Gilt Trip Read online

  “And you have faith in him?”

  “Oh, absolutely,” said Carmela. She paused. “Besides . . .”

  “Besides what?”

  “I’m really hoping this will be an open-and-shut case.”

  Gabby tilted her head to one side. She seemed to be getting over her initial shock. “How so?”

  Carmela took a sip of coffee. “I’m betting that Jerry Earl’s murder was business related. All Gallant really needs to do is figure out who hated him the most.”

  “Can Gallant do that? He’s that good of an investigator?”

  “Probably.” Carmela helped herself to one of the beignets. “Of course, now that I think about it, there were probably quite a few people who disliked Jerry Earl.”

  “Really?” said Gabby. “That’s so sad.”

  “You didn’t know Jerry Earl,” said Carmela. “Margo may have loved the man enough to marry him twice, but he was mean as a cottonmouth and tough as a hunk of old shoe leather. I’ve also heard that when it came to business he was a hard-nosed jerk.”

  “But he paid the price,” said Gabby.

  “That’s right,” said Carmela. “He went to jail.”

  “No,” said Gabby. “I mean the ultimate price. His life.”

  • • •

  THEY GOT BUSY THEN, READYING THE SHOP FOR the coming week. This was the time, early morning, that Carmela liked best. When she could straighten the colored pens and glue sticks, arrange packages of beads and embellishments, add new rubber stamps to their huge wall display, and create a fun little still life in the front window using their new albums, spools of ribbon, and special scissors. Since Memory Mine was located in the French Quarter on Governor Nicholls Street, the shop itself pretty much oozed old world charm. Longer than it was wide, the shop featured high ceilings, wide wood-planked floors, a lovely arched bay window in front, and yellow brick walls.

  It was along this longest wall that Carmela had placed her wire paper racks. They held thousands of sheets of paper in every color, style, and texture—and brought her an immense amount of joy. Because Carmela was (and she made no secret of this) a bit of a paper addict. She adored mulberry paper with its infusion of fibers, as well as Egyptian papyrus, which was linen-like and gorgeous. Both papers really got her creative juices flowing when it came to creating dimensional bags, boxes, and invitations. Of course, the botanical vellums imbedded with real flower petals and the fibery Nepal lokta paper were pretty darn fabulous, too.

  Recently, Carmela had received a shipment of Indian batik paper. Infused with rich, dark colors that hinted at the Orient and a slightly puckered, accordion effect, she was looking forward to using this paper in one of her many projects.

  And though business wasn’t always as brisk as Carmela would like it to be, she had lots of loyal customers who gladly supported her. Which made her more grateful than ever to have built this little business and kept it going, even when Hurricane Katrina and Hurricane Isaac had swept through town and caused their respective hiccups.

  Carmela was sitting in her small office in back, sketching out a design for a triptych, when the phone rang.

  “Carmela,” Gabby called from the front counter. “Your sweetie’s on the line.”

  Grinning from ear to ear, Carmela snatched up the phone. “Hey there!”

  “How are you doing, Carmela?” came a rich, warm, baritone voice. Carmela felt her heart give a little flutter. She could just picture Babcock in her mind’s eye. Tall, lanky, and handsome. Ginger-colored hair cropped short and neat. His blue eyes constant pinpricks of intensity. And, of course, he was always well dressed. A cop with a curious taste for Armani and Hugo Boss.

  “I’m great,” she told him. “Now that you’ve called.”

  “I heard there was a rather unexpected turn of events at Margo Leland’s party last night.”

  Uh-oh, he knew. “You talked to Bobby Gallant?” Obviously he had.

  “Yes, I did,” said Babcock. “It’s funny how the phone lines stretch all the way up here to DC.”

  “What exactly did he tell you?” She wondered if Babcock was upset that she hadn’t called him.

  “That information is strictly confidential,” said Babcock. “Nothing to concern your head over.”

  “But I—” began Carmela.

  “Yes, I’m well aware that you were there, Carmela. But there’s still no reason for you to get involved. No reason to try to insinuate yourself into police business or this particular investigation.”

  “I wouldn’t do that,” said Carmela.

  “Yes, you would,” said Babcock. “You would do that in a heartbeat.” He hesitated. “You realize, my dear, and I’m quite positive we’ve had this conversation before, that when someone gets killed in New Orleans, it isn’t up to you to solve the crime.”

  “I know that.” Carmela swung her chair in a circle, studying the walls of her office, looking at paper swatches she’d tacked up, bits of ribbon, and sketches she’d made of future projects. Wishing Babcock wasn’t so darned prickly about this. “I’ll keep my distance. I promise.”

  Babcock made a strangled sound, somewhere between a cough and a chuckle.

  “I miss you, too,” Carmela said.

  This time Babcock laughed out loud. “Stay out of trouble and I’ll be sure to bring you something nice back from DC.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “But you’re the only thing I want back from DC!”

  • • •

  CARMELA WAS STANDING AT THE FRONT COUNTER, adding a snippet of ribbon to a newly created memory box, when the door flew open.

  Our first customer, she thought. About time.

  But it wasn’t a customer at all. It was Margo Leland, her hostess from last night. Dressed in a tomato red outfit, she clung forcefully to the arm of a distinguished, white-haired gentleman that Carmela estimated to be in his early seventies.

  “Margo!” said Carmela. She hadn’t expected to see her again quite so soon. And why oh why was the poor soul toddling into her shop this morning? Somehow this looked like a disaster in the making.

  Margo lifted sad eyes that were as red as her outfit and said in a gravelly voice, “Carmela, darling.”

  Margo’s tight red sweater jacket was rife with frills and ruffles that accentuated her every curve. She wore a short matching red skirt and stiletto heels so high that Carmela feared she might topple over. Margo’s wrists were festooned with thick gold bangles that jingled and jangled with every movement, and she clawed pathetically at her companion, wringing the sleeve of his suit jacket until it looked worn and crumpled.

  Carmela and Gabby exchanged worried looks.

  “Shall I make tea?” Gabby asked.

  “Please,” said Carmela. She figured she’d need something to soothe Margo’s obvious distress. Then she reached under the front counter for a box of tissues and placed them within Margo’s reach, all the while wondering what this unexpected visit was really about.

  Margo released her viselike grip on her companion and gave a small wave. “This is my friend, Duncan Merriweather,” she explained. “I don’t know if you met him last night.”

  “No, I didn’t,” said Carmela. She smiled politely at Merriweather and said, “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” Merriweather said. He gave Margo’s arm a solicitous squeeze and said, “Would you like me to stay close, sweetheart?”

  Margo steeled her shoulders and shook her head. “No. Perhaps you could amble around the French Quarter? While Carmela and I have a little chat.”

  “As you wish,” said the very solicitous Merriweather.

  As he exited the shop, Gabby returned with a cup of tea for Margo.

  “Here you are,” said Gabby. “And please do accept my sincere condolences.”

  “Thank you,” said Margo, accepting the cup of tea with hands that visibly sho
ok. “You’re very kind. You’re both very kind.”

  Gabby moved discreetly away, leaving Carmela to face Margo.

  Margo was a woman who was used to wielding her considerable power and influence and generally getting her way. Thus she got right to the point.

  “Carmela,” Margo said in a dry, brittle voice. “I need your help.”

  “My help,” Carmela repeated. What exactly was Margo asking? Help with the funeral? With some sort of invitation? Perhaps a memorial card?

  “You have to help me find Jerry Earl’s killer!” Margo suddenly cried.

  “Um . . . excuse me?” said Carmela. This request had come out of left field and tapped her on the noggin hard.

  But Margo seemed to have her mind made up. She took a sip of tea and said, “Yes, you.”

  Carmela touched a finger to her chest. “I couldn’t. Really. I’m . . .” Words seemed to fail her.

  But Margo had found a modicum of composure and was suddenly insistent. “I warn you, I’m not a woman who is used to taking no for an answer.”

  “Just because I was there,” Carmela stammered, “as a sort of witness. That doesn’t make me any kind of investigator.”

  “That’s not what I hear,” said Margo. She gritted her teeth and forced out a kind of mirthless grin. “I understand that you’re extremely smart and clever. That you’re basically an amateur investigator who’s not afraid to pursue angles that the police sometimes deem improbable.”

  Carmela bristled a bit. Who’d been talking behind her back?

  “Who on earth told you that?” she asked Margo.

  Margo drained the rest of her tea in one gulp. “If you really must know, it was Jekyl Hardy.”

  “Ah,” said Carmela. That explained it.

  Jekyl Hardy was an antique appraiser, premier Mardi Gras float builder, and one of Carmela’s bestest, closest friends. But when it came to spreading gossip and the rumor du jour, Jekyl was worse than a runaway train. He yapped to the Pluvius krewe as well as confided in the Rex krewe. Then he confabbed with his friends at the New Orleans Museum of Art as well as every antique dealer up and down Royal Street. If a yellow dog happened to wander across his path, Jekyl would probably talk to him, too.

  “I’m flattered that Jekyl thinks so highly of me,” said Carmela. “But there’s absolutely no way I can get involved. You see, I promised Detective Babcock—”

  Margo’s perfectly waxed brows rose in twin arcs. “Babcock?” she hooted. “Who’s this Babcock person? I thought Detective Gallant was in charge!”

  Carmela cringed inwardly. No way did she want to share the details of her love life with this much-married Garden District doyenne.

  “He’s . . . um . . .” She wasn’t about to tell Margo that Babcock was her honey, so she said, “Detective Babcock is Detective Gallant’s superior officer.”

  “And you’re well acquainted with this Babcock person?”

  “Ah . . . yes, I am,” said Carmela. She noticed that Gabby had moved a few steps closer to them. Gabby was obviously caught up in Margo’s plight and seemed distraught that Carmela was reluctant to help.

  “He’s Carmela’s boyfriend,” Gabby said suddenly in a small, squeaky voice.

  Margo’s eyes lit up and she smacked her fist against the counter, jangling her armload of bangles. “That’s absolutely perfect!” The jangling seemed to please Margo because she repeated her gesture again saying, “Now I really must insist! It would appear you’re privy to all sorts of information!”

  “No,” said Carmela, backpedaling. “I’m not privy to anything at all.”

  Gabby crept forward some more. “Couldn’t you just help her a little?” she asked.

  Carmela threw a horrified look at Gabby, who was gazing at her with pleading eyes. Unfortunately, the balance of power in the room had just subtly shifted. Now it was two against one.

  Carmela pressed her lips closed as the silence grew deafening. She wished for a customer, a delivery person, anyone, to come galloping in and interrupt this bizarre standoff.

  “Please?” Margo said in a cajoling voice.

  “Please?” said Gabby. “You know you’re good at this.”

  Carmela released the sigh she’d had bottled up inside her. “I’ll think about it,” she said, reluctance heavy in her voice.

  Margo was suddenly jubilant. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down!” she cried. She clasped her hands together and smiled at Gabby. Tears leaked from her eyes.

  “Mmn,” said Carmela. What did I just get myself into?

  “Come to my house tomorrow morning,” said Margo. “And I’ll pull together a list of names for you.”

  “You mean names from the party or names of people who hated Jerry Earl?” Carmela asked.

  Margo weighed her question for a few moments. “Both, I suppose.”

  “Sure,” said Carmela. “Whatever.” Anything to extricate herself from this unnerving conversation.

  But Margo was thrilled beyond belief that Carmela had climbed on board to fight her cause. She smiled, sniffled, snuffled, and wiped her eyes with a tissue. Then her gaze fell upon the shadow box that Carmela had been working on. She poked a bejeweled finger at it and said, “What is this sweet little thing?”

  The wooden frame box, which had been artfully spackled with blue and cream paint, was about two inches deep and held bits of torn paper, a bouquet of dried flowers, a tiny bird’s nest, and a small blue and pink feathered bird.

  Carmela picked up the shadow box carefully. “It’s just one of the many crafts we do here. Scrapbooking isn’t just about photos and albums, you know. You can create memories or celebrate a person or event with all sorts of things—shadow boxes, miniature albums, collages, scrapped jewelry, you name it.”

  Margo reached out a finger and gently stroked the box. “It’s lovely.”

  “Thank you,” said Carmela.

  “No, thank you,” said Margo. She turned a relieved smile on Gabby again. “And thank you, my dear, for being so helpful. For being on my side.”

  “No problem,” said Gabby.

  “So tomorrow,” said Margo, turning back to Carmela.

  “Tomorrow,” said Carmela.

  “Bless you,” said Margo. She gave a shy wave then pushed and jangled her way out the front door.

  When they were finally alone, Carmela pointed a finger at Gabby. “You were not helpful.”

  “Carmela, please,” said Gabby. “You’re good at what you do. The investigating part, I mean. So why not put it to good use?”

  “Maybe because it always gets me in a heap of trouble?”

  “Not always,” said Gabby.

  Carmela turned the shadow box over and studied it absently. “And just how am I supposed to figure out this murder anyway? I don’t have a clue in the world about where to start!”

  “I know you’ll think of something,” said Gabby. “Besides, your meeting with Margo tomorrow should be helpful. Especially if she puts together a kind of hit list.”

  “Or in her case, a shit list,” Carmela mumbled to herself.

  Chapter 5

  LUCKILY, they got busy. Customers trickled into the shop looking for paper, charms, albums, and rubber stamps.

  While Gabby rang up sales at the front counter, Carmela helped one of their regular customers, a woman named Mindy, find some rubber stamps and ephemera for her travel scrapbook project.

  “You see,” said Mindy, “I’ve got all these great photos of Rome and Venice and I’m just not sure how to organize them.”

  “You want an entire album devoted to your trip?” asked Carmela.

  Mindy nodded as she fingered a small album. “I think so, yes.”

  “Well, that album you have in your hand would work beautifully,” Carmela pointed out. The album had a pebbled brown cover and was eight-and-one-half inches by ten inches
in size. “You could mount one of your photos on the front cover using a sheet of GlueFilm.”

  “I’ve got a great photo of some Roman statuary,” said Mindy.

  “Perfect,” said Carmela. “You mount the photo under GlueFilm to protect it and make it semi-permanent, then color the edges with bronze or gold paint to simulate the look of a frame. Then you simply glue it to the cover.”

  “So that sets the tone for the interior, too?”

  “It can,” said Carmela. “In fact, I’ve got some sheets of scrapbook paper with neat travel images on them. And I know we’ve got a packet of ephemera here that contains some Italian postage stamps.”

  “Perfect!” said Mindy.

  Carmela hummed to herself as she unpacked a box of rubber stamps. She was happy she could help inspire her customers. It was always gratifying to get them pointed in the right direction on a fun creative project.

  On the other hand, some projects were not fun. Case in point, helping Margo Leland. If Babcock found out . . . well, he couldn’t find out! It was as simple as that. If he found out she was pussyfooting around the investigation, he’d blow a gasket. And that was never pretty.

  “Carmela?” Gabby had tiptoed up behind her.

  “Hmm?” She was still a little miffed at Gabby for insinuating herself in the Margo Leland conversation.

  “Want me to run down to Pirate’s Alley Deli and get you a po-boy for lunch? One with fried oysters?”

  Carmela gazed at Gabby. “That’s not really playing fair.”

  “Whatever do you mean?” Gabby was suddenly all smiles and innocence.

  “You know that’s my all-time fave.”

  “Then that’s what I better pick up.” Gabby gestured toward the front of the shop. “You can keep an eye on things?”

  “Natch,” said Carmela. It was hard staying mad at Gabby. She really was a terrific assistant. With good intentions and a heart as big as all outdoors.

  By the time Carmela located a fleur-de-lis rubber stamp for a customer, cut a swath of purple velvet ribbon for another, and gave tips to two more women on how to create a fiber art collage, Gabby was back.