Skeleton Letters by Laura Childs Page B

hard she was afraid she’d pop a filling. “You mean was I there when my friend Byrle was murdered?” Her tone was cool bordering on icy.
    â€œExcuse me!” came the woman’s startled reply. “I certainly didn’t mean to imply that Mrs. Coopersmith’s death was in any way secondary. Oh my goodness, no. It was a terrible tragedy!”
    Great , thought Carmela, that’s the second time today I’ve jumped down somebody’s throat for no reason. Time to do a little deep breathing and calm down! Ohmmm me, ohmmm my.
    â€œYou know what?” said Carmela, deciding to come clean. “This isn’t the first conversation I’ve had today that sent me off the deep end, and it probably won’t be the last. So apologies for overreacting and, uh, could we please start fresh?”
    There was a long pause and then Louise Applegate said, “Absolutely. I was just calling to see if I could steal a few moments of your time. But if this is a bad time, and it seems like it might be, then perhaps . . .”
    â€œNo,” said Carmela, “it’s okay. Now I’m just moderately freaked out.”
    â€œThat’s understandable,” said Applegate. “I just wanted to have a short conversation with you and get some facts straight.”
    â€œI take it,” said Carmela, “your archaeology office has some questions?”
    â€œYes, we do,” replied the woman, sounding relieved.
    â€œAnd your office is where?” Carmela asked.
    â€œWe’re at Marais and Pauger,” responded Applegate.
    â€œJust a few blocks away,” Carmela murmured. She glanced at her watch. “If you wanted to drop by my shop around four o’clock or so, that would work for me. You know where we are? Memory Mine on Governor Nicholls Street?”
    â€œOf course,” said Applegate. “See you then.”
    Carmela hung up the phone, took a deep breath, and spun her chair around.
    â€œHi,” came a deep voice.
    â€œEeeyh!” Carmela jerked upright as if a red-hot wire had been run up the inside of her leg.
    Quigg Brevard held both hands in front of himself in an appeasing gesture. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you like that.”
    â€œWell, you did,” said Carmela, sounding as cranky as she felt unsettled. Honestly, what was it in men’s DNA that caused them to sneak up and surprise women like that? Didn’t they know women hated to be spooked? Obviously they didn’t. Or maybe . . . maybe they just didn’t care. Maybe it was done in sport.
    Quigg took a tentative step into her office. He was a truly handsome man; his olive complexion set off dark, snapping eyes and a sensuous mouth. With his broad shoulders and big-cat way of moving, he could almost take your breath away. Almost.
    â€œWhat do you want?” Carmela asked, still feeling crabby.
    â€œJust checking in,” said Quigg. “As you recall, we have our big media event this Saturday night.”
    â€œYes, yes,” said Carmela, giving a sort of offhand wave. “I’m well aware of that.”
    â€œSo is everyone we invited,” said Quigg. He grinned and showed a row of even white teeth, like Chiclets. “Can you believe we have over one hundred people coming?”
    â€œSounds right,” said Carmela. She’d designed the invitations, after all, and sent them out to the media as well as a restaurateur and bottle shop list they’d developed together.
    â€œWell, it’s darned exciting,” said Quigg. He’d launched two restaurants in the last couple of years and had enjoyed a whirlwind of success that included rave reviews and a backlog of reservations. But launching St. Tammany Vineyard was a tricky proposition. These days a vintner didn’t just compete with California and European wines. Now there were more than three thousand commercial wineries, with at least one in each of the fifty states. And