“You don’t,” Carmela told her. “I’m usually the one who starts babbling conspiracy theory.”
Gabby continued to look worried. “What do you think we should do?”
Carmela thought for a minute. “A couple of things,” she said finally. “One, let’s take a good, hard look at the guest list.”
“That’s right,” breathed Gabby, “we’ve still got a copy. Because you did the place cards.” She put a hand to her heart. “Wouldn’t it be
awful
if one of Wren and Jamie’s guests wished them harm?”
If one of them had,
thought Carmela,
they’d certainly been successful
. But she didn’t share that unhappy thought with Gabby.
“And I’m thinking about making a phone call to a certain friend,” continued Carmela.
“Would this be a certain Lieutenant Edgar Babcock?” Gabby asked. Lieutenant Babcock had helped them with a sticky situation a few months earlier.
“It would,” said Carmela. “But, like I said, I’m still thinking about it. We should probably see how the police investigation proceeds before we interfere too much. See what the police come up with.” She stared at Gabby. “But please, give me your word you won’t breathe a hint to anyone that I’m going to do a little snooping. Especially to Wren.”
“Agreed,” said Gabby. She moved her hand to Carmela’s shoulder. “What a friend you are,” she said as tears sparkled in the corners of her eyes.
The bell over the front door suddenly tinkled.
“Car-
mel
-a,” called a somewhat strident voice as Margot Butler, one of New Orleans’s most edgy and outspoken interior designers, exploded into their shop. Dressed head-to-toe in black, Margot was rail-thin with large brown eyes and an upturned nose that gave her a slightly snippy air.
Gabby quickly swiped at her eyes. “Margot. Hello.” Margot had taken one of Gabby’s classes last spring on the pretense of learning all about card making and rubber stamping. Unfortunately, she’d been surreptitiously trolling for new design customers and had proved to be somewhat disruptive.
“Hello Gabby,” said Margot, immediately dismissing her and focusing instead on Carmela. She dug into the red messenger bag she had slung across her skinny form and pulled out a bright yellow packet, obviously a pack of photos. “Lookie what I brought you,” she sang out.
“For the scrapbooks?” asked Carmela. “Thank goodness.”
“For
one
of them anyway,” replied Margot, handing the packet over to Carmela. Digging in her bag again, Margot came up with a Chanel lipstick. Clicking open the shiny black case, she swiveled the lipstick up and applied it to lips that looked like they might be collagen-enhanced. Carmela noticed that Margot’s lipstick was the exact same shade as her spiffy messenger bag, which looked like very designerish and expensive and seemed to be made from some type of reptile skin.
“Just the photos for the Lonsdale house?” asked Carmela. “The music room?”
Margot nodded. “The dining room at the DesLauriers home isn’t finished yet.” She said it casually, as though they both had all the time in the world.
“You know, Margot,” said Carmela, somewhat sternly, “Gilt Trip begins a week from today. And these are
custom
scrapbooks.”
“Yeah,” answered Margot. “And they’re gonna add
beau-coup
credibility to all the decorated rooms. Plus, we were able to negotiate better prices with the vendors and crafts people, since they’re going to be showcased in the book, too. That’s what I call smart marketing.”
“There isn’t going to be
any
marketing if I don’t get photos and materials,” said Carmela in a firm voice. She tapped her foot to show her impatience. “What’s the holdup?” she asked.
Margot frowned. “We’re creating an entirely new room, Carmela. Genius can’t be rushed.”
But I can?
thought Carmela.
What a crock.
“We’re awfully busy in the store,” said Gabby, leaping to Carmela’s defense. “If we don’t have all the materials by Monday, I’m not sure we can promise anything.” She smiled sweetly at Margot.
Carmela could have kissed Gabby. Usually mild-mannered and demure, this was an entirely new side to Gabby. She wondered where this newfound moxie had come from.
Does adversity really make us stronger? Oh, yes it does. I’m sure it does.
Margot pursed her lips. “I’ll see what I can do, Gabby,” she said in a terse voice.
“So you’ll stay in touch, let us know?” Gabby pressed her.
Margot dug in her bag, then tossed one of her business cards at Gabby. “Or you can try to reach me,” she said, spinning on her boot heels and charging out the door.
“Woof,” said Carmela. “
She’s
hot and bothered.”
“No kidding,” said Gabby. “I just hated the way she was treating you. Like hired help.”
“Are you kidding?” said Carmela. “I bet that woman doesn’t treat her hired help like hired help.”
“WHAT DO YOU THINK?” ASKED WREN ONCE Carmela had made her way back to the craft table.
“Terrific.” Wren had attached the charms and, as an added touch, curled the top and bottom of the music scrap, then gilded the edges. Now it looked like an old-fashioned piece of sheet music.
Wren gazed up at Carmela. “Can I come back tomorrow?” she asked in a small voice.
Carmela leaned down and put her arms around her. “Of course you can, honey.”
“Why don’t we make some of those bibelot boxes,” suggested Tandy. She seemed to be wiping tears from her eyes as well. “Wren was telling me about a bibelot box she made that’s very dimensional and decorated. We did keepsake boxes here once, but they were mostly decoupaged.”
“I made my bibelot box for Jamie,” said Wren. “I could bring it in and show everyone,” she said hopefully.
“Sounds like a wonderful idea,” said Carmela, wondering how on earth she was going to investigate a murder, get her scrapbooks done, prepare for the upcoming Scrap Fest, and suddenly run a class on bibelot boxes.
“Then it’s settled,” declared Tandy. “I’ll call Baby and Byrle and maybe CeCe Goodwin, too. Tell ’em the agenda. I just know they’ll all want to come!”
Chapter 4
T
HE French Quarter at night is a rare experience. Sultry, sexy, and seductive, it is a place where the residential and the commercial co-exist in a fairly easy truce. Street musicians, sketch artists, and horse-drawn carriages ply narrow cobblestone streets lit by soft, glowing gaslights. Blocks of raucous bars, strip joints, and music clubs, especially along Bourbon Street, come alive with neon bling-bling as carousing visitors stagger from one bar to the other, clutching their ubiquitous
geaux
cups.
The French Quarter yields pockets of unbelievable charm and beauty, as well. Hidden courtyard gardens, elegant Old World hotels, and esteemed restaurants such as Antoine’s, the oldest restaurant in America, rub shoulders with posh antique shops brimming with oil paintings, family silver, and the
crème de la crème
of estate jewelry.
Heartsick after she and Shamus had broken up, finally deciding to settle down in a place of her own, Carmela had turned to her friend Ava Grieux for help. And as luck would have it, there was a little apartment available behind Ava’s shop in the tiny, picturesque courtyard with the burbling fountain.
Carmela pounced. The apartment had everything she wanted. Cozy atmosphere, affordable price, and, as they say in real estate, location, location, location.
Inside, of course, the place had been a total disaster. Carmela had to dig deep in her bank of creativity karma to come up with a solution. But dig she did, and now her little apartment exuded a lovely Belle Époque sort of charm. Carmela knocked down crumbling plaster to reveal three original brick interior walls. She painted the one remaining wall a deep, satisfying red to match the jumble of bougainvilleas in her courtyard. And, thanks to a fairly profitable first and second quarter, her early thrift shop finds had recently been replaced with honest-to-goodness real furniture. A gigantic leather chair and matching ottoman that was the exact color of worn buckskin. A marble-topped coffee table. And a fainting couch.
Carmela’s walls displayed an ornate, gilded mirror, old etchings of the New Orleans waterfront during the antebellum period, and a piece of wrought iron, probably from some long ago French Quarter balcony, that now served as a bookshelf for her collection of antique children’s books.
Imbued with all these loving touches, Carmela’s apartment now looked like home, felt like home, was home.
Ducking through the tunnel-like confines of the
porte cochere
to enter her secluded courtyard, Carmela was suddenly aware of just how bone-tired she really was. She’d stayed at Memory Mine till almost six-thirty tonight, trying to get a few pages done on the first Gilt Trip scrapbook. Then she’d stopped at Mason’s Market to pick up a few groceries. Potatoes, green onion, cheddar cheese—ingredients for a potato-cheddar soup. Now the clock was edging toward seven-thirty, and the thin January sunlight had long since departed.
Shifting her bag of groceries to the other arm, Carmela dug for her key and hastily jammed it into the lock.
The front door was half open when Carmela froze. There were low voices. Coming from inside her apartment.
Somebody’s in there? Boo let somebody in? Must have. Either that or Boo has suddenly become a big fan of
Wheel of Fortune.
“Awright,” Carmela called out with far greater bravado than she felt. “I’ve got a gun and it’s pointed right at your stupid head.”
“No, it’s not dawlin’,” came a deep male voice. “You’re not even close.”
Shit,
thought Carmela, instantly recognizing the voice.
It’s Shamus. Shamus is in my apartment. Why didn’t I sprinkle holy water on the doorsill and hang a garland of garlic over the doorway when I had the chance? Ward off the evil jinx of my estranged husband.
Carmela flipped the light on. Shamus was lounging in her newly acquired leather chair peering at the TV. Boo, curled up on the ottoman at his feet, threw her a sleepy, guilty glance.
“Nice going, Boo,” said Carmela. Ambling in, she plunked the groceries down on her small dining table, vowing
not
to invite Shamus to stay for dinner. “Once again you’ve managed to flunk Watchdog 101.”
Like a furry croissant, Boo curled up tighter and feigned sleep.
The leather chair creaked as Shamus shifted his full attention to Carmela.
He was still drop-dead handsome, she decided. Tall, six-feet-two, with a lanky, sinewy body and curly brown hair. But his most insidious traits were dark, flashing eyes and a devilishly charming smile.
Satan, get thee behind me,
Carmela silently commanded.
Yet, like a stupid, silly zombie, she kept moving toward him.
What is wrong with me?
she wondered.
Sure can’t be love, because love’s supposed to feel good.
A plush postal worker dog toy with a goofy face and detachable mail sack lay next to Boo. Shamus had brought her a toy.
Nice. Now he’s even trying to buy Boo’s affections.
Boo had chewed a corner on one of Carmela’s Big Little Books last week and she still had mixed feelings about encouraging her dog to freely enjoy a chaw.
“You’ve still got a key,” Carmela said in a flat tone. Their relationship always seemed to be in flux, so keys were constantly being offered, rejected, or hurled back and forth.
Shamus offered his best boyish look of concern, but made no motion to dig said key out of his pants pocket. “You want it back? I’ve still got one to your shop, too.”
Carmela combed her fingers through her hair, thinking. She came up with nothing on the keys, but decided her “do” might be getting a trifle shaggy and that she probably needed to pay a fast visit to Mr. Montrose Chineal at the Looking Glass Salon. Except the last time she’d waltzed in and asked Mr. Montrose to cut it shorter, he’d left her looking strangely like an artichoke.
“No. Yes,” said Carmela finally responding. She sat down on the edge of the ottoman next to Boo and let loose a deep sigh. “I don’t know.”
The fact of the matter was, Shamus had become an enigma to Carmela. He was the man who’d captured her heart, charmed her silly, and begged her to marry him. He was Garden District society, she was Metaire working class. But they’d clicked. In that magical, comfortable way that instantly tells you it’s right.
She’d been intrigued by his manners, mildly impressed that he could navigate his way through a French wine list, and awe-struck that she—little old Carmela Bertrand—had seemingly grabbed this tiger by the tail.
Shamus, in turn, had been wildly smitten and declared her to be amazingly creative as well as the most divine creature he’d ever laid eyes on.
Their courtship had been whirlwind, the wedding ceremony a tableau of shocked relatives (on both sides). And their honeymoon, spent in one of the suites at the Oak Alley Plantation, had been filled with great sex and unbelievable tenderness.
Then all hell broke loose.
Oh, Shamus hadn’t stayed out late drinking, hadn’t been unfaithful, hadn’t been unkind or physically brutish in any way. He’d just . . . changed. Grew quieter, more somber, more unhappy.
Until one day he just left.
She’d likened it to a big cat who’d been caged. A chimera who’d been tamed.
And if I really believe all that hooey, I’m a bigger fool than I thought!
mused Carmela.
Reality check? He’s an immature cad. A grass-is-greener kind of guy. If Shamus really wanted this marriage to work, he’d make it work. Because Shamus generally gets what he wants.
“I take it you heard about last night?” Carmela asked Shamus, her tone weary.
He nodded. “I’m just back from a trip out to New Iberia to look at some property, but the break-in and murder are still big stuff on tonight’s news. Channel Eight, Channel Four, some sketchy stuff on Six. That’s why I came over.” Shamus put a hand on Carmela’s shoulder. “Lean back,” he urged.