Death swatch, p.1
Death Swatch, page 1
part #6 of Scrapbooking Mysteries Series
Praise for the Scrapbooking Mysteries
DEATH SWATCH
“A fun novel that brings the excitement of Mardi Gras to life. This well crafted mystery has an intense, suspenseful ending.”
— Romantic Times
“New readers won't have any trouble jumping in at this point, and longtime fans will feel like they've reconnected with a friend. The characters are suitably eccentric, and the mystery very involving.”
— CA Reviews
“A pleasure to read.” — Mysterious Reviews
FRILL KILL
“A sprightly mystery. Childs rounds out the story with several scrapbooking and crafting tips plus a passel of mouthwatering Louisiana recipes.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Delightful... Fascinating.” — Midwest Book Review
continued. . .
MOTIF FOR MURDER
“Plenty of action... Engaging.”
— Publishers Weekly
“An entertaining who-done-it... The heroine is a plucky, strong, and independent woman... The original steel magnolia.”
— The Best Reviews
Praise for Laura Childs's Bestselling
TEA SHOP MYSTERIES
Featured Selection of the Mystery Book Club “Highly recommended' ' by The Ladies' Tea Guild
“Murder suits Laura Childs to a Tea.”
— St. Paul Pioneer Press
“Tea lovers, mystery lovers, [this] is for you. Just the right blend of cozy fun and clever plotting.”
—Susan Wittig Albert, bestselling author of Wormwood
“A paean to Charleston, the genteel enjoyment of tea, and the tasty treats that accompany it.” — Kirkus ReviewsBerkley Prime Crime 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
Scrapbooking Mysteries
KEEPSAKE CRIMES
PHOTO FINISHED
BOUND FOR MURDER
MOTIF FOR MURDER
FRILL KILL
DEATH SWATCH
TRAGIC MAGIC
Cackleberry Club Mysteries
EGGS IN PURGATORY
Anthology
DEATH BY DESIGN This book is dedicated to
F. Jim Smith,
good friend and advertising “icon.”
Thanks to my agent, Sam; my editor, Tom; all the artists, designers, and talented copy department folks at Berkley; Fran in gift sales; Jennie and Elmo; Dan for all his wonderful design work; and, of course, my husband, Dr. Bob, who always believes in me.
IT wasn't that Carmela didn't like Mardi Gras. She liked it just fine. Adored it, in fact. Nothing quite set a girl's fur to crackling than those monster-sized floats, festooned and glittering with lights, as they rumbled majestically down Napoleon Avenue.
But all the hoopla leading up to Mardi Gras was enough to drive her bonkers. Like tonight. Jekyl Hardy's party at his elegant, old-world apartment in the French Quarter. Champagne corks were popping, zydeco music was blasting, strands of purple and green beads were being flung from dancing couple to dancing couple. And this was only Tuesday night. A school night at that! Tomorrow morning Carmela's scrapbook shop, Memory Mine, had to be open on the dot of nine. And she had to be primed and ready for the onslaught of customers who would pour in, frantic to grab reams of paper, rubber stamps, and rolls of purple and green ribbon. All the better to create those Mardi Gras menus, party place settings, and scrapbook pages.
Carmela's hand reached up and nervously patted her slightly spiky crop of blond hair. Glancing in one of Jekyl's antique mirrors, she caught sight of her wavering image amid the reflection of swirling revelers. Lip gloss okay? Sure. A tad more mascara? No. Not necessary to impersonate a tarantula.
Carmela Bertrand was beautiful and didn't always realize it. Blue-gray eyes graced with tipped-up dark lashes. A peaches-and-cream complexion that was enhanced by the natural hydration properties of Louisiana's industrial-strength humidity. Thick, blond hair that was, as her friend, Ava, liked to say, artfully skunked and chunked.
Ava. Where was Ava?
Carmela gazed across the top of her chalice-sized goblet of vodka, raspberry liqueur, and cranberry juice, a drink the bartender had called a Purple Haze, and saw that Ava Gruiex, her very best friend in the entire world, was huddled in a corner, gesturing theatrically and talking to a most interesting-looking man. Of course, Ava was a gorgeous and lithesome former beauty queen, femme fatale, and predatory single woman. While she, Carmela, was still trying to puzzle out the etiquette of how to put a discreet move on someone of the male persuasion. Though her divorce from Shamus Meechum, colossal rat and so last year's news, wasn't yet final, was dragging on like a bad third act in a tawdry melodrama, Carmela thought it would be nice to have a boyfriend again. Finally. Before she hit thirty and the old ticktock came into play.
When Ava noticed Carmela looking her way, she let loose a smile and an enthusiastic wave.
In response, Carmela dashed across the dance floor, also known as Jekyl Hardy's living room, trying her best to avoid the writhing mass of partiers, to join her friend. Ava had one bare shoulder nudged possessively up against her latest catch, a good-looking man in his early thirties with soulful brown eyes and sandy-colored hair.
“Cher,” said Ava excitedly, pushing back her mass of dark, curly hair and fluttering her lethal-length manicured nails. “Say how do to Archie Baudier.”
“How do,” said Carmela, amused by Ava's never-fail tactics to intrigue a man.
Archie nodded in return and gave a shy smile. He seemed suddenly intimidated to be in the company of two such lovely, albeit slightly pushy women.
“Archie is Jekyl's neighbor,” explained Ava. “He lives in the apartment directly next door.”
“Then you're one of the select few who are envied by pretty much everyone in the Quarter,” Carmela told him. “I hear there's a five-year waiting list to get into this building.” Jekyl and Archie's apartment building, known officially as Napoleon Gardens, was one of the premier residences in the French Quarter. Built of red brick and originally designed as a warehouse, it dated back to the mid-eighteen hundreds. At the turn of the century, the twentieth not the twenty-first, a wealthy plantation owner had purchased the three-story building and converted it into apartments.
And what palatial places they were! Jekyl Hardy's apartment was only the second one she'd ever visited in this building, but it was a belle époque tour de force. Mahogany floors exuded a rich, dark patina. Tinkling crystal chandeliers dangled from fourteen-foot-high ceilings. Tall, stately windows sported hand-carved plaster cornices. The pitted marble fireplace that dominated the living room was still in working order. A quaint interior courtyard boasted a gigantic live oak tree festooned with Spanish moss and parterre-style plots overrun with tangles of pink ruffle azaleas and Louisiana peppermint camellias. Lacy wrought-iron balconies lent a final touch of elegance.
Of course, interior decoration added to the charm. And Jekyl Hardy, an antique dealer and licensed appraiser by trade, had spared no expense. Dark blue shellacked walls were the perfect backdrop for antique smoked mirrors in gilded frames. Both the living and dining rooms boasted high-backed leather couches as well as overstuffed chairs with slipcovers in rich brocades and dark damask fabrics. Fringed lamps cast dim shadows. Artwork included oil paintings as well as large brass sculptures of horses, dogs, and Roman statues personally collected by Jekyl.
Speak of the devil. . .
“Jekyl!” called Carmela, breaking into a grin upon seeing her dear friend.
Jekyl Hardy, lean and trim, with long, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, could have been the model for Anne Rice's vampire Lestat. He consistently dressed in black and worked to project a mysterious air.
Carmela tilted her head slightly as Jekyl joined them and offered air kisses to both her cheeks.
“Are you having a. fabulous time?” Jekyl asked of Carmela and Ava. “And have you tried my Vampire Bat Wings?” His dark eyes danced with mischief. “Don't tell anyone, but they're really chicken wings soused in chili sauce, honey, and vinegar. I got the recipe from that wonderful lady over on Royal Street—you know, the one with the purple hair who cooks up those scrumptious pralines?”
“I haven't tried the Vampire Bat Wings, but they sound completely yummy,” drawled Ava. She owned the Juju Voodoo Shop directly across the courtyard from Carmela's garden apartment and was in love with all manner of oddball things. Of course, the magic charms and amulets Ava sold to tourists were really quite benign. Her love charms consisted of aromatic herbs tied up in little red-and-gold silk pouches. And shrunken heads were mostly carved wood with a few tufts of goat hair.
“You, my dear, need another drink,” said Jekyl, eyeing Carmela's almost empty glass.
“Me, too,” said Ava, holding out her goblet to Archie.
“Then we shall make our way into yon kitchen and return with fresh provisions for the ladies,” said Jekyl. “But first, Archie and I have a few pressing matters to discuss regarding the floats for the Pluvius krewe.”
“Problems?” asked Carmela. Her soon-to-be ex, Shamus, was a member of the Pluvius krewe, so she knew firsthand how crazy and disorganized that group could be.
“Mostly tedious issues wi th their rather imperious krewe captain,” Jekyl told her. “He lobbied hard to hire Jimmy Toups but, fortunately, was outvoted.”
“Jimmy Toups,” said Carmela. “Your big rival.” Jimmy Toups was a somewhat arrogant designer and sometime sculptor who designed floats for the Rigadoon and Marquis krewes.
“Not so big,” sniped Jekyl.
Carmela turned toward Archie. “How fun that you're helping Jekyl with the Pluvius floats. He told me he'd hired an assistant, and a qualified one at that. Congrats.”
“Thanks,” said Archie.
“The time was right,” cut in Jekyl. Besides making his living in art and antiques, Jekyl was one of the premier Mardi Gras float designers. He often worked on floats for several of the big krewes at the same time and had recently received an offer to write a book about the long and storied history of Mardi Gras.
Archie Baudier favored Carmela with a friendly grin that morphed into a slight grimace. “Float building is turning out to be great fun. Unfortunately, I had no idea how much work was involved.” Archie spread his fingers and ticked off each point. “Concept, design blueprints, internal architecture, actual float construction, decoration, sound effects, motion, and lighting.”
“Whew,” said Ava. “I thought y'all just constructed a big papier-mache head or something, then people climbed on and tossed strands of beads.”
“I wish it was that easy,” said Archie. “Fact is, we're running behind big time, and Fat Tuesday's just one week away.” Fat Tuesday was the climax of Mardi Gras, that one bawdy day of revelry that local media as well as national networks loved to broadcast to all the world.
“So you're under the gun,” said Carmela. Of course, they were. Mardi Gras was a hectic time for everyone. Tough to work and fit in all those parties, too!
“We're dying!” said Jekyl.
“Designing floats is just a completely different design paradigm than creating Web sites,” Archie added. “Floats are multidimensional, and the scale is enormous.”
“That's what you do for real?” asked Ava. She was all but batting her eyes at him. “Design Web sites?”
But Jekyl had already pulled Archie from Ava's grasp, and they were headed toward the kitchen.
“Jekyl always knows the most interesting people,” said Ava, as her eyes roved the crowd that milled about them. She nudged Carmela with an elbow. “Take that group over there. So doggone artsy-looking.”
“A real French Quarter crowd,” agreed Carmela. Indeed, she recognized a number of antique dealers, cafe and bar owners, as well as folks who were just plain neighbors. You didn't always know their names but certainly nodded to them when you passed in the street. Carmela recognized a man who was a professional mime who hung out in Jackson Square, a well-known photographer who specialized in extremely flattering society portraits, and two outsider artists who were being so heavily collected these days that they were in danger of losing their outsider status.
“Honey,” said Ava, grabbing Carmela's arm and shouting into her ear as the decibel level continued to rise, “I can't tell you how excited I am to finally be in a Mardi Gras krewe. And a brand-spanking-new one at that.”
“It's about time,” said Carmela. “It's our time.” Last summer, a group of female business owners from the French Quarter had put their heads together and come up with the idea of forming what was euphemistically known as a neighborhood krewe. Calling themselves the Demilune krewe, they planned to roll a single float on Fat Tuesday in the company of two fairly well-established Bywater neighborhood krewes. Of course, there was no competing with the super krewes like Proteus, Bacchus, Endymion, or Rex, who put on lavish, multi-float parades, but it was a fun thing to attempt. And maybe the start of something bigger, too. Who knew? It wasn't so long ago that women hadn't participated in Mardi Gras parades at all.
Ava waved a hand to fan herself. “Whew, getting warm in here. So many bodies all pressed together. Normally, I like that type of situation, but tonight I feel like I'm gettin' the vapors.”
“Maybe it's the leather pants,” said Carmela, glancing at Ava's skintight black leather pants.
“No, my pants are fine,” said Ava. “It's my head that feels like it's going to explode like a can of beans sittin' on a hot burner.”
“Plus it's getting late,” said Carmela. She glanced at her watch, a Cartier tank watch handed down from her father, and saw that it was a little after ten. “Oh, yeah, I've got to get going.” She had two dogs to walk and always liked to lay out her clothes for the following morning. Mornings tended to be a slightly hectic, groggy time for Carmela.
“But the party's just getting started,” pleaded Ava. “And we didn't get our second round of drinks yet.”
“Ten more minutes then,” said Carmela as the two of them elbowed their way through the crowd. Jekyl's parties always went on until the wee hours of the morning. And they always seemed to generate a certain weird cachet. Even now, the room seemed dim and exotic as burning candles strobed like crazy, casting wild shadows on dark walls. The smell of incense mingled with the aroma of floral bouquets, perfume, aftershave, and Caribbean spices. Someone had shoved an old Doors album into the CD player and the tune “Light My Fire” pulsed through the room. All in all, the atmosphere was a little spooky but intoxicating, too.
Pushing their way into the tiny kitchen, Carmela and Ava found two caterers sharing a joint and an overworked bartender frantically washing glasses. But no Jekyl Hardy or Archie Baudier.
“Maybe they went outside?” proposed Ava. “For a smoke?”
“Jekyl doesn't smoke,” said Carmela.
Ava shrugged and rolled her eyes at the caterers. “You know ...”
Yes, she did.
“Then they're probably hanging out on the back balcony,” said Carmela. It overlooked the garden below and offered an unobstructed sight line to the gently curving Mississippi River with its never-ending parade of slow-moving, twinkling barges.
The outside hallway was just as jammed as the inside of Jekyl's apartment. More guests had arrived and remained congregated there, drinking, smoking, talking loudly. The music was still blaring, too, the Doors snarling out their song: “Come on baby, light my fire, Try to set the night on fiiiiire.”
“How many people did Jekyl invite, anyway?” asked Ava as they hunched and bumped their way through the throng of laughing, joking, drinking-to-beat-the-band guests.
“It's not a question of how many you invite,” said Carmela. “It's who the invitees invite.” At Mardi Gras time, it wasn't uncommon for friends of friends as well as friends of those friends to tag along to parties.
“Excuse me, excuse me,” said Ava as they pushed and inched through the crowd.
“The fire marshal would have a conniption if he saw this jam of people,” said Carmela.
“Being Mardi Gras,” said Ava, “the fire marshal would probably grab a drink and join in.”
“Laissez les bon temps rouler,” said Carmela. Let the good times roll. It was still very much the mantra of the Big Easy.
“Hey,” said Ava. “There he is.” As they reached the end of the hallway, she peered through a wrought-iron door backed with glass panels. That door led out to a balcony, or what was referred to as a gallery in New Orleans.
“Jekyl,” called Carmela, rapping on the glass. “We're gonna take off in a couple of minutes.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Ava, glancing back at the crowd. “I might just stay and—”
“That's not Jekyl,” Carmela said in a low, cautious voice.
Ava's head spun around. “Then who . . . ?”
“I think it's your friend, Archie. He's bent completely over the railing and doesn't look like he's in very good shape.”
Ava nodded. “Too much Purple Haze. That stuff can mess with your mind.”
Carmela clutched Ava's arm as the figure on the balcony straightened up slightly, then bobbed and wove drunkenly. “Dear lord, I think he's really ill.”
