Free Skeleton Letters by Laura Childs

“Do readings for your customers. Crystal ball, auras, palmistry, whatever you want. I offer quite a repertoire.”
    â€œSounds perfect,” said Ava. “Uh . . . what’s your name?”
    â€œMadame Eldora Blavatsky,” said the woman.
    Ava looked surprised. “Seriously? That’s your given name?”
    â€œActually it’s Ellie Black,” said the woman, “but Eldora is my stage name.”
    â€œYou worked onstage?” asked a skeptical Carmela.
    The woman shrugged. “One of the casinos over in Biloxi. I had a five-day gig.”
    â€œGood enough,” said Ava. “So . . . you have a business card?” She winked as she flashed a wry grin. “Or should I just send out a few thought waves?”
    Eldora snapped open a purple velvet purse and reached in. “I have a card.”

Chapter 8
    â€œ Y OU’RE here,” exclaimed Gabby. She seemed surprised that Carmela had turned up at the shop this morning.
    â€œI told you I’d be here,” said Carmela, peeling off her jacket.
    â€œI know,” said Gabby, looking concerned, “but I still thought you might take the day off. After . . . you know . . . the stress of what happened yesterday.”
    â€œYou’re probably going to think this is totally whacked,” said Carmela, “but Ava and I stopped by St. Tristan’s this morning for a quick look-see.”
    Gabby seemed stunned. “You went back to the murder scene? Why on earth would you do that?”
    Carmela gave an embarrassed shrug. “Ava wanted to look for clues.”
    â€œOh.” Gabby digested this for a few moments. “Did you find any?”
    â€œNo, but we did run into a couple of people who were there yesterday.”
    Gabby put her elbows on the front counter and leaned forward with sudden interest. “Like who?”
    â€œNorton Fried, the choir director, for one. He was kind of pussyfooting around.”
    â€œOkay,” said Gabby.
    â€œAccording to Babcock, Fried had just concluded choir practice some five minutes before Byrle was killed.”
    â€œBut you don’t think he would . . . I mean . . . isn’t Fried a stand-up guy?” asked Gabby. “He’s forever being written up in the paper for taking his choir to one or another international chorale.”
    â€œI always thought he was an okay guy,” said Carmela.
    â€œSo who else did you run into?”
    â€œStrangely enough,” said Carmela, “the one who really got us wondering was the mysterious Brother Paul.”
    Gabby looked vaguely taken aback. “Who’s Brother Paul, and why is he so mysterious?”
    â€œHe’s some guy who works at St. Tristan’s. And he’s mysterious because we found him creeping around in the basement.”
    â€œYou went down in the basement ?” said Gabby, looking wide-eyed.
    Carmela nodded. “We were scoping out another possible exit. Because, you know, maybe that’s how the killer got away.”
    â€œDid you find one?”
    Carmela shook her head. “Not really. We kind of lost our momentum once we ran into Brother Paul.”
    â€œDid you talk to this Brother Paul?”
    â€œTried to,” said Carmela. “But when we threw a couple of questions at him, he mumbled something about Seekers and took off.”
    â€œ Seacoast? ” said Gabby.
    â€œI’m pretty sure he said Seekers ,” said Carmela, enunciating more clearly. “But don’t ask me what that means, because I have no earthly clue.”
    â€œMaybe he really said secrets ,” Gabby speculated. “Maybe he was trying to point you toward someone in particular, a suspect maybe, but was too afraid to come right out and say it.”
    â€œHe didn’t seem afraid,” said Carmela. “But I want to tell you, when Brother Paul came creeping out of the shadows in that basement, he sure scared the bejeebers out of