Gossamer Ghost Page 4

  “Well . . . yes,” said Carmela. Maybe she’d spilled the beans a little too much?

  “This is a great story,” Zoe chortled. “We’ll hang out and catch the crime-scene guys wheeling the body out.”

  “Nothing like your dead-body shot,” said Ava. “Film at eleven.”

  “This shop,” said Zoe, gesturing toward Oddities, “also has a nice creep factor going.”

  Raleigh nodded. “Timing’s good, too, since Halloween’s only a week away.”

  “I can see this being almost episodic!” said Zoe. “We could do updates as the story unfolds.”

  “If it unfolds,” said Carmela.

  “Or unravels,” added Ava.

  * * *

  “Does murder make you hungry?” Carmela asked Ava as they made their way across the courtyard that separated Carmela’s garden apartment from Ava’s small studio apartment above her Juju Voodoo shop. Water pattered in the fountain, a live oak tree swayed in the breeze, pots of pink bougainvilleas overflowed their terra-cotta containers.

  “I’m not just hungry,” said Ava. “I’m ravenous.”

  “Then come on in,” said Carmela as she slipped her key into the lock.

  No sooner had she cracked open her door than Boo and Poobah, her two dogs, flung themselves at her feet. Then Ava came inside, too, and the pandemonium increased.

  Carmela grabbed Boo, her fawn-colored Shar-Pei, and stroked her triangle ears. “Did you miss me, Boo Boo?”

  Boo’s back end wiggled so enthusiastically it looked like she was dancing the cha-cha.

  “And this little mongrel,” said Ava, planting kisses on the top of Poobah’s head. “If I didn’t have my kitty, Isis, I’d probably dognap this sweetheart.” Then she giggled and said, “Ooh, that tickles!” Poobah had discovered Ava’s open-toed boots and was studiously licking her toes.

  “First things first,” said Carmela. She stepped over to her small galley kitchen and pulled open one of the cupboards. “We need a cocktail, right?” She surveyed her small collection of liquor bottles. “To take the edge off?”

  Ava extricated herself from the muddle of swirling dogs and flopped down on the leather chaise. Kersplat. “Absolutely, I need a drink. I’m so edgy I could claw the wallpaper off your walls.”

  Carmela grabbed vodka, lemon juice, and sugar, added crushed ice, and mixed up two lemon drop cocktails in a silver shaker. Then she poured them into martini glasses. She took a quick sip, and pulled a casserole dish from the refrigerator.

  “I have leftover chicken corn casserole, if anybody’s interested,” she called out.

  “I’m interested,” said Ava.

  Carmela popped the dish into the oven, set the timer for thirty minutes, and carried the cocktails into her adjacent living room. Posh and elegant from dozens of forays through the scratch-and-dent rooms of Royal Street’s finest antique shops, the place was furnished with a brocade fainting couch, marble coffee table, and the squishy leather sofa and matching ottoman that Ava now occupied. An ornate gilded mirror hung on one wall, lengths of handmade wrought iron that had once graced an antebellum mansion hung on the opposite redbrick wall. The wrought iron served as a perfect shelf for Carmela’s collection of bronze dog statues and antique children’s books.

  Ava accepted her drink with a smile, tasted it, and said, “Ahhh. Doesn’t that just tickle the old thirsty spot.” She’d kicked off her shoes and Poobah had climbed up next to her and snuggled in tight. He seemed to be staring thoughtfully at Ava’s feet.

  “Poobah,” Carmela said with a warning tone. Poobah sheepishly slipped off the leather sofa. The sofa was supposed to be off-limits.

  Ava took another sip of her lemon drop and made a satisfied, puckered expression. “Tonight was awful, wasn’t it?”

  Carmela sighed heavily. “We sure don’t need a murder right next door.”

  “Kind of rocks your world,” Ava murmured.

  “I know whose world it’s really going to rock,” said Carmela, reaching for her cell phone.

  “Hmm?”

  “Gabby.”

  “Oh,” said Ava. “Yeah, I suppose. She is kind of your genteel type. Unlike us wild and crazy gals.”

  “I have to call her and let her know what happened. She can get awfully skittish about this stuff.”

  Gabby Mercer-Morris, Carmela’s very capable assistant, answered on the first ring. “Hello?”

  “Gabby,” said Carmela. “I’m afraid I’ve got some, um, rather unsettling news.”

  “What happened now?” said Gabby.

  Carmela almost smiled. Gabby, her conservative, preppy,twinset-wearing assistant, was used to seeing her pulled into crazy situations. And Carmela had definitely enjoyed her fair share, including a murder in a cathedral, a wild chase with the Honey Swamp monster, a foray into a haunted asylum . . . Oh well, the list did go on.

  “Carmela,” said Gabby, sounding concerned. “Tell me what happened.”

  And so, with more than a little hesitation, Carmela brought Gabby up to speed on Marcus Joubert’s murder. She didn’t mention him falling out of the cupboard at her—that would have been way too creepy. But she did tell her about the stolen mask and how upset poor Mavis Sweet had been.

  “This is all so awful!” Gabby said, sounding frightened and a little breathless.

  “The thing is,” said Carmela, “I wanted you to hear about it from me first, and not some sensationalized report on TV.”

  “Even though it is sensational,” said Ava.

  But Gabby was clearly upset. “I can’t believe Joubert was murdered. Mind you, I wasn’t exactly his number one fan, but still . . .”

  “I know,” said Carmela. She thought about poor Marcus Joubert with his large pointed teeth, long jaw, and bushy gray eyebrows. He’d always given Gabby the willies, but now his memory would forever be embellished with the image of a blood-soaked body.

  “Is Babcock . . . ?” Gabby began.

  “Yes, he is,” said Carmela.

  “So there’ll be an investigation going on next door,” said Gabby. She paused for a moment, and then asked, “Were you thinking of closing the shop tomorrow?” She sounded a little hopeful, as if she didn’t relish working so close to the scene of a grisly murder.

  “We can’t close,” said Carmela. “We have a class scheduled. Plus, with Halloween right around the corner, customers will be flooding in for all sorts of craft supplies.”

  Gaby made a small noise into the phone, a cross between a sigh and a moan.

  “Don’t worry,” said Carmela. “I know you’re spooked, but this is New Orleans. Being spooked is normal.”

  * * *

  As soon as Carmela hung up the phone, Ava pounced on her. “Please tell me you still plan to help out at Juju Voodoo this Sunday.”

  Carmela took a quick sip of her cocktail. Ava had already drunk hers down. Carmela decided she’d better get cracking. “Of course I will. I know this is your busy time.”

  Ava laughed. “Busy? We’ll probably be slammed. This is basically my version of Christmas, when tons of tourists flock into town, eager to see the Halloween parades . . .”

  The oven timer dinged and Carmela sprang to her feet. “And tramp through our aboveground cemeteries.”

  “And maybe get a peek at a real live vampire,” Ava laughed.

  Carmela chuckled as she made her way into the kitchen. “Or at least a peek at a real live vampire-story writer’s house!”

  Ava set her glass down. “Dang, that food smells good.”

  “Then meet me in the dining room,” Carmela said as she slipped on a pair of oven mitts. “And bring those yellow place mats and that set of . . .” Her cell phone suddenly hummed inside her pocket. Carmela shucked off the mitts and looked at the display.

  Babcock.

  “Hey there, handsome” said Carmela, surprised to h
ear from him so soon. “Did you catch the killer already?”

  “No,” said Babcock. “But it turns out there’s a small wrinkle to this crazy story.”

  “Really?”

  “Actually, not so small.”

  “Tell me,” said Carmela.

  “What?” asked Ava. She strolled into the kitchen to stand next to Carmela. The better to listen in.

  But Carmela held up a hand so she could listen to what Babcock was saying. “Go on.”

  “The death mask?” said Babcock. “The one that was stolen just a few hours ago from Joubert’s shop?”

  “Yes?”

  “According to the National Art Fraud Registry, it appears to be the exact same death mask that was stolen from a private collector in Dallas just three weeks ago!”

  “SO here’s the thing,” Carmela said to Gabby. “Babcock found out that the death mask was actually stolen three weeks ago from the collection of a man by the name of Wallace Pitney who lives in Dallas.”

  “No,” said Gabby. “Seriously?”

  Carmela nodded. “I can’t make this stuff up.” She paused. “Well, I could, but then I’d probably be accused of writing a somewhat formulaic episode of Castle.”

  “That’s totally bizarre,” said Gabby, gazing at her with limpid brown eyes. “That means . . . well, doesn’t it imply that Joubert stole the mask from this Pitney guy?”

  “Bingo,” said Carmela, jabbing an index finger in Gabby’s direction. “You have just successfully connected the dots.”

  It was Saturday morning at Memory Mine and Carmela and Gabby were gearing up for what they figured would be a super busy Halloween week. Customers would be dropping in to frantically grab skeleton stencils, witch stamps, and ghost chalk. By next Tuesday they’d be completely out of orange cardstock. By Thursday they’d have spun their last spool of black cat ribbon. On Friday, which was Halloween, the store would be closed and they’d be partying their little hearts out.

  Gabby shrugged and tucked a strand of her blond-brown hair behind her ear. “I suppose I can picture Joubert stealing the mask. Is that an awful, uncharitable thing to say?”

  Carmela laughed. “It’s terrible, just terrible.”

  Gabby smiled. “Now you sound like Stuart.”

  Stuart Mercer-Morris was Gabby’s husband and the acknowledged Toyota King of New Orleans. He owned six dealerships, was negotiating for a seventh, and was trying for the land speed record on fleet leasing.

  “What I meant to say,” said Gabby, “is that even though I was never crazy about Joubert, never really felt comfortable around him, I still feel bad. In fact, I had nightmares last night just thinking about somebody sneaking in next door and stabbing him to death!” She adjusted the neckline of her cobalt blue cashmere sweater and folded her arms across her chest, as if she were protecting her heart.

  Carmela sighed. She’d slept like a rock. Maybe that meant she was a horrible, uncaring person.

  Either that or I drank one too many lemon drops.

  “I still can’t believe a gruesome murder happened this close to our cozy little store,” said Gabby. “I always think of this as our private oasis. Nothing bad ever happens here.”

  “Except for a few questionable scrapbook page designs,” said Carmela. She looked around at the inside of her shop and was overcome with a feeling of warmth. Deeper than it was wide, Memory Mine featured high ceilings, wood-planked floors, and arched front windows. It was no wonder that Gabby felt at home here—their scrapbook shop pretty much oozed Old World charm.

  And then there was the crafty angle. The front counter was crowded with racks filled with buttons, brads, charms, beads, and other embellishments. Wire shelves that held almost a thousand varieties of paper were stacked floor to ceiling. Plus there were shelves filled with albums, rubber stamps, foils, and inks of all kinds. At the back of the store was an old wooden table that they’d dubbed Craft Central, where customers could sit and dip into the communal stencils, punches, paper cutters, and calligraphy pens to their hearts’ content.

  “You want me to brew a pot of chicory coffee?” Gabby asked, breaking into Carmela’s reverie.

  “Sure.”

  “Or we’ve got that chamomile and rose hips tea you ordered from the Indigo Tea Shop in Charleston.”

  “That might be better,” said Carmela. Tea was always calming, right? It made you slow down, sip appreciatively, and breathe.

  “You need any help pulling things together for this afternoon’s class?”

  “Maybe,” said Carmela. “Probably.” This afternoon she was teaching a class called Gossamer Threads and showing her crafters how to use simple pieces of cheesecloth to create Halloween crafts as well as a few other fun items.

  “Okay,” said Gabby. “Then I’ll . . .”

  The front door suddenly flew open with a loud thwack and the bell above it da-dinged as if struck by lightning. Then an exotic-looking woman with a swirl of long blond hair and a fox fur cape flew into the shop.

  “May I help you?” Gabby asked in her most pleasant tone.

  “I certainly hope so,” said the woman. “I’m moving into the premises next door and I’m in a complete tizzy!” Her expansive gestures were accompanied by the clanking of heavy, chunky jewelry.

  What? Carmela took a step forward. “Excuse me, did I hear you correctly? You said you’re moving in next door?” How could that be? she wondered. Joubert hadn’t even been dead for twenty-four hours and his shop was still filled with collectibles. What was going on?

  The woman gave a perfunctory smile. “That’s right, I’m moving in. So I suppose that makes me your new neighbor?” Her oval face was classically pretty, but seemed a little tight. Carmela suspected the woman might have overindulged with Botox or fillers.

  “How it that even possible?” Carmela asked. “When Mr. Joubert’s shop is still occupying that space?”

  When he just died last night.

  The woman smiled again, but this time her friendly factor dropped a few degrees. “Oh, but I haven’t introduced myself yet, have I? How terribly rude of me.” She extended a hand to Carmela. “I’m Countess Vanessa Saint-Marche.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Carmela said, shaking her hand.

  Was this woman for real?

  But Gabby seemed to take her at face value. “Excuse me, you’re . . . you’re an actual countess?”

  The woman looked sublimely pleased at Gabby’s reaction. “Yes, absolutely I am. But please don’t let the title put you off, dear.” She waved a hand laden with sparkling rings. “It really is a silly little thing. I simply married into it.”

  “How fortunate for you,” said Carmela. She still wasn’t taking this woman seriously. Could she be a new French Quarter crazy? A well-heeled bag lady?

  But the so-called countess seemed to think a more detailed explanation was in order. “My dear husband, François Saint-Marche, is the last in line of the Saint-Marches that hail from Angoulême, France. Although the family lost most of their money and property during the war, don’t you know? When hordes of those ruffian . . .” She threw up an arm, then paused dramatically. “But that’s all in the past. Luckily, the title still remains intact.” She threw a mirthless smile at Carmela. “Look it up if you don’t believe me. We’re listed in Burke’s Peerage.”

  “I believe you,” said Gabby. She was impressed and seemed ready to curtsy or bow.

  Carmela decided it was simply time to cut to the chase. “Do you know what just happened next door?”

  The countess bobbed her head eagerly. “Murder.”

  “Just last night,” said Gabby.

  “So how is it you’re already moving into that shop?” Carmela asked.

  “Oh,” the countess said in a pitch that was a little too shrill for Carmela’s liking. “I’ve been in contact with the landlord for quite some time.”
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br />   Carmela frowned. “Really?”

  “Oh yes. I plan to open a shop filled with extremely high-end jewelry.” The countess wiggled her fingers at Carmela as if to emphasize her point. “We’ll feature all the new, important designers as well as beautiful estate pieces. Cushion cut diamonds, old mine sapphires, that type of thing.”

  “That sounds lovely,” said Gabby. “I think some of the older gems and settings really are the best.”

  “I’m going to call my shop Lucrezia,” continued the countess. “You know, after Lucrezia Borgia.”

  “The poisoner,” said Carmela.

  A sly smile spread across the countess’s face. “Aren’t you the smart one!” Then she seemed to practically glow as Carmela and Gabby stared at her.

  “So what is it you want from us?” Carmela asked.

  “Invitations!” said the countess. “I want to open my shop in no more than three weeks’ time and I’m going to require some rather elegant invitations for my grand opening soiree. I’m thinking rich, creamy paper embossed with gold ink. And, of course, a logo of sorts.” She glanced around. “I was told this was the place to come. I take it one of you is the designer?”

  “That would be Carmela,” said Gabby.

  “Perfect then,” said the countess, focusing on Carmela. She opened a leather folder and placed it on the front counter. “Here’s what I’m going to need.”

  “Wait. Hold everything,” said Carmela. This was all moving a little too fast for her. “The Oddities merchandise . . . well, it’s still in place. And there’s an ongoing police investigation.”

  The countess set her lips tight as Carmela continued.

  “And I’m sure there’s a lease that extends for at least a few months,” said Carmela. “And maybe the estate has to go through probate?”

  The countess prickled. “You needn’t concern yourself with any of that. It’s all being taken care of. Expedited, as they say.”

  “It is?” said Carmela. “By who?”

  “Boyd Bellamy, the landlord,” said the countess. “So you can see why I’m anxious to get started.”

  Carmela was incredulous. First, that the Oddities space had already been leased. Almost before Joubert’s body was cold—certainly before he was even in the ground. And second, that this obnoxious woman was standing in her shop being so demanding. Still she tried to contain her temper. “Three weeks, that’s an awfully fast turnaround.”