Tragic Magic (19 page)

“This is exactly what we need over the fireplace at Medusa Manor,” said Carmela. “What do you think? Can you do it? Can you lift a mold from this tomb and create a Medusa head?”

“Child’s play,” said Ava. “Of course I can.” One of Ava’s hobbies was mask making. She was a real pro at making plaster casts, then turning them into leather masks that could be painted, pinched, and embellished with beads, feathers, and fabric. At one time Ava had even considered becoming a full-time mask maker. She’d since decided that running Juju Voodoo was far more profitable. Masks were better left as a sideline. And there was always a demand, especially around Halloween and Mardi Gras.

“Let’s come back tonight and take molds,” suggested Carmela. “Hop right on it.”

“Sure,” agreed Ava.

A sudden crunch of gravel from the far side of the crypt caused both women to freeze. Was someone creeping around over there?

“Someone’s been listening to us,” whispered Carmela.

Ava gestured frantically, indicating for Carmela to go one way, she’d go the other.

But when they met on the other side of the crypt, no one was there.

Carmela looked puzzled. “I thought I heard someone.”

Ava shrugged. “False alarm. Nobody here now but us ’fraidy cats. Oh well, gotta take off. I’ve got a huge box of skulls stashed in my car that I want to drop off at Medusa Manor.”

“Then you’re gonna need a key.” Carmela fished in her bag and pulled out one of the newly cut brass keys.

“This is gonna work?” asked Ava. “No problema?”

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” said Carmela.

“Excellent. I can’t wait to see how my skulls work out.” Carmela frowned. “You sure you don’t want me to go with you?”

Ava shook her head. “Honey, I’m on a ditch-and-drive mission. I’ll drop the boxes of skulls and bones and be out of there like a bat outa you-know-where. I doubt my car will even touch the driveway.”

“Okay,” said Carmela, “but . . . be careful.”

“O
H, you’reback, too!” exclaimed Gabby. “How was the service?”

“Sad,” said Carmela, slumping over and resting her elbows on the front counter.

Gabby gave a knowing nod. “As are all funerals, I suppose. Did lots of people show up?”

“It was a very good turnout,” Carmela told her. “I think Garth was very touched.”

“That’s good,” said Gabby.

“How has it been here?” asked Carmela.

“Steady, but not exactly a breakneck pace. Your friend Aysia came back to pick up some die cuts and templates. And Tandy and Baby are waiting in back. You were going to do a demonstration today?”

Carmela touched a palm to her forehead. “Completely slipped my mind. And Baby never mentioned it at the service.”

Gabby looked concerned. “Well, they’re here. And you
wouldn’t have to twist any arms to get those other two ladies to join in.” She nodded toward two women who were rummaging through a box of discounted stickers. “They were asking about classes before.”

“Then let’s round ’em up,” said Carmela.

“You know what you’re going to do?” asked Gabby, looking slightly apprehensive. “You have a project in mind?”

“I never know
exactly
how things will turn out,” responded Carmela. “But, yes, there’s always a germ of an idea. Thank goodness I have a vivid imagination.”

“Things just pop into your head, don’t they?” said Gabby.

“You might say that . . . yes,” said Carmela, hurrying back to her office, grabbing for essentials on the way. In fact, she decided, sometimes her head popped with too many ideas.

“I thought what we’d do today,” began Carmela, once everyone was settled at the back table, “was work on a craft project that dovetails with all the different elements of scrapbooking. I’m talking about exotic papers, rubber stamping, collages, embellishments, fabrics, ephemera, and even incorporating small collectibles.” She hesitated, to see how her audience was reacting so far. Big smiles greeted her.

Carmela reached behind her and grabbed a wooden shadow box off a wire shelf, then held it up for everyone to see. Roughly eight by ten inches, the shadow box was approximately two inches deep and had a solid back wall. “I’d like to show you how to create a votive box,” she told her audience.

“Just stop right there,” said Tandy, adjusting her red-framed glasses. “Do you have more of those things?” She gestured at the shadow box.

Carmela nodded. “A dozen or so in different sizes.”

“Because I’m going to want to make a couple,” said Tandy.

“Maybe,” Baby put in tactfully, “we should let Carmela demonstrate how to make one first?” She reached into her
tote, pulled out a tin of her famous Southern coffee cookies, and placed it on the table.

Tandy gave an imperceptible nod as her hand snaked out to grab a cookie. “Of course.”

It didn’t take Carmela long to explain her votive box. In fact, the instructions were so simple, she worked as she talked.

First, Carmela lined the back of the shadow box with a sheet of purple brocade floral paper. Then, she finished the four edges with a contrasting sheet. A small piece of antiqued sheet music and a sprig of pink-and-mauve dried flowers were arranged and tacked against the back wall. Some cream-colored vintage lace was snugged at the bottom of the shadow box to form a ruffly floor. Then Carmela added a small antique statue of an angel, along with a cream-colored candle, a gold key, a small locket, and a crucifix.

“Amazing,” said Baby. Since she’d also just come from Melody’s service, she pretty much understood Carmela’s mindset. “A lovely tribute,” she added.

Tandy narrowed her eyes. “But what if I want to make a votive box to celebrate . . . say . . . my baby granddaughter’s birthday?”

“Easily done,” Carmela told her. “You could start with a more playful background or even a color photocopy of her birth certificate, then add some baby-inspired items. Think old-fashioned wooden building blocks, a small angel statue, a knit bootie, dried flowers, paper dolls, bits of lace and ribbon, some brass butterfly embellishments . . . whatever
you
think personalizes it.”

“Neat,” said Gabby, who had come back to watch and grab a cookie.

“You could even make a votive box filled with wedding keepsakes, couldn’t you?” asked one of the other women at the table. She laughed. “My daughter’s getting married next month.”

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

While Gabby pulled out more selections of romance-inspired paper, Carmela grabbed some embellishments—gilded leaves, buttons, charms, unique fibers, silk flowers, bunches of plastic grapes, even some antique labels she’d had lying around.

“This is a great idea,” Gabby whispered to Carmela. “Are you going to add it to your class schedule?”

Tandy overheard. “Class schedule? Come on, Carmela, tell us what’s cooking in that clever brain of yours.”

“Still noodling things around,” Carmela told them. “But right now it looks like I’ll be doing classes on graffito and memory boxes, as well as a class I’m tentatively calling ‘artifacts.’”

Tandy wrinkled her nose with interest. “Artifacts. What’s that?”

“Scrapbook pages, collages, and altered books that look aged and antique,” said Carmela. “Think medieval-looking triptychs or Parisian-inspired notebooks or even Egyptian-type collages.”

“Sounds very decorator-y,” said Baby. “Where do I sign up?”

 

Carmela worked with the group for another fifteen minutes or so. Then, when they were all well on the way to completing their personal masterpieces, she scuttled up front to arrange new packets of beads and brass brads. When the phone shrilled at the front desk, she almost welcomed the interruption. “Hello?”

“Carmela?” purred a familiar male voice.

“Babcock,” she said, pleased that he’d finally called. “We missed you this morning. At Melody’s funeral.”

“Think of me as being there in spirit,” he told her.

“What? Because you’ve narrowed down your suspects? You’re ready to crack this case wide open?”

Babcock sighed. “Investigations don’t usually unfold that dramatically, Carmela.”

“What a shame,” she replied.

“What I really called about was to see if you had time for a late lunch,” said Babcock. “Unless, of course, you’ve already eaten.”

“No, no,” said Carmela, “I’d love to meet you. That would be a real treat; we never have lunch together.” She hesitated. “You don’t want me to meet you in some dingy police cafeteria, do you?”

“Not at all,” said Babcock. “What I thought was . . . I’d pick up a sack of doughnuts and we’d eat at my desk.”

Carmela made a gagging sound.

“Not keen on doughnuts, huh?” said Babcock. “Then how about going to Bistro Rouge? It’s a warm day; we can sit outside.”

“Perfect,” said Carmela. “See you there in twenty minutes?”

“Better make it thirty.”

Carmela popped back to check on her crafters. Tandy was well on her way to creating an angel votive box. She’d lined her shadow box with a cream-colored vellum and added some gold embossed paper and a filmy pair of angel wings. All that was needed now was to add a photograph of her angelic granddaughter.

Baby was working a sort of gilded-gold Venetian theme.

“We have some miniature Venetian masks,” Gabby told her. “If you’re interested.”

“I think I am,” said Baby.

“Hey,” said Tandy, “have you girls heard about that new crafter’s retreat over in New Iberia? The lady who owns it is really into jewelry making, so she calls it a
bead and breakfast
.”

“Cute,” said Gabby.

Carmela bent down and whispered in Baby’s ear. “Is there any way you can find out more about Sawyer Barnes?”

Baby nodded. “I could call Del. He has a fairly wide range of acquaintances and resources. I’m sure he could pull up something for you.” She reached in her bag for her cell phone.

“Much appreciated,” said Carmela as the bell over the front door tinkled. She turned, a ready smile on her face. And was dismayed to see the glowering face of Glory Meechum, Shamus’s perpetually argumentative sister, as she stomped her way into the shop.
Now what could have brought Glory to Memory Mine?
Carmela wondered. As if she didn’t know.

“Glory,” said Carmela, speeding toward the front of her shop. “I had no idea you were going to drop by.”

“No,” spat Glory, “I doubt you would, Carmela.”

Carmela grimaced. She really didn’t want her personal issues paraded in front of everyone.

“What’s wrong, Glory? How can I help?” Carmela figured if she came across a little more friendly, a little more appeasing, she might be able to lessen Glory’s impact.

But Glory was a large, helmet-haired woman in a splotchy gray housedress masquerading as a neutron bomb.

“Car-
mela
!” she brayed. “I thought we had a
deal
!”

Rats
, Carmela thought to herself.
Now I’m never gonna get my divorce settlement.

“Nothing’s poured in concrete yet, Glory,” said Carmela, struggling to keep her tone neutral. “But Shamus has been very amenable to my request.”

“Oh, bull-jabbers!” snorted Glory. “First you want one thing, then you want another.” She stared down at Carmela, her whole body fairly quivering, one baleful eye twitching and blinking like mad.

Carmela took a step back. Glory was two hundred fifty pounds of angry banker on a pair of run-down orthopedic heels. She didn’t fancy a knock-down, drag-out fight with her.

“We talked about you receiving alimony,” spat Glory. “Now you’re asking for the house.”

“Things changed,” said Carmela.

“That’s a load of crap,” said Glory.

“No,” countered Carmela, “New Orleans changed. The economy’s still dicey . . . so I need to know I’ll be secure.”

“But you’re asking for an entire house!” wailed Glory.

“Shamus’s house.”

“It was my house, too,” said Carmela. “Until Shamus bailed on me. And then you went ballistic and drove me out.” She shook her head. “No, Glory, I’m standing firm. In fact, I’ve already gone over this with Shamus. He’s definitely come around to the deal.” Carmela tried to breathe slowly, but her head was spinning. Glory Meechum’s negative energy could pack a real psychic wallop. Carmela put a hand on the counter to steady herself. Somewhere, in all the background noise, she heard high heels approaching fast, like castanets.

“You don’t deserve to live in the Garden District,” Glory spat out, the whites of her eyes looking like two boiled eggs. “You’re not good enough. You’re . . .” This time Glory’s voice dropped to a mean hiss. “You’re . . . trash!”

Baby was suddenly at Carmela’s side. “Glory,” she said in her coolest society lady manner. “Is there something I can help with? Because I couldn’t help but overhear your mentioning the Garden District. And since I’m on the Neighborhood Watch Board and the Historic Homes Committee, I was wondering if I could lend my influence in some way? That is, if you had some sort of problem.”

“No,” said a sullen Glory. “Carmela and I are finished here.”

“Thank goodness,” Carmela muttered under her breath.

“Got your back, darlin’,” said Baby, as Glory spun about and stomped out the door.

“You’re an angel,” said Carmela. For some reason Carmela was feeling decidedly fragile.

Baby swept an arm around her. “Glory’s nothin’ but a mean old snake! Don’t pay attention to anything she says. It’s all bile and venom.”

“But it can sting,” said Carmela.

“I know that, honey,” said Baby. “So all you can do is hold your head high and let her words roll right off your back. She’s genuinely crazy, you know.”

“I know,” said Carmela. Boy, did she know.

“So,” continued Baby, “I called Del and gleaned a little bit more information for you.”

Carmela suddenly perked up. “About Sawyer Barnes?”