Chapter 2

CARMELA stared into the earnest hazel eyes of the young detective who had arrived amid a blat of sirens and a brace of uniformed officers. Yet another shocking intrusion into what had been an oasis of calm and contemplative spirituality.

“Blunt-force trauma,” was his quiet pronouncement.

“What?” Carmela asked in a hoarse whisper. Had she really heard Detective Bobby Gallant correctly?

“From the statue,” Gallant told her, giving a downward bob of his head. He was young and earnest looking with dark curly hair and hazel eyes. Because of the cool weather he was dressed in a black leather jacket and chinos.

Ava, hovering directly behind Carmela, increased her viselike grip on her friend’s shoulder. “The killer smacked Byrle over the head with St. Sebastian,” Ava sobbed, trying to be helpful, but failing miserably.

“St. . . . ?” Carmela began, as Ava suddenly released her hold and pointed toward the flagstone floor where shards of plaster lay scattered. The statue, the one Ava had positively ID’d as St. Sebastian, lay facedown amid the rubble. Most of its head was missing. Pulverized from the blow, she supposed.

Byrle’s body lay prostrate at the foot of the saint’s altar where she’d fallen, looking like some kind of unholy martyr who’d given life and limb for the church. And, in a way, she had.

Carmela let loose a deep and shaky sigh. She knew she had to get a grip and pull it together. After all, she’d been a sort of witness. So maybe she could be of some assistance in the investigation? On the other hand . . .

Making a half-spin so she faced Bobby Gallant, Carmela said, “We need Babcock on this.” Her words came out a little more hoarse and a little more demanding than she’d actually intended.

Gallant barely acknowledged her statement concerning his boss. “I’m the one who got the call out,” he murmured.

“The thing is,” Carmela said, gesturing toward Byrle’s lifeless body, “we know her. She’s a friend.”

“From Memory Mine,” Ava added. “Carmela’s scrapbook shop.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” said Gallant. And this time he did sound sorry.

“So we need to do everything in our power,” Carmela gulped, “to find whoever did this.”

“Which is exactly what I intend to do,” said Gallant. He glanced around and noticed a uniformed officer standing off to the side, staring at Byrle’s dead body. “Slovey!” he barked. “Get something to cover her up!”

Slovey seemed suddenly unhappy. “What do you want me to use?” he asked.

Color bloomed on Gallant’s face. “I don’t care,” he snapped. “Use your jacket if you have to!”

 

“This isn’t happening,” Carmela murmured to Ava. Holding on to each other, they staggered over to the row of church pews that faced the small altar and collapsed together on the hard seat. There, they huddled like lost souls, trying to make sense of it all. At the same time, like some bizarre soap opera, the beginnings of the police investigation played out right before their eyes.

The crime-scene techs arrived, set up enough lights to make it look like a movie set, and began to photograph Byrle’s body as well as the damaged saint statue and everything else within a twenty-foot radius.

Uniformed officers were given assignments and hastily dispatched to interview possible witnesses and take statements.

And finally, two EMTs arrived with a clanking gurney to carry Byrle away. Probably, Carmela decided, they were going to transport her to the city morgue. And wasn’t that a grim thought!

“Babcock should be here,” Ava said in a low voice. “Working this case.”

Edgar Babcock, homicide detective first class of the New Orleans Police Department was, to put it rather indelicately, Carmela’s main squeeze. As Carmela had wrangled through her divorce from her former husband, Shamus, the two had gazed longingly at each other. When Carmela finally separated from her philandering rat-fink husband, she and Babcock finally started seeing each other. And now that Carmela’s divorce was signed, sealed, and delivered, they were most definitely an item.

“Don’t worry,” said Carmela, “I’m going to call Babcock.” She hesitated. “But Gallant does seem to be doing a credible job.”

“Credible is only good when it comes to talking heads on TV,” said Ava. “For this investigation we need a grade-A detective.”

“Sshhh,” said Carmela. Gallant was suddenly headed straight toward them.

Stepping lightly, Gallant slid into the pew directly ahead of them, settled onto the creaky seat, and swiveled to face them. Only then did Carmela notice the tiredness and deep concern that was etched in his face.

“Something tells me this isn’t the only case you’re handling,” Carmela said.

Gallant shook his head. “Two drive-bys last night and a floater in the river.”

“Tough job,” said Ava.

“Tough city,” said Gallant.

“What . . . what’s happening now?” asked Carmela.

“Well,” said Gallant, “we’ve got the church and outside area pretty much cordoned off, and my officers are interviewing everyone who was hanging around the church. Plus, we’re canvassing the neighborhood.”

“I think some people left before you got here,” said Ava.

Gallant leaned forward. “Did you get a look at them?”

Ava shook her head. “Not really. It was more like hearing them.” She looked suddenly thoughtful. “You know how when you’re in church you’re aware of people nearby, you hear their voices and shufflings and such, but you don’t really look at them?”

“I suppose,” said Gallant. He seemed keenly disappointed that Ava wasn’t able to give him a complete description. He directed his gaze at Carmela. “You said earlier that you thought the killer was wearing a brown robe?”

“He definitely was,” said Carmela. “Like a monk’s robe. Dark brown with a deep cowl and hood.”

“With a white rope knotted around his waist,” Ava added.

“There’s a bunch of those robes hanging in the back room on a row of hooks,” Gallant told them.

“That’s a problem, then,” said Carmela. “It means anybody could have grabbed one and thrown it on.”

Gallant shifted on the uncomfortably hard pew. “What’s the story with the garden and graveyard outside—all the digging and the stakes and ropes and things? Either of you know?”

“It’s an archaeology dig,” Ava told him. “Been going on for almost four months now.”

“Do you know who’s in charge of it?” asked Gallant.

Ava shrugged.

“I’m pretty sure it’s the State Archaeology Board,” said Carmela. “With assistance from students at Tulane.” She paused. “At least that’s what the article in the Times-Picayune said.”

Gallant jotted something in his notebook. “They find anything?”

“Ten feet down,” said Ava, “they discovered the ruins of the original church. The one Père Etienne founded back in 1782.” Père Etienne had been a Capuchin monk who’d been a much-beloved figure because of his tireless work with the sick and the poor.

Gallant looked mildly interested. “Ruins, huh. Anything else?”

“They also unearthed an antique silver-and-gold crucifix,” said Ava, “believed to have been the personal crucifix of Père Etienne.”

“Which was stolen during the murder,” Carmela said suddenly, almost as an afterthought.

Gallant reared back. “What? A crucifix was stolen?”

“From the saint’s altar,” said Ava. “Where Byrle was killed.”

“I think,” said Carmela, “Byrle was struggling with her killer, trying to wrest the crucifix back from him.”

“Why didn’t you mention this sooner?” Gallant demanded.

“Because,” said Carmela, “we thought it was more important for you to dispatch your men immediately to hunt down suspects.”

“So a robbery and a murder.” Gallant stroked his chin with his hand. “I wonder . . . was this crucifix terribly valuable?”

“Byrle thought so,” said Carmela. “After all, she gave her life for it.”