Tragic Magic (24 page)

Carmela wasted no time in calling Shamus back. “Obviously, I need to run this by my lawyer, but I’d say we have a deal.”

“Fine,” said Shamus. “Good.” He’d blown off his steam and sounded reasonable now.

“And I think we should sign this agreement right away,” added Carmela. “Immediately, in fact.”

“What’s the all-fired hurry?” grumped Shamus. “It’s taken us three years to get to this point.”

“You are so right,” said Carmela. “There’s been delay after delay, which I know has been exasperating for both of us. So now that we finally have an agreement we can live with, I think we should bring things to a rapid conclusion. Also, the last thing I want is for your big sister Glory to suddenly
pop a pill and change her mind. So . . . when can we meet?” pressed Carmela. “And where?”

“Jeez Louise,” sniffed Shamus, “you sure are hot to get rid of me.”

You have no idea
, Carmela wanted to say, but she held her tongue and didn’t. Instead, she crossed her fingers and told a little white lie: “Shamus, we gave it a good shot. We were very much in love, but couldn’t make it work. Why not sign the papers right now while we still have fond memories of each other?”

There was a long pause, and then Shamus said, “You have fond memories of me?”

“Of course I do,” said Carmela, lavishly stroking his ego.

“Hey, babe,” laughed Shamus, “do you remember the time we stayed in that little B&B in Bogalusa? It had that really creaky bed and the heart-shaped—”

“Shamus,” said Carmela, cutting him off, “let’s really try to meet tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” said Shamus, his voice rising in a squeak. “That soon?” Now he sounded hurt.

“I think it’s best.”

Several deep sighs were followed by, “I suppose we could meet at the Crescent City Bank offices . . .”

“Perfect,” said Carmela. “What time?”

“Uh . . . nine?” said Shamus.

“See you then,” said Carmela, giving him the proverbial bum’s rush.

“Hey, babe,” came Shamus’s plaintive voice, just before she hung up. “Bring the dogs, will you?”

 

“You finally have an agreement?” asked Gabby. She waved her hands in the air in front of her, as if to clear away any impropriety. “Sorry, but I couldn’t help but overhear you.”

“It’s looking good,” said Carmela, “as long as Glory doesn’t stick her fat nose in at the last minute.”

“I’m happy for you, Carmela,” said Gabby, giving her a little hug. Ever the romantic, Gabby had burned candles and prayed to St. Valentine in hopes that Carmela and Shamus would eventually reunite. But now, after all their bitter wranglings and Shamus’s infidelities, she’d pretty much accepted the divorce. And, of course, Edgar Babcock had recently come on the scene. So Gabby was thrilled beyond words that Carmela was romantically involved again. The fact that Babcock was tall, handsome, well mannered, and a terrific dresser didn’t hurt, either.

“You know what?” said Carmela, “I feel fantastic. I haven’t felt this good in . . . in years.”

“Some women are meant to be married,” said Gabby, “some women are meant to be free.”

Carmela studied Gabby for a moment. “You really believe that?”

Gabby nodded. “I do.”

“Does that mean I’m not cut out for marriage?”

Gabby’s face fell. “Oh no, I didn’t mean it like that! I just meant that . . . well, you’ve been on and off with Shamus for so long and now that the situation is resolved, it’s time for you to focus on
you
.”

“Nicely put,” grinned Carmela. “You talked your way out of that one.”

“I hope I did,” said Gabby. “Because I sure don’t mean to be a busybody or even a cynic.”

“You’re not,” said Carmela. “Believe me.”

Gabby picked up a stack of metallic paper, looking more than a little relieved. “Oh, you know what? We received a shipment of that deckle-edged paper you like and some of those tiny manila envelopes with the tie and button closures.”

“Perfect,” said Carmela. “I had someone ask about those envelopes just the other day.”

They got busy then as the clock cranked toward ten and
customers, regulars as well as French Quarter visitors, began to trickle in.

One woman wanted to make personalized wine labels, so Carmela showed her how to create a Tuscan background using watercolors on beige card stock. With a little careful placement, a rubber stamp of an old monastery yielded a winery visual, helped along with some overstamping of grape and leaf designs. All that was needed was hand lettering on the label and a bit of raffia to tie around the neck of the bottle.

Another customer wanted to make seating cards for a fancy dinner with an opera theme. Carmela showed her how to create small black one-fold cards with manila library pockets on the inside. Carmela then suggested creating collaged and stamped tags to go inside those pockets. Some of the papers she chose for the woman included themes of musical notes, fancy scripts, and florals. Suggested rubber-stamping ideas included portraits of Italian Renaissance ladies, musical notes, and sketches of European-style villas.

“This morning is completely flying by,” remarked Gabby when there was a slight break in the action.

“Business is
good
,” breathed Carmela. She reached out and rapped her knuckles on one of the flat files, a little knock on wood for insurance purposes.

Gabby jerked her head toward the front counter. “I think that lady might need a little help selecting fibers and tassels to embellish her album.”

“You want me to make some suggestions?” asked Carmela.

Gabby nodded. “Would you? You always have such innovative ideas.”

But when Carmela offered to help, she was waved away.

“I’m taking my time and having fun,” the woman told her. “I just want to look at everything you have before I make my decision.”

“No problem,” said Carmela. “And if you want larger tassels or beaded tassels, just ask. We have some stashed in back.”

Carmela turned to her shelf of albums and began straightening them. She put the old-fashioned black albums on the left; tucked a trio of larger red leather albums next to them; and was about to add two suede-covered albums, when a hand dropped softly on her shoulder. She whirled, expecting Gabby. Instead, she found herself gazing into the dark, limpid eyes of Sidney St. Cyr.

“Sidney!” she cried. “What are you doing here?” He’d surprised as well as flustered her.

Sidney arranged his long face into a smile. “I came by to see you, Carmela.”

She placed the suede albums on the shelf and pulled herself together. “What’s up?”

Sidney dropped his head, gazed at his black high-top tennis shoes for a few moments, then glanced back up at Carmela. “I . . . I came by to offer my help.”

“Help?” Carmela wasn’t sure what Sidney was talking about. Did he want to help with Medusa Manor?

Sidney plunged on ahead. “I understand you’ve been making a few inquiries about . . . well, about Melody’s murder.”

Carmela’s nod was almost imperceptible.

“And I thought,” continued Sidney, “that perhaps I could help.”

Carmela gave a slow reptilian blink and then said, sweet as pie, to Sidney, “Why don’t you come back to my office, where we can talk?”

Sidney followed docilely and, once they were settled, told her in a rush of what appeared to be heartfelt sentiment, “Melody was my friend, too. A
good
friend.”

“I know she was,” said Carmela. She was seated in her swivel task chair with Sidney across from her in a director’s chair, his long legs splayed out.

“The police don’t seem to be getting anywhere,” said Sidney, gazing at her rather intently.

“No, they don’t,” agreed Carmela. She gulped, took a deep breath, and plunged ahead. “In fact, last night Ava and I were just remarking on that rather sad state of affairs. About how Melody’s death is so . . . so unresolved.”

Sidney nodded emphatically, punctuated with a slight sniffle.

“I know this might sound somewhat unusual,” said Carmela, “given the circumstances, but Ava and I were actually thinking of conducting a séance.”

Sidney’s eyes widened. “To try to get in touch with Melody? To try to talk to her?” This clearly intrigued him.

“Um . . . yes,” said Carmela. “That would be the general idea.”

“I think it’s a wonderful idea!” cried Sidney.

“You do?” She leaned back in her chair, pleased that he’d jumped at the idea. The bait.

“Absolutely,” said Sidney. “When did you want to do this?”

“Ava actually mentioned something about having a séance tonight at her place,” said Carmela.

A frown flitted across Sidney’s face. “It would have to be later. I have a ghost walk tonight. Going to hit a couple old hotels, Pirate’s Alley, a voodoo temple, like that.”

“So maybe ten or ten thirty would work for you?”

“Ten thirty,” said Sidney, “would be perfect.”

“Good,” said Carmela. “I’ll call Ava and tell her you’re eager to participate.”

“Wouldn’t it be something,” said Sidney, “if we really made contact?”

“Yes, it would,” agreed Carmela.

Sidney’s big hands slapped his knees, then he rose from his chair. “See you tonight. And thank you!”

 

 

“You’re not going to believe this,” Carmela told Ava when she picked up the phone, “but we’re set for tonight.”

“Tonight . . .” said Ava.

“The séance!”

“Oh my gosh, you
talked
to Sidney?”

“He came waltzing into my shop!” exclaimed Carmela. “On his own accord.”

“And you just laid it on him,” said Ava.

“Something like that.”

“And he agreed to it?” said a still-surprised Ava.

“Are you kidding?” said Carmela. “Sidney jumped at the chance. This is an eager boy we have here.”

“Hot dog!” exclaimed Ava. “Like a rat to the trap. Aren’t you the clever one.”

“Maybe,” said Carmela. “We’ll see.”

“We’ll set up a Ouija board in the back room,” enthused Ava. “Make sure it’s dark and draped, suitably spooky. Then, if we have to, we’ll move on to tarot cards.”

“I leave this completely in your capable hands,” said Carmela. “You’re the one who’s the voodoo lady of New Orleans.”

“Don’t tell anybody,” said Ava, dropping her voice to a whisper, “but I’m really the
faux
voodoo lady. Truth be told, all my love charms and gris-gris bags are really filled with herbs and spices. Good for flavoring jambalaya or baking a turkey.”

“My lips are sealed,” laughed Carmela.

“So what time tonight?” asked Ava.

“Ten thirty. Sidney has a ghost walk and Babcock’s taking me out to dinner.”

“So you’ll have to ditch him,” said Ava. “Easier said than done.”

“Naw, he was over last night, so I pretty much wore him out.”

“You wicked girl,” said Ava.

“I certainly hope so,” laughed Carmela.

“So . . . I culled through those prom dresses that were jamming my office and picked out the bummers. I’ll probably haul them over to Medusa Manor this afternoon.”

“If you’re going over there,” said Carmela, “I’ll call Jack Meador at Metcalf and Meador and tell him to deliver the stuff I bought from him. There’s a table, a couple of paintings, a trunk, and a lamp.”

“Sounds like a plan,” said Ava.

“Y
OU stamp directly on the leather?” asked Byrle.

Carmela nodded. Byrle Coopersmith, one of her regulars, had dropped by with Tandy this afternoon and begged for a few ideas on embellishing small notebooks. Byrle wanted to make several, in different motifs, to give as gifts.

Carmela had mulled this over for a couple of minutes, then pulled out a number of leather scraps as well as some western-themed rubber stamps. She’d directed each woman to choose a stamp while she selected a buffalo image.

“First I’ll stamp the image on leather,” Carmela told them. She pressed the rubber stamp against a black ink pad, then stamped a buffalo impression on her scrap of leather. “Then I’ll use a wood-burning tool to burn along the outline.” She picked up a wood-burning tool she’d had heating, then leaned forward and touched the tip of the tool to the leather. There was a hiss and the distinct scent of burning leather as Carmela eased the tool around the stamped buffalo
image until it resembled something a branding iron might have created.

“Cool,” said Tandy. “Then what?”

“Now I’m going to make a slightly ragged cut around my buffalo image, leaving maybe an inch or so on each side. Then I mount that image on a torn, slightly oval piece of brown card stock.”

“Okay,” said Byrle, “but what about the album itself?”

“That we’re going to cover,” said Carmela. She’d already found a piece of tan paper with an aspen leaf design, so she used spray adhesive to mount it on the album cover, then wrapped the excess paper around to the inside. “Now I can adhere my buffalo piece to the front cover, then add a leather cord with some beads.”

“And maybe a feather?” asked Byrle.

“Love it,” said Carmela. “In fact, the more layers you can build up, the better.”

“That’s really the key to crafting, isn’t it?” asked Tandy.

Carmela nodded. “Layers and coordinating colors. That’s how you achieve a certain . . . what would you call it? A richness.”

Carmela helped Tandy and Byrle for another ten minutes, then disappeared into her office for a quick lunch. Gabby had run out for po’boys, so that’s what Carmela was hunched over now—a classic New Orleans French roll sandwich stacked with roast beef, tomatoes, onions, pickles, and plenty of mayonnaise.

As mayonnaise dripped on her papers and Melissa Etheridge wafted from the CD player, Carmela flipped through pages of her business planner. Early on, when she’d first conceived Memory Mine, she’d written an initial business plan. That had become the template for her one-year, five-year, and ten-year plans. Amazingly enough, she was starting to close in on that five-year plan! Of course, not everything had gone according to plan. There’d been little business hiccups along the way and then one great big hiccup known as Hurricane Katrina.