Gilt Trip (11 page)

“Who knows what gold leaf is?” Carmela asked.

Baby held up a hand. “You mean like the gold leaf you see on statues or fancy picture frames?”

“That's right,” said Carmela. “But I'm going to let you in on a little secret.”

The ladies seemed to strain forward en masse, in anticipation of Carmela's words.

“Gold leaf is a snap to do,” said Carmela. She picked up a small package and pulled out a single, flimsy, glittering sheet. “It comes in these micro-thin sheets and can be easily applied over a simple adhesive.”

“Show us,” said one of the women.

Carmela grabbed a small picture frame that she'd already covered with a rich paisley paper. “You simply apply some adhesive . . .” She brushed on a coat of clear liquid. “Then you lay down a small piece of gold leaf . . .” She tore off a small piece and laid it down. “And then you brush it with a special brush.”

There were oohs and aahs as the gold leaf began to adhere.

“As you can see,” Carmela continued, “a few pieces flake off. But that's okay, because then you achieve a slightly distressed look.” She showed her frame around for all to see.

“It looks gorgeous,” said Baby. “Antiqued but even better.”

“Gilded,” said Tandy.

“You can add gold leaf to just about anything,” said Carmela. “Invitations, greeting cards, papier-mâché boxes, notebook covers, even candles and beads. And if you're nervous about handling this type of thin gold foil, there are also gold leaf paints and gold leaf pens.”

“Could you make your own gift wrap using that technique?” asked one of the women.

“Of course,” said Carmela. “Or your own stationery. Really, ladies, you can finally have gold on anything and everything your little heart desires!”

The class enjoyed a good laugh, then got to work gilding everything in sight—a small hexagonal-shaped kraft paper box, album covers, even some red lacquered beads that, when partially gilded, looked like something straight from the Ming Dynasty!

An hour into the class, Gabby cleared a space on the table and set out a tray of bars that she'd purchased from the Merci Beaucoup Bakery.

“Mmn,” said the lady with the feather hat. “What have we got here?”

“Coconut bars and marbled brownies,” said Gabby. “Help yourself.”

“Can you gild food?” asked Tandy, a twinkle dancing in her eye.

“Of course you can,” responded Baby. “Haven't you ever had one of the desserts at Marvel's Bistro? Their pastry chef creates delicately sculpted chocolate leaves and covers them with edible gold leaf!”

“Yum,” said Tandy.

• • •

WITH HER CLASS FOCUSED ON THEIR PROJECTS,
Carmela decided to work on her own small commission—namely, the shadow box commemorating Jerry Earl. She gathered up the photos, notebook, and the rest of the items and carried them out to the craft table.

“Mmn,” said Tandy, suddenly noticing the geode. “What's that pretty little rock?”

“It's a geode,” said Carmela.

“What are you going to do with it, pray tell?” asked Baby.

“Margo Leland asked me to create a shadow box. To sort of commemorate Jerry Earl's passing.”

One of the blond ladies perked up. “Jerry Earl Leland? The tycoon who was murdered at his own party?”

The table went silent as a tomb and all eyes turned toward Carmela.

“I'm doing it as a kind of favor,” she explained. “For his widow.”

One of the crafters, who went by the unfortunate name of Tootsie, said, “If he was a really rich guy who got murdered, then probably the butler did it.”

“I don't think he had a butler,” said Carmela. “But he did have an assistant.”
One who seems a little snarky and was definitely hiding something from me.

Tootsie winked at her. “It was the assistant then. Guilty as charged.”

“You know what,” said Tandy. “I wouldn't mind making one of those shadow boxes, too.”

“Me, too,” said the feathered hat lady. “Those look kind of cool.”

“Are we done gilding, ladies?” Gabby asked.

“Mine for sure needs to dry now,” said Baby.

“So a second class?” said Carmela. To which they all gave enthusiastic nods.

To best explain how to create a shadow box, Carmela pulled out one of her finished projects. It was a shadow box with sheet music as the background, bouquets of dried flowers, a white ceramic angel statue, and a few silver stars suspended on nearly invisible nylon thread.

Then Gabby pulled out a stack of unfinished wooden shadow boxes and passed them around, and the women wandered through the shop, picking out paper, ribbon, and decorative items. The blond sister decided on a Parisian theme, while another of the women chose an African safari theme.

As her customers worked at painting and gluing paper to background their little shadow boxes, Carmela leafed through Jerry Earl's notebook and tore out the page that intrigued her the most. It was a page that had a sketch of what looked to be a map of western Louisiana. The paper was a lovely, yellowed, aged parchment and the map was surrounded by a myriad of cryptic little notes in cramped handwriting. All in all, a perfect backdrop.

To add more interest, Carmela glued a piece of purple velvet ribbon around the edges of a photo of Jerry Earl. Then she brushed gilt paint around the edges of an old black-and-white image of the Garden District that had been taken at the turn of the century, and placed that inside. From there she only had to add two gold coins, a fossil, and the geode.

As she was positioning the geode, Carmela was suddenly aware of Baby looking over her shoulder.

“That's just lovely,” Baby murmured. “You should take it over to Margo as soon as you can. I'm sure it will be a great comfort to her.”

“Let me see,” said Tandy, crowding in, too. “Oh yeah, that really is nice.”

“No matter what you think of Margo,” said Baby, “she doesn't deserve all the bad luck she's had of late.”

Unless Margo's the killer
, Carmela thought to herself.

Tandy was still studying Carmela's little creation. “There's something kind of familiar about that map in the background.”

“You think?” said Carmela.

“Yes, but I just can't put my finger on it.”

“I think it's some area around here,” said Carmela.

Tandy shrugged. “Yeah, probably.” Then, in a whisper the others couldn't hear, she said, “Carmela, who was having the affair?”

Baby leaned in closer, the better to hear, as Carmela whispered, “Jerry Earl and Beetsie.”

“Oh!” said Baby.

H
ER
guests long gone, all craft supplies cleaned up and put back in their rightful places, Carmela scurried across Governor Nicholls Street to meet Shamus. Daylight was morphing into dusk, and the French Quarter never looked more beautiful than when pink and purple streaked the sky. All the graceful old buildings had a certain softness to them, like a rubber stamp that had been carefully printed then gently smudged.

A breeze riffled the green awning overhead, and the twinkling white lights in the potted palmettos looked positively welcoming as Carmela hurried through the door into Glisande's Courtyard Restaurant.

The maître d' glanced up from his reservation book with a smile, but Carmela waved him off with a quick “I'm meeting someone.” Then she strode into the dining room and looked around. It was old world New Orleans glamour personified. Decorated in a French palette of pale blue, eggshell white, and yellow, it was both posh and plush. White linens graced the tables, diners sat on richly upholstered high-backed chairs. Windows were swagged with linen draperies, and bunches of dried lavender and white roses were arranged in enormous French crocks.

Tonight there were a few early diners, but no Shamus.

But he wouldn't wait for me in here. He's probably . . .

Carmela strolled into the sleek, dark bar with its backlit Greek chorus of bottles filled with rum, brandy, whiskey, and every other spirit you could possibly conjure. And there he was, sprawled at the bar, looking happy and sassy as if he held the deed to the darned place in his hot little hand.

Carmela watched Shamus for a minute, thinking of what might have been. Of promises . . . broken.

Then Shamus turned and caught sight of her. An easy grin lit his face and he waved. Carmela remembered when that grin had set her heart to pounding. Not anymore. Now her heart was just . . . beating normally.

“Carmela!” Shamus called. “Babe!”

Carmela slid onto the bar stool next to him. “What's going on?”

Shamus frowned. “What kind of greeting is that for your ex-hubby?”

“Sorry.” Carmela closed her eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath. When she opened her eyes again, she said, “Hi, Shamus. How are you?”

“Oh yeah,” he said. “That's so much better. Practically bordering on sincere.”

The waiter set a vodka martini, two olives, straight up, in front of Shamus.

“You want something?” Shamus asked her.

“Just a Diet Coke.”

The waiter nodded and disappeared.

“So what have you been up to?” Carmela asked.

“Ack, same old, same old. The only interesting things that've come across my desk lately are a loan app for the new casino in Bogalusa and an interim loan for an oil exploration company.” Shamus sipped on his martini, then reached out and dug his hand into a bowl of bar peanuts. He popped them into his mouth, chewed, and went back for a giant helping of popcorn.

Carmela was basically appalled. But then again, she knew Shamus had the digestive system of a goat. When her Diet Coke finally arrived, she took a fortifying sip and said, “What's this little meeting all about?”

Shamus scooped up some maraschino cherries and popped one in his mouth. “So there's this charity event Saturday night . . .”

“Uh-hum.” Carmela took another hit of Diet Coke.
Wait for it
, she told herself.

“The Cakewalk Ball,” he said, still chewing.

“I'm aware of it,” said Carmela. “In fact, I'm going to it.”

“Oh, hey,” said Shamus. “That makes it even easier.”

“What makes what easier?”

“Because of our status in the community, Crescent City Bank is obviously contributing a cake to the auction.” He eyed her carefully.

“Ye-e-s-s,” Carmela said, drawing out the word.

“And Glory is donating a really gorgeous diamond pendant to top off our cake. So I need someone—hopefully you—to create the decorations. You know, the frosting and all that shit.”

“Sweet talk will get you everywhere,” said Carmela.

“Anyway, when it comes to decorating and crafts and girly stuff like that, you're the most creative person I know!” The wattage on Shamus's smile almost blinded Carmela.

“Shamus, I know next to nothing about decorating a cake!”

“C'mon, babe, how hard can it be? You whip up some frosting and spackle it on.”

“Plaster with sugar,” said Carmela.

Shamus bobbed his head. “Sure.”

“And I'm sure Glory would just
love
for me to be involved.”

“She's mellowed, Carmela, she really has. She doesn't hate you nearly as much as she used to.”

“You call that progress?”

“Sure,” said Shamus. He reached over and squeezed Carmela's hand. “Please, babe? As a favor to me?”

“Oh . . . jeez.” She was wavering. Why was that? What was the hold Shamus still had on her? “I wouldn't have to actually
bake
the cake, would I?”

“No, no, Duvall's Bakery will take care of that. In fact, I'll have them deliver it right to your place. All you have to do is throw on some frosting and fondant and make it look absolutely stunning.” Shamus slipped off his bar stool and dug for something in his pocket.

“Like I know how to do that,” said Carmela.

“And incorporate this diamond necklace into the decor,” said Shamus. He opened his hand and a necklace suddenly tumbled out, a large diamond pendant on a thin gold chain. It dangled in midair, twirling and glinting and catching the light.

“Wow.” Carmela could barely take her eyes off it.

“Nice little bauble, don't you think?”

“It's stunning. How many carats?”

“I think about six, all told. A four-carat emerald-cut diamond set in a frame of pave diamonds. Pretty neat, huh?”

“You trust me with this?” Carmela asked playfully. It was all she could do to restrain herself from hooking the gorgeous little thing around her neck!

“I trust it will be the crowning jewel on your cake.”

Carmela held out her hand. “Okay. I'll do it.”

Shamus dropped the necklace into her hand, where it made a delightful little puddle of diamonds and gold. “But be careful! Don't lose it! Here, better put it in this.” He handed her a small black velvet bag.

Carmela placed the necklace into the bag, then tucked the whole thing into her purse. “Okay.” She stood up to leave. “You coming?”

“Naw.” Shamus's eyes slid down the bar, where a couple of women were sitting. “I think I'll hang around for a while. See what's shakin'.”

“You're incorrigible, Shamus.”

“Yeah, whatever.” His eyes focused on her. “You know this is my weekend to take the dogs. According to our somewhat laissez-faire custody agreement.”

“I know that.”

“Okay,” said Shamus. “I'm just sayin'.” His eyes slid back to the two women.

“Bye, Shamus. Try to be good.” Carmela walked back through the dining room, which was filling up rapidly now, and headed for the front door. But before she could push it open, a gentleman inclined his head to her and said, “Please, allow me.”

Carmela looked up into the bearded face of Buddy Pelletier.

“Oh,” she said, startled. “It's Mr. Pelletier, right?” She remembered him from Margo's party.

“That's right,” he said as he pushed the door open for her. “And you're Carmela Bertrand.” They walked out into the coolness of the late afternoon. “Margo Leland has told me quite a bit about you.”

Buddy Pelletier was tall and strikingly handsome. He was midforties and wore an expensively hand-tailored suit that oozed class. He had the sharp blue eyes of a Samoyed, and they crinkled winningly at the corners.

“My dear,” Pelletier continued, “you have my undying thanks. Margo tells me you've been a tremendous comfort to her during her time of need.”

“I hope I have been,” said Carmela.

“Margo also tells me she's roped you into the investigation?”

“Only because I was the one who found Jerry Earl.”

“And a sad state of affairs that was.” A sleek navy blue convertible slid to the curb and a valet jumped out.

An Aston Martin, Carmela thought to herself. Hand tooled in England and the very same vehicle that 007 drove.

“Your car is beautiful,” she told him. She couldn't help herself. She was a sports car aficionado and knew this one was in a class by itself.

“One of the best things about New Orleans's climate,” said Pelletier, “is that you can enjoy tooling around in your convertible practically year-round.” Then Pelletier got serious again. “Your kindness to Margo is greatly appreciated. Jerry Earl was a dear friend of mine, and Margo is very special to me, too. If there's anything I can do to help, please don't hesitate to ask.” He reached into his jacket pocket and took out his wallet. He extracted a business card and handed it to Carmela. “I mean that. Anything at all.”

“Thank you,” said Carmela, accepting the card. For some reason, the heartfelt sincerity of this very busy man touched her. And brought tears to her eyes.

• • •

THE MEMORY BOX TUCKED SAFELY INSIDE A
cardboard box, Carmela strode up the walkway to Margo's mansion. After her encounter with Pelletier, she'd returned to her shop and picked up her handiwork. Somehow, Pelletier's worry over Margo's well-being had telegraphed to her. Even Baby had remarked how much of a comfort the memory box would be. So here she was, bearing both sympathy and a gift.

Carmela noticed that the grounds looked well kept today. The grass had been freshly cut and the camellias pruned. She inhaled the pleasant fragrance as she rang the bell. Then waited for someone to appear from behind the wrought-iron security door.

A few moments later, Beetsie opened the door. She was wearing a dark dress that hung on her spare frame. Surprise registered on her face. “Carmela. Was Margo expecting you?” Then her manners got the better of her and she said, “Come in.”

Carmela followed Beetsie inside. “Is Margo here?”

“Of course, dear, I'll get her. You can wait in the parlor.”

Carmela stepped into the parlor, where, only a few days before, guests had danced and drank while a zydeco band cranked out foot-stompin' tunes. Now it all looked subdued and unused. The heavy velvet chairs and sofas looked almost shabby, as if they, too, were in mourning. Carmela glanced at the enormous white marble fireplace and the portrait of Margo that hung above it. It was a very flattering oil painting, one that made Margo look years younger and pounds slimmer. She wondered who the artist had been. Certainly not Sullivan Finch, he of the strange and unusual death portraits.

Soft footsteps caught Carmela's attention. Margo descended a long stairway with Beetsie trailing behind.

“Carmela, darling,” said Margo. “I've just been picking out clothes for the funeral tomorrow.” She looked hollow and worn out. “You'll come, won't you? It's going to be held at St. Louis Cathedral.”

“Yes, you mentioned that,” said Carmela.

“Elaborate yet personal,” said Beetsie.

Carmela searched her brain for a good excuse not to attend, but Margo clasped a pudgy hand to her chest and said, “Please, Carmela, you have to come! We're counting on it!”

Carmela gave in. “Then I'll be there. And thank you for the tickets to the Cakewalk Ball. As it turns out, I'm going to be decorating a cake for Crescent City Bank.”

“Aren't you the clever one,” remarked Beetsie.

“That's just wonderful,” Margo chirped. Sad Margo was suddenly gone; happy Margo had just taken her place. Then a wolfish grin spread across her face. “Would you like to see the necklace that
I'm
donating?”

“Certainly,” said Carmela.

“Beetsie,” said Margo. She did everything but snap her fingers. “The necklace?”

Beetsie hustled out of the room and returned not thirty seconds later bearing a purple velvet box.

“Come take a peek,” said Margo.

Carmela and Margo crowed closer to Beetsie as she raised the lid.

An elaborate necklace studded with diamonds, emeralds, and rubies sparkled at them. In the center was a pendant in the shape of a Victorian crown. Carmela thought it looked like something Marie Antoinette might have worn. Or at least lost her head over.

“Stunning,” said Carmela.

Margo raised an appreciative eyebrow. “It is, isn't it? It will no doubt be the highlight of the auction.”

Carmela stood there for a couple of seconds, then said, “You know, I didn't mean to interrupt your dinner hour.” She thrust her gift box toward Margo. “I just came by to give you this.”

“What?” said Margo, accepting the box. “What is it?”

“It's the memory box we talked about,” said Carmela.

“Haven't you been the busy little bee,” said Beetsie.

Margo carried the box over to a table, then carefully lifted the lid. “Oh,” she said as she lifted out Carmela's creation. “Oh my.”

“Hmm,” said Beetsie.

“Car-
mel
-a,” said Margo. She was choked up and finding it difficult to speak. “I can't . . . believe it.” Now she pulled out a hanky and wiped away tears. “It's . . . it's . . . I absolutely love it!”

“Thank you,” said Carmela. “I was hoping you would.”

“You're so very . . . clever,” said Beetsie.

But not half as clever as you
, Carmela thought.
If you really were carrying on with Jerry Earl.

“Speaking of clever,” said Margo. “How is your investigation coming along?”

“Slow,” said Carmela. “There's not a whole lot to go on.”

“There isn't, is there?” said Beetsie, staring at her with eyes that were as cold as a silver penny.