Free Gossamer Ghost by Laura Childs Page B

into helping Mavis, and now some crazy countess lady dropped by this morning and wants a logo.”
    â€œA countess? For real? Does she have a crown and scepter?”
    â€œI have no idea. She could have gotten her title from a Cracker Jack box. Still, she claims she’s taking over the Oddities spot. Like immediately.”
    â€œI’m intrigued,” said Ava. “Tell me more.”
    There was a crash and a loud bang and Carmela said, “Ava? What just happened? Are you okay?”
    â€œOops,” said Ava. “A minor emergency with
Señor Muerte
, one of my Day of the Dead characters. Gotta go.”

T HE Theatre du Marais was like something out of a novel by Flaubert. It was an impeccably restored Baroque theatre scrunched next to Beaufrain’s Oyster House in the French Quarter. Constructed in the late 1800s, probably as a bawdy dance hall, it was left to languish as a movie theatre and then as a slightly unsavory nightclub. Finally, two years ago, the theatre was lovingly purchased, carefully sandblasted, and completely refurbished by the Friends of Preservation for Architecture.
    Carmela squeezed Babcock’s hand as they hurried down Royal Street, joining any number of other couples who were also headed for the theatre.
    Babcock had come directly from work so he wore a camel hair jacket and dark slacks with a pair of John Lobb shoes that looked like heavy cop shoes but were really the same brand favored by British royalty.
    Carmela had pulled out all the stops and borrowed a flirty lace dress from Ava. The low-cut bodice was sleek and tight, the skirt a veritable cascade of ruffles. Every time a breeze came along and gently lifted her skirt, a peep show of breathtakingly hot pink lining was revealed.
    â€œYou like my dress?” Carmela asked as they stood in line at the box office, collecting the tickets that had been held for them. Babcock hadn’t said anything, but his eyes had roved over her appreciatively.
    â€œYes, I do, and I particularly like your cape,” said Babcock. “You don’t see much of that these days—women wearing capes, I mean.” He chuckled. “Only if you’re into Daphne du Maurier novels.”
    â€œIt’s an opera cape,” said Carmela, giving a kind of half twirl. “I thought it would be perfect for tonight.”
    Babcock tucked the tickets into his jacket pocket and pulled open the heavy gilded theatre door. “Refresh my memory,” he said as he ushered her in. “Which comedy or drama are we here to see?”
    â€œIt’s the Rue Morgue Theatre Company’s production of
Frankenstein
.”
    â€œAh, culture at its finest.” He grimaced. “Seriously, Carmela?
Frankenstein
?”
    â€œIt’s Halloween. Live a little.”
    â€œInteresting choice of words,” said Babcock. “Considering the play is about dead body parts.”
    â€œRight up your alley,” said Carmela, as she gripped his arm and they headed into the darkened theatre.
    They found their seats, sat down, snuggled a little, and looked around.
    â€œHow many gallons of gold paint and freight cars of velvet do you think they used to refurbish this place?” asked Babcock.
    Carmela had to admit it, Babcock was right on. The walls were gilded, the chairs were upholstered in plum-colored velvet, velvet drapes were slung across all the doorways, and the stage curtain itself was a gigantic waterfall of tufted velvet.
    â€œSure, it’s a little over the top,” Carmela agreed. “But it’s atmospheric, right?”
    â€œIt is if you’re Count Dracula,” agreed Babcock. He pulled out his phone and started fiddling with it.
    â€œAnd I think it’s fun that some of the audience even came in costume.” Sitting around them were other women wearing exotic dresses with capes and cloaks and high-laced boots. There were even a few men sporting Victorian-looking topcoats.
    â€œI just