Postcards from the Dead by Laura Childs Page B

display of Indonesian masks. “I had no idea you were going to drop by. Hang on.” She aimed her phone at one of the masks and snapped a photo, probably so she could send it to one of her customers. Since Ava had begun sending out photos of her merchandise, not only had she increased her customer base, but sales had nearly doubled.
    “I was running around the neighborhood,” said Carmela, “and thought I’d drop in.”
    Ava touched a finger to the side of her head. “Oh, right. You had your meeting with Durdle this morning.”
    “Durrell,” said Carmela.
    “Whatever,” said Ava. She reached out and brushed aside an errant strand of gray goat hair that decorated a second mask. “How did that meeting go?”
    “Pretty much the way I thought it would. Like pulling teeth to get any concrete information.”
    “Was he dodging your questions, or is the guy just a numbskull?” asked Ava.
    “I think he’s scared and nervous,” said Carmela.
    Ava’s brows shot up. “Nervous over what? You think he killed Kimber?”
    “It’s possible,” said Carmela. “But there was another vibe, too.”
    “Like what?”
    “Hard to put my finger on it,” said Carmela. “But it just felt like something else was going on.”
    “Huh.” Ava turned to watch as Miguel, her assistant, pulled out a Day of the Dead Ferris wheel and did his spiel for a customer.
    “Also,” said Carmela, touching a hand to her hobo bag, “I have something weird to show you.”
    Ava, smart cookie that she was, seemed to instinctively know what little goodie Carmela had brought. “Don’t tell me,” she groaned. “You got another one?”
    “Another postcard,” said Carmela. “Yes.” She pulled it out and handed it to Ava. “I found it on my desk first thing this morning.”
    Ava accepted it with some trepidation. “Are you telling me somebody broke into your shop and left this?”
    Carmela grimaced. “We’re having new locks installed even as we speak.”
    “Oh wow,” said Ava. “Wow, wow, wow.”
    Carmela wasn’t sure if Ava was bothered by the break-in or by the fact that a second postcard had turned up. Or both. She tried to dispel her friend’s fear by turning flippant. “Isn’t that a great little item to bring to show-and-tell?”
    “Not really,” said Ava. She set the postcard on the counter and stared at the offending object as if it carried traces of the bubonic plague. “Are you going to tell Babcock?”
    “I don’t know. The jury’s still out.” Carmela really didn’t want to tell him. She knew he’d go ballistic.
    “Let’s pretend I’m foreman of the jury,” said Ava.
    “Okay,” said Carmela.
    “I vote you definitely show this miserable thing to Babcock. After all, he’s a good guy, a smart guy. And, most importantly, he’ll have your safety at heart.”
    “That’s what I’m afraid of,” said Carmela. “I’m afraid he’ll want to . . . oh, I don’t know . . . lock me in a glass cage or something.”
    “Which wouldn’t be half bad if it were filled with bouquets of red roses and a case of fine champagne.”
    They stared at the postcard as if it were some strange talisman, dredged up from antiquity. Finally, Ava stretched a hand out and tapped it with a shellacked red fingernail. “Another graveyard scene. Do you think these cards are supposed to be clues for something?”
    “Clues for what? Death? Eternity? A warning?”
    “I don’t know,” said Ava, shaking her head. “That’s the tricky thing about clues; you have to figure them out.”
    There was a faint tinkle of bells and a suck of cool air. Overhead, a white wooden skeleton moved in a slow click-clacking jig.
    “Huh?” said Carmela, jerking her head toward the back of Ava’s shop.
    Then footsteps sounded and Madame Eldora Blavatsky, whose real name was Ellie Black, came walking in. She was Ava’s resident fortune-teller and psychic.
    “Hey, Ellie,” called Ava.
    Madame Blavatsky stopped abruptly and gave a little wave.