Snow on the Bayou: A Tante Lulu Adventure Read Free

say,
chère
,” Tante Lulu said, but what she thought was,
Coronado, here I come.

    I ain’t missin’ you at all…
    Emelie Gaudet hot-glued another layer of feathers resembling scales onto King Neptune’s mask and laid it carefully on a long table in her French Quarter studio. Beside it were two dozen other elaborate, very expensive, masks in various stages of production. Just before delivery, she would attach her signature silver tags, etched with her stylized name, Mardi Gras, and the year. They were in the shape of alligators in homage to her Cajun roots.
    As expensive as her masks were new, the older creations had become highly collectible. One of her earliest from ten years ago had sold on eBay recently for ten thousand dollars.
    Besides that, she’d begun experimenting with porcelain Mardi Gras masks, the kind hung on the wall for decoration. They weren’t cheap either.
    “Hey, Em, don’t you have to leave soon?” her partner, Belle Pitot, asked as she entered Emelie’s studio from the front showroom, where she’d been arranging some costumed mannequins.
    Five years ago, Emelie had purchased this shotgun house in the French Quarter with a legacy from her grandmother, enabling her to go into business with her good friend. Emelie made the masks, while Belle made high-quality costumes. The bottom floor housed the retail shop for E & B Designs, studios for herself and Belle, and storage space. Upstairs, which could be accessed from an interior, closed-door stairway at the front of the shop, or from exterior back steps, was her spacious apartment, which opened on the back gallery from her bedroom to a lush, fountained courtyard, and from a salon/living room onto a balcony that overlooked the street in front.
    In recent years, the pre-Lenten Mardi Gras balls had become even more popular than the traditional parades. In fact, New Orleans was now the number one market in the United States for formal wear, including floor-length evening gowns. And, of course, exclusive costumes and masks.
    There were six weeks until Mardi Gras, and they both had lots of work to do yet, but glancing down at her wristwatch, she realized she had only two hours to get ready for her moonlighting job. Once a week, on Saturday night, she had a gig as a blues singer, something she did just for fun, certainly not for the money or fame. Besides, it was a favor to her grandmother’s friend Ella Pisano, who owned the club named Ella’s… what else? In these hard economic times, Emelie worked for cheap.
    Luckily, her studio was only three blocks from the restaurant, which specialized in Italian food, a change from the usual Creole or Cajun dishes famous in New Orleans. Her stomach growled, a reminder that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. She would have a plate of Ella’s crawfish gnocchi in red sauce after her performance, she promisedherself. Her stomach growled again, this time in anticipation.
    After a quick shower, an upswept hairdo, chandelier earrings, and a layer of makeup thicker than she usually wore, Emelie pulled on a pair of white linen slacks and a black T-shirt. She would dress at the club. No way was she walking the French Quarter streets in a strapless sheath and stiletto heels, especially with her late-night return. She’d be mistaken for a hooker with her figure, which had been likened to Marilyn Monroe’s, except for her black hair and height of five foot nine. The resemblance had been a bane, rather than a blessing, over the years. Especially when she was a young girl, definitive curves were not the ideal.
    Just before she opened the front door to leave, Belle called out to her, “I’ll lock up in a half hour, but did you check the mail?”
    Emelie stopped and walked back into the showroom, which was beginning to resemble a fantasy wonderland. Several mannequins were dressed head to toe in Mardi Gras regalia. Murals on the wall depicted a stereotypical Southern plantation house. There was even a fake live oak tree