Skeleton Letters Read Free Page B

good—not great, but with the holidays approaching, she knew sales would soon take a nice jump.
    With its warm brick walls, old wooden floors, and charming bay window that looked out onto Governor Nicholls Street, the shop always felt cozy and warm. But this morning, even with customers milling about, her enthusiasm was somewhat dampened.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” asked Gabby. Gabby Mercer-Morris, Carmela’s assistant, was perched behind the front counter sipping gingerly from a cup of take-out café au lait. Normally a cheery, upbeat young woman with brown hair and a luminous complexion who favored preppy-style dressing, Gabby had learned to read the nuances of her boss. And right now, the dour expressions on both Carmela’s and Ava’s faces clearly scared her to death. “What happened?” she asked again, with some urgency.
    â€œUm . . . ,” Carmela began. She really didn’t want to upset poor Gabby, who had both squeamish and sensitive tendencies. On the other hand, Gabby was bound to find out about Byrle’s murder sooner or later.
    â€œSomething happened,” said Gabby. She nervously pushed back her hair and turned serious brown eyes on Carmela.
    Carmela gave a slow nod.
    â€œNot the dogs . . . ?” said Gabby. Carmela had two dogs who were the loves of her life: Boo, a girly-girl Shar-Pei, and Poobah, a spunky mutt that her ex-husband Shamus had found wandering the streets. Gabby was almost as in love with the dogs as Carmela was, since her Toyota King husband, Stuart Mercer-Morris, was allergic to dogs. Or so he claimed.
    â€œPups are fine,” Carmela told her.
    â€œThen what?” asked Gabby.
    â€œOver at the church,” said Ava. “Just now.”
    Carmela tried to swallow the lump that felt like a stranglehold in her throat, failed miserably, then managed to croak out, “Byrle.”
    A frown creased Gabby’s normally placid brow. “What about Byrle?” When Carmela hesitated again, Gabby said, in a tremulous voice, “You guys are scaring me.”
    â€œByrle’s dead,” Ava blurted out.
    â€œWhat!” Gabby hissed as she stared at them. Color drained from her face and was replaced by a mixture of horror and stunned disbelief. “ Our Byrle?” She shook her head vigorously, as if in denial. “No, it can’t be,” she said in a clipped tone. “Byrle was just in here two days ago! She asked me to order a package of moss cloth for her!”
    â€œCancel that order,” said a glum Ava.
    â€œAva!” yelped Carmela. “That’s so . . . cold.”
    Ava bobbed her head and assumed a properly sheepish expression. “Sorry, cher . You know I’m not good when it comes to really serious stuff. I get nervous and worked up, and then I go stupid.” Ava wrinkled her nose. “And then my mouth starts to work overtime.”
    Carmela reached an arm around Ava’s shoulders and gave her friend a comforting squeeze. “You don’t go stupid,” she assured her, “you just . . . go to another place in your head.”
    â€œThat does sound a lot better,” Ava admitted.
    â€œTell me,” Gabby said, in a strangled voice. “Tell me what happened.”
    So Carmela and Ava quickly and quietly related the events of the previous hour.
    â€œI can’t believe it,” Gabby murmured. “At St. Tristan’s? If Byrle was assaulted in some roughneck bar on Bourbon Street I’d believe you, but St. Tristan’s? If a person’s not safe in a church, where are you safe?”
    â€œGood question,” said Ava.
    Gabby’s shoulders lifted, then relaxed in a deep sigh. “Did you call Babcock?” This question was aimed at Carmela.
    â€œI called him,” said Carmela, “and left a message.”
    â€œBut he never showed up,” said Ava.
    â€œInvolved with something else, I guess,” said Carmela. “But Bobby