Free Gilt Trip by Laura Childs

“When?” she demanded. “When did Margo call him? Like . . . today?”
    â€œThat’s the really cuckoo thing,” said Ava. “Sully said she called him last week!”
    Carmela sucked in a sharp breath. Why on earth would Margo Leland commission a death portrait when Jerry Earl was still alive? Unless she had the ability to see into the future. Or worse yet, had manipulated the future!

Chapter 7
    R UNNING more than a little late this Tuesday morning, Carmela skipped across Decatur Street, dodged past a yellow and red horse-drawn jitney on Bourbon Street, and headed down Governor Nicholls Street. The sun was lasering down, bathing the brick storefronts with a creamy light, making all the little cottages that were painted Caribbean pink and blue and green look as if they’d been air-lifted in from Jamaica. So pretty—she could almost forget that a brutal murder had cast its pall over the city.
    The first thing Carmela saw when she sailed through the door of Memory Mine was Gabby being her usual helpful self with a customer.
    â€œHey there,” Carmela called out as the bell
da-dinged
overhead.
    Gabby gave a decorous nod and smiled.
    Their lone customer, a young woman in a snappy silver-gray dress with knee-high black boots, grinned expectantly at Carmela. She was flipping through one of the sample scrapbooks Carmela had put together and was obviously impressed.
    â€œI had no idea that scrapbooks could be so pretty,” the woman told her. “Each page is like its own individual work of art.”
    Carmela gave a distracted smile and said, “Scrapbooking is all about preserving your memories in a personal way.” Was that what Margo had intended when she hired Sullivan Fisk to paint a death portrait of Jerry Earl? she wondered. Preserving a memory of his death?
    There was nothing wrong with having a portrait of your dead husband, of course. The only catch, the big trip wire in all of this, was that Margo had hired Sullivan
before
Jerry Earl had died. Which seemed to make no sense at all. Or perfect sense if Margo Leland was the nasty, scheming sort of wife.
    Part of Carmela dreaded going to her meeting with Margo Leland today. The other part craved answers. Would Margo really ask her to help snoop out Jerry Earl’s killer if she was the one who was guilty? That didn’t seem to make any sense at all. Therefore, there had to be a lot more to this story.
    â€œDo you think you could help me get started?” the customer asked Carmela.
    Carmela snapped back to attention and realized she had no idea what the woman had just said.
    Luckily, Gabby stepped in. “Why don’t you let me assist you? We’ll select an album and look at some of the fun papers. Also, in case you’re interested, we’re having a Paper Moon class tomorrow afternoon. Perhaps you might like to join us?”
    â€œI might like to!” the woman said.
    Carmela left Gabby and the woman at the counter and hustled back to her office. There were orders to be placed, catalogs to be perused, and bills to be paid. It was paperwork, just not the creative hands-on kind that she really enjoyed. But Carmela worked doggedly at her tasks, and by midmorning, she was able to slip out the door for her meeting with Margo.
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    THE LAVISH GARDEN DISTRICT MANSION LOOKED oddly sad and neglected to Carmela in the wake of Jerry Earl’s death. The camellias drooped, the grass was uncut, even the windows seemed to reflect a lifelessness.
    Nevertheless, Carmela trudged up the front walk and rang the doorbell. She waited, heard a deep metallic
bong
resonate from inside the house, then peered through the wrought-iron security door as the impressive wooden door slowly creaked open.
    A woman peered out at her. Not Margo. This woman, whom Carmela was pretty sure she remembered from two nights ago, had black, cropped hair and a narrow, angular face that could only be