Skeleton Letters by Laura Childs

“ the Garden District house” instead of “ my Garden District house.” Classic disassociation, probably. Too many bad memories.
    â€œI think that’s a splendid idea,” said Gabby. “It’s a perfectly wonderful home for decorating. Plus it’s a good excuse to get you over there and fix in your mind exactly what you want to do with that place. Keep it or sell it.” Gabby knew how much Carmela had been struggling with that decision.
    â€œThere’s only one problem,” said Carmela.
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œA home that isn’t lived in isn’t very holidazzling.”
    â€œI don’t see that as a huge problem,” said Gabby. “We both know who’d be happy to lend an artful hand.”
    â€œYou mean Ava? She’s already thrown in as a volunteer.” Carmela chuckled. “Or maybe it’s slave labor.”
    Gabby shook her head. “I’m thinking of someone else.” She gave a slightly mysterious smile. “Who do you know that carries paint chips in his wallet and fabric swatches in his car?”
    â€œUm . . . Jekyl?” said Carmela. Jekyl Hardy, her friend and co-conspirator in the Children’s Art Association, was in real life a professional float designer, antiques appraiser, and allaround arbiter of exquisite taste. His palatial apartment in the to-die-for Napoleon Gardens was a belle époque tour de force with mahogany floors, tinkling crystal chandeliers, and dark blue shellacked walls that displayed antique smoked mirrors in gilded frames. Both the living and dining rooms boasted high-backed leather couches as well as overstuffed chairs slipcovered in rich brocades and dark damask fabrics.
    â€œJekyl would be my first choice,” said Gabby. “Of course, he’s always a little whirlwind with his antiques appraisal business, so there’s no telling if he even has time to do it.”
    â€œBut Jekyl is wild for decorating,” said Carmela, liking the idea. “In fact, he once tried to persuade the post office down on Bourbon Street to paint their walls aubergine and then add a crackle glaze.”
    â€œI’d say he’s your man.”
    â€œI’m going to call him.”
    â€œDo it now,” said Gabby, “before we get too busy.”
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    â€œYou rang?” said a warm baritone voice in Carmela’s ear.
    Carmela smiled to herself. She could pretty much picture Jekyl sitting at his antique spinet desk. Rail-thin, dressed completely in black, with his long dark hair pulled back in a severe ponytail, the better to accentuate his pale, oval face.
    â€œJekyl, it’s Carmela . . .”
    â€œOh my goodness !” cried Jekyl. “It really is you. I was just sitting here sipping an espresso and scanning the morning paper. How awful is it about your friend Byrle!”
    â€œReally awful,” agreed Carmela.
    â€œAnd you were there !” said Jekyl. “An actual witness! Seriously, the whole thing gives me the shivers!”
    â€œDitto,” said Carmela.
    â€œSo, tell me, have you put on your little Sherlock Holmes cap and resolved to track down the perpetrator?”
    â€œNot exactly,” said Carmela, though she knew that he knew she probably would.
    â€œThat’s quite an understatement coming from you,” said Jekyl. “Carmela, dear, I know you. You were probably skulking around that church bright and early this morning searching for clues.”
    Whoa. He really did know her.
    â€œNow that you bring it up . . . ,” said Carmela.
    â€œOn the other hand,” said Jekyl, “you’ve got your own little direct pipeline to the police. With your own little hippocket detective.”
    â€œI wish,” said Carmela.
    â€œStill,” said Jekyl, sympathy evident in his voice, “it’s a terrible tragedy.” He paused. “Do you know when the funeral is?”
    â€œBaby thought maybe