Tragic Magic (5 page)

“Carmela,” called Tandy. “Do you have any die cuts of military insignia?”

“Army, Navy, Marine, Air Force, or Coast Guard?” asked Carmela.

“Army,” said Tandy. “I’m making a scrapbook page to honor my nephew, Dennis, who’s over in Iraq right now.”

Carmela grabbed a metal dog tag that was stamped
ARMY
and an Army heritage emblem and showed them to Tandy. “Will these work?” she asked.

Tandy grinned. “Will they ever. I’ve got this great khaki paper and a heart decorated with stars and stripes, but I need a couple more fun elements.”

“Glad to be of help,” said Carmela. She studied Tandy’s layout. The headline read,
All give some, but some give all
. Underneath was a grouping of three photographs, all obviously taken in Iraq. Though Carmela thought the layout was shaping up to be terrific, her heart went out to the men and women who smiled out from those photos. They looked dusty and tired. And a little wary, too. She shook her head to clear it, then turned to study Baby’s scrapbook page. “What are you working on?” she asked.

“I’m finally getting around to scrapping my Valentine’s Day party,” said Baby. “We had the whole family together, so I’m doing a double page.”

Baby had started with two twelve-by-twelve sheets of pink-and-white-striped paper and added bits of white lace at the top and bottom. Die-cut hearts framed her photographs, and she’d used a gold pen to form a fanciful, loopy script that read,
Let me call you Sweetheart
.

“What I’m thinking,” said Baby, “is maybe gluing candy hearts at the bottom of the page. You know, those hearts with the fun sayings?”

“I like your idea,” said Carmela, suddenly aware that the front bell was dinging like crazy and the phone was jangling. “But you might want to give them a coat of Mod Podge.”

“Carmela,” Gabby called from behind the front counter. “Phone call.” She held up the phone, waggling the receiver in her hand.

Carmela hurried to the front and grabbed the phone. She figured it was Babcock. “Yes?”

“Carmela?” said a subdued male voice. “It’s Garth.”

“Garth!” exclaimed Carmela, spinning around to face a
floor-to-ceiling display of albums. “Oh my gosh, are you okay? Where are you? I was going to call you!”

“I’m at the police station right now,” said Garth. And this time the strain was evident in his voice.

“What’s going on?” asked Carmela. They weren’t trying to beat a confession out of an innocent man, were they?

Garth gave a weak chuckle that turned into a sob. “I’m trying to answer as many questions as possible so the police can get on with the sad business of catching Melody’s killer.”

“Do you want me to come over there?” Carmela asked. “Can I help you in any way?”

“No, no,” said Garth. “I just called to see how you were doing. When Detective Babcock told me you and your friend were there last night, I was completely stunned. Must have been awful for you. Of course, it’s awful for all of us, but . . .” Garth Mayfeldt seemed to run out of words.

Carmela grimaced. “You sure you don’t want me to run over there?” She knew Babcock would probably hate it, would resent her presence deeply. But if she could be a comfort to Garth, that’s what really mattered.

“No,” said Garth. “We’ll be finished here soon. Olivia is here, too, of course.”

“Olivia . . .” said Carmela.

“Olivia Wainwright,” said Garth. “Melody’s partner. Well, silent partner, really. Olivia was the one putting up the money. I don’t exactly . . . uh . . . know what Olivia has in mind. I suppose it’s possible she might want to continue with Medusa Manor.”

“You think so?” said Carmela. Somehow, it didn’t sound like such a good idea. When something had veered that much off course, sometimes it was better to just let it go. Give the bad karma some time to dissipate.

“But I don’t know anything for sure,” muttered Garth. He seemed to be running out of steam. “Who knows what’ll
happen? Anyway, I just wanted to see how you were doing. Thank you for being there.”

“I didn’t do anything,” said Carmela. “I wish I—”

“I have to go now,” said Garth. “The detectives are back.”

“Sure,” said Carmela as he hung up. “Good luck with everything.”

When Carmela mentioned her conversation with Garth to Tandy and Baby, they nodded sympathetically. When she told them that Garth thought Olivia Wainwright might even want to push ahead with Medusa Manor, they displayed a surprising amount of enthusiasm.

“Oh sure,” said Baby. “This is New Orleans, after all. The most haunted city in America.”

“Everybody pretty much knows about Sultan’s Palace and Père Antoine’s Alley,” said Tandy, naming a couple of famously haunted places. “Some folks have even seen actual
apparitions
!”

“Don’t forget St. Roch Cemetery and Marie Laveau’s tomb,” added Baby. “Very spooky.”

“I think the idea of continuing with Medusa Manor is a little creepy,” put in Gabby. The customer hubbub had died down and she’d come back to join them. “After all, Melody was
murdered
there.”

“It’s creepy, but it’s also authentically New Orleans,” responded Tandy. “Think about it. A mysterious murder might just add to the mystique of the place.”

Gabby fidgeted with a couple of spools of pink gauze ribbon and some miniature silk flowers. “I never thought of it that way.”

“Oh, sure,” said Tandy. “Medusa Manor might prove to be a very popular place.”

Seeing the uncertain looks on Carmela’s and Gabby’s faces, Baby asked, “Are we still going to work on collage disks today?” It was a project Carmela had mentioned to them last week.

Carmela smiled at Baby, grateful to change the subject. “Sure, if you want to.”

“We’ll understand if you don’t feel like it,” said Baby, gracefully giving Carmela an out.

“No,” said Carmela, “let’s do it. Help take my mind off Melody.”

“So,” said Gabby, always at the ready to grab supplies. “What do we need?”

“Grab that big box of scrap paper,” said Carmela, “and those new angel stickers. And some of the rubber stamps that have smaller images. Oh, and why don’t we just bring that entire rack of charms and jewelry findings over here.” She reached behind her and grabbed a box from the top of the large flat file, then dumped it on the table. Out spilled a couple of dozen disks that had been punched from white card stock, each about two inches across.

“Okay,” said Tandy. “I get that we’re going to create miniature collages on these disks. But
then
what do we do with them?”

“That’s the fun part,” Carmela told her. She held up two collaged disks that she’d made earlier, and the three women breathed a collective “Oh.”

Carmela had covered both discs with floral paper and added a tiny snippet of sheet music, a floral sticker, and a portion of a flower-themed postage stamp. Then she’d gilded the edges, inserted eyelets, and connected the two disks with small gold jump rings. The bottom disk also had a series of jump rings that held a few green and gold beads and a tiny brass leaf.

“Wow,” said Gabby, clearly impressed. “When did you do that?”

“In between customers,” said Carmela. Then she added, “Once you’ve got your disks collaged the way you want them, you can string them together to make bookmarks, tags for packages, or just fun embellishments for gift boxes.”

“I think,” said Tandy, perusing the rubber stamps and digging into the box of scrap paper, “that I want to do something with a Parisian theme.”

Gabby held up a rubber stamp. “Got an Eiffel Tower stamp here.”

“Excellent,” said Tandy.

“And here’s a sticker of a champagne label,” said Gabby. “Though you’ll have to trim it some.”

“That’s okay,” said Tandy. “I’m gonna make at least a dozen of these things.”

Baby reached for one of the packages of charms. “Think I could use this miniature picture frame?” she asked. “Slip a tiny photo in and attach it to the bottom of a disk?”

“I think that would be adorable,” said Carmela.

As the women worked away on their projects, talk turned to the Galleries and Gourmets celebration that was being held in the French Quarter this Saturday and Sunday. Galleries and Gourmets was a promotion dreamed up by the local gallery owners to draw people into the French Quarter, and hopefully into their art galleries and antique shops. To sweeten the pot, almost fifty different sidewalk food booths would be offering tempting treats including fried oysters, shrimp gumbo, and muffuletta sandwiches, and there would be outdoor performances by jazz, rock, and zydeco groups.

“Sweet Caroline is going to be doing a crawfish boil,” said Baby, naming one of her favorite restaurants.

“And I hear that Porta Via will be doing their famous eggs Hussarde,” said Gabby. Eggs Hussarde was New Orleans’s own version of eggs Benedict that featured
marchand de vin
, a wine sauce, instead of hollandaise. Gabby glanced toward Carmela. “Is your friend Quigg having a booth, too?”

“Yes he is,” said Carmela. Fact was, she had been talked into designing a flyer for his French Quarter restaurant, Mumbo Gumbo. But so far, Quigg’s flyers had been relegated to the back burner.

“And they’re going to do televised art and antiques appraisals, too,” exclaimed Baby. “It’s going to be New Orleans’s version of
Antiques Roadshow
.”

“I only care about the food,” said Tandy, putting hands on skinny hips. “Speaking of which, should we call Pirate’s Alley Deli and order lunch?”

C
ARMELA was arranging a display of leather-bound albums when Olivia Wainwright came sailing into her shop. She immediately recognized the woman’s white trench coat—maybe something from Burberry?—and Olivia’s long, dark hair. Olivia also seemed to have a distinct air of determination about her, a far cry from her tearful grieving last night.

Carmela watched as Olivia hesitated briefly at the front counter, speaking quietly with Gabby. Then Gabby made a slight hand gesture, pointing back toward Carmela, and Olivia spun around to face her.

Carmela started for the front of the store and met Olivia halfway.

“I’m Olivia Wainwright,” said the woman, extending her hand.

“Carmela Bertrand,” said Carmela, taking her hand, noting that she wore no less than five hefty gold-link bracelets. “And I’m so sorry about your partner. About Melody.”

“Thank you,” murmured Olivia, appraising Carmela with dark, intelligent eyes. “As you can imagine, the last twenty hours or so have been quite a shock. I’ve been talking to the police nonstop and I . . .” She sighed heavily and seemed to run out of words.

“Are you okay?” asked Carmela. “Can I get you a cup of coffee? Glass of water?”

Olivia shook her head. “No, thank you.” Then she peered sharply at Carmela. “Excuse me, but you said your name was Bertrand? I thought you’d married into the Meechum family.”

“I did,” Carmela told her, “but never changed my name. Now, I’m slowly . . . what would you call it? . . . extricating myself from that part of my life.”

“An independent woman,” said Olivia. A slight smile of approval hovered on her elegant oval face.

“Hopefully,” said Carmela. She was oddly fascinated by this woman who spoke with a Southern drawl that seemed to mask a slightly East Coast accent. And now that Olivia Wainwright knew about her failed marriage to Shamus, Carmela decided to ask a couple of questions of her own. “You’re originally from New Orleans?”

Olivia shook her head. “Oh no. I grew up outside Wooster, Massachusetts. Went to school up there, too. In fact, that’s where I met my husband, Stanford. We were at Boston University together. Although he was three years ahead of me.”

Carmela knew that Stanford Wainwright was a doctor, a dermatologist. He had been named one of the top docs in New Orleans by
NOLA Today
, one of the local city magazines.

“So,” continued Olivia, “Garth told me you were there last night. At Medusa Manor.” Now her face sagged again and sadness crept into her eyes. “Such a bizarre tragedy.” She bit her lip to keep from crying, but her eyes welled with tears anyway.

“Let’s go back to my office,” suggested Carmela. “Where
we can have some privacy.” Carmela led Olivia past rows of stamp pads, markers, and tote bags and into her small office. She grabbed a stack of scrapbook-supply catalogs off her side chair, plopped them atop her messy desk, and gestured for Olivia to take a seat.

Olivia eased herself down into a red leather director’s chair, pulled a hanky from her pocket, and dabbed gingerly at her nose.

“I’m sorry about Medusa Manor,” Carmela told Olivia. “It would have been a fun thing to work on.”

“That’s why I’m here,” said Olivia, taking another deep breath and obviously trying to pull herself together. “I’d like you to remain on the project. You and your associate.”

“Oh, man,” said Carmela, wrinkling her nose. She really hadn’t anticipated this. She’d figured Olivia’s dropping in today was just a pro forma visit. Garth had mentioned her name to Olivia, so Olivia had felt some small obligation.

“Last I spoke with Melody,” said Olivia, “she was very enthusiastic about you and Avon.”

“Ava,” said Carmela.

“Ava,” repeated Olivia. “Melody said you two had lots of experience with float building and that you did a masterful job last year of turning Moda Chadron into a haunted boutique.” She looked around, surveying the sketches, photos, printed design pieces, and scrapbook pages that hung on the walls of Carmela’s office. “And of course you’re a designer and scrapbook maven and your friend owns the voodoo shop.” Olivia managed a wan smile. “Seems like a good fit.”

“I’m not so sure,” said Carmela. “After what happened last night and . . . well, wouldn’t you be happier with
real
set designers? We’re kind of pretend set designers.”

Olivia stared at her. “I’d prefer the two of you stay on.”