Gossamer Ghost (20 page)

“Right here in New Orleans.”

“This is for real?” Carmela thought this sounded very romantic and swashbuckling, but awfully far-fetched.

Jekyl held up a finger. “Remember, New Orleans was home to a bevy of French loyalists—many of whom had been battle tested with Andrew Jackson at the Battle of New Orleans. So this same group made up their minds to rescue Napoleon from his exile on the island of Elba.”

Carmela leaned in, suddenly fascinated by Jekyl's tall tale.

“The French loyalists even enlisted the help of Jean Laffite to take a garrison of ships and rescue Napoleon.”

“Are you serious?”
Jean Laffite, the infamous pirate?

“I'm as serious as a heart attack. Carmela, baby, there are people here with French ancestries that stretch back two hundred and fifty years. There's history here, a proud heritage.” He paused. “You know about the Napoleon Club?”

“I've heard of it.”

“That fellow who showed up late at the cemetery? Titus Duval? He happens to be a charter member. Not only that, he's the great-great-great-grandson of former New Orleans mayor Nicholas Girod, one of the men who led the charge to rescue Napoleon and bring him to New Orleans.”

“So why didn't they?” Carmela was caught up in the romance of the story. “Rescue Napoleon, I mean.”

“That's just the point—they did! Only poor Napoleon died of stomach cancer while they were en route to grab him.” Jekyl suddenly looked nervous. “So please, never underestimate the interest that some of these old families still have in Napoleon.” He paused. “And Napoleon's death mask.”

Carmela licked her lips and nodded. In offering to help Mavis, she wondered just what kind of hornet's nest she'd managed to kick open.

“A
S
far as handmade paper goes,” said Carmela, “this is what we've got in stock right now. Mulberry, creamy Nepalese lokta, Japanese rice paper, Florentine linen, and some gorgeous Thai paper that contains pineapple, kozo, and salago fibers.”

“I love them all,” said Amy. Amy Defler was a Memory Mine regular. She'd just dropped by to grab a handful of twelve-by-twelve-inch scrapbook sheets. “But that mulberry paper really knocks me out. I mean the
colors
.
Look at that bright raspberry. And the intense green.”

“Sounds like you just made your choice,” said Carmela. She was finding it infinitely comforting to be back at Memory Mine, pulling out paper, test-driving new rubber stamps, and sorting through die cuts. In fact, this type of normalcy felt wonderful, considering this morning's rather strange memorial service compounded with Jekyl's equally bizarre warning.

“Ooh,” said Amy, pointing at a roller stamp wheel. “What's that all about?”

“You'd like this,” said Carmela. “You click on one of our mini roller wheels, ink it up, and run it across your paper for a continuous design. It's especially terrific for creating borders.”

“What designs do you have?”

“Let's see,” said Carmela. “Stars, ferns, frogs, curlicues, angels, and lots of graphic patterns. Oh, and here's a daisy motif.”

“I think I need one of the graphic patterns. That squiggly one.”

“Excellent,” said Carmela. She popped everything into a brown paper bag, grabbed one of her colorful crack-and-peel labels, and stuck it on the side of the bag. “There you go. That'll be nineteen ninety-five.”

*   *   *

Just as Amy was leaving and Carmela was about to break out in song, her good mood skidded to a screeching halt. Because the Countess Saint-Marche suddenly tapped on the front window and mouthed an elaborate
Hello.

“Oh no,” Carmela said to Gabby. “Looks who's just arrived to darken our doorstep.”

Gabby looked up from a wire embellishment she was working on. “What?” Then she caught sight of the countess. “Oh . . . yeah.”

“Hell-
o
!” the countess called out loudly as she pushed through the front door. Her strident voice not only turned heads it seemed to reverberate off the walls like a bullhorn. “How are all my busy little chickadees?”

Carmela straightened up. “Busy,” she said, vowing to hang on to her good humor. Grasp it tightly with her fingernails if need be.

“I understand you have some logo designs to show me?” sang out the countess.

Carmela gazed at Gabby.

“She called here this morning,” Gabby hastily explained. “I mentioned that you had come up with some great ideas.”

“So I did,” said Carmela. She reached under the counter and pulled out her stack of sketches, mentally girding herself for a clash of creative differences, maybe even a prolonged battle.

But when Carmela spread out all three Lucrezia logos, the countess studied them briefly, and then tapped the ring design decisively with her index finger. “That's the one.”

Just like that?
Carmela thought.
It's that easy?

“You didn't even let me launch into my patented sales-and-marketing pitch,” Carmela said. Truth be told, she was secretly pleased that the countess was a good decision maker. So many people weren't.

“Oh, this is it,” said the countess. “The ring design is absolutely perfect. You don't have to waste time selling me, because I
love
it.”

“It's my favorite, too,” said Gabby.

“That was way too easy,” Carmela said.

“I'm easier than I look,” smiled the countess.

Carmela chuckled. “I wouldn't touch that line with a ten-foot pole.”

“Now what about paper stock?” asked the countess. “I want paper that's rich and elegant, something that will reflect the upscale interior and artistry of my shop.”

“All along I've been thinking a cream-colored stock,” said Carmela. “Perhaps a nice linen finish.” She pulled out a book of paper samples and flipped through a couple of pages. “Something like this.”

As the countess studied the samples of paper stock, her brows pinched together. It was a pinch that Carmela recognized as the first warning sign that this might not be so easy after all.

“Now I'm thinking the color should be more fawn or mushroom,” said the countess.

Gabby looked up. “You mean beige?”

The countess tilted her head. “Actually, more biscuit. Or bone.”

“Sure,” said Carmela. She wasn't about to argue the merits of one beige-colored paper stock over another. “So you're going to want invitations, business cards, and letterhead?”

“And envelopes,” said the countess. “Smaller square ones as well as business-sized.”

“Let me work up a bid on that,” said Carmela. “I'm thinking a quantity of . . . what? Maybe two thousand each?”

But the countess had mentally moved on. In fact, she bent down, lifted a small piece of Louis Vuitton luggage off the floor, and placed it gingerly on the counter. “I want to show you ladies something,” she said in a conspiratorial tone.

“What have you got there?” asked Gabby. She was a Vuitton fanatic.

In reply, the countess smiled broadly and clicked the brass latch on the small, elegant case. She lifted the lid to reveal three stunning pieces of jewelry nestled atop a red velvet cushion.

“Oh my goodness!” said Gabby. “If that doesn't blow your socks off.”

“Aren't they lovely?” cooed the countess.

Carmela peered in. “What are you doing walking around the French Quarter with all that loot?” she asked. There was a diamond pendant on a braided gold chain, a silver necklace with a half dozen brilliant blue stones, and a gold necklace with pear-shaped cabochon rubies surrounded by pavé diamonds.

“These pieces are just a few of my recent acquisitions,” said the countess. “Jewelry that will be offered for sale in my new shop.”

“Are the necklaces all vintage?” Gabby asked. She was completely agog.

The countess nodded with the faintest of smiles. “The oldest and really the most pricey is the Cartier. She lifted it out of the case and held it up. The rubies glinted enticingly, the diamonds were like shards of pure light.

“It's absolutely gorgeous,” said Carmela. She had to admit, she did have an affinity for vintage jewelry. Then again, what woman could resist a piece like this? Especially since it was Cartier.

“Wouldn't it be something to actually
wear
one of these pieces?” said Gabby.

“They're killer pieces,” Carmela agreed.

The countess handed the Cartier piece over to Carmela. “It suits you,” she said.

“Oh yeah,” Carmela agreed. “But not my bank account.”

“Why not try it on?” suggested the countess.

Carmela gazed at the countess. “You mean wear it?”

“Wear it tonight if you'd like. I assume you're going out.”

“Do it, Carmela!” said Gabby. “It would look stunning with your Scarlett O'Hara dress.” She turned to the countess and explained, “We're going to a fancy masquerade ball tonight. In the Garden District, no less.”

“Then it's settled,” said the countess. “You
must
wear it.”

“I don't know,” said Carmela as she fastened the necklace around her neck.

Gabby dug into a drawer and whipped out a hand mirror. “Take a look,” she said, pushing it forward.

Upon seeing the necklace sparkling brightly around her neck, some of Carmela's unkind feelings toward the countess seemed to evaporate. In fact, she felt like she was suddenly in a dream sequence, magically transported to a beautiful kingdom and made an honorary princess for a day—complete with crown jewels.

Then Carmela thudded back down to earth.

“Are you sure you want me to wear this?”

“Oh, absolutely!” said the countess. “It would be my pleasure.”

Gabby, who was still goggle-eyed, murmured, “If something like that was offered to me, I'd certainly wear it.”

“Then it's settled,” smiled the countess.

*   *   *

Carmela made sure the necklace was securely locked in a file drawer before she went back to work. She loved the idea of wearing it tonight (who wouldn't!), but in the back of her mind hung the knowledge that a death mask had disappeared from right next door.

What if there's a cat burglar prowling the French Quarter and he's targeting this block? What if he staked out Oddities and now has his eye on the countess? And me?

Still, all the what-ifs in the world weren't going to help solve the murder of Marcus Joubert, and they certainly weren't going to help Carmela's customers get more creative with their scrapbooks. So she flitted about the shop, cutting lengths of ribbon, digging out memory boxes, giving tips on tag art, collages, and card making.

Gabby brought in lunch, but Carmela only managed a few bites of her blueberry muffin and citrus salad before she was called upon to help a customer create an altered book.

“Here's the thing,” said the woman, whose name was Jill. “I want to do an altered book for my daughter, Kristen. You know, for the upcoming holidays.”

“A Christmas book,” said Carmela. It would be fun to work on a project that wasn't Halloween.

“That's right,” said Jill. “I have this lovely book of poetry and my husband's already carved out a niche inside using an X-Acto knife.”

“Very carefully I hope?”

“No fingers lost,” said Jill. She flipped open the cover to reveal the inside. “And I've already glued all the pages together.”

“You're halfway there,” said Carmela. “Did you have a theme in mind?”

“Angels?” said Jill.

Carmela thought for a moment, then darted about her shop, grabbing paper, ribbon, and a few miscellaneous packets. “Here's an idea,” she said as they both settled down at the back table. She slid a piece of paper toward Jill. “This scrapbook paper is printed to look like sheet music.”

Jill studied it. “‘Angels We Have Heard on High.'
That's one of my favorite Christmas hymns.”

“Perhaps that could be the background design in your niche,” said Carmela. “Then you add this small ceramic angel.” She handed Jill a white, cherubic angel. “The angel could be set off with some white velvet ribbon, silver aspen leaves, a ruffle of white lace, and anything else you'd like.”

Jill nodded, a smile on her face. “A miniature still life. I like it.”

“You could cover the outside of your book with blush-colored faux velvet paper and accent it with a small gilded vintage frame inset with an image of a Botticelli angel. And then . . . maybe wrap the book with a string of pearls?”

“Perfect,” said Jill.

*   *   *

Carmela also helped a woman create trick-or-treat bags by stamping witch images with orange embossing ink. Then she took small black fuzzy balls, inserted wings and eyes so they resembled flying bats, and glued them on the bags.

But as Carmela worked, her mind continued to hum. She thought about Joubert's murder, her various suspects, and what else she could possibly do to move the investigation along. She was pawing through a box of vintage jewelry findings when she suddenly looked up and said, “I know what I can do.”

“Hmm?” said Gabby absently.

She could call Wallace Pitney, the wealthy Dallas collector whose Napoleon death mask had been stolen.

Of course, she didn't have his number, and she couldn't exactly pry it out of Babcock (heaven forbid!), so she spent five minutes at her computer and Googled Mr. Pitney. That produced a phone number that might or might not be his.

Fingers crossed, Carmela made the call. Bingo. She was in luck. After pleading her case to a secretary, who was a fairly tough gatekeeper, she was finally put through to Mr. Pitney.

“You're calling from New Orleans?” Pitney asked in a slightly quavering voice. “Did you recover my mask?”

“I'm afraid not,” Carmela told him. “I just wanted to ask you a few follow-up questions.” She held her breath, wondering what his reaction would be.

“You're with the police?”

It was exactly what she thought he would ask.

“I've been working with them, yes.” Okay, a little white lie.
Just one, okay?

“I've been through this already,” said Pitney. He sounded cranky, like he wanted to go lie down. Or have a cocktail. Or lie down and have a cocktail.

“I just wanted to know a little more about the circumstances of your break-in.”

“What's to know?” complained Pitney. “Some crackpot threw a brick through my window, came in, grabbed the mask from its case, and took off before my idiot security company arrived.” He made a sound in the back of his throat. “Lot of good they were.”