Gossamer Ghost Read online

  “I have some amazing commercial space planners and interior designers,” said the countess. “Of course, the first order of business will be to rid the store of all that atrocious merchandise. Have you been inside recently? Do you know what kind of bizarre items they were selling?”

  Have I been inside? Carmela thought to herself. I’m the poor klutz who discovered the body.

  “The shop was weird,” agreed Gabby. “Tacky, even.”

  The countess waved a hand as if she possessed a magic wand that could instantly make all of Joubert’s strange collectibles disappear in a pouf of smoke and a crackle of lightning. “We’re going to clean the place from top to bottom, paint it a glowing cream color, and install elegant, plush carpeting. There’ll be pinpoint spotlights in the ceiling, acres of smoked mirrors, and sparkling new display cases. My designers, painters, and carpenters are standing by, ready to rescue and refurbish the entire space.”

  “And this is all going to happen in three weeks’ time?” said Carmela. “I can hardly believe it.”

  “Believe it,” said the countess. “I plan to open the week before Thanksgiving, just in time to capitalize on the big holiday rush. Now, can we please talk about my logo?”

  * * *

  Carmela spent the next twenty minutes poring over the countess’s plans, showing her paper samples, and jotting down her likes and dislikes. It was no surprise that her list of likes was far shorter than her list of dislikes.

  When the countess finally exited, after much fanfare and cries of “I’ll be back,” Carmela turned to Gabby and said, “Well, she’s a handful.”

  “She might be fun to have in the neighborhood,” said Gabby. She had just finished ringing up two customers who had, as Carmela predicted, loaded up on black and orange paper and ribbon.

  “You think?” Carmela had the countess pegged as a real pill.

  “Maybe better than Joubert, anyway,” Gabby said, a tad defensively. She reached for a packet of silver brads and studied them carefully.

  “I see your point. A shop with high-end jewelry could bring new customers into the neighborhood.”

  “That’s a good way of looking at it,” agreed Gabby.

  Just as Carmela was studying a piece of unprimed canvas, figuring out how to make a batik-type painting, the door flew open again. This time it was James Stanger, their neighbor down the block and the proprietor of Gilded Pheasant Antiques. He had always struck Carmela as being a trifle brittle—James rather than Jim—with a clipped, rather reserved demeanor. Today, however, he was red-faced and in a tizzy, his blond hair ruffled and his tie completely askew.

  “Was that crazy lady just in here?” Stanger demanded.

  Gabby raised an eyebrow. “Do you mean the countess?”

  “Is she telling you that she intends to lease the Oddities space?” Stanger asked.

  “Do you know what happened at Oddities?” asked Carmela, stepping in.

  “Yes, of course I do,” Stanger snapped. “Joubert was killed last night. Probably during a robbery. Now, please, answer my question.”

  “About Oddities?” said Carmela.

  “And the countess?” said Gabby.

  “Yes!” said Stanger. “Is she going to lease it?”

  “I think maybe she is,” said Carmela.

  “Maybe?” said Stanger.

  “It seems like she has,” said Carmela. Boy, news sure travels fast around here.

  Stanger exhaled loudly and flapped a hand.

  “The countess was pretty insistent,” said Gabby. “I mean, she wants us to design announcement cards for her. Apparently she’s planning a grand-opening party.”

  “That lying sack of crap!” exploded Stanger.

  “Wait a minute,” said Carmela, clearly confused. “Who are you referring to?”

  “To Boyd Bellamy,” said Stanger. “Our slum landlord. Correction, scum-of-the-earth slum landlord. I don’t know if you realize this or not, but he promised that space to me.” Stanger’s antique shop was located a few doors down from Oddities.

  “Were you planning to expand your shop?” said Gabby.

  “Of course, I was,” said Stanger. “No question about it. I’ve been waiting for Oddities to go out of business—I never thought they’d last as long as they did.”

  “Joubert did stick it out for almost two years,” Gabby said.

  Stanger waved a hand again, as if flicking away an annoying mosquito. “That’s nothing in the scheme of things. The Gilded Pheasant has been a landmark on Governor Nicholls Street for more than twelve years. In fact, I’m one of the premier antiquities dealers in New Orleans. Really, ask anyone. They’ll tell you I’m the top dealer between Miami and Los Angeles.”

  Carmela put her elbows on the front counter and leaned toward Stanger. “What exactly is the distinction between an antique dealer and an antiquities dealer?”

  Stanger’s face took on a bored expression, as if he’d answered this question a million times. “Antiques are mostly furniture, paintings, and household goods of at least eighty to a hundred years old. In my shop they’re usually French or English, although for clean lines and minimal ornamentation, Biedermeier can’t be beat.” He held up a finger. “However, antiquities are from any period before the Middle Ages, usually coming from the ancient civilizations of Rome, Greece, Egypt, and China.” Stanger continued in his somewhat lecturing tone. “To paraphrase Sir Francis Bacon, ‘Antiquities are remnants of history which have escaped the shipwreck of time.’”

  “Do you know anything about Napoleon’s death mask?” asked Carmela. “That would count as an antiquity, right?”

  Stanger stroked his chin. “Ah, you’re referring to the death mask that was stolen from Joubert’s shop last night.”

  “That’s right,” said Carmela. Gossip in the French Quarter really did spread like wildfire.

  “A piece like that would be a spectacular find,” said Stanger. “Especially if it was authentic.”

  “It certainly sounds as if it was,” said Gabby. “I mean, if the death mask wasn’t real, why would someone go to all the trouble of murdering Marcus Joubert and then stealing it?”

  “I don’t know,” said Stanger. “The thing is . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “What?” said Carmela.

  “The thing is,” said Stanger, “I wouldn’t put it past Joubert to have stolen the mask himself.”

  “From that Texas collector,” said Carmela.

  “Yes,” said Stanger. “You realize, Joubert wasn’t the most upstanding dealer in our Crescent City. He’s done his share of shady deals.”

  “But apparently he had quite a following of customers,” said Carmela. She was recalling how Mavis Sweet had ranted on and on last night about all the prominent collectors who had relied on Joubert.

  “There’s no accounting for taste,” snapped Stanger.

  “I’m curious,” said Carmela. “Would you have a customer for something like that? I mean, a death mask is quite a specialized piece.”

  “Oh, absolutely I would,” said Stanger. “I have a list of customers, international collectors, in fact, who would be willing to pay a pretty penny for such a rare piece. No questions asked.”

  Carmela studied Stanger carefully. She’d always thought of him as sensitive but a bit pedantic. But now his persona was coming through as arrogant and caustic. Her eyes locked onto his and she said, “Did you have a customer for it?”

  Stanger jerked convulsively as if he’d been poked with a hot wire.

  “Why would you ask a question like that?” he demanded.

  “Curiosity,” said Carmela. She couldn’t believe her words had elicited such a violent reaction.

  “You know what they say about curiosity,” said Stanger. He lurched for the door and jerked it open. “It killed the cat!” he flung at her over his shoulder.

 
; “Wow,” said Gabby, surprised at his violent response.

  “Meow,” said Carmela.

  CARMELA licked a drip of coleslaw off one finger as she took another bite of her po-boy sandwich. Gabby had run down to Pirate’s Alley Deli and brought back lunch, a roast beef po-boy for herself, a fried oyster po-boy for Carmela.

  “It’s criminal how good these sandwiches are,” Carmela said. She nibbled judiciously at the ten-inch-long hunk of French bread that threatened to squirt bits of its delicious mixture every time she took a bite.

  Gabby laughed and wiped a glob of mayonnaise off the back craft table. “What’s criminal is that bottomless pit of a stomach you have. Honestly, fried oysters, tomatoes, mayo, and . . .”

  “What’s for dessert?” Carmela asked with a wicked smile. When she wanted to, she could devour food with the best of them—Ava, Babcock, her restaurateur friend, Quigg.

  Gabby smirked as she set out several spools of gossamer ribbon for their upcoming class. “Dessert depends entirely on what Baby and Tandy bring with them.”

  “Hopefully something with chocolate,” Carmela said as she hastily cleaned up her sandwich debris.

  As if on cue, the doorbell da-dinged its high-pitched welcome and Baby and Tandy strolled in.

  “Are you ready for us?” Baby Fontaine called out.

  Gabby waggled a hand at them. “Come on back.”

  Baby Fontaine led the way, clutching her decadently expensive floral-print Dolce & Gabbana Miss Sicily Bag that she used as her craft keeper. In the other hand she held a platter covered with silver foil. Her pixie-cut blond hair bobbed up and down as she juggled the platter temptingly.

  “Guess what I brought,” Baby said as she placed the platter on the table.

  Tandy reached forward and ripped off the foil in a grand gesture. “Laissez les bons temps rouler!” Which literally translated to “Let the good times roll.”

  “Wow!” said Gabby, feasting her eyes.

  On display was a tantalizing collection of peanut butter and cornflake bars, as well as home-baked sugar cookies. The cookies had been cut into Halloween shapes and decorated as red devils, black cats, owls in pirate costumes, white ghosts, orange pumpkins, and even spiderweb cookies.

  Carmela grinned. “They’re almost too pretty to eat!”

  Tandy Bliss, who was short, red-haired, and skinnier than a skeleton, shrieked, “Almost, but not quite!” And with that she grabbed a witch and chomped off its head. “See? Delicious. And melts in your mouth, too.”

  Baby set her bag on the table and focused on Carmela. “I saw you on the news last night.”

  “What?” said Carmela. This was news to her.

  “Well, it was just a quick shot of you and Ava as you were walking away from Oddities,” said Baby. “But I could tell it was you guys.” Baby was fifty-something, with a patrician bearing and a very kind, sweet face. She still went by the moniker of Baby, which had been her sorority nickname way back when.

  “Oh that,” said Carmela. She made a face. “Yeah. We ran into Zoe and Raleigh from KBEZ-TV. I guess they stole a shot of us after all.”

  “And then I read in the Times-Picayune that you were the one who found poor Mr. Joubert,” said Baby. “That must have been terrifying.”

  “Carmela’s not afraid of a dead body,” said Tandy, grabbing another cookie. “Are you, honey?”

  “I’m more afraid of a person who turns someone into a dead body,” Carmela admitted.

  “So what on earth happened?” said Baby. “Was Napoleon’s death mask really stolen?”

  “Looks like,” said Carmela.

  “Do you know how preposterous that sounds in this day and age?” said Baby.

  “It was like an art heist,” said Tandy, her eyes glowing. “Those kind of things don’t happen very often, do they?”

  “Apparently they do,” said Carmela. “Artwork and antiquities are selling for exorbitant prices these days, so I have to believe that museums, historical societies, and private collectors are constantly under siege.” She glanced up and saw Gabby with her mouth set in a grim line.

  “Wow,” said Tandy. “But tell us about Joubert. So he was already dead when you found him?”

  “I’m afraid so,” said Carmela. “But maybe we shouldn’t talk about this anymore. I’m afraid our dear Gabby is feeling a little spooked.”

  “I can understand why,” said Baby.

  There was a small commotion at the front of the shop and four more women pushed their way in.

  One woman had a frightened expression on her face and her shoulders were scrunched up practically to her ears.

  “Why is there crime-scene tape on the front of the shop next door?” she asked.

  Gabby seemed to stiffen.

  “That’s got nothing to do with us,” Carmela said in a soothing tone. “Come on back and make yourselves at home. Then we’ll get started.”

  The ladies all seated themselves around the craft table as Carmela piled rolls of cheesecloth on the table.

  “For our first project,” said Carmela, “we’re going to be making cheesecloth ghosts.”

  “’Tis the season,” said Tandy.

  Baby smiled. “Isn’t it marvelous how, in New Orleans, Halloween enjoys its own season?”

  “It really does,” said one of the other women who’d just arrived. “Visitors pour in from all over the place to see our Halloween parades and venture out on cemetery tours.”

  “There’s even one of those so-called haunted houses over on Rampart Street,” said the woman who’d been spooked by the crime-scene tape. “My grandkids have been begging me to go.”

  Pleased that everything now seemed copasetic, Carmela grabbed one of the cheesecloth rolls and said, “This particular cheesecloth is one hundred percent bleached cotton. And, as you’re about to find out, it’s not just for making cheese or waxing furniture anymore.”

  Gabby reached in and set a large piece of fluffy, cotton batting on the table.

  “First,” said Carmela, “we’re going to make gossamer ghosts.”

  “Oooh,” said Tandy, getting into the spirit of things.

  “Tear off a nice piece of cotton batting and shape it, more or less, into a ghost head,” said Carmela.

  They all did so, as Gabby snipped off pieces of cheesecloth for each of them.

  “Now,” said Carmela, “drape your cheesecloth over your ghost head and arrange it however you want. Then take a snippet of thread and tie it fairly tightly around the neck of your ghost.”

  Six pairs of hands worked fastidiously away, shaping their ghost heads, ghost bodies, and then tying the thread.

  “This is very cool,” said one of the women.

  “Now some of you might want to leave your ghost just as is,” said Carmela. “All nice and flowy.” She grabbed a can of spray starch, shook it, and said, with a mischievous grin, “But I always like to give my ghosts a little added dimension.”

  The women all chuckled.

  “Show us,” said Tandy.

  Carmela spread a newspaper on the table, laid her ghost on top of it, and spread out the ghost’s “skirt.” “Once I’ve got my ghost arranged just so, I spritz a little spray starch onto it to give some heft and definition to its body.”

  “Body,” said one of the women. “That’s a good one.”

  “Ectoplasm, then.” Carmela smiled. “But it works like a charm.” She gave her ghost a couple of good spritzes, moving the spray can up and down and then across. “Then, once you let your ghost dry for a couple of minutes, you have a perfectly presentable member of the spirit world.”

  The women oohed and aahed as Carmela picked up her ghost and showed them. There was still some fluttering going on, but the ghost did look a lot more formed.

  “I adore this,” said Baby. “In fact, if it’s okay with you, Ca
rmela, I’m going to make a couple more ghosts and use them as decorations for my masquerade party!” Every Halloween, Baby held a huge masquerade ball at her Garden District mansion, complete with fortune-tellers, live music, great décor, and spectacular food. This year was no different, and Carmela, Gabby, Tandy, and Ava had been planning their costumes for months.

  “Do you have a special theme this year?” asked Gabby. One year Baby had gone with a skeleton theme, and once she’d gone with actual games, like dunking for apples and pin the tail on the ghoul.

  “This year’s theme is just over-the-top deliciousness,” said Baby. “I’m using those caterers I like so much, Alex & Athena Catering.”

  “Mmn,” said Carmela. “You’ve used them before.”

  “I have and they’re wonderful,” said Baby. “They’re this amazingly inventive couple that graduated from the Culinary Institute in Napa Valley. But it’s not like they serve sprouts and wheat shooters. They’re planning to serve Gulf shrimp in sherry sauce, crawfish and gouda cheese in puff pastry shells, crabmeat Charlene en croustades . . .”

  “Stop!” said Carmela. “I just ate lunch and you’re making me hungry all over again!”

  Baby just chuckled as she applied starch to her cheesecloth ghost.

  “While we let our ghosts dry,” said Carmela, “let’s move on to making some nice sachets.”

  “Do we use the same type of cheesecloth?” asked one of the women.

  “This will be a much finer cheesecloth,” said Carmela, unfurling a bolt of fabric. “There are actually seven different grades of cheesecloth and this is one of the better grades, with a much tighter weave.”

  So Carmela showed them how to cut the cheesecloth into six-inch squares, fill them with small mounds of potpourri, and then tie them with a piece of pretty ribbon. “It’s kind of like a reverse ghost,” she said. “And smaller.”

  “Yum,” said Baby, scooping potpourri. “This is a rose petal mixture?”