Parchment and Old Lace Page 6

  “Oh,” Mignon cooed. “I only opened my shop a few weeks ago, so I’ve not yet had the pleasure of meeting so many of my neighboring shopkeepers. I’m still trying to get organized and add to my inventory.” She picked up a lace hanky. “So many things are quite difficult to locate. You see this lace handkerchief? Would you believe it’s nearly one hundred years old? And the embroidery is still in perfect condition.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Carmela said. This might be the opening she was looking for.

  “These must be hand washed,” Mignon continued. “A machine would surely tear this delicate fabric to shreds.” She picked up a lace camisole that looked like it had been hand sewn in some French convent. “Same with this garment.”

  “You seem to know a lot about lace,” Carmela said. It was a statement, not a question.

  “In the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, clothes were all fairly standard in cut. It was the decoration that made them fashionable and unique. Ribbons and lace pretty much defined French fashion. French merceries specialized in ribbons, braids, lace, buttons, and trims, all the items that made a dress highly distinctive. Today we call such things notions. And that makes them sound unimportant, but at that time . . .” She shrugged. “This type of décor was the height of chic.”

  Carmela knew she’d come to the right place. “I have a piece of French lace,” she said. She dug in her handbag and pulled out the piece of ivory lace that Babcock had allowed her to keep.

  “It’s lovely,” Mignon said, peering at it.

  Even though handling the lace made her skin crawl, Carmela said, “I was wondering if you might take a closer look at it? Maybe render your expert opinion?”

  Mignon picked up a pair of tortoiseshell half-glasses and put them on. She leaned forward and studied the lace carefully, then smiled at Carmela. “Your lace is definitely handmade, but I’m afraid it’s not French lace.”

  “It’s not? Then what is it?”

  “Just offhand, I’d say this might be Point de Venise flounce lace.”

  “Which is what, please?”

  “Belgian linen lace. Also handmade, of course, but an even finer quality.” She pointed. “You see that high sculptural relief of the floral motif?”

  “Yes?”

  “That’s what sets it apart from more delicate French lace.” Mignon took the lace from Carmela, held it up, and turned it slightly to catch the light. “You see—it looks like carved ivory.”

  “And the linen fabric means it’s strong?” Carmela asked.

  “Strong?”

  “I mean like tensile strength. If you looped it around something and, um, pulled hard.”

  “Oh, definitely,” Mignon said. “This is the type of lace that, how do you say it? Could choke a horse.”

  Carmela grimaced. That’s exactly what she was afraid of.

  Chapter 7

  MINCED garlic sizzled in a pan of virgin olive oil while fresh basil perfumed the air. A large stockpot filled with near-boiling water sat on the rear burner of the stove in Carmela’s small galley kitchen.

  She was cookin’ tonight. Pasta Primavera. Stirring the beginnings of her creation with a big wooden spoon while she slow danced to “If I Ain’t Got You” by Alicia Keys. Boo, her sweet little fawn-colored Shar-Pei, wiggled her chunky backside along with her, showing off with her own doggy dance moves. Poobah, a spotted Heinz 57 dog that Carmela’s ex had rescued from the streets, was sprawled on his cushy, overpriced dog bed, solemnly gazing at the two of them. He’d get up when the food was ready, and not a moment sooner.

  Carmela finished crumbling the basil and slipped it into the pan. While she stirred the aromatic mix, she reached for her phone and hit speed dial.

  “Babcock,” he said.

  Carmela smiled. Her honey had answered on the second ring.

  “I’m in my kitchen and the fragrant aromas of garlic and basil reminded me of you. Of our most recent dinner together.”

  “Carmela?”

  “Of course, it’s me! Who did you think it was, the counter boy at Pasta Pete’s?”

  Babcock chuckled. “Tell me more about that garlic and basil. What else comes with it? And are you offering me dinner?”

  “Actually, I was calling to offer you a snippet of information, thank you very much.”

  “That’s a switch. Usually you’re trying to wheedle a few investigative details out of me.”

  “That lace you brought in this morning?” Carmela said. “You did say it was important, didn’t you?”

  “Very. And please don’t be coy, Carmela. Just spit it out if you have something.”

  “Here’s the thing: I had a client come into the shop today with a similar bit of antique lace.”

  “Who’s that?” he asked.

  “Not important,” she said. “The big news is that I found out about a new shop in the French Quarter called Folly Française.”

  “Never heard of it,” Babcock said.

  “When my birthday rolls around you will. Anyway, I dropped by this shop and talked to the owner, Mignon, who I’m pretty sure is full-blooded French.”

  “Okay.”

  “And I showed her that snippet of lace you gave me.”

  “What’d she say?” Now Babcock sounded interested.

  “She said it wasn’t French lace at all, that it was probably Belgian lace. Made from linen, but strong enough to choke a horse. Her words, not mine.”

  “No kidding. Belgian lace? Who knew?”

  “Thanks to me, you do,” Carmela said.

  “But your French lady . . . she didn’t have any idea as to its origin?”

  “She just said it was old. Antique.”

  “Huh.” Babcock was mulling the information, falling silent as he often did.

  “Did I do good?” Carmela asked.

  “You did great,” Babcock said. “Although I’m not sure if knowing the lace is Belgian in origin will advance our investigation all that much. It would be nice to find the exact source. If it was purchased from a shop somewhere or at auction.”

  “So I’ll keep digging.”

  “Whoa,” Babcock said. “I only want you to keep checking on the lace part. Nothing else. No freelance investigating and no messing around with the Baudette family.”

  “What’s so special about them?” Carmela asked. She knew, but she wanted to hear it from him.

  “You have no idea.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “Friends in high places,” Babcock said. “Very high. So please try not to get yourself embroiled in one of your usual sticky messes.”

  “I won’t do that,” Carmela said. “I’m reformed.” She winced at this little white lie. But really, what could a few questions here or there hurt?

  “And for heaven’s sake, be careful!” Babcock said.

  “You know I will.”

  “Actually, I don’t know that at all.”

  * * *

  Carmela had no sooner hung up when, five seconds later, her phone rang. She grinned to herself, deciding that Babcock was probably calling back to whisper sweet romantic words. And snatched up the phone.

  “Miss me?”

  But it wasn’t Babcock calling at all.

  “Cher, I miss anyone who can serve as the voice of reason in this group.”

  “Ava?” Her friend sounded upset, verging on crazed.

  “It’s me all right,” Ava said. “I’m over at Bothell Brothers Funeral Home trying to help Ellie plan a semi-decent funeral for Isabelle. But there’s a whole barrel of crazies here who can’t agree on anything.” She paused. “I know this is above and beyond the call of duty, but can you come over here and be the voice of reason?”

  “You want me? What can I do?”

  “Bring a gun and put me out of my misery? No, seriously, cher, I know I keep pu
lling you into this mess like it’s quicksand, but we’re desperate. I’m desperate.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Vesper Baudette, also known as Edward’s mother and the Gargoyle of the Garden District, is bound and determined to impose her iron will on every piddling detail. If Ellie even opens her mouth to make a suggestion, Vesper shoos her away like she’s a stray dog.”

  “What about Edward? What’s his part in all this?”

  “He’s like a puppet with his strings cut off. When he’s not leaking tears, he just bows his head like a docile cow and says, ‘Yes, Momma.’ Seriously, Ellie and I need reinforcements. Somebody with the tenacity of a junkyard dog. Somebody like you.”

  Carmela sighed and turned off the stove. Dinner was going to have to wait. This just wasn’t her day for meals eaten on time. “Where exactly is Bothell Brothers?”

  “Over in the Faubourg Marigny,” Ava said. “The dreary part. And hurry. Please hurry!”

  * * *

  When Carmela pulled up in front of Bothell Brothers Funeral Home, she saw that Ava had been right about the dreary part. In fact, her first impression was that the place had the look of an abandoned building. The hulking stone front, of what had probably been a prosperous-looking mansion in its day, was streaked with decades of grime.

  Nice, Carmela thought as she got out of her car. Just what she needed. The actual place where they filmed the movie Psycho. On second thought, compared to this wreck, the original Psycho house looked like it was designed by Frank Lloyd Wright.

  Carmela gave a little shiver as she mounted the steps to the portico. In fact, she half expected Lurch of Addams Family fame to throw open the front door. And she almost swore she heard him groan as she pushed the heavy door inward.

  But there wasn’t a living soul around to greet a living visitor.

  Okay. Now what?

  She glanced around expectantly. The lobby was shabby with mismatched furniture that included two armchairs with gray stuffing sticking out of torn seams, and a large wooden reception desk that was unattended. Organ music, low and tragic, moaned from a speaker. The fireplace looked as though it hadn’t been lit since Andrew Jackson charged into town to settle the War of 1812.

  Carmela took a breath and wrinkled her nose. What was that smell? Dead flowers that had been left to rot in an unchanged bowl of water? Probably. And chemicals, too. The really nasty ones you didn’t want to think about too much.

  “Hello?” Carmela called out. “Anybody home?”

  Her voice echoed hollowly in the reception room.

  She knew Ava, Ellie, and the rest of the crew must be tucked away in an office somewhere. But where?

  Carmela glanced around, saw a shard of light to her left, and figured that was as good a place as any to start. She crept across the carpet and ended up in front of a partially open door. A tarnished plaque hung to the left of it, slightly crooked, as if a screw had gone missing. The words Slumber Room 1 were etched in the center.

  Easing open the door, Carmela peeked in.

  Are they in here?

  All she could see was the wizened body of an old man lying in a satin-lined casket.

  Oops.

  As Carmela’s eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she saw two women dressed all in black sitting on rickety black folding chairs. Black gauze obscured their faces. Backing away slowly, her only thought was that this looked like a scene from a Wes Craven movie.

  She whirled around, determined to find someone, anyone, and found herself face to face with a dark-haired woman.

  “Eek!” Carmela was so surprised she took a step backward and thudded up against the door.

  “May I help you?” the woman asked.

  Carmela put a hand to her chest. “You scared me.”

  “My apologies,” the woman said. She wore a severely tailored black skirt suit and tons of dark eyeliner, and her raven black hair was cut in a pageboy à la Cleopatra. “I’m Louise Courtland, one of the funeral coordinators. How may I help you?”

  “I’m looking for Ellie Black,” Carmela said. “And, I guess, Edward and Vesper Baudette.”

  “Of course,” Courtland said. “They’re downstairs in our casket showroom. Won’t you please follow me?”

  Carmela followed the Cleo look-alike across the lobby and down a long hallway. It was hung with black-and-white photos of antique horse-drawn hearses.

  “Nice place you’ve got here,” Carmela said. “So homey, but without that overdone decorator look.”

  “We like it,” Cleo said.

  They passed a closed door marked Office and then descended a flight of stairs, the faux Oriental carpet whispering beneath their feet. Halfway down, Carmela could hear voices, raised voices, drifting toward her. It sounded like a knock-down, drag-out fight from a heated Louisiana political caucus. But when she got to the doorway of the casket showroom, it turned out to be Ava, Ellie, and company.

  Or, rather, bad company.

  A short, rotund woman with gray hair done up in a vintage French roll, was arguing forcefully with the entire group. This woman, Carmela decided, had to be the domineering socialite Vesper Baudette. And surrounding her in a half circle were Ava, Ellie, a bereft-looking fellow who had to be Edward Baudette, and an unknown young woman who cradled a tiny fluff ball of a dog in her arms.

  Coffins were stacked three high against the walls, making the place look like some bizarre discount mart of death. It seemed like an awful place to have an argument. And it certainly wasn’t conducive to making any kind of important decision.

  “Why can’t anyone follow my reasoning?” Vesper brayed loudly. She was a woman who was used to getting her way. She bullied her family, her banker, her stockbroker, and all the people (the small people, as she called them) who worked for her. “All we need to do is select a modest coffin, sign the papers, and be done with it.”

  Edward Baudette sighed heavily and said, “It isn’t your decision to make, Momma.” Edward may have been a mortgage banker who handled million-dollar deals, but Momma was much harder to deal with.

  “Of course it is,” Vesper said. She smoothed the skirt of an expensive-looking dress that perfectly matched the iron color of her hair. “I offered to foot the bill, didn’t I? Therefore, my generosity entitles me to a good deal of say in what goes on here.”

  Deciding to make her presence known, Carmela deliberately banged the door against the wall. Six sets of eyes suddenly drilled into her, including those of a string bean funeral director she hadn’t noticed before.

  “Who are you?” Vesper demanded. Her eyes looked like two steel ball bearings.

  “I’m a friend of Ellie’s,” Carmela said. “And Ava’s.” She breezed into the showroom. “Here to lend a hand.” Hopefully.

  Vesper held up a chubby hand in protest and shook her head dismissively. “No, no, no. This is a private family matter. We don’t need input from some random person.” She looked directly at the string bean funeral director and said, “Mr. Bothell, can you kindly show this interloper out?”

  Ava jumped up. “Hold everything. Don’t bother getting your granny panties in a twist, because Carmela will be staying. I asked her to join us because we’re in dire need of her cool voice of reason.”

  “That’s right,” Ellie said, finally mustering her courage. “Carmela stays.”

  “It’s okay with me,” Edward said.

  “Whatever,” Vesper said, clearly unhappy.

  “Come sit over here, cher.” Ava sat back down and patted the empty chair seat next to her.

  Carmela strode purposefully into the room and took her seat between Ava and the woman with the dog.

  “We were just discussing . . .” Ava started. “Ahem, trying to discuss what type of coffin is most suitable.”

  “The black one,” Vesper said. “It’s simple and dignified.”

  “
It’s made of plywood,” Edward moaned. He was tall, with a long face and square jaw. He had that slick, do-nothing preppie look about him that said, I was born into money, own a sailboat, drive a Porsche, and snarf thirty-five-dollar lobster salads for lunch.

  “Absolutely not,” the woman with the dog screeched. “The only clear choice is the white coffin with the ruffled velvet interior and mother-of-pearl inlaid skulls. It’s very Alexander McQueen, the early years.”

  Carmela turned in her chair. “And who are you?”

  The woman stroked her little dog. “I’m Naomi Rattler.”

  “The ex–maid of honor,” Ava filled in.

  “I’m widely regarded as one of the top fashion bloggers,” Naomi said, giving a snarky smile. “I write the very popular blog Haute to Trot, so I’m extremely keen on style. And this is my baby girl Bing Bing,” she added, carefully adjusting the pink and rhinestone-studded collar on her dog.

  As if in answer, Bing Bing let loose a series of high-pitched yips.

  “What is she exactly?” Carmela asked.

  “I think some kind of long-haired ferret,” Ava said.

  Naomi’s mouth opened and closed in protest. Obviously, she was deeply wounded by Ava’s comment. “I’ll have you know this is a Pomkatoo.”

  “Say what?” Ava said.

  “Bing Bing’s a very delicate mixture of Pomeranian, Karelian, and toy poodle.”

  “Oh sure,” Ava said. “One of those Mix Master dogs.”

  Vesper clapped her hands loudly. “Excuse me. Could we please stick to our agenda?”

  “You mean your agenda,” Naomi said. “You want this funeral to be all dark and dreadful, when it could be quite stylish. Practically a photo op.”

  Carmela leaned forward and addressed Ellie. “What do you want, hon? What would you prefer?”

  “I wanted the simple walnut casket,” Ellie said. “But I was voted down.”

  Then Edward got up from his chair and walked over to an obviously high-end mahogany and brass casket. The wood glowed richly, and each corner was decorated with small bouquets of brass roses. The inside was lined with silk and trimmed with lace. His hand gently stroked the casket’s highly polished exterior. “I think this one’s the most fitting,” he said.