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  “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice,” said Applegate, after they’d made their introductions.

  Leading her back to her office, Carmela said, “Sorry I was so testy on the phone earlier.”

  Applegate waved a manicured hand. “It’s completely understandable, considering what you’ve been through. Must have been awful for you, finding your friend like that.”

  Seeing my friend die, thought Carmela.

  “So,” said Carmela, settling into her leather swivel chair, “your being here obviously has something to do with the dig that’s going on at St. Tristan’s. And . . . yesterday’s murder?”

  “That’s right,” said Applegate. “Our archaeologists were the ones who excavated the churchyard and discovered the old foundation along with a number of antiquities.”

  “One of the antiquities being Père Etienne’s crucifix?” said Carmela.

  “We haven’t verified his ownership one hundred percent,” said Applegate, “but my gut tells me it did belong to the good padre. There are also a number of old records that reference the crucifix and, of course, his grave is close by.”

  “How do I fit into all of this?” asked Carmela.

  Applegate licked her lips and leaned forward slightly. “You were there.”

  Carmela grimaced. “People keep saying that.”

  “And according to the police report . . .”

  “You read the police report?” Carmela blurted out.

  “Yes, in fact I was given a portion of it.”

  “May I see it?”

  “Well, that would be somewhat irregular . . . ,” began Applegate.

  Carmela settled back in her chair, rested her hands casually in her lap, and gave a helpless shrug. Body language that indicated this conversation was all but over.

  Sensing that the door might slam abruptly in her face, Applegate said, in a hasty tone, “In your case, I could probably make an exception.”

  “Excellent,” said Carmela, leaning forward as Applegate dug into her briefcase.

  “But please don’t tell anyone,” said Applegate, handing Carmela a sheaf of papers.

  “My lips are sealed,” Carmela assured her, as she set about taking a quick scan of the papers. By the second page, Carmela was completely unnerved. It was one thing to read about a murder in the newspaper, and another to witness a murder with your own eyes. But to read about it in factual, nonemotional, cut-and-dried police lingo chilled her to the bone.

  “This report makes it sound so impersonal,” Carmela murmured.

  “I’m sorry, this must be very difficult for you,” said Applegate, sensing that Carmela needed some soothing.

  Carmela handed the report back to her. “What could you possibly want from me? It seems like you have a serious amount of information right here.”

  Applegate put her hands on her knees and leaned forward slightly. “We’ve had . . . how shall I phrase this? . . . other items go missing.”

  “You mean from the St. Tristan’s site?” asked Carmela. “Or from other digs?”

  “Both,” said Applegate. “It seems that whenever we unearth a tasty item, then get the metallurgic report back attesting to its authenticity, we have . . . how shall I phrase this? . . . another theft.”

  “You’re thinking an inside job?” Carmela asked. If so, this information could put a whole new spin on things.

  “It’s crossed my mind,” said Applegate, giving a little frown.

  “Again, what do you want from me?”

  “Really,” said Applegate, “I’m just trying to get an impression of what you might have seen.”

  “I didn’t see much,” said Carmela.

  “Man? Woman?” asked Applegate.

  “It’s in the report,” Carmela said. She leaned back in her chair and gave a couple of nervous bounces. “But I’m pretty sure it was a man.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Just the way he moved. A certain . . . strength. A sureness. And he seemed taller than Byrle. Huskier.”

  “But the assailant was wearing a robe,” said Applegate.

  “That tosses a wrench into things,” Carmela admitted. “A monk’s robe does add a good deal of volume.” And maybe hides a smaller figure?

  “Anything else come to mind?” asked Applegate. “Anything you recall, any feeling you had?”

  Carmela let her mind wander back to St. Tristan’s, and the vision of Byrle’s struggle suddenly played in her head like a bad YouTube video. “Just that the whole thing felt incredibly vicious,” Carmela finally said.

  The two of them sat there for a few moments, the murder hanging in the air between them like some kind of shared bad dream. Then Applegate rose from her chair and said, “You’ve been a big help.”

  No, I haven’t, thought Carmela.

  “Do the police know about the other missing items?” Carmela asked.

  “They do. Although I can’t say they’ve taken our reports all that seriously.”

  “Which is why,” said Carmela, “you’re talking to me?”

  Applegate stuck out a hand. “Thanks again. I appreciate your input.”

  “Oh, that’s cool,” said Gabby, peering over Carmela’s shoulder at the repeated image on her iMac screen. “What is it?”

  “A step-and-repeat,” said Carmela, continuing to click away.

  “A step and what?”

  “You know, when you see celebrities on those red carpet preshows?” said Carmela. “And there’s a backdrop that says Bulgari or Tiffany or Mercedes-Benz?”

  Gabby nodded. “Sure.”

  “That backdrop’s called a step-and-repeat.”

  “So kind of a sponsor’s backdrop. For name recognition and to make sure their logo gets seen in photographs and stuff.”

  “Marketing buzz,” said Carmela.

  “How do you know all this stuff?” asked Gabby.

  Carmela shrugged. “I don’t know. Just picked it up, I guess. Probably from watching too much junk TV. TMZ, The Daily Ten, E News Entertainment.”

  “You really watch that stuff?”

  “Sometimes,” said Carmela. “If it doesn’t burn my eyeballs too badly.”

  Gabby grinned. “My guilty pleasures, along with Belgian chocolate, are those Real Housewives shows. I’m wild over the housewives from New Jersey; those ladies are pistols!”

  “Maybe you’ll get lucky and they’ll have a casting call for New Orleans housewives,” laughed Carmela. “You could end up a reality TV star.”

  “Oh no, I could never do that,” said Gabby. “Stuart would never . . . he would never allow it.”

  “Sweetie,” said Carmela, “you can’t go through life worrying what Stuart does or doesn’t approve of. Life’s too short.”

  “But he’s my husband,” said Gabby, suddenly looking very wifely and demure.

  “My point exactly. If I’d have allowed Shamus’s opinion to color my entire world, I can’t imagine what would have happened to me. Heck, we probably wouldn’t be standing in this shop right now.”

  Gabby sighed. “You realize, Carmela, not all women are as brave as you are. A lot of women would love to dip their toe in entrepreneurial waters and start their own business, but they just can’t work up the courage. Or someone close to them is a naysayer, so they fret and fritter and never make their move.”

  “Worrying about other people’s negative opinions is generally a huge waste of time,” said Carmela. “Since most naysayers tend to be dunderheads. Case in point . . .” She grinned. “Shamus.”

  “That’s what kills me about you,” said Gabby. “You’re fearless to the core and outspoken without being a diva.”

  “Yeah?” Gabby’s words tickled her.

  “And,” added Gabby, “you have a keen sense of justice.”

  “A sense of justice?” said Carmela, giving a little start. She threw a crooked look at Gabby, as if she didn’t believe her. “You think so?”

  “Absolutely,” said Gabby. “That’s why you’re such a cha
mpion of underdogs.”

  “Maybe some underdogs,” said Carmela, as she opened her e-mail and added her step-and-repeat design as an attachment.

  Gabby tapped her foot quietly behind Carmela. “So,” she continued, “you are going to start looking into things, aren’t you? I mean, concerning Byrle?”

  Carmela hit Send, sending her design winging its electronic way to Inky’s Print Shop.

  “I’m afraid,” said Carmela, “I’ve already started.”

  Chapter 10

  EVENING draped across the Garden District like a dark blue cashmere blanket. Stately live oaks festooned with Spanish moss and Gothic-looking wrought-iron fences were but dark smudges, while lights sparkled brightly inside enormous mansions. Here was antebellum Louisiana at its finest. Big homes, big money, big names. Novelist Truman Capote and French Impressionist Edgar Degas had both called the Garden District home. Jefferson Davis, president of the Confederate States of America, had died here. And though many of the old homes exuded a faint patina of age, they were still quite magnificent.

  Carmela stood in the foyer of her old brick mansion, while Ava and Jekyl quickly shucked their jackets and wandered into the parlor. She lagged behind, feeling slightly hesitant. There were ghosts here, after all. Not ethereal phantasm-ectoplasm ghosts, but ghosts of people and spirits of past lives. Memories.

  “First floor only, correct?” asked Jekyl. He spun around, touching an index finger to his lips. This was a man who’d adopted the Vampire Lestat as his ideal and always dressed in black, the better to set off his pale skin and long, dark hair.

  Carmela ventured in a few steps, noting the musty odor and the creaking wooden floors. “That’s right,” she told him. “So, for the Holidazzle Tour, we’re really just talking about the front verandah, living room, dining room, and sunroom.” She gestured toward the back of the house. “The kitchen we’ll lock off.”

  “Still,” said Jekyl, giving everything his keen-eyed appraisal, “this is a whale of a house. High ceilings, large-scale rooms, oversized furnishings.”

  “I’m afraid so,” said Carmela. It had been too much house for her when she’d been married to Shamus and they’d resided here. Too much work even with a cleaning lady and gardener. Now it just felt like a gigantic, creaking dinosaur.

  But Ava had other ideas. “We should move in here,” she announced, suddenly. “It’s so big and grand and . . .” She spun around happily in the center of the living room, arms extended. “We should move in and open a house of ill repute or something.” She ended her spin in a ballerina pose, arms across her chest, head tilted like a coquette.

  Her idea was preposterous, but Jekyl giggled anyway. “And I presume you’d be the madam?”

  Ava looked infinitely pleased. “Why, of course.” She glanced at Carmela and smiled. “And Carmela would be our . . . business manager. ’Cause she’s so smart with facts and figures.”

  “Thanks a lot,” said Carmela. “You’re front of house, I’m behind-the-scenes ugly stepsister bean counter.”

  “Aw, I didn’t mean it like that,” said Ava. “You could be a sexy bean counter, cher.”

  Carmela shook her head. “Never mind, it’s not going to happen. This is only your weird little fantasy.”

  “And fantasies rarely come true,” added Jekyl.

  Ava gave a pussycat grin. “Sometimes they do.”

  “I just decided,” said Carmela, “that once the holidays are over I’m definitely going to sell this place. Lock, stock, and barrel.”

  “I suppose it is time,” Ava agreed. She was contrite now, after her little faux pas.

  “You know,” said Jekyl, glancing around, a look of interest animating his angular face, “there’s a way you could sort of . . . mmm . . . maximize your investment here.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Carmela.

  “For one thing,” said Jekyl, “you could sell off some of this furniture.”

  Carmela let loose a disdainful hoot. “This dowdy stuff? Who’d even want it?” She glanced at the frayed damask sofa where Shamus’s heels had dug in nervously and repeatedly as he’d watched New Orleans Saints football on TV. “I was thinking of calling the Salvation Army to see if they’d deign to come over and cart it all away.”

  Jekyl regarded her with interest. “You just don’t like these pieces because they belonged to Shamus.”

  “No,” said Carmela, letting her true feelings emerge, “I detest them because them belonged to Glory.” Glory was Shamus’s big sister. The controlling, parsimonious moneybags of the Meechum family. Glory Meechum was also mean as cat pee and had despised Carmela from the get-go. She’d thrown a fit at their rehearsal dinner, which probably should have been a red flag right there. And crazy Glory had even tried to stop their wedding. Then, more recently, she’d opposed their divorce. Go figure.

  “Glory’s a good reason to toss it all in a Dumpster,” said Ava, giving a disdainful sniff.

  “You’re both wrong,” said Jekyl, running a hand across his sleek head. “This stuff is worth money.”

  “Say what?” said Ava.

  “Seriously?” said Carmela. Now he had her attention.

  “I’m an antiques appraiser by trade,” said Jekyl. “But just because I don’t handle this particular type of furniture doesn’t mean I don’t know market value. Fact is, I could hook you up with a couple of dealers who would take this stuff on commission and probably help you net a tidy sum.”

  “How tidy?” asked Carmela.

  “That brocade love seat is probably worth twelve hundred,” said Jekyl. “And that pecan dining room table should easily go for at least four grand.”

  “That’s tidy,” agreed Ava.

  “You see,” said Jekyl, pointing, “you’ve also got a lawyer’s bookcase and a Sheraton-style table.”

  “Huh,” said Carmela. It still looked like junk to her.

  Now Jekyl cast an almost-admiring glance around the room. “And that fireplace and marble mantel would photograph beautifully,” he added.

  “Photographs?” said Carmela, perplexed now.

  “If you’re going to sell this place you’ll need good, professional photos,” Jekyl explained. “To use on the real estate agent’s Web site as well as in a folder to pass out to prospective buyers.” Jekyl scratched his head. “Which gives me a gem of an idea . . .”

  “What?” asked Ava.

  “Let me make a call and get back to you,” said Jekyl.

  Ava looked perplexed. “I thought we were here to talk about holiday décor.”

  “Right we are,” said Jekyl, “so let’s stay on task.”

  “Where’s the best place to start?” asked Carmela, gazing at an oil painting of Great-Granddaddy Meechum, the cantankerous old chap who’d sired the whole miserable clan.

  “First things first,” said Jekyl. “We should choose a color palette.”

  “Agreed,” said Carmela. It was the same technique she used in scrapbooking. Select a couple of key colors, say purple and pink, then build around them with coordinating paper, inks, ribbon, and anything else that added to the richness of the design.

  Jekyl’s eyes became Kabuki dancer slits. “I’m envisioning crystal, white, and ice blue.” He waved his hands in front of his face, fingers spread out, then flung his arms out to the side. “Think snow queen!”

  “I love it!” declared Ava.

  “Really?” said Carmela. Snow queen? Could something like that be worked into a legitimate theme? On the other hand, this was from a man who’d worked wonders with the sets and backdrops for Ballet Dracula, incorporating dark, brooding mountains with English drawing room scenes.

  But all Jekyl needed was Ava’s enthusiastic approval to send him spiraling off on his tangent. “I see gigantic wreaths, swags of garland, and an enormous Christmas tree—all flocked white and hung with crystal and blue ornaments. Crystal candle holders with tall white tapers.” He touched his index finger to his lips again, thinking. “And for the pièce de résistanc
e, white plumed birds. An entire flock of them!”

  “It’s showy,” said Carmela, “I’ll give you that.” Obviously there’d be no potted poinsettias or traditional green wreaths for her. Jekyl had been struck with a searing vision, and when Jekyl gazed deep into the depths of the universe and plucked out a shining star, everyone better watch out!

  Ava was nodding along. “I can see it before my eyes, plain as day.”

  Not exactly plain, thought Carmela. More like froufrous and swirls of whipped cream.

  “You like?” asked Jekyl, draping a conspiratorial arm around Carmela’s shoulders.

  Carmela had committed her home to Baby and knew she had to do something. So . . .

  “I like it,” said Carmela, mustering up a modicum of enthusiasm.

  “Excellent,” declared Jekyl. “I’ll start hunting down the birds and swags and icicles from my various vendors.” He scowled. “It’s going to be awfully tight, but hopefully we can squeak in a rush order.”

  “Hopefully,” murmured Carmela. She didn’t know how much this was going to set her back financially, but it had to be significant. Maybe she could ask Shamus to chip in? She chuckled to herself. Maybe she could ask Shamus to bite off a piece of the moon for her.

  Locking the front door and tumbling down the front steps, the three of them rushed out into what had become a cool, velvet-dark night. All around them, glowing yellow beams of light peeked from the tall, shuttered windows of neighboring homes.

  “Bye-bye, sweeties,” crooned Jekyl, crooking himself forward to administer extravagant air kisses to each of them.

  “Bye-bye,” said Ava.

  “Thanks so much,” said Carmela, as Jekyl dashed for his car. She and Ava headed in the opposite direction to her Mercedes, which was parked maybe thirty feet or so down the block. In fact, she’d parked directly in front of . . .

  “Oh crap,” Carmela muttered, under her breath, “there’s Rain Monroe.” Rain Monroe was a socialite who’d married, obtained an expedient divorce, and recently bought a home two doors down from Carmela’s Garden District property. She’d just pulled into her short driveway and climbed out of her silver Bentley.