Free Skeleton Letters by Laura Childs Page A

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    Carmela and Gabby spent the next twenty minutes sorting through a new shipment of rubber stamps that had just arrived, all with a sort of Renaissance theme.
    â€œLook at this,” said Gabby, holding up a minstrel strumming a lyre. “It’s perfect for Mardi Gras.”
    â€œOur customers are gonna love this stuff,” said Carmela, feeling the first spark of happiness that she’d felt in two days. This was, after all, what it was all about. Preserving photos and memories through scrapbook pages. Creating lovingly crafted handmade goods in an era of foreign-made products and instant gratification.
    â€œTandy!” said Gabby, looking up as she unwrapped more rubber stamps. “Hello!”
    Tandy Bliss, five feet two and 105 pounds soaking wet, walked stolidly into Memory Mine, her scrapbook tote slung over one skinny shoulder. She was followed by another woman, a studious-looking middle-aged blonde, who wore a neatlooking green suit and carried a leather briefcase.
    â€œI heard,” said Tandy, greeting Carmela with a big smooch on the cheek and a bear hug that belied her small stature. “I heard you were there.” She followed that up with a hug for Gabby.
    â€œYou talked to Baby?” Carmela asked.
    Tandy bobbed her tight frizzle of red hair. “A couple of times. She called me last night, after she dropped by to see you, and we spoke again this morning. About an hour ago.”
    â€œThis whole thing about Byrle is so awful,” lamented Gabby.
    â€œAgreed,” said Tandy, focusing sharp, birdlike eyes on Carmela. “But Baby informed me that Carmela promised to try to pry all the latest case developments out of Detective Babcock.”
    â€œ Try being the operative word,” said Carmela. He’d been pretty tight-lipped about the case yesterday, and she didn’t foresee Babcock changing his mind.
    â€œIn that case,” said Tandy, “may I present you with what might just be a secret weapon for your arsenal.” She smiled widely, showing her small teeth, then said, “Marilyn?”
    The woman in the green suit stepped forward with an expectant look.
    â€œThis is Marilyn Casey,” said Tandy. “We met a couple of months ago when she spoke at my book club.”
    â€œHow do,” said Marilyn, giving a tentative wave.
    â€œHi,” said Gabby.
    â€œNice to meet you,” said Carmela.
    Tandy continued with her introduction. “Marilyn’s a local author who’s been writing a mystery set in and around the French Quarter. The working title is Big Easy Dead and it’s loosely based on a particularly grisly murder that took place in the Exeter Hotel.” Tandy drew an excited breath. “But now Marilyn’s going to expand her story—I think you call that a subplot—and write in Byrle’s murder at St. Tristan’s, and maybe even the theft of the crucifix!”
    Marilyn gave a vigorous nod, like she might be a tad overcaffeinated. “Last night, after I devoured everything I could find on the news, I sat down and wrote almost thirty pages! And this morning there was even more on the television news.”
    â€œI guess you’re not bothered by writer’s block,” said Gabby, moving around the counter and edging closer to the little group, the better to hear.
    â€œNot with all the material I have,” gushed Marilyn. “Plus the Times-Picayune had extensive coverage of the murder in this morning’s edition.”
    â€œI’m curious,” said Carmela, “are you writing fiction or true crime?”
    â€œThat’s the crazy thing,” said Marilyn, taking on a slightly wild-eyed look. “My book started out as fiction, but now it’s definitely taken a turn toward true crime!”
    â€œReally,” said Carmela. She wasn’t sure how she felt about Byrle’s murder being part of a book. No, that wasn’t quite right. She