Gossamer Ghost (13 page)

*   *   *

By midafternoon, Carmela had come up with so many ideas for trick-or-treat bags, party favors, and place cards that her head was spinning. Finally, she was able to escape to her office for a little personal time and major snooping via the Internet.

Concerning Napoleon's death mask.

Mavis had been quite correct, there were supposedly four authentic death masks, with a few that were considered copies, or copies of copies.

Interesting
, she thought.
But a little creepy, too.

Carmela wondered if the one that had been stolen from Oddities was even still in New Orleans. Right now it could easily be winging its way to a private collector in Europe or the Far East.

She also wondered if any of the masks had been sold recently. Or had been put up at auction?

There was only one way to find out.

“Jekyl?” she said, once she had her friend on the line. “Didn't you once tell me there was some kind of art website where you can see what pieces have been on the market recently and what they sold for?”

“Yes, of course,” said Jekyl. “The Art Resource Bureau.”

“How would I access them?”

“I have a membership.”

“Ooh, could I use it? I mean, use your password?”

“For you, darling, anything.”

The minute Carmela hung up the phone, it rang again. Ava.

“Are we still going dress shopping tonight?” she asked.

“More like ghost gown shopping,” said Carmela.

“As long as it's shopping I'm all for it.” Ava laughed. “My Visa card was getting dusty, just laying around like that. See you sevenish?”

“You got it.”

Carmela hung up the phone and began clicking away, logging into the Art Resource Bureau's website using Jekyl's password. She entered the words
death mask
in the search engine and immediately discovered that a death mask of President Woodrow Wilson had been sold to someone just last year.

How weird.
Who on earth would want something like that?

As Carmela contemplated this strangeness, Gabby tiptoed in and peeked over her shoulder.

“Death masks,” she said. “How creepy.”

“And look at what it sold for,” said Carmela, pointing at the screen. “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

“I can think of much better ways to spend that kind of money,” said Gabby.

An image of a sky blue Dior handbag danced in Carmela's head and she nodded. “So can I.”

M
AGAZINE
Street was New Orleans's own version of L.A.'s Melrose Avenue or New York's SoHo. Newly energized in a post-Katrina era, the bustling street twinkled with lights this Monday evening, and fairly sparkled with upscale restaurants, gift shops, boutiques, music clubs, and one exquisite hole-in-the-wall shop that Carmela and Ava truly treasured—The Latest Wrinkle.

This was the hidden gem that sold Joe's jeans, knuckle-dusting statement rings, fluttery scarves, and Cosabella lingerie. Besides carrying all the latest trends, The Latest Wrinkle also featured rack after rack of carefully curated vintage clothes as well as some fairly recent designer duds that were there on consignment.

“I'm lovin' it, I'm lovin' it,” said Ava as she danced her way through the shop. She grabbed a felt hat, stuck it on her head, and then shrugged into a tweed blazer with a crest on the lapel. “Look at me,” she said, thrusting out a hip and doing her own brand of voguing. “Do I look veddy veddy British? Do I look like Kate Middleton?”

“Not quite,” laughed Carmela. “And FYI, that jacket is
way
too sedate for you.”

“You think?” said Ava. She skipped to another rack and grabbed a long black gown with a plunging neckline. She held it up and asked, “Is this more my speed? Sex kitten with a touch of Cruella De Vil thrown in for good measure?”

“Yes,” said Carmela. “But I know how kindhearted you are, so you could never be cruel to a bunch of Dalmations.”

“Ya got that right,” said Ava. She sauntered past a round table stacked with cashmere shawls, slinky gloves, and opera-length strands of pearls. She looked around and smiled. “Gosh I love this place.”

The shop was decorated in lush tones of pink and mauve. Oriental carpets whispered underfoot, crystal chandeliers twinkled in the rafters, and, should one be in the mood to sit and relax, there were plush velvet love seats set against antique, '30s-era three-fold screens.

“Oh my,” said Ava. “Look at this.” She held up a black St. John Knits jacket. It was sleekly tailored with a black silk oyster collar and sparkly crystal buttons down the front. “
Très
chic
, yes?”

“
Très chic
, yes.
Très
Ava, no.”

Ava cocked her head. “Whadya mean?”

“Isn't that a trifle conservative for you? Isn't a St. John Knits jacket more appropriate for ladies who lunch?”

“I lunch,” said Ava.

“I meant at Antoine's or Galatoire's.”

“Oh.” Ava frowned. “
That
kind of lunch. A fancy lady-with-hat-and-gloves lunch. Garden District ladies.
Rich
ladies.”

Carmela didn't want to offend Ava. “Well . . . yes.”

“Okaaay,” said Ava. She grabbed another jacket off the resale rack. “What do you think about this one?”

“Mmn, I definitely see Mademoiselle Chanel's deft touch,” said Carmela. Then she gazed at the price tag. “But used clothing that costs
this
much isn't just resale. Then it carries the cachet of vintage.”

Ava looked at the price tag and whistled. “You're so right.”

“I see you found one of our Chanel jackets,” said the clerk, strolling over to greet them. She had long dark hair and wore an elegant white blouse and tapered black pants. “That Chanel piece is extremely special, from the early '90s. You see the round collar and exquisitely braided trim? It's what's known as a legacy jacket.”

“Because you need to be born into old money to afford it?” asked Ava.

“Funny,” said the clerk. She smiled at Carmela. “Your friend has a wry sense of humor.”

Carmela decided to jump right to the main subject. “We're the ones who called this afternoon about the vintage wedding gowns,” she said. “I'm Carmela?”

The clerk's face lit up. “Oh sure, I remember talking to you. In fact, you seemed so enthusiastic that I went ahead and grabbed a bunch of gowns for you. Pulled them out of storage.” She motioned excitedly with her hands. “Follow me, I've got everything set up in back.”

Carmela and Ava followed the clerk to a corner of the shop where a rolling metal rack was hung with at least a dozen wedding gowns.

“Wow,” said Ava. “And these are all . . . used?”

“Some are vintage, some are quite contemporary,” said the clerk. “Probably about half of the gowns we sell here were never even worn.”

“Ouch,” said Ava. “Brides just changing their minds, huh?”

“Grooms, too,” said the clerk. “Unfortunately for the poor brides.” She put a smile back on her face. “Now, what exactly did you have in mind?”

“We basically want to find a couple of gowns that we can turn into ghost costumes,” said Carmela. She'd had what she loosely termed one of her “creative visions” and was eager to start snipping and painting.

“That's a new one on me,” said the clerk. “But it sounds like fun. Obviously a costume for an upcoming Halloween event?”

“The Ghost Train,” said Ava. “Carmela and I are going to be guest ghosts.”

“Ghostesses,” Carmela added.

The clerk chuckled. “Well, I'll let you ladies look through the merchandise. If you have any questions, just holler.”

“Will do,” said Carmela. She was already perusing the rack of wedding gowns. Flipping past a ball gown, scrutinizing a fishtail gown.

“So what exactly are we looking for?” asked Ava. She grabbed one of the wedding gowns off the rack, held it up to herself, and said, “Yikes, what bride in her right mind wore this monstrosity?” The gown had a ruffled neckline, balloon sleeves, and a three-tiered skirt. “This is supposed to be
vintage
?”

“Vintage doesn't always mean tasteful,” Carmela laughed. “That gown looks like it's probably from the '80s, which would explain the big poufy shoulders and tiers of ruffles. It's . . . what would you call it? The Joan Collins
Dynasty
look.”

“Either that or a bow factory vomited all over it,” said Ava. “So . . . we're supposed to somehow salvage a couple of these weird old dresses?”

“Remember,” said Carmela, “I'm going to turn them into ghost costumes. Here, why don't you try this one on and I'll show you.” Carmela pulled a more modern-looking dress from the rack, one with a scoop neckline and long, fishtail skirt.

Ava looked worried. “I don't know if that one's really me . . .”

“Just scoot into the dressing room and slip it on,” Carmela urged.

Two minutes later, after several loud snorts, an impatient guffaw, and three “I don't
think
so”s, an unhappy-looking Ava emerged from the dressing room.

“This is awful,” said Ava, studying herself in the three-way mirror. “I look like a human cream puff.” She smoothed at the skirt nervously. “This sure ain't my dream dress.”

“But we're going to work on it,” Carmela soothed. “Make it into something ghostly.”

“How we gonna do that?” Ava lifted a sleeve, gave a sniff, and wrinkled her nose. “Ugh, smells like mothballs.”

“First of all,” said Carmela, “we'll air it out. Then we're going to shred the heck out of it. We'll slit the skirt in a couple dozen places so it literally hangs like rags on you. Then we're going to beat the living crap out of it until it's tattered and ratty and dirty.”

That drew a smile from Ava. “Kind of like the bride who wore this dress had some real wild fun at her reception, huh? Like she partied her brains out and then got kidnapped by a pack of wild groomsmen?”

“See?” said Carmela. “Now you're getting the hang of it. Now you can see the wicked possibilities. Anyway, what we'll do is rip off all the extraneous poufs and swirls and seriously distress the dress.”

“That sounds like a new reality show.”

Carmela chuckled. “We're going to make our wedding gowns look like they were once worn by the brides of Dracula.”

“Now you're talkin',” said Ava. She wandered over to another rack and picked through it. When she came to a short, flouncy Pepto-pink dress, she said, “Ack, look at this bridesmaid's dress.” She turned to Carmela. “You know what's worse than buying a bridesmaid's dress? Buying a nearly identical one for yet
another
wedding.”

“Always a wedding guest, never a bridesmaid,” said Carmela. “That's me.”

“Me, too,” said Ava. “Though I do want to get married someday if Mr. Right comes along. Instead of just Mr. Right Now.” She looked a little wistful. “On the other hand, I worry about giving up my freedom. And my closet space.”

“You're definitely in the free spirit category.”

“I'm a sprite,” said Ava. “But then, when I think about all the gorgeous presents that brides are showered with, I say to myself,
Yeah, that could be me, rackin' up all that swell stuff.
Plus you get to star in a big fancy ceremony at a church or in some gorgeous garden, and you get to drink champagne and enjoy an amazing wedding cake to boot. So my thought process starts to go a little wonky and I think—maybe I'll get married just for the cake.”

“I can understand that,” said Carmela. “Especially if buttercream frosting is involved.”

Ava studied herself in the mirror again. “Okay, so I'm starting to seriously buy into your vision. Now what?”

“A dress for me, too,” said Carmela. She sorted through the rack again and picked out a wedding dress with an enormous ball gown skirt.

“Love it,” said Ava.

“I thought we'd also wear dingy long gloves and cover our heads and shoulders with shrouds.”

“Mmn, I like the creepy shroud part.”

“We have to look the part,” said Carmela. Then, much to Ava's amusement, she slipped into her dress.

“That's one big-ass skirt,” said Ava. “Makes you look like you jammed about fifty Hefty bags under there.”

After they'd laughed themselves silly and changed back into their street clothes, they carried their wedding gowns up to the front register.

“Oh good, you both found something nice,” cooed the clerk. “I had a feeling you might.”

“These dresses should work great,” said Ava. “But are they expensive?”

“How does thirty dollars each sound?” said the clerk. She dropped her voice to an almost-whisper. “We've had them sitting around in storage for a
long
time. I'm just happy to see them go out the door.”

“Sold,” said Carmela.

*   *   *

Ava was about to carefully fold the two dresses into the backseat of Carmela's sports car, when Carmela held up her hand and said, “Wait. While we're at it, we may as well kill two birds with one stone.”

Ava crooked an eyebrow. “Meaning?”

Carmela flipped open her trunk and pulled out two red bungee cords. “Here,” she said, handing one to Ava. “Thread this cord through the armholes of your dress and then hook it to my back bumper.”

“You're serious?”

“Sure,” said Carmela, as she worked on her own dress. “The way I see it, if we drag these dresses behind us, they'll crash and bang and twist against the pavement and start shredding like crazy.”

“Takes a licking and keeps on ticking,” said Ava. “Works for me.”

They tied their dressed on to the bumper and hopped in the car. As Carmela gunned the engine she said, “Just keep an eye out, we don't want another car to get too close and run up onto our dresses. We don't need any”—she chuckled—“skid marks.”

“I'll wave 'em back,” said Ava, as she stuck her head out the passenger-side window. “Or fire a warning shot across their bow. Whichever comes first.”

Ava was as good as her word. As they spun down St. Charles Avenue, the dresses bouncing and spinning behind them like a couple of deflated parachutes dragging across open ground, they heard shouting and honking from the cars that zoomed past.

“Hey!” Ava yelled, waving back at a couple of guys in a blue pickup truck who hooted and pointed at their dresses. “Want to meet me at the altar?”

“You're really having fun with this, aren't you?” said Carmela. She'd cranked up the radio and WKBU was blasting out Mitch Ryder's classic tune “Devil with a Blue Dress On.”

“This is crazy,” screamed Ava. “It's like a new recipe for stone-washed jeans. Only we're doing cobblestone-washed dresses.”

“And the attention's not bad, either.”

“I haven't enjoyed this many catcalls since I wore my red leather mini and fishnet stockings into St. Louis Cathedral.”

“Dear Lord,” said Carmela.

“Well, not quite,” said Ava. She pulled her head in and said, “Maybe you should tell me about the shrouds.”

“I'm going to cut big hunks of cheesecloth and then stiffen and dye them.”

“This all sounds terrific,” said Ava. “Even better than the vampire costume I cooked up for my haunted cemetery tour.”