Skeleton Letters by Laura Childs Page A

exactly. If I’d have allowed Shamus’s opinion to color my entire world, I can’t imagine what would have happened to me. Heck, we probably wouldn’t be standing in this shop right now.”
    Gabby sighed. “You realize, Carmela, not all women are as brave as you are. A lot of women would love to dip their toe in entrepreneurial waters and start their own business, but they just can’t work up the courage. Or someone close to them is a naysayer, so they fret and fritter and never make their move.”
    â€œWorrying about other people’s negative opinions is generally a huge waste of time,” said Carmela. “Since most naysayers tend to be dunderheads. Case in point . . .” She grinned. “Shamus.”
    â€œThat’s what kills me about you,” said Gabby. “You’re fearless to the core and outspoken without being a diva.”
    â€œYeah?” Gabby’s words tickled her.
    â€œAnd,” added Gabby, “you have a keen sense of justice.”
    â€œA sense of justice?” said Carmela, giving a little start. She threw a crooked look at Gabby, as if she didn’t believe her. “You think so?”
    â€œAbsolutely,” said Gabby. “That’s why you’re such a champion of underdogs.”
    â€œMaybe some underdogs,” said Carmela, as she opened her e-mail and added her step-and-repeat design as an attachment.
    Gabby tapped her foot quietly behind Carmela. “So,” she continued, “you are going to start looking into things, aren’t you? I mean, concerning Byrle?”
    Carmela hit Send, sending her design winging its electronic way to Inky’s Print Shop.
    â€œI’m afraid,” said Carmela, “I’ve already started.”

Chapter 10
    E VENING draped across the Garden District like a dark blue cashmere blanket. Stately live oaks festooned with Spanish moss and Gothic-looking wrought-iron fences were but dark smudges, while lights sparkled brightly inside enormous mansions. Here was antebellum Louisiana at its finest. Big homes, big money, big names. Novelist Truman Capote and French Impressionist Edgar Degas had both called the Garden District home. Jefferson Davis, president of the Confederate States of America, had died here. And though many of the old homes exuded a faint patina of age, they were still quite magnificent.
    Carmela stood in the foyer of her old brick mansion, while Ava and Jekyl quickly shucked their jackets and wandered into the parlor. She lagged behind, feeling slightly hesitant. There were ghosts here, after all. Not ethereal phantasm-ectoplasm ghosts, but ghosts of people and spirits of past lives. Memories.
    â€œFirst floor only, correct?” asked Jekyl. He spun around, touching an index finger to his lips. This was a man who’d adopted the Vampire Lestat as his ideal and always dressed in black, the better to set off his pale skin and long, dark hair.
    Carmela ventured in a few steps, noting the musty odor and the creaking wooden floors. “That’s right,” she told him. “So, for the Holidazzle Tour, we’re really just talking about the front verandah, living room, dining room, and sunroom.” She gestured toward the back of the house. “The kitchen we’ll lock off.”
    â€œStill,” said Jekyl, giving everything his keen-eyed appraisal, “this is a whale of a house. High ceilings, large-scale rooms, oversized furnishings.”
    â€œI’m afraid so,” said Carmela. It had been too much house for her when she’d been married to Shamus and they’d resided here. Too much work even with a cleaning lady and gardener. Now it just felt like a gigantic, creaking dinosaur.
    But Ava had other ideas. “We should move in here,” she announced, suddenly. “It’s so big and grand and . . .” She spun around happily in the center of the living room, arms extended. “We should move in and open