The front door opened, letting in a gush of fresh, cool air.

  “Remy,” said Beth. “Talk to this woman, will you? She wants to buy the Mae West costumes.”

  Remy slipped behind the counter, and Glory hustled toward him. “Are you the manager?” she asked, her voice rising to the point of belligerence.

  Curious now, Carmela eased her way between a row of Peking opera costumes and a clutch of cowboy costumes to see what was going on. As she pushed aside costumes to peek at Glory, her hand brushed against a leather vest trimmed in fur.

  Fur, thought Carmela, suddenly. She wondered if this could be the source of the strands of hair found at the murder scene. Should she pluck a few hairs and turn them over to Edgar Babcock? Or just send him over here?

  Carmela glanced around, suddenly noting that lots of costumes contained fur trim. There were Henry VIII costumes, Viking costumes, and even Wookie costumes. Better just send him over here, she finally decided, then crept toward the front desk to see what was going on with Glory.

  In the end, Glory got her way. Sort of. She bought her costume at what Carmela hoped was a greatly inflated price and paced nervously while Remy hung the fabric on a padded hanger, then zipped a plastic bag around it.

  As Glory flung the bag over one arm, she caught sight of Carmela watching her. “Carmela,” she said a nasal quality to her voice. “I'm only going to say this once. I don't want Shamus's name or our dear family's name mentioned on the news again. Do you hear me? I don't want your silly exploits to reflect on the Crescent City Bank.”

  “Then you must have loved last night's news, Glory,” said Carmela. “That little segment of Shamus kicking my front door . . . shattering the glass. How's his poor toe by the way? Broken, I hope?”

  Glory ignored Carmela's words as she continued her tirade. “Our family has honor as well as pride in this city, and I don't want you bringing shame to our family. The social circle my family belongs to understands how marrying the wrong sort can cause problems. But I'm sick of their pity when it comes to the likes of you.”

  As Glory slammed out the front door, she was aware of Remy staring at her.

  “Who dat?” he asked. Curiosity flickered in his dark eyes. “She sure make the misere.”

  Carmela shrugged. “Sister-in-law. And, yes, she can cause trouble.”

  “Look like she got it in for you.”

  “Glory's got it in for a lot of people,” said Ava as she came up behind Carmela. Then she squirted past her friend and spun around to show off her costume. Looking very much like a Hollywood goddess from the twenties, she purred, “Well, come up and see me sometime.” Hips swaying provocatively, she allowed one curvaceous leg to escape the slit that ran up the side of the dress.

  “Marvelous,” said Carmela. “You'll be the hit of the party.”

  “When I'm good, I'm good, but when I'm bad, I'm better,” said Ava in a perfect Mae West imitation. She strode toward the counter, whipped her feather boa at Remy. “Hey, big boy, didn't I see you at my place the other night?”

  He stared at her, a silly smile creeping across his face. “Huh?”

  Ava dropped the accent. “Weren't you at Juju Voodoo the other night, Remy? Didn't you stop by my open house?”

  “Not me,” said Remy. His eyes continued to rove up and down Ava's exquisite form. “Sorry I missed it.”

  “We were positive we saw you walk in with the pierced and tattooed crowd,” said Carmela.

  Remy carefully arranged his face into a blank stare again. “Non,” he said.

  “ 'Cause your friend Amber was there,” said Carmela. “Remember poor Amber?”

  Remy's face darkened, his hands twitched nervously, and he suddenly focused on the twisted pile of clothes that sat on the counter. “My eye!” he spat out.

  “WHAT'S THIS MY EYE BUSINESS?” ASKED AVA, once they were outside the costume shop. “What the heck does that mean?”

  “It's slang for no way,” said Carmela. “But I'm definitely thinking way. Remy for sure knew Amber. We just have to figure out how well.”

  “And when he saw her last!” added Ava.

  Chapter 11

  CARMELA sat at her computer, an eye on the front door, tippy-tapping out e-mails to her friends, inviting them all to attend Wednesday night's runway show at Moda Chadron.

  Gabby had loaded all the decorated pumpkins into her Toyota Land Cruiser and was running some over to Baby's house, the rest to the French Quarter Merchants Association office. So Carmela was alone at Memory Mine, sending her e-mails, keeping an eye on Boo and Poobah, who had accompanied her to work this Saturday.

  She hit a few more keys, glanced down at her list. There, that's the end of it, she thought. Unless... A wicked idea plucked at the cortex of Carmela's brain. Unless I invite Glory, too. Should I? Could I? Am I really that nasty?

  The notion of Glory Meechum sitting in the audience while she and Ava sashayed down the runway wearing gorgeous haute couture creations almost made Carmela giddy. So she quickly typed in Glory's e-mail address at the bank, then hit Send.

  There, it's done. Love it!

  The front doorbell chimed as it opened. Boo and Poobah immediately rose to their feet, eager to rush out and greet their first visitor.

  “Boo, Poobah,” Carmela said in a cautionary tone. “What did we talk about earlier?”

  The dogs gazed at her with worried expressions. Talk? They seemed to say. We talked about something? Hmm, can't remember what that could've been.

  “You promised to be good dogs and stay in my office,” Carmela reminded them. “On the rug.”

  Boo and Poobah looked a little sheepish now. It was all coming back to them.

  Carmela watched as a woman wearing oversized sunglasses and a headscarf paused just inside the front door and glanced around. She looked sharply to make sure it wasn't Kimber Breeze come calling in some sort of disguise. But, no, this woman was shorter, stockier, and definitely a lot more timid.

  “Welcome to Memory Mine,” said Carmela, rising from her seat and walking toward the woman. “Can I help you find something?”

  “Excuse me,” said the woman, staring intently at her now. “You don't know me, but I need to talk to you.” Her words sounded slightly desperate, and her voice was hoarse. As the woman removed her sunglasses, Carmela could see that her eyes were rimmed in red and her face was blotchy, like she might have a bad head cold.

  Before Carmela could say anything, the woman continued, “The police told me that you . . . you . . .” The woman paused and drew a deep breath. “That you were the one who found my daughter.” Then her voice broke, and she was unable to continue. Her daughter? thought Carmela. And then the image of poor Amber in her yellow silk halter top lying behind the Dumpster filled Carmela's mind. Good lord, Amber was this woman's daughter?

  Carmela scurried forward to meet the poor woman. “Why don't we sit in my office and talk,” she suggested, ushering her toward the back. “I'll fix you a nice cup of tea.”

  “You don't have to go to all that trouble,” the woman sniffled. But she went along anyway.

  Carmela guided her to a chair, shooing away Boo and Poobah, who were both extremely curious. “I think we could both use a cup,” Carmela told her. She reached across her desk and retrieved a box of tissues, set it next to the woman.

  A few minutes later they were both sipping away.

  “You're . . . Carmela,” said the woman. “I saw you on the news.”

  Carmela nodded. “Carmela Bertrand. I own Memory Mine. As you can see, my hobby has become an obsession, albeit a paying one.”

  “And you're probably wondering why I'm here,” said the woman.

  Carmela took another sip and nodded, although she had a pretty good idea. This was becoming Grand Central Station for the Amber Lalique murder investigation.

  “Amber . . . my daughter ...” But the woman burst into tears, unable to continue.

  Carmela handed the woman a tissue. Now what do I do?

  “You don't have to explain,” said Carmela, gently. “Take your time. I can't imagine what you're going through. It must be very difficult. . . after such a loss.”

  The woman took a deep breath and seemed to pull it together. “I'm sorry, I'm Margaret Guste. My husband and I live north of here in Hermitage.”

  “But Amber's last name was—” “Lalique,” said Margaret Guste. “I know; she changed it.”

  Carmela nodded, trying to give encouragement to the woman.

  “Not so long ago Amber was in her second year at Tulane,” said Margaret. “Then, when it was shut down after Hurricane Katrina, she kind of drifted away from the idea of a college education. And by the time classes were back in session, Amber was already working as a model. Flying off to, you know New York and Paris.” Margaret blew her nose loudly. “Once Amber saw Europe and made some money of her own, college became a pretty tough sell.”

  “I can imagine so,” replied Carmela.

  As more tears slipped down Margaret's cheeks, Carmela handed over the entire box of Kleenex. This was definitely a sad, tragic story. But what could she do?

  “I understand you were . . . there,” said Margaret. “You saw it all happen.”

  “Not really, Mrs. Guste,” said Carmela. “Everything happened so fast—a blur, really. I didn't really see anything concrete, nothing that could help the police, anyway. And once I saw Amber, I tried to run for help . . . and then Giovanni ...”

  Margaret Guste inhaled sharply at hearing the name.

  “You okay, Mrs. Guste?”

  “I was told this Giovanni person was the prime suspect in Amber's murder,” said Mrs. Guste.

  “Who told you that?” asked Carmela.

  Rather than answer, Mrs. Guste just daubed at her eyes.

  “I believe there are actually a number of suspects,” said Carmela.

  “Do you have any idea what my daughter was doing in that back alley?” Margaret asked.

  Carmela nodded sadly. “Just going to her car.” She paused. Should I ask her? Why not? “Mrs. Guste, do you know if your daughter was seeing anyone in particular?”

  “No idea,” said Margaret. She pressed a clean tissue firmly against her lips, then pulled it away. “Do you think she suffered?”

  Silence stood between them. What can I tell her? wondered Carmela. What I saw was horrific. “It happened so fast. So, no, I don't think she suffered.”

  Margaret Guste nodded. “The police haven't told me a whole lot. I suppose they're trying to spare my feelings.”

  “I think they're trying to solve Amber's murder,” Carmela replied gently.

  As if on cue, Boo nosed forward and lifted a dainty Shar-Pei paw toward Margaret Guste.

  Margaret accepted Boo's paw and shook it. “Nice doggy,” she said.

  “That's enough, Boo. Now please lie down,” said Carmela.

  “I was hoping you might come to Amber's funeral,” said Margaret. “It's this Monday. In Hermitage. It's a bit of a drive, but...”

  “Of course, I'll come,” said Carmela. And I'll be interested to see who else attends, she thought to herself.

  “Bless you,” said Margaret in a tear-choked voice.

  THE NEXT HOUR WAS A BLUR OP ACTIVITY AS customers swarmed Carmela's shop. Two women, who regularly drove down from Baton Rouge, came bustling in, looking for chipboard tags, embossing paste, and some of the new embroidered papers.

  Another customer had been looking high and low for accordion books. Luckily, Carmela stocked three different kinds.

  And still there were people clutching water-damaged photos. They'd heard from friends how Carmela had worked miracles on hurricane-ravaged family photos. Of course, now the photos were completely dried and hopelessly stuck together in massive gobs. All Carmela could do was re-soak the photos, try to carefully peel them apart, chemically treat them, and then hope for the best. She wasn't always successful, but most people were willing to trust their precious mementos to Carmela's skills.

  Just as they seemed to enjoy a few moments of calm, just as Carmela was rewarding Boo and Poobah with some homemade biscuits, Lieutenant Edgar Babcock came tromping in.

  “You've been to see Remy Chenier,” he said in a not-so-friendly tone.

  “How did you know?” asked Carmela.

  “Because I'm a homicide detective,” said Babcock, “the operative word being detective. Thus, it's my job to detect and discover these things. The question is, how did you know he was worth talking to?”

  “One of the models at Moda Chadron mentioned it,” said Carmela. “Apparently Amber went out with Remy a couple times.”

  “Which model?”

  “Ah ... I think her name was Yasmin.”

  “What else did this model tell you?” asked Babcock.

  “Nothing, really,” said Carmela.

  “And why didn't she talk to me?”

  “No idea,” said Carmela. “Maybe she wasn't even there when you dropped by for your daily browbeating.” She picked up a spool of ribbon, unfurled a foot or so, and snipped it. “Did you, urn, happen to notice all the fur-trimmed costumes Grand Folly had on display?” she asked.

  Babcock gave an imperceptible nod.

  “Did you test any of the fur?”

  “What do you think?” he shot back.

  Carmela gazed at him, trying to gauge his true meaning.”I think you did, but that you're stumped,” she said finally. “That's why you're so darn cranky.”

  “And I think your gal pal Ava is trying to protect someone. I just haven't figured out whether it's Giovanni or his crazy brother, Santino. The one who runs with the wolves.”

  “Listen,” said Carmela, “don't jump to too many conclusions. Fact is, we've never even met Santino.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “It's the truth,” said Carmela. “Well half truth, anyway. We saw Santino perform at Cirque de Bella Luna, and that was it. But you know all about that.”

  “Is that where Santino is now?” asked Babcock.

  Carmela was getting frustrated with Edgar Babcock's questions. “I have no idea. And why do you keep shouting questions at me?” The stress in her voice drew the dogs over, but Babcock chose to ignore them as they circled around.

  “Because you seem to be one step ahead of this investigation, and I don't like it at all,” said Babcock, raising his voice, sounding frustrated as hell.

  Hmm, thought Carmela, am I really? The notion scared her as well as thrilled her.

  “Let me ask you a question,” said Carmela. “Those wolves that you impounded, Santino's wolves. Did you run tests on their hair?”

  “Of course, we did,” huffed Babcock. “And they're not a match—yet.”

  “So where does that leave you?” asked Carmela.

  Babcock shook his head, like he was chasing away a cloud of angry bees. “The bite marks,” he growled. “That's what's got us puzzled.” He looked down at Boo and Poobah, who had positioned themselves between him and Carmela. “Are these guys always so protective?” he asked.

  “They have been lately,” said Carmela.

  * * *

  “HELLO, LITTLE DARLINGS,” COOED AVA AS SHE pushed her way into Carmela's shop. “Yes, I brought wondrous treats for you, but kindly give me a minute to get organized, please.”

  Dressed in tight jeans, a glitter skull T-shirt, and stiletto heels, Ava looked like the poster girl for a rock group. In reality, she'd just returned from a quick shop at the Saturday Market in the Warehouse District. The one at the corner of Magazine and Girod.

  “Look,” said Ava, dumping out a brown paper shopping bag full of goodies on Carmela's front counter. “Loot. I bought boiled peanuts, homemade carrot chips, a jar of re-moulade sauce, and a couple ooey gooey bars. Oh, and duck sausage.”

  “I surely do love duck sausage,” said Carmela. Boo and Poobah's eyes had grown large, and their noses moved in a symphony of sniffs. Obviously, they were raving fans, too.

  “They were selling rabbit sausage, too, cher, but I didn't know if that was your thing.”

  “No, duck's the best,” said Carmela.

  Ava knelt down and fed Boo and Poobah bits of carrot chip. “Here you go, my babies. Tasty and healthy for you.” Her fingertips scratched the wrinkles atop Boo's head, and the little dog stretched her neck up in her canine version of contentment.

  “Those little theaters are just adorable,” said Ava, noticing the shelf of half-constructed theaters. “Y'all are so creative.”

  “You're the one who was tapped to do decorations for Moda Chadron,” said Carmela. “So you better start conjuring some fancy ideas, too.”

  “That's why I pulled you in,” laughed Ava. “I might have the raw materials in my shop, but you're the one who's got the creative brainpower to pull it all together.”

  Carmela picked up a sketch pad and made a couple broad strokes with a fat ink pen. “I did have one idea,” she told Ava.

  “Shoot,” said Ava, still ministering to the dogs. Now Poobah had muscled in for more munchies and scratches.

  Carmela continued sketching. “What if we cut free-form ghosts out of white chiffon fabric. And cut eyeholes and mouths, too, to make them look scary and ethereal. Then, if we suspend our ghosts upside down from the ceiling, they should sort of waft in the breeze as people pass by beneath them.”

  “Very good,” said Ava. “Now if we can come up with another dozen ways to creepify Moda Chadron, I'd say we're in business!”

  Chapter 12

  OPULENT and at the same time slightly decayed, the Garden District is one of the most photographed, beloved, and coveted neighborhoods in all of New Orleans. The homes, which include Italianate, Greek Revival, and Moorish-style mansions, are the ne plus ultra of the Southern belle epoque.

  Tonight, carved jack-o'-lanterns flickered up and down Third Street, one of the toniest of drives. Their smiles, scowls, and wacky expressions glowed in the dark, lighting the way for all the Halloween revelers who were getting a jump-start on the holiday.

  “That's the house right there,” said Carmela, leaning forward. “You see the lamppost with the witch hunched around it?”

 

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