Glitter bomb, p.1
Glitter Bomb, page 1
Titles by Laura Childs
Tea Shop Mysteries
DEATH BY DARJEELING
GUNPOWDER GREEN
SHADES OF EARL GREY
THE ENGLISH BREAKFAST MURDER
THE JASMINE MOON MURDER
CHAMOMILE MOURNING
BLOOD ORANGE BREWING
DRAGONWELL DEAD
THE SILVER NEEDLE MURDER
OOLONG DEAD
THE TEABERRY STRANGLER
SCONES & BONES
AGONY OF THE LEAVES
SWEET TEA REVENGE
STEEPED IN EVIL
MING TEA MURDER
DEVONSHIRE SCREAM
PEKOE MOST POISON
PLUM TEA CRAZY
New Orleans Scrapbooking Mysteries
KEEPSAKE CRIMES
PHOTO FINISHED
BOUND FOR MURDER
MOTIF FOR MURDER
FRILL KILL
DEATH SWATCH
TRAGIC MAGIC
FIBER & BRIMSTONE
SKELETON LETTERS
POSTCARDS FROM THE DEAD
GILT TRIP
GOSSAMER GHOST
PARCHMENT AND OLD LACE
CREPE FACTOR
GLITTER BOMB
Cackleberry Club Mysteries
EGGS IN PURGATORY
EGGS BENEDICT ARNOLD
BEDEVILED EGGS
STAKE & EGGS
EGGS IN A CASKET
SCORCHED EGGS
EGG DROP DEAD
Anthologies
DEATH BY DESIGN
TEA FOR THREE
Afton Tangler Thrillers writing as Gerry Schmitt
LITTLE GIRL GONE
SHADOW GIRL
BERKLEY PRIME CRIME
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
Copyright © 2018 by Gerry Schmitt
Excerpt from Eggs on Ice by Laura Childs copyright © 2018 by Gerry Schmitt & Associates, Inc.
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks and BERKLEY PRIME CRIME is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Childs, Laura. | Moran, Terrie Farley, author.
Title: Glitter bomb / Laura Childs with Terrie Farley Moran.
Description: First Edition. | New York : Berkley Prime Crime, 2018. | Series:
New Orleans Scrapbooking Mystery series
Identifiers: LCCN 2017053002 | ISBN 9780451489548 (hardcover) |
ISBN 9780451489562 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Scrapbooks—Fiction. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3603.H56 G65 2018 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017053002
First Edition: October 2018
Cover art by Dan Craig
Cover design by Katie Anderson
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.
Version_1
Contents
Titles by Laura Childs
Title Page
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Scrapbook, Stamping, and Craft Tips from Laura Childs
Recipes
Excerpt from Eggs On Ice
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Heartfelt thanks to Terrie Farley Moran, who contributed her energy, humor, and writing to this book. And to the usual suspects—Sam, Tom, Bob, Jennie, Dan, and all the fine folks at Berkley who do extraordinary design, publicity, copywriting, bookstore sales, and gift sales. An extra special thank-you to all the scrapbook shop owners, bookstore folks, librarians, reviewers, magazine writers, websites, radio stations, bloggers, scrappers, and crafters who have enjoyed the adventures of the Memory Mine gang and who help me keep it all going.
And to you, dear readers, I promise continuing adventures featuring Carmela, Ava, Gabby, Tandy, Baby, Boo, Poobah, Babcock, and the rest of my crazy New Orleans cast. As well as many more surprises!
Chapter 1
“LOOKIT!” Ava cried. “There’s your butthead of an ex-husband riding up there on the King Neptune float.”
Carmela Bertrand stood on tiptoes and turned ice chip–blue eyes toward the enormous, glittering Mardi Gras float that was steamrolling toward them, lit up like a Christmas tree against the dark façades of historic French Quarter buildings. And sure enough, there he was, grinning from ear to ear as he and two dozen krewe members tossed strands of golden beads into the hands of a screaming, frenzied crowd.
“Shamus,” Carmela said, his name dripping from her lips like honeyed poison. Any follow-up comment was completely drowned out as fifty brass horns blared a collective note and lithe dancers twirling flaming candelabras high-stepped their way down Royal Street. It was Tuesday night, a full week before Fat Tuesday, and most of New Orleans was already caught in the manic grip of Mardi Gras. The city was cranked up, ready to rock, and Carmela Bertrand and her BFF Ava Gruiex were smack-dab in the center of the maelstrom. Dressed for action in tight jeans, tighter T-shirts, and multiple strands of colored beads looped around their necks, they clutched geaux cups frothing with Abita Beer.
“Wouldn’t you know it, Shamus hitched a ride on the very first float in the Pluvius parade,” Carmela shouted to Ava above the raucous noise of the crowd. She tipped her head and pushed back loose strands of her shaggy blond bob as she took in the spectacle. A dozen marching bands had already tromped past them, along with clanking knights on horseback, a clown contingent, and a flotilla of exotic convertibles that carried smiling, waving Pluvius krewe royalty wearing gaudy, bedazzled crowns and capes of white faux fur. Enough white faux fur to decorate a Santa’s village for decades to come.
“Gotta get some of those gold beads,” Ava said as she grabbed Carmela’s arm and pulled her closer to the curb, closer to the action. “Throw me somethin’, mister!” she shouted out. Ava was tall and stacked, with a saturnine face and masses of dark curly hair. Men either loved Ava or were frightened to death by her. She was vivacious bordering on brash and oozed raw sex appeal.
Carmela would’ve scoffed at the notion that she was sexy, too. But her appeal was in her quiet, contained, almost mischievous persona. She was smart as a whip, driven to be a successful businesswoman (though her craft shop was small and humble by most standards), and she could hold her own with men. Carmela wasn’t averse to tossing back a bourbon and branch while hashing out politics and smoking an occasional cigar.
“What’s the parade theme this year?” Ava asked.
“Spirits of the Sea,” Carmela said. “The theme’s always supposed to be a deep dark secret until they start rolling, but you know Shamus . . . can’t keep a secret.”
Shamus, Carmela’s ex, was an indolent Southern boy who, when he wasn’t out drinking or chasing younger women, worked at his family’s Crescent City Bank. Work being a very loose and haphazard description for what Shamus actually accomplished.
“Spirits,” Ava said. “I guess that explains why King Neptune is hoisting that ginormous jug of wine.”
The float was built to represent an ancient seagoing galleon, complete
On the very top deck of the float, a rotund King Neptune figure was firmly ensconced on his golden throne. His gigantic motorized head lolled back and forth, his mouth gaped open, and his eyes fluttered and blazed yellow. Every few seconds, a surge of golden glitter pumped out of his trident and shot high into the dark night sky.
“What’s old King Neptune made out of?” Ava asked Carmela. “You’re the crafty one. Does it look like papier-mâché?”
“I think Jekyl repurposed an old King Arthur figure from three years ago,” Carmela said. “Reworked the face, added the trident, and draped that necklace of fish and shells around him.” Jekyl Hardy was a well-known float builder and one of Carmela’s dearest friends.
“Whatever he did, it’s impressive,” Ava said as the float rolled ever closer to them. “It even looks as if Neptune’s tipping that big jug forward to offer us a nice splash of vino.” She suddenly pinched Carmela’s arm. “Wait, is something wrong? It almost looks like the jug—and the float—is tipping over.”
Carmela blinked as the enormous float shuddered and then slowly listed to one side. An obnoxious screeching sound, like steel wheels grinding against hot coals, rose up to pierce the air. Startled krewe members grasped for handholds on their now-unsteady perch as the float began to shimmy and shake even more.
Did the float blow a tire? Or worse? Carmela decided it had to be worse because the float was suddenly pogoing up and down, jouncing and bouncing its krewe like mad. Then the entire float began to tremble from stem to stern, its tall mast and billowing sails shaking violently.
“Dear Lord,” Ava said as people all around them began to cry out in alarm.
A mounted police officer tried to make his way toward the malfunctioning float, his horse’s hooves clattering harshly against pavement. But the horse, sensing imminent danger, snorted and reared up in protest, pawing wildly in the air. The officer leaned forward, tugging on the reins, trying to get his horse under control as the float continued to sway from side to side, each motion more drastic and violent than the last.
“That float’s about to crash and burn!” Carmela yelled as the crowd began to back away. She glanced at the front of the float, where Shamus and a few other krewe members were hanging on for dear life. And no wonder. The float seemed to have lost all control over its direction. It was headed right into a throng of onlookers, rolling like some deadly Trojan horse as it listed badly, a ruptured ocean liner about to sink.
“Get back, get back!” a policeman yelped. And the frightened crowd did jump back. Sort of.
But not all the way. Because watching the big float pitch and quake was strangely and dangerously hypnotic. Like watching a train wreck. And how often did you see a big-assed Mardi Gras float completely out of control? Well . . . never.
But the show had just begun.
Just as the prow of the Neptune float hit the curb and bounced hard, an ominous rumble sounded from deep within, as if some horrible monster was about to make an appearance.
“That thing’s going to blow,” Carmela shouted as she tried desperately to pull a hypnotized Ava out of harm’s way.
The sound built in terrifying waves, rolling across the crowd, almost taking people’s breath away as it rattled shop windows and neon bar signs with all the ferocity of an F6 tornado. When the explosion finally came, it was enormous. A deafening blast that was enough to call out the dead.
Carmela felt her jaw literally drop as she stared at the very top of the float. King Neptune’s head was spinning violently, like a child’s top. Then, with a whomp that resonated deep within the pit of her stomach, Neptune’s head blew off and a shimmering fountain of glitter spewed forth into the velvety dark night sky. It flew up, up, up, until the sky was ablaze with what looked like a million points of light. When the glitter had reached its ultimate trajectory, it began to sift downward, landing softly on the heads of the crowd.
The float let loose a final gut-wrenching belch and shiver, so violent it catapulted krewe members off their perches. Some somersaulted down harmlessly to lower decks, but a few were tossed off the float only to land—splat—on the pavement!
“Somebody call 911!” Carmela cried out. She knew men were injured and in desperate need of help.
“We just called,” a man behind her yelled. “Ambulance is on its way.”
“Is Shamus . . . ?” Carmela’s eyes searched the float for him. Had he been shaken off, too? She felt her stomach wobble as she gazed at the men lying in the street. Oh dear Lord, are they hurt badly? Please don’t let anyone be dead, she prayed.
But wait. Men were slowly picking themselves up. They were groaning, but they were alive. Thank goodness.
Then a pile of white satin stirred and Carmela recognized Shamus. Without thinking, she rushed over and threw her arms around him.
“Are you all right?” Carmela cried. Ava was right there next to her, helping pull Shamus to his feet.
“Whuh hoppen?” Shamus stammered. He had a wonky look on his face and his eyes didn’t quite focus.
“Your float crashed,” Ava told him.
“No,” Shamus said in a loud pronouncement, as if he’d just been told the earth was flat. Then, “It crashed, really?” His left eye wandered to the far left, hesitated, then seemed to snap back.
“Are you okay?” Carmela asked. “Anything broken?”
“You don’t look so good, buddy,” Ava said. “Your eyes have gone all googly.”
Shamus took one step on wobbly legs and said, “I don’t feel so good.”
“Well, don’t toss your cookies on me,” Carmela said. She glanced around, deciding they’d all been incredibly lucky. Yes, the float was ruined, but it could have been so much worse. Nobody in the crowd appeared to be hurt . . .
Then she saw one man, still crumpled on the ground, who wasn’t moving a muscle. “Oh no,” Carmela said, her voice catching in her throat. “We need to . . .”
Shamus limped over to the man who was still laying on the pavement, looking like a fallen ghost in his bunched-up white robes, his body twisted in a most unnatural way. “Hey,” Shamus said, kneeling down, putting a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Hey, guy.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t try to move him,” Carmela said. Now she and Ava had gathered around the fallen man as well. “Maybe we should wait for the EMTs to arrive. Let them bring in a backboard or something.”
“The least we could do is wipe that gold glitter off the back of his head,” Ava said, trying to be helpful.
Carmela bent closer and stared at the man as the screams of multiple sirens rose above the din of the crowd. Something didn’t look right to her. And as Shamus gently brushed glitter from the man, his features slowly came into focus.
“That’s not the back of his head,” Carmela cried out. “The glitter’s smeared all over his face! Quick, we have to clear his airway before he’s smothered to death!”
Chapter 2
WITH gold glitter still covering every square inch of the man’s face, Carmela thought he looked as if he were wearing a solid gold mask, like some kind of ancient Persian king.
“Is he even breathing?” she asked Shamus, who was kneeling down, still trying to scrub away glitter.
Ava shook her mane of dark hair, prompting another miniature waterfall of glitter. “Not if he inhaled a nose-full of this stuff,” she drawled.
Authoritative voices called out from far back in the crowd of onlookers that had surged forward and created a tight wall of fear and interest. “Clear a path,” someone commanded. “Come on, let us through!”
Carmela was flooded with blessed relief. The police and EMTs would surely get this situation under control in a matter of minutes. She glanced around, looking for them. But where were they? Instead, all she saw was another krewe member staggering toward them. Then that man leaned forward and put a hand on Shamus’s shoulder.
