Skeleton Letters Read online

  “But this is super important,” Carmela told him. “The thing is, we know . . . we knew . . . the victim.” Feeling hot tears puddle in her eyes, she added, “It was Byrle, one of our scrapbookers.”

  “Oh,” Babcock said, compassion suddenly seeping into his voice. “I didn’t realize the victim was a friend of yours. I’m very sorry.”

  Carmela gave a vigorous nod. “So it’d be nice . . .” She stopped herself and started over. “No, it would be more than nice, I’d be grateful if you could kind of oversee the whole investigation.”

  “I already spoke with Gallant,” said Babcock. “When I found out you and Ava were present at St. Tristan’s this morning . . . I sort of nudged my way in.”

  “Oh, that’s great,” said Carmela, breathing a sigh of relief. Babcock was smart, dogged, and determined. With one of the highest clear rates on the police force.

  Ava, who’d fixed herself a fortifying cup of tea, suddenly came breezing toward them. “You’re here,” she said to Babcock. “Thank goodness. Because this is gonna be a tough one.”

  “What makes you say that?” he asked, in measured tones.

  “No suspects,” said Ava, looking wide-eyed. “St. Tristan’s was almost empty. Except, of course . . .” She motioned toward Carmela, then touched her own chest. “For the two of us.”

  Babcock shook his head, looking a little annoyed. “On the contrary,” he told her. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out a black leather notebook and flipped it open. “According to the information Gallant passed on to me, choir practice had just ended, so three or four choir members were still wandering about the premises.” He cleared his throat. “A board meeting was set to convene in five minutes and two brothers were in a side room polishing candlesticks.”

  “Seriously?” said Ava. She looked stunned. “I didn’t see those people.” She frowned and glanced toward Carmela. “Did you see those people?”

  Carmela shook her head no. “Then again,” she added, “I wasn’t exactly looking for anyone. We were talking about . . . um . . . the poster, I suppose.”

  Babcock held up an index finger and continued. “A couple of docents were also arranging flowers, and a delivery van was parked out back.” He snapped his black notebook shut, as if to punctuate his sentence. “And if you add in the dozen or so tourists who were wandering through the garden, graveyard, and archaeology dig out back, that makes for an awful lot of people.”

  “You mean an awful lot of suspects,” said Carmela. She was glad Babcock had decided to take an interest, but worried that so many people had suddenly cropped up. People who, obviously, hadn’t been on her radar screen at all.

  Babcock gazed at her. “Lots of suspects . . . yes. That’s why we have officers conducting interviews and taking sworn statements right now.”

  “Are all those people suspects?” Ava asked.

  “In my book they are,” said Babcock.

  “That sounds more like Napoleonic law,” said Ava. “Guilty until proven innocent.”

  “Sometimes,” said Babcock, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly, “the old laws are the best.”

  “You don’t really believe that, do you?” asked Ava.

  Babcock shrugged.

  “If there were that many people in the vicinity,” said Carmela, “that many witnesses, then it stands to reason a few of them must have seen something.”

  “Maybe somebody else saw Byrle struggling,” suggested Ava, “or at least noticed the two of us thundering toward that altar like a herd of cattle.”

  “It’s a possibility,” said Babcock.

  Ava clenched a fist and declared, “Gonna find that killer and send him to the ’lectric chair! Thank goodness Louisiana is still a progressive state that believes in capital punishment.”

  “That part’s debatable,” said Carmela.

  “Actually,” said Babcock, “the man of the hour, the guy we’re trying to track down right now, is the delivery guy. A fellow by the name of Johnny Otis.”

  “A delivery guy?” said Ava.

  “What’s the deal with Otis?” asked Carmela. Could it be that Babcock had pinpointed Byrle’s killer already?

  “Of all the names we’ve collected so far,” said Babcock, “he’s the only one who has an arrest record.”

  “For murder?” asked Carmela.

  “No,” said Babcock, “but he’s dabbled in stolen checks and fenced goods.”

  “Close enough for jazz,” said Ava, looking heartened. “This Johnny Otis is probably your man.”

  “I also understand a valuable crucifix was stolen?” said Babcock.

  Ava seemed suddenly on the verge of tears. “It wasn’t just any crucifix, it happened to be Père Etienne’s gold-and-silver crucifix! It’s a rare and precious artifact that was unearthed from the church’s archaeology dig something like two months ago.” Now her eyes were filled with tears. “And it’s been displayed on the saint’s altar ever since.” Now her chin quivered wildly. “Until . . . this morning, anyway.”

  “Our theory,” said Carmela, jumping in, “is that the silver crucifix attracted the attention of a thief and one thing led to another.” She swallowed hard. “In other words, poor Byrle was killed while trying to fight off a theft.”

  “So grand theft plus murder one,” said Ava, wiping at her eyes.

  “Your grasp of the legal system is tenuous,” Babcock told Ava, “but you do seem to be fairly well versed concerning that particular church.”

  “Ava’s in the Angel Auxiliary,” said Carmela.

  Babcock looked puzzled. “The what?”

  Ava wiped at her eyes again and sniffled. “It’s a volunteer group I belong to,” she explained, “kind of like museum docents. We help out around the church by guiding visitors on history tours. Sometimes we even handle more mundane things like replacing burned-out candles or helping with floral arrangements. That sort of thing.”

  “Very commendable,” said Babcock. “And what were you two doing there today? This morning?”

  “We were delivering a poster I’d hand-lettered,” said Carmela. “To promote the Père Etienne Festival that’s happening in two weeks.”

  “If they’re even going to have it now,” Ava said, looking unhappy.

  “Okay,” said Babcock. He rocked back on his heels, allowing silence to spin out between them.

  “Okay?” said Ava. “That’s it? You don’t want to hear any of our theories?”

  “Not particularly,” said Babcock.

  “But you’ll get back to us?” said Carmela.

  “Perhaps,” said Babcock.

  “Excuse me,” said Carmela, fighting a rising tide of panic, “but we want to remain an integral part of this investigation!”

  “Don’t worry,” said Babcock, “you were there, so you are part of the investigation.”

  Chapter 4

  I HAVE to take off, cher,” said Ava. “We’re starting inventory this week and I don’t want to stick Miguel with the whole enchilada.” Miguel was Ava’s crackerjack assistant at Juju Voodoo. “Hey, are you okay?” Carmela was sitting at the front counter, twisting a strand of velvet ribbon through her fingers. She’d added dozens of new spools of ribbon to her inventory recently, since so many scrapbookers were also into card making and other crafts.

  “I’m okay,” said Carmela. “Are you?”

  “I feel a little better now,” Ava replied, “now that I know Babcock’s on the case. Besides being a sharp dresser, that fellow is one smart cookie.”

  “Now we just have to wiggle our way into the loop,” said Carmela.

  “Think we can find a way to do that?” asked Ava. “He did seem a little averse to our getting involved.”

  Carmela thought for a few seconds. “He’s never particularly forthcoming with information.”

  Ava frowned. “Then we’ve got a real problem, because Baby’s gonna want to know, detail by detail, exactly what’s going on.”

  “You think?”

  “Oh, I
know,” said Ava. “So we should probably noodle this whole thing around. See what we can figure out.”

  “I think you’re right,” said Carmela. “So . . . maybe you want to drop by my place tonight?”

  Ava brightened. “For dinner?”

  “Sure,” said Carmela. “Why not?” She knew that at any given time, the contents of Ava’s refrigerator were generally limited to cat food, a head of petrified lettuce, and a couple of bottles of premium champagne.

  “You’re a lifesaver,” said Ava, giving her a quick hug.

  “I wish,” said Carmela.

  Gabby hung up the phone, turned to Carmela, and said, “Do you still feel up to having the calligraphy classes?” They’d planned an all-day calligraphy seminar for Wednesday. Carmela was going to teach a few basic points of calligraphy, then demonstrate to her customers how they could easily incorporate calligraphy into their scrapbook and craft projects.

  “I don’t really want to cancel,” said Carmela.

  Gabby shrugged, half in resignation, half in agreement. “You’re right, life goes on.”

  “It has to,” said Carmela. “We don’t have a choice.” She wandered back through the store, straightened a pile of parchment paper, then tried to organize a tangle of fibers. Of course life goes on, she thought to herself. She’d learned the lesson about moving forward in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. When fate or Mother Nature conspires to stack the deck against you, sometimes the best you can do is smile through the tears, pick up the pieces, and just keep putting one foot in front of the other.

  Carmela had witnessed this firsthand and knew that the people who managed to move forward were survivors—and those who couldn’t ended up as the walking wounded.

  For her, moving ahead was an easy choice—although making it through the rest of the day proved to be a true test of fortitude. And when evening came and Carmela finally ducked through the tunnel-like confines of the porte cochere to enter her secluded courtyard, she was suddenly aware of just how bone-tired she really was.

  “You want your gumbo moderately spiced or kicked up Cajun style?” Carmela asked. She was hunkered in her small kitchen, stirring a bubbling pot of chicken gumbo while a pan of brown sugar bread was hopefully turning golden brown in her oven. Though Carmela was still heartsick from this morning, the mingled cooking aromas filled her apartment and imparted a sense of normalcy and quiet contentment.

  Ava, who’d offered several times to assist and had been politely turned down each time, lounged at the nearby dining table, her long legs sprawled out. She was sipping a glass of wine, the last of a bottle of Riesling, and peeling off strips of Liva Lova dog treats to feed to Boo and Poobah.

  “Toss in those spices,” Ava told Carmela, “and don’t hold back on my account. I’m a gal who likes her food, her fellas, and her jazz nice and hot.”

  “But you don’t like being in hot water,” said Carmela, attempting a modicum of humor.

  “Not usually,” said Ava.

  A crack of thunder suddenly rattled the rafters, and bright flashes of lightning pulsed outside. On the roof was the distinct beat of rain.

  “Raining cats and dogs out there,” said Ava.

  “A good night to cozy in,” said Carmela, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Carmela’s courtyard apartment featured brick walls, leather furniture, and an Aubusson carpet that all lent a warm, lived-in feeling. Of course, Boo and Poobah helped, too. Though tonight they were padding back and forth between Carmela and Ava, making nervous little figure eights, as if they were in a figure-skating competition.

  “I keep turning Byrle’s murder over and over in my mind,” said Ava, looking suddenly morose, “trying to make sense of it.”

  “Doesn’t make any sense to me,” said Carmela, shaking in an extra measure of chili powder.

  Ava grasped a hank of dark curly hair, twirled it around her finger, and said, “Who did Babcock say was at the church again? Around the same time Byrle got murdered?”

  Cocking her head, Carmela squinted into the bubbling pot as she tried to recall Babcock’s long litany. “Let’s see . . . the church choir, board members, tourists, flower arrangers, delivery guy, and candlestick polishers.” She hesitated, then added, “And a partridge in a pear tree.”

  “And Père Etienne’s crucifix was stolen,” Ava said slowly. “That seems to be the pivotal event.”

  “I think so, too,” said Carmela.

  “So who,” asked Ava, “would want to steal an antique gold-and-silver crucifix?”

  “Lots of people come to mind,” said Carmela. “How about a garden-variety thief who might try to sell a valuable artifact to a sleazy antiques dealer? Or some wacky religious zealot? Or even a relic hunter? After all, the historical significance of that crucifix makes it worth more than just the value of the precious metals.”

  Ava nodded sagely. “When you put it that way, it could even be a vampire hunter.”

  “I know this is going to come as a real blow to you,” said Carmela, as she placed two yellow Fiestaware bowls on the counter, “but there really aren’t any vampires.”

  Ava’s perfectly waxed brows shot up as she managed a look of supreme indignation. “Oh no? Tell that to all the vampire wannabes who come swooping down to New Orleans in search of Lestat’s grave or wanting to make a pilgrimage to Anne Rice’s house. Or . . . or . . .” Ava was wound tight and flying hard. “Or even come to visit the Cat People house, not that they were vampires per se.”

  “I see your point,” said Carmela. “Still, the vampire notion seems a bit far-fetched.”

  “Then what do you think?” asked Ava.

  “If I had to put money on it, I’d say the crucifix was definitely stolen because of its historical significance.”

  Ava looked thoughtful as she scratched Boo’s tiny triangle-shaped ears. “But wouldn’t that kind of rule out the delivery guy? How many delivery guys are, like, knowledgeable about antiquities? I mean, we’re not talking Indiana Jones here. Most delivery guys are Guidos, aren’t they?”

  “Guidos?”

  “Tough guys,” said Ava. “Guys who like to pump it up at the gym. Not exactly your museum-savvy type.”

  “You make a very good point,” said Carmela. She decided she’d better run that argument past Babcock. It might be important in steering the investigation in a more profitable, probable direction. It could also help insinuate herself into the middle of things.

  When the oven bell dinged, Ava jumped in her chair. Then, with a sheepish grin on her face, said, “Ah, time to eat?”

  “Almost,” said Carmela. She ladled gumbo into the two bowls, placed them on a silver serving tray, then pulled the brown sugar bread from the oven and turned it out onto her cutting board. “Perfect,” she said, breathing in the warm, yeasty aroma. Slicing off four generous pieces of bread, she dumped them into a round wicker bread basket and asked, “You want honey butter, too?”

  “It’s already made? I hope?”

  “Natch,” said Carmela.

  “Let’s do it,” said Ava.

  Carmela carried everything to the table and placed a steaming bowl of gumbo in front of Ava.

  Ava grinned, bent forward, and said, “This steam could strip the curl right out of my hair if I’m not careful.”

  “You’re so lucky,” said Carmela. “You’ve got tons of natural curl, while my hair is like . . . I don’t know . . . stickstraight opossum hair.”

  “You’ve got great hair,” Ava crooned. “Remember, a caramel-colored bob always looks classy. Like you probably have a closet full of St. John Knits and a couple of Lady Dior handbags.”

  “Be still my heart,” said Carmela. She slid into her chair, then suddenly popped up. “We need a refill on wine.”

  “Excellent idea,” said Ava. “And bring the rest of the bread. Remember, no carb left behind.”

  Carmela popped the cork on a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and carried it to the table, where she poured out a half-glass for Ava. “This is something new,�
� she told her friend.

  Ava helped herself to a generous sip. “Mmm.”

  “You like it?”

  “It’s good,” said Ava. “Is this from . . . ?”

  “St. Tammany Vineyard,” said Carmela. St. Tammany Vineyard was owned by Quigg Brevard, a previous beau of Carmela’s and a dashing restaurateur who owned Bon Tiempe in the Bywater district and Mumbo Gumbo in the French Quarter. “It’s called Sauvignon Silver.”

  “Ah,” said Ava, taking another sip and this time savoring it. “Don’t you have some sort of wine event coming up?”

  Carmela rolled her eyes. “Oh man, do I ever. This Saturday night at the Belle Vie Hotel. A big wine-tasting and press party.”

  “I thought you didn’t do event planning,” said Ava, dipping her spoon into the gumbo. “I thought when you took the occasional sidestep outside your scrapbooking world, you only did design work.” As she swallowed her first spoonful of gumbo, she quickly fluttered a hand in front of her mouth. “Yowza! This is some kick-butt gumbo!”

  “Too spicy for you?”

  “Naaah,” Ava choked, still fanning.

  “Glad to hear it,” chuckled Carmela. “And as far as the event planning goes, well, I got suckered in once again.”

  “Yeah?”

  Carmela sighed. “It’s the same old story. I started off designing Quigg’s logo, which led to designing five different wine labels. And somehow that whole thing snowballed into my planning a red carpet media event.”

  “Sounds like a powerful amount of work.”

  Carmela sighed again. “It is.”

  “So you invited real live media to this big froufrou party? Like guys from radio and TV?” Now Ava was definitely interested.

  “Yes, we did,” said Carmela. “And it’s amazing how many of them actually RSVP’d. My plan of action being to stage a truly elegant wine-tasting event that scores as much free publicity as possible.”

  “I’ll bet you do get a few write-ups,” enthused Ava.

  “If Quigg’s wines and vineyard can get even a small sidebar in the Times-Picayune or get picked up as a feature story by one of the local TV stations, it’ll really help with the launch of his initial five wines,” said Carmela. “Of course, we also invited a whole bunch of local restaurateurs and liquor store owners to the event. If enough of them start stocking his wine, then there’s a good chance the St. Tammany brand is off and running.” Carmela stopped and took a breath. “It’s the old push-pull marketing technique. We push Quigg’s wine to the wine shops and restaurants, and then the TV and print media get consumers interested enough so they request it.”