Postcards from the Dead (11 page)

As she stepped to her left, the wrought-iron balcony suddenly shuddered and let loose a low metallic groan.

Carmela’s heart skipped a beat. Was this thing secure? Was it steady? How the heck old was it anyway?

But Carmela didn’t retreat. She stood her ground, grasped the railing, and quickly inspected the balconies to either side. Yes, they were in rather close proximity. Yes, someone relatively agile could climb from one to the other.

She gazed down, wondering if it was possible to clamber up from the balcony below. Possible, but not probable, she decided. That would take a killer with gazelle-like moves.

Carmela was about to step inside when Madame Blavatsky’s words pinged inside her brain. What had she said? Something about a different perspective? A different point of view? So . . . had the killer climbed down from the roof? Possibly, although that seemed awfully tricky. She knew, from the little bit of rock climbing she’d done, that the descent was always more difficult than the ascent.

So then what?

Carmela narrowed her eyes as she gazed across the street. A tall, narrow building stood directly opposite the Hotel Tremain. The Magnolia Travel Agency occupied the first floor, while the second floor appeared to be occupied by Durand’s Antique Coins and Maps. But the third-floor window was framed with floral curtains.

An apartment? Someone living there? Was that the perspective Madame Blavatsky had somehow seen? Because if it was, then maybe there had been a witness!

Chapter 11

I
T
was a simple matter of returning the key, hustling across the street, and climbing two flights of stairs. There appeared to be two apartments. One that fronted the street, and one that faced the alley.

Carmela knocked on the door of the street-side apartment and held her breath. Seconds ticked by. She knocked again, this time a little more insistently. Then she heard a woman’s voice. She seemed to be saying, “I’m coming, I’m coming.”

A latch rattled, then the door opened. A woman’s face appeared in the three-inch space where a chain stretched across.

“Yes?” said the woman. She was in her forties, with white-blond hair piled atop her head like a show pony. A red silk kimono was wrapped around her.

“Excuse me,” said Carmela, “I don’t mean to bother you, but I was wondering if I could ask you a couple of questions?”

The woman gave a slow blink. “About what?”

Carmela took a deep breath. “A friend of mine was killed two nights ago. On the balcony across the way.”

Concern flickered on the woman’s face and she said, “A tragedy. I . . . I saw some of it.”

“Then you were here the other night?” Carmela was excited. Maybe this woman really was a witness!

“I was here and I already talked to the police,” said the woman.

Carmela’s heart sank. Probably nothing here if the police had already questioned her.

The woman reached up and unhooked the chain. “Come in. I’m sorry about your friend.”

Carmela walked into an apartment that was painted Pepto-Bismol pink and had a matching Pepto-pink rug and sofa pillows, as well as a hyperactive Jack Russell terrier.

“That yappy little furball is Jacques,” said the woman. “I’m Tabitha. Tabby.”

“Nice to meet you, Tabby,” said Carmela. “I’m Carmela Bertrand.” She made a vague gesture. “I own the Memory Mine scrapbook store, a couple of blocks over on Governor Nicholls Street.”

“Oh, sure,” said Tabby. “I’ve seen your place.”

“So the New Orleans police have already interviewed you,” said Carmela.

“Not really interviewed,” said Tabby, “but they stopped by. That night, in fact. I think they were canvassing the entire neighborhood.”

“Hard to do with the parade rolling by.”

“Almost impossible,” said Tabby. “But I think since I live directly across from the hotel . . . well, they thought I might have seen the murder.”

“Did you?”

“No, like I told them, I was watching the parade.”

“So you saw nothing that happened on the balcony?” asked Carmela.

“I saw the lights,” said Tabby. “They were there all night. But as far as seeing that anchorwoman strangled . . . no. I saw nothing like that.”

“Maybe you didn’t see anyone,” said Carmela, “I mean, not an actual person. But, at any time, did you have a strange feeling? Or get a sense that something might be wrong?”

Tabby’s brows pressed together, then she waved a hand. “Maybe. But you’re going to think it’s really stupid.”

“No, I won’t,” said Carmela. “Tell me, please, what you thought you might have seen”

“Not really
seen
,” said Tabby. “It was more . . . I suppose you’d call it a fleeting impression.”

“Yes?”

“It didn’t even occur to me until the next morning, after I’d talked to the police.”

Carmela ducked her head, as if offering encouragement. “Your impression?”

The woman gave a wry grin. “You’re really going to think I’m seriously strange.”

“No, I won’t,” said Carmela. “I promise I won’t.”

“Just before the police and fire trucks roared up, I glanced across the street and, for some reason, thought about a soul or spirit.” She looked thoughtful for a minute, then added, “You know, like a ghost.”

“Why a ghost?” asked Carmela.

“Because the one thing that stuck in my memory, of
whatever
I caught sight of,” said Tabby, “is that it was white and silky.”

* * *

JUST LIKE A CLOWN COSTUME
, CARMELA THOUGHT TO
herself as she dashed down the street. Just like the clown costume she and Ava had seen on that video. The question was, how could she follow up? How do you go out and track down a clown?

Gabby looked more than a little frantic by the time Carmela lurched into Memory Mine. Her normally pale complexion was flushed bright pink and she was dashing about the shop, pulling albums off the shelf and digging through a basket of stencils.

“Oh good gracious,” Gabby exclaimed, when she saw Carmela. “I was afraid you wouldn’t make it back in time.”

Carmela glanced at her watch. “We’ve got an hour and a half before the class starts. That’s plenty of time.”

Gabby exhaled slowly. “I guess.” She still looked unsure. As if she couldn’t just shut off her nervous energy like she was turning off a back burner. “The shop’s been super busy and then two more people called to ask if they could join this afternoon’s class . . .”

“I hope you told them yes.”

“Of course I did,” said Gabby. “I figure we can always use the business.”

“We’ll take it any way we can get it,” said Carmela. “Classes, sales of paper, rubber stamps, and beads, or working after hours to design custom scrapbooks. But right now, why don’t I man the front counter while you hustle over to the deli and grab us a couple of po’boys?”

Gabby gave a slow blink. “You want lunch?”

“Sure. Don’t you? We need to fortify ourselves. It’s going to be a hectic afternoon.”

“Well, okay, if you think we’ve got time.”

“There’s time,” said Carmela. “There’s always time.”

While Gabby dashed out, Carmela quickly pulled things together for her afternoon class. She grabbed a stack of paper, a bunch of ribbon, a few packages of charms, and some decals, and stacked it all in the middle of the craft table. Then she waited on a couple of people who needed green and purple paper, helped a woman find some butterfly paper as well as butterfly motifs, and took a phone order from a good customer who lived up in Natchitoches, a picturesque little town where the movie
Steel Magnolias
had been filmed.

And by the time Gabby came back with the po’boys, Carmela had worked up an appetite by helping yet another half-dozen customers.

“We’re really jumping today,” said Gabby, as she handed Carmela her sandwich.

“Works for me,” said Carmela. “You want to take your lunch break first?” Her sandwich felt squishy, and she figured it was about to start leaking mayonnaise in a matter of seconds, but Gabby seemed the most in need of a relaxing lunch.

Gabby shook her head. “You go first. I’m too keyed up to eat right now.”

“Okey-doke.”

Carmela ducked into her office and unwrapped her po’boy. Gabby had gotten her favorite, of course. Deep-fried oysters smothered with cole slaw and mayonnaise on toasted French bread. It was decadent, goopy, and totally delicious. But she would have enjoyed it a lot more if images of white clown costumes weren’t swirling in her brain.

Twenty minutes later, Baby swooped in, looking all preppy and cute in a navy blazer and winter-white wool slacks.

“You’re early,” said Carmela. She’d just pulled a few more sheets of paper and some stickers.

“I’ve been buzzing around the French Quarter all morning,” said Baby, looking flushed and happy, “so I was already in the neighborhood.”

“Getting ready for your big party Monday night?” Baby always threw an elegant catered party right before Fat Tuesday and this year was no exception.

Baby nodded happily. “Just finalizing the flower arrangements with Cora Lou over at the French Bouquet. She’s doing huge bouquets of purple delphiniums, golden roses, and green zinnias. Well, they’re really chartreuse, but we’re calling them green.”

“Gotta have the traditional Mardi Gras colors,” said Carmela. Purple for justice, gold for power, and green for faith.

“And I’m using that new caterer, Troubadour,” said Baby. She rolled her eyes. “You’re not going to believe the fantastic menu they came up with!”

“I can’t wait,” said Carmela. Baby’s parties were always over the top and super luxe.

“Oh, and I talked to Ava about hiring her psychic. It’s a go.”

“Madame Blavatsky,” said Carmela, recalling her earlier meeting with her. “She’ll for sure keep your guests entertained.”

“So much better than a magician, don’t you think?”

“Or a mime,” Carmela agreed. “Can’t stand mimes.”

“What is it about mimes,” asked Baby, “that makes them so creepy?”

“Who’s creepy?” demanded Tandy. She’d kind of sneaked up behind them and was looking decidedly interested.

“Mimes,” said Baby. She waved her hand in front of her face. “You know, pasty white face, all that pantomiming.”

Tandy scowled. “They’re the worst. Plus they always have this superior attitude. Like you’re
supposed
to find them witty and amusing.” She shook her head. “I don’t like entertainment that’s so demanding.”

“Baby was just telling me about her flowers and her new caterer,” said Carmela.

“Yum,” said Tandy. Even though she looked like she never ate a bite, Tandy could chow down like a long-haul trucker.

Baby nodded eagerly. “We’re serving shrimp rémoulade and trout amandine and . . .”

Tandy held up a scrawny paw, like she was trying to ward off an alien attack. “Stop! Don’t tell me. I want it to be a huge surprise!”

“Oh, it will be,” Baby promised.

* * *

TEN MINUTES LATER, THE REST OF THE CRAFTERS
showed up and Carmela got seriously busy. Baby, Tandy, and seven other women crowded around the craft table, anxious to get started. Sitting in front of each of them was a natural birchwood cigar box with brass fittings and a bamboo handle.

“These are so cute,” said Baby, caressing the unfinished wood.

“Adorable,” said one of the women. “They’re almost too pretty to touch.”

“But we’re going to make them even more gorgeous,” Carmela told her group. “In fact, we’re going to give them a real Parisian flair.”

“Sounds very Coco Chanel,” said Tandy, peering over her half-glasses.

“They can be,” said Carmela. “But first we start with a little paint job.”

Gabby set four jars of aqua-blue paint on the table along with foam brushes.

“We’re going to paint the outside edges,” said Carmela. “Then, once your paint dries, we’re going to glue on some paper.” She held up a sheet of dark blue paper covered with pink polka dots.

“Cute,” said Baby.

“Our purses are going to be polka dots?” asked one of the women.

“Just the background,” Carmela explained. “Once we glue paper on the boxes, we’re going to decorate them.” She held up a decal of the Eiffel Tower. “And here’s where it gets fun. “You choose the decals or rubber stamps or ephemera that you like best.”

“Give us an example,” said Tandy.

“Sure,” said Carmela. She took the Eiffel Tower decal and stuck it on a small piece of foam core. “I’m adhering this decal to the foam core to give it some dimension. Now all I have to do is cut it out and paste it on my purse.” She held it up to show them. “Then I’m going to add a few more fun designs. For example, I have some French postage stamps, a rubber stamp of some French poetry verses, and a piece of toile.”

“I love it!” said Baby. “So we can kind of freestyle it. Do whatever we want?”

“Exactly,” said Carmela. “Some of you might want to use a piece of French music, floral paper, a visual of a perfume bottle, or even a couture drawing.” She glanced around the group, saw nods and understanding in their eyes. “It’s up to you, whatever you prefer.”

Gabby edged closer to the table. “And remember, whatever you choose in the shop today is included in your class fee. And we do have some wonderful things.”

“What about those fancy papers you have?” asked Tandy. “I saw some rice paper and some banana leaf paper.”

“Go for it,” said Carmela. “And if you want to pull a few items and do a kind of layout before you start gluing, that’s fine, too. In fact, it’s a really good idea.” She reached up on a shelf and pulled down the cigar box purse she’d completed earlier. “As you can see, I used a piece of lace, added an image of the Arc de Triomphe, then stamped on some French postal cancellations.”

“It’s gorgeous,” breathed Baby. “I just love all your details.”

“Thank you,” said Carmela. “But I’m sure all of your cigar box purses will be equally lovely.”

A few of the women started painting then, while others wandered through the shop pulling out different design elements. Gabby scampered back to the front corner to wait on some new customers who’d wandered in, and Carmela went through her ephemera drawer to see if she could find any French maps, Metro tickets, or other fun Gallic items.

An hour later, with projects well under way, Carmela served mugs of Mariage Frères tea while Gabby set out a plate of colorful French macarons, along with the ubiquitous Mardi Gras king cake.

They were all relaxing, chatting, and getting to know each other when, suddenly, the front door swung open. It slammed against a shelf of leather-bound albums, causing some of them to teeter and everyone to stop what they were doing and look around.

That was when Edgar Babcock came striding in. His face carried a solemn, purposeful look, and Carmela knew this wasn’t a social call. No way had Babcock just idly dropped in to invite her to a candlelight dinner. The man definitely had something on his mind.

Babcock threaded his way to the craft table and said, in a forceful voice as he hovered above Carmela, “I need a word with you.”

Activity ceased. Those who recognized Babcock as a homicide detective figured something was up. Those who didn’t were still suspicious.

Gabby, who’d followed him back, glanced about the table nervously. “What you want to do now,” she said, “is start applying your decals.”

Carmela slipped into her office with Babcock hot on her heels. Once there, he didn’t waste time with kisses, hugs, or even basic pleasantries.

“I want to see those postcards,” he demanded.

“What?” Carmela was stunned. “Who told you about the postcards?” Which one of her friends was texting or tweeting when they shouldn’t be? Shoot, was it Ava?