handsome face, he said, “What’s the problem here?” Then he slid a protective arm around Carmela’s waist and said, “Are you okay, honey?”

  Carmela nodded. She was okay. Kind of. And shocked that Shamus had not only come to her rescue but had also called her honey.