Gossamer Ghost

Book 12: A Scrapbooking Mystery

by Laura Childs

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

An evening’s work deciding on the class schedule for her scrapbooking shop has put Carmela in the mood to kick up her heels. But after some strange noises draw her into Oddities, the neighboring antiques shop, Carmela’s night is abruptly put on hold when a bloody body falls out of a curio cabinet—and into her arms.

While shop owner Marcus Joubert was known for being an eccentric with a penchant for eclectic merchandise, Carmela never thought he was the kind of man who could inspire the passion required to kill. But when Marcus’s assistant—and fiancee—Mavis reveals that a priceless death mask was also stolen, it becomes clear that murder wasn’t the culprit’s sole intention.

Carmela can’t resist the urge to investigate the growing mystery, but as the list of suspects increases, she realizes it’ll take every trick in the book to unmask the killer thief before there’s another night of murderous mischief…

Release date: October 7, 2014

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 336

Sample

Acknowledgments

IT was Halloween again in New Orleans. A week-long, rabble-rousing celebration that just seemed to get bigger, badder, and crazier every dang year. A time for would-be werewolves, witches, fairy princesses, goblins, Venetian lords and ladies, and zombies to dust off their costumes, throw on a wig, howl at the moon, and paint the town the bright red color of fake vampire blood.

Carmela Bertrand, the owner of Memory Mine Scrapbook Shop in the French Quarter, was no exception. This year she was debating the merits of wearing a medieval lady’s costume for the week leading up to Halloween, a Scarlett O’Hara dress for her friend Baby Fontaine’s annual masquerade ball, and a sexy witch dress for the ultra-fancy Pumpkins and Bumpkins Ball.

After all, what’s a girl to do when she has dozens of party invitations and is dating one of the hottest police detectives in the Big Easy?

Well, for one thing, it wasn’t so easy.

Right now, late Friday afternoon, with streetlamps just beginning to glow in the darkening purple haze of a French Quarter evening, Carmela was still hunched at her computer trying to figure out which classes to post on her Facebook page. She’d already offered several Paper Moon classes that had proven to be wildly popular. But now she was racking her brain for something different, a couple of fun crafty sessions that would tickle her customers’ fancies and really get their creative juices flowing.

Maybe a stencil class or a class on painted fabrics? Painting on velvet clutch purses and pillows could generate lots of excitement among her die-hard scrapping ladies. The other thing might be . . .

She stood up fast and hustled out of her tiny office and into her retail area. Pulling open a flat file drawer, she peered inside. Yes! She had a huge inventory of square and oval jewelry findings. Neat little square frames, as well as hearts and elaborate ovals that you could slip a tiny photo into. So maybe she could offer a Charm and Pendant class? That could be loads of fun.

Carmela nodded to herself, liking the idea more and more, as she rushed back to her office and typed in her new class. There. Done and done. Creating a personalized charm or pendant was almost as fun as creating a miniature scrapbook page.

Feeling satisfied and a little relieved, more than ready to call it a day, Carmela grabbed her handbag and suede jacket and headed for the front door. Rushing now, she smoothed back a strand of honeyed-blond hair from her short, choppy bob and did a little quickstep. Not quite thirty, Carmela was at that point in her life where she was still young enough to be bubbly, but old enough to be serious. A freewheeling Southern conservative with inquisitive blue-gray eyes, fair complexion that rarely saw the need for makeup, a nose for getting into trouble, and a serious penchant for chocolate.

We could even make charm bracelets, she thought to herself as she turned and locked the door behind her.

As Carmela stepped out onto Governor Nicholls Street, she inhaled deeply and smiled. Evenings in the French Quarter never failed to give her pause and an overall feeling of sweet contentment. After all, who wouldn’t love to gaze up at a purplish blue-black sky that served as a dramatic backdrop for two-hundred-year-old brick buildings? Or wander through courtyard gardens with pattering fountains and giant froths of jasmine and magnolias? And if you stopped and listened carefully, you could more often than not hear the haunting low notes of a jazz saxophone bumping along on a breeze from the river.

Of course, the French Quarter had its crazy hurly-burly side, too. Lest you think it was a perfect little slice of heaven, you couldn’t forget the voodoo shops, absinthe bars, strip clubs, and touristy T-shirt and bead shops. But for every one of those crazy shops there were dozens of quaint oyster bars, jazz clubs, elegant restaurants, historic old homes, French bakeries, and haunted hotels. All there for your delicious enjoyment.

Feeling upbeat, Carmela paused outside her own quaint little bow window with its display of finished scrapbooks, memory boxes, Paperclay jewelry, and altered books. Just gazing at all the finished crafts gave her a keen sense of satisfaction. A feeling of accomplishment for having found her happy little niche in the world.

Over the past few years, Carmela had managed to build Memory Mine into a thriving business. No thanks at all to her ex-husband, Shamus “The Rat” Meechum. He’d bugged out after their very first year of marriage, leaving her to figure out how to negotiate a lease, write a business plan, and obtain a bank loan. And the rat (yes, we’re making a point here) even hailed from one of New Orleans’s premier banking families, owners of Crescent City Bank.

But Carmela had taken the risk, worked her proverbial buns off, and figured out how to entice and build a customer base. And, wonder of wonders, her efforts had not only paid off monetarily, but she found she enjoyed being a small-business owner. One of many here on Governor Nicholls Street with its plethora of gift shops, antique shops, and what have you.

What have you.

That thought caused her to pause outside the front window of Oddities, the shop that served as her next-door neighbor and with whom she shared a common brick wall. Oddities was a strange little business run by an even stranger man by the name of Marcus Joubert. The shop had sprung up two years ago like an errant mushroom and was aptly named. Because Oddities carried an eclectic and macabre mix of merchandise. There were taxidermy animals, Victorian funeral jewelry, steampunk items, beetle and butterfly collections, antique furniture, old medical devices of indeterminate usage, albums filled with black-and-white photos, and any number of bleached-white animal skulls and bones. She’d even once spotted an apparatus that looked suspiciously like a thumbscrew.

Tonight, under the soft glow of streetlamps, her curiosity getting the best of her, Carmela stopped and peered in Oddities’ dusty front window. And saw a pair of old leather goggles, a piece of scrimshaw, a collection of Chinese vases, and a top hat and antique dagger.

For some reason the top hat and dagger struck her as something Jack the Ripper might have had in his possession. Might have even treasured.

Kind of creepy.

Then again, it was the week before Halloween. So perhaps Marcus Joubert was trying to set a theme?

Carmela was just about to turn and walk away, hike the few blocks to her cozy apartment, when she was suddenly aware of a funny and slightly ominous set of noises emanating from inside Oddities. What she thought might have been a muffled scream followed by a dull thump.

Huh?

She stepped closer to the window and tried to peer in, to see what was happening in the back of the shop. No luck. A rainbow of lights from the street reflected off the glass, creating a glare that made it almost impossible.

Still . . . she’d heard something, right?

Carmela, who was generally practical in nature but was blessed (or cursed, some might say) with a giant dollop of inquisitiveness in her DNA, decided it might be smart to investigate.

After all, what if Marcus Joubert had suddenly taken ill? What if the sounds she’d heard were him staggering and falling? Could he be lying in there right now? Struck down by a heart attack or some other ailment and unable to call out for help?

Carmela put a hand on the brass doorknob and turned it slowly. Nothing doing. The door was securely locked.

No problem, she had a key. Joubert had given her one in case of emergency—and this just might qualify as an emergency. If not, then no harm done. She’d take a quick look-see and lock up tightly. No one would be the wiser.

Quickly pulling out her key fob, Carmela found the little brass key and stuck it in the lock.

And that’s when her bravado and good intentions suddenly came to a screeching halt. Because when she opened the door, the shop yawned at her in complete darkness.

Oh my.

Carmela stood there for a few moments, feeling unnatural warmth wash over her, as if a space heater had been left on, and hearing a monotonous ticking from an old grandfather clock in back. As a few more moments passed, she realized the shop wasn’t completely dark after all. There were a few dim lights scattered about the place. Pinprick spotlights glowed from the rafters like bat eyes, illuminating a suit of armor and a wrought-iron candelabra. A stained glass turtle-shell lamp cast a dim orange glow on a shelf alongside a set of frayed leather-bound books. And way in the back, sitting atop Joubert’s rickety rolltop desk, was a faux Tiffany lamp.

Unfortunately, none of the lightbulbs seemed to pump out more than ten watts of power. It was like walking into a dark cocktail lounge without the benefit of strong liquid refreshments.

Carmela took two steps in. “Marcus?” she called out. “Are you okay?”

There was no answer.

“It’s Carmela from next door. I thought I heard something . . .” Her own voice sounded shrill to her, but also seemed to be absorbed quickly into the gloom and darkness. She advanced a few more steps. “Now what?” she muttered to herself. What should she do? What was going on? She prayed it wasn’t some weird Halloween prank that was being played on the unsuspecting next-door neighbor.

“Joubert?” she called again. “Are you in here?”

There was another muffled noise. From where? Maybe from the back of the shop, she decided.

Could it have been the soft snick of the back door closing? Had someone been in here with her for a few moments and just now slipped out the back?

A cold shiver traveled up Carmela’s spine and a little voice in her head, the one that sometimes whispered, You’re taking too big a risk, told her to get out now.

A prickly feeling, as if she was being watched by unseen eyes, made Carmela crank her head sharply to the left. And she suddenly found herself staring directly into the grimacing face of a stuffed capuchin monkey that was perched precariously on a shelf, condemned forever to wear a hideous purple vest and matching fez.

Startled by the snarling mouth and beady eyes, Carmela whirled away from the monkey, caught her toe on the edge of an Oriental carpet, and started to stumble. Her arms cartwheeled out in front of her in a last-ditch effort to catch herself from falling. And, in so doing, flailed and flapped against the front doors of a tall wooden curio cabinet.

As her splayed-out hands thumped against the thin wooden doors, they rattled like crazy and the entire cabinet seemed to teeter forward on its spindly legs. Terrified that the entire piece was going to fall over and smash something odd or precious, Carmela tried to grasp the cabinet and steady it. But as she felt the weight of the cabinet slowly tipping toward her, as her fingers fumbled against the brass handles, the cabinet’s doors slowly creaked open.

And then, like a corpse spilling out of Dr. Caligari’s closet, the dead, bloody body of Marcus Joubert suddenly came lurching out at her!

Carmela took a step backward in shock and protest. No matter, the body tumbled relentlessly toward her in horrible slow motion. There was a low moan, like the stinking sigh of a zombie, as a final bubble of air was released from the deep recess of its lungs. And then Joubert’s body flopped cold and bloody and unwelcome into Carmela’s outstretched arms!

“NOOOOO!”

Stunned and horrified beyond belief, Carmela screamed at the top of her lungs. She shoved Joubert’s body away from her with as much strength as she could muster, made an awkward jump sideways, and crashed into a small metal table topped with glass figurines. A tiny lion plunged to the floor, a rearing horse tumbled over backward and shattered, its head and right leg flying off.

And still Carmela continued to scream.

When nobody showed up to help, when nothing seemed to be accomplished by her loud screeches of protest, she let out a garbled cough and closed her mouth with a snap.

Joubert is dead. Right here in front of me. Oh dear oh dear oh dear.

Her mind churned wildly, like a rock tumbler gnawing away at bits of agate and sand.

What just happened? What should I do?

She grimaced and looked about nervously. The suit of armor was certainly no help. The capuchin monkey hadn’t made a move. A weird, beady-eyed cat head stared relentlessly back at her.

I . . . first I have to pull myself together.

That decision made, Carmela really did try hard to collect herself. To stifle her fear and revulsion, to try to figure out . . .

Wait just one minute.

A frightening thought had suddenly formed like a cartoon thought bubble inside her brain.

Is Joubert dead? Is the man really dead?

Carmela scrunched her face into a look of distaste. Of course, there was only one way to find out and it wasn’t very pleasant. Still, she supposed it had to be done. Slowly, methodically, Carmela took a few steps forward until she was all but hovering over Joubert’s body. He’d landed on the floor in a heap and looked fairly lifeless, like a rag doll that had been slung across the room. Grimacing, she saw that the front of his white shirt was shredded in some places and stained wet and dark with blood. Had he been stabbed? That seemed most likely.

Stabbed, then stuck inside a cabinet? Why?

Shuddering, hating that she was forced to do this, Carmela reached slowly down until the tips of her fingers brushed against the pulse point at Joubert’s throat. Correction, what had been his pulse point. Because now it felt utterly cold and devoid of life.

That was enough for Carmela. She fled the death and darkness of Oddities, ran out onto the street, and then hastily retreated to the relative safety and security of her own shop.

Slamming the door hard, Carmela quickly latched it, even as she tried to still her racing heart. Then she gazed, unbelieving, out her front window and tried not to let her imagination run wild. Tried not to go completely bonkers and let a movie version of what might happen next crank through her brain. Because in her personal horror show—and this was most definitely a real-deal horror show—Joubert’s stiff and blood-soaked body would come lurching after her.

No, Carmela told herself. Get a grip. That isn’t going to happen.

She was pretty sure—really, more than a little sure—that the man was dead. Therefore, she was going to handle this crisis with calm and dignity. Or as much shaky composure as her frayed, overwrought nerves would allow.

Pawing frantically through her handbag, Carmela hastily located her cell phone.

Definitely got to call for help.

But instead of calmly dialing 911, Carmela’s shaking hands fumbled the phone. Feeling stupid and more than a little helpless, she watched it tumble to the floor and spin wildly on the wooden planks. As she lurched after it, her toe accidently struck the phone and sent it sailing beneath one of her display cases.

Dang! Dropping to her hands and knees, Carmela wondered what else could go wrong.

She fished around under the case until she finally managed to grab hold of her phone. Then she stood up and feverishly punched in a familiar number.

The first person she called, of course, was her boyfriend, Detective Edgar Babcock. Luckily, her call was answered on the first ring, because her request immediately devolved into a disjointed ramble, delivered with staccato urgency and more than a few tears, pleading for Babcock to please come quickly because something really, really terrible had happened. The second call she fired off, once she’d pulled herself together in a vague sort of way, was to her best friend and neighbor, Ava Gruiex.

That done, Carmela walked slowly to the back of her scrapbook shop, gazed at her floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with albums, paper, stencils, and shadow boxes, and wondered just what on earth could have happened next door. Oddities wasn’t exactly the kind of shop a thief was likely to break in to. Inventory ranged from the strange to the bizarre and, from Carmela’s recollection, nothing had ever seemed particularly valuable. In fact, if a thief was going to make a big score in the French Quarter, there were dozens of antique shops, estate jewelry shops, and upscale art galleries filled with extremely valuable merchandise.

So what on earth had happened? Had it been a burglary? Was there anything in Oddities worth stealing? Or had it simply been cold-blooded murder committed by a couple of crazy stickup artists or hopped-up tweekers?

*   *   *

Predictably, Ava was the first one to arrive at Carmela’s shop. She flew in like a witch on a nuclear-powered broomstick, managing to look worried, gorgeous, and perfectly pulled together in a spangled purple sweater, tight black leather pants, and studded leather cage boots.

“Cher!” Ava cried breathlessly. “What happened?” The shapely ex–beauty queen fluttered a hand to her chest as she gazed worriedly at Carmela. Her mass of raven-black hair was poufed out around her expressive, fine-boned face. “When you called you were babbling like a crazy lady. Something about your hair? So naturally I came a-running.”

Carmela was fighting back a bad case of nervous hiccups and still stumbling over her words. “Not hair, I was trying to tell you about Joubert!” She made a hasty circular motion with her hands. “You know, the shop owner next door.”

Ava eyed her carefully. “Something happened?” She paused, trying to assess the situation. “Something bad?”

Carmela nodded excitedly. She was still having trouble stringing her words together, but was relieved that Ava was finally able to comprehend her terror.

“Excuse me,” Ava continued. “Was this something that could be construed as . . . harassment?” Ava had never been particularly fond of Marcus Joubert. Had never really trusted him.

Carmela continued to bob her head nervously. Then Ava’s words clicked with her and she said, “Um . . . what did you say?”

Ava placed her hands on slim hips and narrowed her eyes into a catlike scrunch. “Please don’t tell me that lecherous old coot made a pass at you,” she said in a low growl. “I’ve always found something smarmy and unsettling about . . . Oh. And you’ve got blood on your sweater. Oh no. What happened?”

“No, Ava,” Carmela choked out. “It’s not what you think.” She held a hand out. “The thing is . . .” Carmela forced herself to bite down hard to keep her teeth from chattering. “Joubert is . . . well, he’s dead!”

Ava’s finely groomed brows rose in twin arcs as she stared at Carmela. “Dead,” she said in a flat tone. Then she seemed to finally comprehend what Carmela was saying. “Wait a minute, you’re talking dead dead? As in not among the living?”

Carmela nodded frantically. “That’s it exactly. I heard these strange noises after I locked up. Coming from his shop. So I went inside to check on Joubert.” She gave a shudder. “I had a key . . .”

“You went inside that creeped-out shop? All by yourself?”

“Because I thought Joubert might be hurt. Because I heard . . . well, anyway, that’s when I found him . . .” Her voice trailed off as she recalled the bloody scene inside the shop.

“Holy Coupe de Ville,” Ava whooped. “Did you see what happened?”

Carmela shook her head vigorously.

“Then what do you think happened?”

“I’m pretty sure Joubert was stabbed,” said Carmela. “There was . . .” She wrinkled her nose, repulsed by the remembered image of his dead body catapulting out at her, an image that was now seared into her brain. “There was blood. So much blood. All over.” Suddenly remembering how she’d shoved the dead body away from her, she held up her hands, which were smeared with traces of dried blood. “You see?”

“Did you call Babcock?” Ava demanded. “Is he on his way?” She’d finally jumped into hyperdrive, too. “The police are coming?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Who else knows about this?”

“Nobody,” said Carmela. “Just us. And the police.”

Ava chewed at her bottom lip. “It sounds like you did okay, honey. You pretty much kept your head in spite of what happened over there. But for now, until the police arrive, let’s work on getting you cleaned up.” She put a hand out and pulled Carmela toward her. “Poor dear, you’re an awful mess.” She sat Carmela down on a rolling chair behind the front counter, grabbed a pack of wipes from her purse, and carefully swiped at the blood.

Carmela sat numbly as Ava cleaned her off. Of course, when the damp wipe hit her bloodstained hands, the blood began to smear all over again, reminding her of a scene straight out of a horror movie . . . like a dead body being reanimated.

“You don’t think this blood is like a clue or anything, do you?” Carmela asked. “That it should be tested for DNA?”

Ava continued to blot at Carmela’s hands. “If it’s Joubert’s blood like you say it is, then they’re bound to find splotches of it next door, too.”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Carmela. She knew she wasn’t thinking straight and fought to clear her mind. There was something she was missing. Something she should probably . . .

“Oh my gosh!” Carmela said, suddenly stiffening in her chair.

“What now?” said Ava.

“I should call Mavis.”

“Who’s that?”

“Mavis Sweet, the assistant.”

“You mean that mousy little girl in stretch pants who works for Joubert?” said Ava. “Why bring her into this?”

“The thing is,” said Carmela, “Joubert always introduced Mavis Sweet as his assistant, but I think the two of them had something going on—a little romance on the side. Well, maybe more than a little romance.”

“Those two?” said Ava. “I never would have guessed. Well, I suppose it’s only fair to give the poor girl a call.”

“You mean do a notification?” The idea of telling Mavis that Joubert was dead terrified Carmela.

“Notification nothing,” Ava advised. “Don’t tell Mavis anything specific. Just make up some crazy excuse to get her down here.”

“Then what?” said Carmela.

“Then,” said Ava, “you let the cops do the heavy lifting.”

*   *   *

While Carmela was on the phone with Mavis Sweet, asking her to please come down to Oddities without spelling out the exact reason why, Detective Edgar Babcock arrived.

“He’s here,” Ava called out. “Babcock.” She was staring out Carmela’s front window. “He just jumped out of . . . holy bejeebers, is that a BMW I see out there? What an awesome set of wheels. Oh yeah, and it looks like he brought a posse of uniformed officers with him. Though those poor peons arrived in a far more traditional black-and-white vehicle.”

Carmela hung up the phone, feeling like a coward. She’d told Mavis Sweet that there was a dire emergency at Oddities, but she hadn’t been at all truthful or specific. Still, the girl promised that she was on her way, so that was something.

Ava was still peering out the front window. “Did you hear what I said? Your love bunny arrived in a BMW. Do you think some crook finally bought him off? A drug dealer or a smuggler?”

“He bought it at a police auction,” said Carmela. “Besides, Babcock’s not like that. He’s basically . . . well, he’s straight.”

“Well, hook me up at the next police auction, girlfriend,” said Ava. “Because I could use a hot new set of wheels like that.” She glanced out the window again. “Uh-oh, now he’s waving at us. I suppose he wants us to come out there. Hmm, and he’s got that serious tight-lipped look that means he’s upset.” She glanced back at Carmela. “Are you ready for this, sweetie?”

“No,” said Carmela.

*   *   *

Duded up in a chalk-gray Zegna suit, Detective Edgar Babcock was tall, thin, and attractive in an officer-of-the-law kind of way. The glow from the streetlamps gave his ginger-colored hair a slightly darker cast and made his pale skin look almost ethereal. His normally handsome face, usually lit with a warm, crooked smile, looked rather serious tonight with just a touch of grouch thrown in.

Still, to Carmela, Babcock looked wonderful. His pale blue shirt matched a tie of a slightly deeper tone that picked up the intensity and color of his eyes.

An Armani tie? Carmela wondered, as her heart did a small flip-flop. Had to be. Only the best for Babcock, always the most stylish duds. She knew that, someday, GQ magazine was going to do a feature on the ten best-dressed detectives in the country and Babcock was probably going to top the list. Then she wondered—how on earth could she be turned on by Babcock and completely repulsed by Joubert’s murder at the same time? Those were two emotions that didn’t seem to coexist, yet there they were. All intertwined and smooshed together in her slightly addled, hyperactive brain. Go figure.

“So,” said Babcock. He rocked back on his heels when he caught sight of Carmela and Ava on the front sidewalk. “We seem to have a rather large problem here.”

“I’ll say,” said Ava, who loved to be in on the action. Any kind. Even police action.

Babcock gestured toward the front door of Oddities. “Is it unlocked?”

“Yes,” Carmela said in a small voice. “That’s how I left it.” Especially since I came flying out of there like a crazed banshee.

Carmela wished that Babcock would look at her, really see her, instead of holding her at arm’s length, treating her like some sort of suspect or witness. On the other hand, that’s probably what she was.

Babcock cocked a finger at one of the uniformed officers. “Lambert, you come inside with me. Wallace, stay by the door. Don’t let anybody else in.”

“Crime-scene guys are here,” said Wallace, as a shiny black van pulled up tight to the curb.

“Send them in,” said Babcock. “As soon as they unload their gear.” He sighed as he led his little group into Oddities, and then stopped short when he saw the body. He held up a hand, indicating for them all to wait. Then he stepped forward, took a cursory look at the very dead Marcus Joubert, and said, “Carmela, you’re going to have to walk us through this.”

“WHAT happened was . . .” Carmela began. She was ready to let it all come bubbling out. The terror, her jangled nerves, her fear that Joubert’s dead body might come stumbling after her.

But Babcock held up a finger. “Let’s wait a second for the crime-scene guys.” He glanced around. “Aren’t there any decent lights in this place? Where are the lights, anyway?”

“It’s like a tomb in here,” said Ava, which caused Carmela to flinch.

Officer Lambert scurried around, finally locating switches and flipping on several overhead lights.

“Oh man,” said Ava, as Joubert’s dead body was revealed in the now harsh light. “That’s just . . . rude.”

“You really shouldn’t be in here,” said Babcock. He shook his head. “Why is she in here?”

Nobody offered an answer until Carmela finally said, “I need Ava for moral support.”

“Right,” said Ava, giving a slow wink. “I gotta keep watch on her morals.”

“Excuse me, excuse me,” a youthful voice called out. &