Gossamer Ghost (7 page)

“You ghost is a he?” asked one of her friends.

“I think so,” she said.

“Wait a minute,” said Tandy. “What about faces?”

“I was getting to that,” said Carmela. “If you want to give your ghost a little more personality, you simply take a black marker and draw on a pair of eyes and maybe a mouth.”

Baby picked up a marker and drew two round ovals for eyes, then she filled them in. “Hmm,” she said, studying him. “I'm pretty sure he's trying to moan or howl.” She added a flat oval for a mouth.

“Teeth?” asked Tandy.

“No,” said Baby. “I don't think so.”

“Now it's like a mask,” Tandy said in a low voice. “Kind of like that Napoleon death mask that was stolen.”

“Well, not quite,” said Carmela.

Tandy's brows knit together as she fingered her ghost. “How do they make those death masks, anyway?”

Carmela glanced at Gabby, who looked suddenly concerned.

“Basically, they take a mold of someone's face,” said Carmela.

“How on earth would you do that?” asked one of the women.

“It's a fairly simple process,” said Carmela. “Today, instead of messing with wax, you'd probably mold plaster bandages dipped in water.”

“We should do that,” said Tandy. “Have a class on making death masks.”

“That sounds a little macabre,” said Baby.

“Okay, so we'll call them life masks,” said Tandy.

“It sure would be timely,” said one of the women. “Because of Halloween, I mean.”

“I suppose you're right,” said Baby, slowly warming up to the idea. “If we made a few masks, I could use those as decorations for my party. I could even have my guests try to guess who it is. Kind of like pin the tail on the donkey, only creepier.”

“Then it's settled,” said Tandy. “We need to schedule an impromptu Death Mask class!”

“Can we, Carmela?” asked one of the women. “Will you show us how to make them?”

Carmela looked at her watch. “We don't have any time left today. But maybe next Tuesday?” She glanced at Gabby, who seemed to be busy sorting out packets of charms.

“Next Tuesday it is,” said Baby.

Four of the women gathered up their ghosts and tea bags and bath bombs then, and toddled out the front door. They seemed delighted with their crafts and thinking ahead to next Tuesday.

Finally, only Carmela, Gabby, Baby, and Tandy were left in the shop.

“I think,” said Tandy, “I'm gonna make one more of those bath bombs. A big super bomb.”

“Sure,” said Carmela. “And if you want, I can . . .”

The front door suddenly swung open and Mavis Sweet rushed in. Dressed head to toe in black, her outfit was vaguely reminiscent of some of the steampunk attire that Joubert had sold at Oddities—a Victorian corset laced in front and a long black skirt with netting over it.

As Mavis rushed headlong through the shop, sending papers flying, and slid to an ungraceful stop at the back table, the entire room went silent as a tomb.

M
AVIS
'
S
darting eyes searched the table for Carmela. When she finally found her, Mavis's lower lip began to tremble and her eyes filled with tears.

Carmela dropped the bath bomb she was holding and rushed to comfort Mavis. She swept the girl into her arms and said, “What, honey? What's the matter now? What are you even doing in this neighborhood today?” She figured the police were still at Oddities, searching for clues.

Mavis's eyes were getting redder by the second and her eyeliner had begun to smudge. She swayed slightly as she clutched a small, leather notebook to her chest.

“Carmela!” Mavis sobbed. “The police . . . the police aren't investigating Marcus's death anymore!”

“Why would you say that?” said Carmela, although she had a prickly feeling for what might be coming.

“Now they're accusing him of
stealing
the death mask!” cried Mavis. “From some collector in Dallas.”

Carmela nodded. “Yes, I did hear something about that.”

“But Marcus didn't do that,” said Mavis. “He
wouldn't
do that.” She looked slightly crazed with makeup dripping and her frizzy hair standing on end. “Because . . . look!” She thrust a notebook forward. “On the exact date the mask disappeared in Dallas, Marcus was right
here.
” She turned the book around so everyone could read the small, cramped handwriting. “See? Marcus had an appointment right here in New Orleans with Mr. Duval!”

“Titus Duval?” said Carmela. She knew him. Or knew of him, anyway. Titus Duval was the head of the CBD Orleans Bank, a chain that was a business rival to the Crescent City Bank, owned by her ex-husband Shamus's family. Titus Duval was also a bigwig in the arts community. He'd recently headed the capital fund drive for the New Orleans Art Institute. With his power and money he was not to be trifled with.

“Titus Duval,” Mavis repeated. “That's right. So you see, it's perfectly clear that Marcus couldn't have stolen that mask. He couldn't have traveled to Dallas, grabbed the mask, and then made it back here in time for his meeting.”

“I see what you're saying,” said Carmela.

Maybe the meeting with Duval does clear Joubert?

“Did you show this book to Detective Babcock?” Carmela asked.

“Absolutely I did,” said Mavis. “Only I could tell he didn't believe me. He hemmed and hawed and said he'd have to check his facts with Mr. Duval.”

“I'm sure he'll do that,” Carmela soothed.

“You poor thing,” Baby murmured. They were all watching the conversation between Carmela and Mavis and they all looked concerned.

“What I'm wondering, though,” said Carmela, “is where the mask—the mask that was stolen last night—actually came from?”

Mavis shook her head vigorously, her masses of hair shaking back and forth. “I don't know.”

“Do you think Joubert had a certain customer in mind for it?” Carmela prodded.

Mavis looked pained. “I wish I knew. Oh dear Lord, I wish I knew. Maybe that would help us figure out who murdered my poor Marcus.” She grasped Carmela's hand and held it firmly. “Carmela, you'll still help, won't you? You'll help figure out who killed Marcus?”

Carmela's chest felt heavy, as if she couldn't breathe. She could barely stand to see Mavis in such pain. “Of course I will, honey. Shhh.” She wrapped her arms around Mavis again. “I promise I'll do whatever I can.”

Mavis gazed up at her. “Can you talk to that detective?”

“To Babcock? Yes, I will.”

“Can you call him now?” asked Mavis.

“Now?” said Carmela. She glanced over and saw collective pleading looks on Gabby's, Baby's, and Tandy's faces. That did it. “Okay, I'll call him right now.”

Carmela ducked into her office and dialed Babcock's private number. He picked up immediately.

“Hello, hot stuff,” said Babcock. He'd obviously glanced at his caller ID. And his baritone voice, ringing in Carmela's ears, sent a delicious tingle through her. “Are you calling to remind me about tonight?” he asked.

“There's that,” she said. “And one other thing.”

Babcock moaned. “Uh-oh.”

“I've got Mavis Sweet here in my shop . . .”

“Yes?” His voice hardened slightly.

“Anyway, she has Joubert's calendar with her. Apparently he had a meeting with Titus Duval on the exact same day the death mask in Dallas was stolen . . .”

“Yes, yes,” said Babcock. “We're still checking out this so-called alibi.” He sounded like he'd uttered those words a million times. Probably had.

“I'm not so sure it's an alibi,” said Carmela. She gazed at Mavis and gave what she thought was a hopeful nod. “I think it might be fact.”

Babcock snorted loudly.

Carmela took a step back, not wanting Mavis to overhear Babcock's rather negative reaction.

“Here's the thing,” said Carmela. “I think . . .”

“You know what? You don't have to concern yourself with this. We're covered. I'm checking it out. In fact I've got an entire team of detectives and uniformed officers who can check this out. So you don't have to.”

“Tell me how you really feel,” said Carmela, disappointed.

“Hey,” said Babcock. “I'll see you tonight. I'm really looking forward to this theatre thing.” And with that he hung up.

Carmela put the phone down and smiled at Mavis. “They're working on it,” she said, with far more assurance in her voice than she really felt.

Mavis nodded and pressed a chubby hand to her heart. She fluttered her lashes, drew a deep breath, and said, “Thank you, Carmela, you're an absolute lifesaver.”

*   *   *

Once Mavis had left the shop, the other three women pounced mightily on Carmela.

“Is Babcock being an ass?” Tandy demanded.

“How's the investigation
really
going?” asked Baby.

“Babcock's working on it,” said Carmela.

“Is he doing his best?” put in Gabby.

“I'm sure he is,” said Carmela. Her mind was in a whirl and she was trying to figure out an angle or two. Then she looked at Baby and said, “Baby, do you know Titus Duval?”

“Oh sure,” said Baby. “He lives right down the street from me.”

“In that ginormous house with those two snooty-looking stone lions out front,” said Tandy.

“
That's
his house?” said Carmela. “The one with turrets and stained glass windows?” The place wasn't just a landmark, it was a virtual castle.

“That's just one of his homes,” said Tandy. “He's got another place up River Road near Destrehan. Supposedly he bought one of the old plantations and is working to restore it to its former grandeur.”

“And he has a spiffy new condo in Aspen,” said Baby.

“How'd he make so much money, anyhow?” asked Carmela.

“Business,” said Tandy.

“Banking,” said Baby. “And investing. He was big into technology stocks during the go-go '90s.”

Tandy chuckled. “I was big into go-go during the '90s.”

“If Duval is your neighbor,” Carmela said to Baby, “then I'm guessing he's been invited to your Halloween party?”

“I invite all my neighbors,” said Baby. “It's tradition.”

“Just like your five city blocks lined with hundreds of carved, illuminated pumpkins,” said Tandy.

“Absolutely,” said Baby. “It's Halloween and we wouldn't have it any other way.”

*   *   *

A few minutes later, sitting alone in her office, Carmela put in a call to Ava.

“What's up, sweet cheeks?”
said her friend.

“I feel all balled up. Like I stepped on a bunch of flypaper.”

“Whoa,” said Ava. “Rewind the tape and give me the sordid details, please.”

“First I got roped into helping Mavis, and now some crazy countess lady dropped by this morning and wants a logo.”

“A countess? For real? Does she have a crown and scepter?”

“I have no idea. She could have gotten her title from a Cracker Jack box. Still, she claims she's taking over the Oddities spot. Like immediately.”

“I'm intrigued,” said Ava. “Tell me more.”

There was a crash and a loud bang and Carmela said, “Ava? What just happened? Are you okay?”

“Oops,” said Ava. “A minor emergency with
Señor Muerte
, one of my Day of the Dead characters. Gotta go.”

T
HE
Theatre du Marais was like something out of a novel by Flaubert. It was an impeccably restored Baroque theatre scrunched next to Beaufrain's Oyster House in the French Quarter. Constructed in the late 1800s, probably as a bawdy dance hall, it was left to languish as a movie theatre and then as a slightly unsavory nightclub. Finally, two years ago, the theatre was lovingly purchased, carefully sandblasted, and completely refurbished by the Friends of Preservation for Architecture.

Carmela squeezed Babcock's hand as they hurried down Royal Street, joining any number of other couples who were also headed for the theatre.

Babcock had come directly from work so he wore a camel hair jacket and dark slacks with a pair of John Lobb shoes that looked like heavy cop shoes but were really the same brand favored by British royalty.

Carmela had pulled out all the stops and borrowed a flirty lace dress from Ava. The low-cut bodice was sleek and tight, the skirt a veritable cascade of ruffles. Every time a breeze came along and gently lifted her skirt, a peep show of breathtakingly hot pink lining was revealed.

“You like my dress?” Carmela asked as they stood in line at the box office, collecting the tickets that had been held for them. Babcock hadn't said anything, but his eyes had roved over her appreciatively.

“Yes, I do, and I particularly like your cape,” said Babcock. “You don't see much of that these days—women wearing capes, I mean.” He chuckled. “Only if you're into Daphne du Maurier novels.”

“It's an opera cape,” said Carmela, giving a kind of half twirl. “I thought it would be perfect for tonight.”

Babcock tucked the tickets into his jacket pocket and pulled open the heavy gilded theatre door. “Refresh my memory,” he said as he ushered her in. “Which comedy or drama are we here to see?”

“It's the Rue Morgue Theatre Company's production of
Frankenstein
.”

“Ah, culture at its finest.” He grimaced. “Seriously, Carmela?
Frankenstein
?”

“It's Halloween. Live a little.”

“Interesting choice of words,” said Babcock. “Considering the play is about dead body parts.”

“Right up your alley,” said Carmela, as she gripped his arm and they headed into the darkened theatre.

They found their seats, sat down, snuggled a little, and looked around.

“How many gallons of gold paint and freight cars of velvet do you think they used to refurbish this place?” asked Babcock.

Carmela had to admit it, Babcock was right on. The walls were gilded, the chairs were upholstered in plum-colored velvet, velvet drapes were slung across all the doorways, and the stage curtain itself was a gigantic waterfall of tufted velvet.

“Sure, it's a little over the top,” Carmela agreed. “But it's atmospheric, right?”

“It is if you're Count Dracula,” agreed Babcock. He pulled out his phone and started fiddling with it.

“And I think it's fun that some of the audience even came in costume.” Sitting around them were other women wearing exotic dresses with capes and cloaks and high-laced boots. There were even a few men sporting Victorian-looking topcoats.

“I just hope they're all going to a Halloween party afterwards,” Babcock muttered. “Not just playing dressup.”

“Don't be an old poop,” Carmela whispered as the lights began to dim. “Everybody's playing dressup this week. And by the way . . .”

“I'm just turning it off,” he said.

Carmela smiled. “Good. I thought you might be calling for help.”

*   *   *

The first act of
Frankenstein
was a mash-up of moving scenery that included Gothic castles, a charming cottage, a graveyard, and a scary-looking laboratory. Music was heavy, ominous, and theatrical, dipping to barely audible levels, then soaring to a crescendo as stage lightning flashed and cymbals clashed. The character of Victor Frankenstein came across as wild-eyed and driven, while the Creature, played by a shirtless and fairly hunky-looking actor, was surprisingly sympathetic.

“Wow,” said Carmela, as the curtain dropped dramatically for intermission. “That was great.” She glanced at Babcock, who was scanning his phone again. “Excuse me?”

He gave her an apologetic smile and snapped the Off button. “Sorry. Just playing catch-up.” He gripped her hand and rubbed his thumb across it gently, communicating both his ardor and his apology. “Want to run out to the lobby and beat the rush? Grab a glass of wine or something?”

“You're on,” she said as they threaded their way out of the theatre and into the lobby where a small bar had been set up.

“So, you're really enjoying the play?” Babcock asked her.

“That and your hand on my knee.”

“Mnn,” he said as they pushed up to the bar. “Two glasses of red wine, please,” he told the bartender, and then turned with a questioning glance at Carmela. “That okay with you?”

Carmela nodded and went back to studying the amazing lobby décor. The walls had been rubbed with some sort of gilt paint that lent a warm glow, and a crystal chandelier dangled overhead, making the place sparkle like a small jewel box. A number of Baroque mirrors had also been hung, the better to give the impression of an opulent European theatre.

As Carmela gazed into one of those mirrors, her eyes bouncing across a sea of smiling, inquisitive faces—including her own—she realized with a jolt that she recognized the woman who was walking directly toward her. Then she spun around to find the Countess Saint-Marche, dimpling prettily and smiling a big pussycat grin.

“Carmela, darling!” squealed the countess, making a big to-do. “Is that really you?” The countess was wearing a long, black crepe dress with a buckle closure that managed to look both demure and provocative. And expensive-looking, too, Carmela thought. Maybe a piece from one of last year's Chanel collections? The Paris-Édimbourg collection?

“We meet again,” said Carmela, just as Babcock handed her a glass of wine. And then, because it was the polite thing to do, Carmela made quick introductions.

“I had no idea your boyfriend would be so handsome,” the countess gushed to Carmela. She said it in a way that implied she'd expected Carmela to be hanging on the arm of a troll.

“I take it you're a fan of live theatre?” Babcock asked the countess, if only to be polite.

“Not only do I adore the theatre,” said the countess, “but I'm a
huge
supporter. You probably don't know this—well, of course you don't—but my husband and I provided some much-needed funding to this divine little theatre group. And we gave direct financial support for tonight's production as well.”

“That's wonderful,” Carmela murmured. She knew that a lot of well-meaning theatre patrons had also made donations. Including herself, Baby, and their friend Jekyl Hardy.

The countess tossed her head, the better to make her diamond earrings sparkle, and droned on. “If you look on the back page of your program you'll find our names listed under Platinum Donors.”

“Kind of you,” Carmela said with fading enthusiasm.

“Oh my,” said the countess, fanning her arms wildly, almost clobbering a young artsy-looking man in a red beret. “Here comes my husband now. I can't
wait
for you to meet François.”

An elderly gentleman with slicked-back white hair, a hawk nose, and piercing eyes handed a flute of champagne to the countess. Then he smiled absently and said, “Hello.”

After the countess made elaborate introductions, the count lifted Carmela's hand to his lips and gave a dry kiss.
“Enchanté,”
he said.

“Nice to meet you, too,” said Carmela, being purposefully casual. Who were these people anyway? Next thing she knew they'd be trying to worm their way into New Orleans society or onto one of the Mardi Gras krewes. Well good luck with that.

“What is it you do?” François asked Babcock as he rocked back on his heels, exuding a superior attitude.

“Law enforcement,” said Babcock. He said it in a deliberately low-key manner, as if he were just a humble meter reader.

“Wonderful!” François proclaimed.

“And you, sir, are engaged in what line of business?” asked Babcock. He hadn't earned a gold shield for nothing. When his antenna perked up and began to blip red, he started asking questions.

“Ah,” said François, looking thoughtful. “I find myself in the peculiar position of following in my wife's rather elegant footsteps. That is, assisting her in getting her jewelry shop up and running.”

“You realize,” the countess said to her husband, “Carmela is the owner of Memory Mine Scrapbook Shop right next door. She's my brand-new neighbor.”

“That's wonderful,” declared François. “And I can see that you're good friends already.”

Carmela tried not to cringe.

“We certainly are,” said the countess, studying Carmela over her glass of champagne.

Not ten feet away from them, a red-suited usher rang the intermission bell. Which sent the countess into a spasm of joy.

“Come along, François,” said the countess. “We don't want to miss a single precious moment. Ta-ta.” She waggled her fingers at Carmela and Babcock as she propelled François toward the theatre entrance.

“New neighbors,” said Carmela. “My life and welcome to it.”

“They are a little . . . theatrical,” said Babcock.

“That's not the half of it,” said Carmela. “The countess, if she really is a countess, is already prodding poor Mavis to pack up the merchandise in Joubert's shop so she can move right in. In fact, she's already hired store planners and decorators.”

“It's going to be a jewelry shop?” Babcock was only half interested.

“High-end gems and estate jewelry.”

“Don't we already have enough shops like that in New Orleans?” said Babcock.

“Apparently not,” said Carmela, as they followed the slow-moving crowd.

Babcock tugged on her arm. “Hang on a minute.”

“What?”

They waited at the door leading into the theatre, standing to the side while the audience filtered in.

“Do you really want to see the second act?” asked Babcock.

Carmela's brows lifted slightly. “I take it you don't.”

He shrugged.

“And here I got all prettied up,” she said, smiling at him but heaving a pro forma sigh of regret.

“Believe me,” Babcock said in a low, sensual voice. “It hasn't been wasted. You have a most appreciative audience.” And, as the lights dimmed, he leaned forward and kissed her.

*   *   *

A few minutes later, the two of them strolled along Bourbon Street, enjoying the Old World ambience of the French Quarter with a dash of hustle-bustle thrown in. Horses pulling colorful jitneys clip-clopped along on cobblestone streets, sweet notes of music mixed with riotous laughter floated out of darkly lit clubs and saloons.

In anticipation of all the French Quarter's Halloween activities, this party-hearty neighborhood was already decorated to the nines. Life-sized witches bent over cauldrons steaming with dry ice. Orange twinkle lights, like golden fireflies, were wrapped around wrought-iron fences and lampposts. Ghosts suspended from rooftops fluttered in the breeze. Two vampires with malevolent green eyes peered down from a wrought-iron balcony.

“Cheery,” observed Babcock.

“You want to stop at Mumbo Gumbo for a drink?” Carmela asked.

“Sure. Or we could pop into Antoine's.” Antoine's was much more high-end.

“Don't you need reservations on a Saturday night?”

“It's amazing how the word
detective
can make a maître d' so very accommodating.”

“It's always worked on me,” said Carmela, snuggling closer.

They stopped outside Perine's Antiques and gazed in the window. There was a coromandel screen that Carmela had long coveted. She thought it would make an elegant statement in her bedroom. That's if she could convince the dogs to let her move their overstuffed, overpriced dog beds to the opposite wall.

“Back there at the theatre,” said Babcock, “when you were talking to your friend the countess, you didn't seem very happy about her moving into the space next to you.”

“She's weird,” said Carmela. “There's something off about her.”

“Face it, somebody was bound to move in there sooner or later. She just happened to grab the space sooner. No landlord is going to let primo real estate like that sit vacant for very long. And it was fairly obvious that Joubert's young assistant didn't have the will or the wherewithal to keep that shop going.”

“I hear you,” said Carmela. “It just strikes me that the countess is a little too eager to move into Joubert's space.” She hesitated. “And a little too thrilled about his untimely death.”

Babcock grinned. “In other words, you see the countess as a suspect in Joubert's murder.”