Tragic Magic (4 page)

“Oh man,” said Carmela.

Several months ago, Carmela and Ava had heard about a group of women in Alabama who’d collected gently worn prom dresses and given them away, at no charge, to young women who couldn’t afford dresses. They’d loved the idea so much, they’d decided this would be a fun, worthwhile thing to do. Since Hurricane Katrina, many families were still scrimping on small luxuries in order to pay for basics and fund household repairs—so prom dresses were still un-affordable for lots of young women.

Carmela and Ava had approached retail stores and bridal shops and even tapped friends to donate their daughter’s gently worn dresses. Much to their surprise and delight, their idea had been met with overwhelming support. A local radio station, WNOL, had even picked up the story, doing an on-air interview with them as well as follow-up mentions. In no time at all, donated prom dresses had come pouring in, maybe even more dresses than they really needed. Two weeks from now, they were scheduled to distribute the prom dresses to young women at several area high schools.

“We’re gonna have to go through those dresses one by one,” said Ava. “Some are in phenomenal shape and a few are kinda ratty.”

“Sort through them and toss out any bummers,” said Carmela. “Sure, we can do that.” She grabbed the remote control and aimed it at the flat-screen TV that hung on the wall.

Ava nodded, then turned her attention to the TV. “Think there’ll be somethin’ on about Melody and Medusa Manor?”

“I’m positive there will,” said Carmela. “You saw Kimber Breeze flying around like the Wicked Witch of the West on her broomstick? She was practically frothing at the mouth.”

“Like an ambulance chaser,” said Ava.

When a picture bloomed on the screen, Carmela hit a few buttons and switched to KBEZ-TV.

“News is coming on now,” said Ava. “I didn’t realize it was so late.”

Carmela and Ava watched as neon lights zoomed around the KBEZ-TV logo like chase lights on a movie marquee. Then Ben Bright, the ten o’clock anchor, leaned forward with his blow-combed hair and faux-serious, trust-me expression. “We lead off tonight’s news with a bizarre tale of murder in our community . . .”

A graphic of Medusa Manor suddenly popped on screen.

“That’s it!” yelped Ava.

Carmela fumbled for the remote again and jacked up the sound.

A head shot of Kimber Breeze filled the screen. “The scene, a haunted house,” began Kimber in a hard-edged, staccato voice. “The victim, a woman with a strange attraction to the supernatural.”

“Who writes this crap?” asked Ava.

“She does,” said Carmela. “Kimber just opens her mouth and dreck pours out.”

“Melody Mayfeldt had high hopes that Medusa Manor would become one of the premier haunted-house attractions in the country,” Kimber continued. “Now, with her almost ritual murder tonight, those hopes are most surely dashed.”

“I don’t know if I can take this,” muttered Carmela.

“Shhh,” said Ava.

With breathless enthusiasm, Kimber Breeze went on to weave a greatly embellished story about Medusa Manor and share with her audience the brutal details of Melody’s murder.

“She’s making half of it up!” exclaimed Ava.

“She sure is,” agreed Carmela. “Most of what she’s saying is pure conjecture.” She snorted. “Typical.”

“Uh-oh,” said Ava. “Here’s someone who’s not conjecture. Sidney St. Cyr. The guy who does the ghost walks in the French Quarter.”

Now there were two people on screen: Kimber Breeze
grasping the arm of Sidney St. Cyr, trying to pull him closer into frame.

“Sidney St. Cyr was a good friend of Melody Mayfeldt,” said Kimber Breeze. “Our viewers may remember Sidney as the founder of Ghost Walks Inc., the rather unique company that guides visitors on ghost walks through the more haunted parts of the French Quarter as well as our rather infamous cemeteries.”

Sidney smiled nervously into the camera. He was tall, thin, and stoop-shouldered, with a slightly beaked nose. Though Sidney was in his midthirties, he projected the air of an older, wearier person.

“He doesn’t look happy,” said Carmela.

“Looks like Kimber’s got him under her thumb,” said Ava.

“Tell us, Sidney,” said Kimber. “What was your opinion of Melody Mayfeldt’s Medusa Manor project?”

Sidney blinked and cleared his throat. “Well, Melody was a great fan of the paranormal. And I think Medusa Manor would have been a terrific attraction.”

“Because of the keen interest in haunted houses today,” prompted Kimber.

“Yes,” said Sidney, who looked even more frozen and stiff now.

“Sidney looks like a Popsicle,” remarked Ava.

“Do you actually
know
Sidney?” asked Carmela. She’d seen him a million times, bumping around the French Quarter at night, wearing a flapping black cape and leading a group of camera-toting tourists. But she’d never actually met Sidney face to face.

“I know him a little,” said Ava. “Sometimes Sidney brings his tour groups into Juju Voodoo. You know, it’s all set up beforehand. We do a tarot reading or toss the
I Ching
, and then his group shops for souvenirs.” Ava’s shop wares consisted mainly of plastic skulls, small silk bags filled with herbal love charms, saint candles, miniature voodoo dolls,
funky jewelry, and various voodoo doodads. All very harmless, but highly appealing to tourists who’d convinced themselves they were getting “the real thing.”

“That’s nice of him,” remarked Carmela.

“Sidney’s not that altruistic, honey,” said Ava. “He always asks for twenty percent.”

“A kickback,” said Carmela.

“Sidney prefers to call it a finder’s fee,” laughed Ava.

“Okay,” said Carmela. She nodded toward the TV. Sidney’s interview had concluded, and the TV station was running random footage of the crime scene. “Who’s the woman in the white trench coat? I saw her earlier tonight, being accosted by Kimber Breeze.”

“Don’t know,” said Ava.

“As we were leaving she was talking to the police and crying,” said Carmela.

Kimber Breeze’s continued narration conveniently filled in the blanks. “I tried to speak with Olivia Wainwright, the silent partner in Medusa Manor,” said Kimber. “But she was unavailable for comment.” There was another quick close-up of Olivia Wainwright looking distraught, then she turned her back on the camera.

“So that’s Melody’s partner,” said Carmela. “Melody mentioned a partner, but never told me her name. Of course, I really only had one quick meeting with Melody about decorating Medusa Manor.”

“You can bet that project’s on ice now,” said Ava. “Which means we’re out of a job.”

“And it would have been fun,” said Carmela.

“It would have been good
money
,” said Ava. As small-business owners, both women were still slogging along the road to recovery, struggling to return business back to the level where it had been before Hurricane Katrina.

Kimber Breeze’s face fairly glowed on the screen now. “Local scrapbook shop owner Carmela Bertrand, wife of Shamus Meechum of the Crescent City Bank chain, was first on
the scene to discover the murdered woman,” said Kimber. “It’s interesting to note that Ms. Bertrand was also involved in a previous murder this past Halloween.”

“Oh, that’s gonna be helpful for your business,” muttered Ava.

“Why did Kimber have to put
that
little factoid in her report?” asked a dumbfounded Carmela.

“Kimber’s just yapping away and trying to score as much face time as possible,” said Ava. “She adores being on camera.”

“But why did she have to mention my name?” fretted Carmela.

“Maybe . . . maybe Kimber’s got an ax to grind,” said Ava.

Carmela thought for a minute. “That’s what scares me.”

“W
HEN I heard your name mentioned on the news last night,” said Gabby, “I couldn’t believe it. I mean, you were really there? You found the actual
dead
body?” Gabby Mercer-Morris, Carmela’s assistant and the wife of Stuart Mercer-Morris, the Toyota King of New Orleans, gaped at Carmela as she fidgeted nervously with the cashmere sweater knotted about her elegant neck. With flowing dark hair and luminous dark eyes, she was a beauty, though even more conservative in taste than Carmela. They’d both just arrived at Memory Mine to open the scrapbooking shop for the day. Of course, Carmela had been hoping to slip in for the day. Of course, Carmela had been hoping to slip in without a huge amount of fanfare, while Gabby was suddenly demanding to hear every single detail.

“I didn’t exactly
find
Melody,” explained Carmela, biting her lower lip. “It was more a case of her finding
us
.”

“They said she fell three stories,” said Gabby, in a hushed tone. “From that creepy tower room?”

“Uh, yeah,” said Carmela. “Except she was dead first.”

Gabby covered her mouth with her hand and let loose a muffled “Oh my.” Then her next question was, “Who do you . . . ?”

Carmela shook her head. “No idea.”

“You didn’t see anyone?” asked Gabby.

“No.”

“Hear anything?”

Carmela didn’t really want to tell Gabby about the ungodly scream that still seemed to ring in her ears. Instead she said, “Not really.”

Gabby slid into a high-backed wooden chair at the large table in the back of the shop, the one they’d dubbed “Craft Central.” She flattened both hands on the battered tabletop until they went white and said, “Wow.”

“Yeah,” agreed Carmela. “I feel the same way.”

“You must have really been shaken up,” said Gabby. “Probably still are.”

“It’s been pretty awful,” admitted Carmela. “If there’s an upside to last night, it was that Edgar Babcock got the call.”

“So your sweetie’s in charge of the homicide investigation,” said Gabby. “That’s good. Babcock’s really smart. Really tough.” Gabby loved the fact that Carmela seemed to have found romance again.

The front door suddenly crashed open, and the silver bell hanging above it
da-dinged
in rapid succession.

“We want details,” demanded Tandy Bliss as she flew toward them, carrying her craft bag slung across one shoulder like a pack animal. Tandy was skinny and hyperthyroidal, with a mop of curly red hair and a pair of red half-glasses perpetually dangling around her neck on a silver chain.

Baby Fontaine was right behind her, drumming rapid clack-clacks on the wooden floor with her stiletto heels. “Carmela!” she cried. “Are you okay?” Baby was Garden District society, a blond fifty-something beauty who was a big-bucks donor to the arts and a consummate party giver.

In fact, Baby was notorious for her over-the-top Halloween and Mardi Gras parties. Her husband, Del, was a prominent New Orleans attorney.

The dynamic duo of Tandy and Baby were regulars at Memory Mine. Both were dedicated scrapbookers and crafters who loved nothing more than spending an entire day huddled over a project. If Carmela gave a rubber-stamping class, they were there. When a make-and-take project was on the docket, they were first to arrive. And whenever new paper or ribbon or decals arrived at the shop, Tandy and Baby were offered first dibs.

“Carmela doesn’t know all that much about the murder,” said Gabby, heading them off.

Tandy and Baby slid to a stop and peered inquisitively at Carmela.

“Sure she does,” said Tandy. “She’s just not at liberty to talk.”

Gabby shifted her gaze to Carmela. “Is that true? Is it because Detective Babcock swore you to secrecy?”

“Your new boyfriend’s working the case?” asked Baby. Elegant brows arched over inquiring blue eyes.

“That means Carmela’s
really
involved,” said Tandy. She put on her half-glasses, let them slide down her nose, and peered expectantly. “Right?”

“Not necessarily,” said Baby, answering the question for Carmela. “Carmela’s a very smart lady. She doesn’t need any conflict in her relationship. She’s happy leaving things with Detective Babcock just the way they are, right? Status quo.”

Carmela nodded at Baby, not quite answering the question. “Babcock would probably kill me if I got involved.”

“Of course he would,” grinned Tandy. “But that’s not gonna stop you, is it?”

Carmela bent over the table to straighten a stack of vellum. She wasn’t saying a word. As far as she was concerned, everything was still very much up in the air.

Twenty minutes later the atmosphere within Memory Mine was considerably more calm. Tandy and Baby were seated at the big table in back working on scrapbook pages. Gabby was up front helping two customers pick through small bags filled with grommets and charms. And Carmela was restocking and straightening shelves.

This was the part of the business Carmela loved, of course. Straightening the colored pens and glue sticks, arranging small packages of embellishments, adding new rubber stamps to their huge wall display, and displaying all the new albums, spools of ribbon, special scissors, and card stock. Because Memory Mine was located in the French Quarter on Governor Nicholls Street, the shop itself boasted tons of charm. Longer than it was wide, the shop featured high ceilings, wide-planked wooden floors, lovely arched front windows, and brick walls.

It was along the longest wall that Carmela had placed the wire paper racks that held thousands of sheets of paper that brought her so much joy. Because Carmela, no secret here, was a bit of a paper addict. She love, love, loved mulberry paper with its infusion of fibers. Then there was Egyptian papyrus, which was always so lineny and gorgeous, and got her creative juices flowing about creating dimensional bags and boxes. Of course, the botanical vellums embedded with real flower petals and the fibery Nepal lokta paper were fabulous, too.

Recently, Carmela had received a small shipment of Indian batik paper. With its rich, dark colors and slightly puckered, accordion affect, she could hardly wait to use it in one of her many projects.